Vintner's Daughter

by Kristen Harnisch

  “Pleasure to meet you, Mademoiselle de Coursey. Your sister fares quite well. My guess is that her confinement will end in two months’ time. Perhaps a little sooner.” She handed Lydia a vial, then fastened the latch on her leather bag. “Ginger root to calm your stomach, Lydia.” She then turned back to Sara. “Oh, I am sorry.” The woman extended her hand. “I am Marie Chevreau.”

  Sara was stunned. She could not utter a word. Lydia, who must have sensed her bewilderment, spoke up. “Mademoiselle, my sister is most pleased to meet you. Do tell us, how should we compensate you for your care?”

  Sara turned her attention immediately to the concrete question of Mademoiselle Chevreau’s payment, searching for familiar ground.

  “Don’t you worry your head about that, Lydia,” Sara said calmly, trying to mask her confusion. “Mademoiselle Chevreau and I shall speak of these matters on her way downstairs. Might I accompany you?”

  “Indeed, but I insist that you call me Marie.” She turned back to Lydia. “Make sure to rest and take two drops of the ginger root serum—one in the morning and one before you retire. I shall examine you in a month’s time, unless you call for me sooner.”

  “Thank you for your kindness, Marie.”

  “Not at all.” Sara followed Marie out of the room, and they walked in silence while Sara’s mind swirled with confusion. Marie Chevreau? A five-year-old daughter named Adeline? Was this the same Marie Chevreau whose child was fathered by Bastien’s brother? Jacques’s niece? Lydia obviously thought so. Sara could not bring herself to believe it fully, until her thoughts came to rest on the undeniable evidence. She recalled Bastien’s handwriting as if she were reading the note for the first time: 197Mott Street. When they had arrived, she couldn’t fathom why Bastien would have been connected to a convent, but he had recorded Marie’s address in America. Had he been in contact with her all this time? And why?

  Sara should have been more careful; they should never have stayed here. It appeared as though the three of them were now linked through their shared history with the Lemieux family, but Marie had given no indication that she knew anything of their background. When Marie spoke, she confirmed this.

  “Sara, if I may call you so, Lydia tells me you two came over from the Loire—from Angers, is that right?”

  Thank God Lydia had kept her head about her and lied. “Yes. What town are you from?”

  “You’ll hardly believe it—I come from Tours, just up the river. Indeed, it’s true! I believe our towns were once rivals in the race for the best whites, were they not?”

  “Yes, I believe so.”

  “Oh, I miss my family desperately sometimes,” Marie said wistfully. “You know what else I miss? Wading in the river up to my knees and waving to the barges coming down from Amboise, loaded with their treasures of lace and chocolates and wine. Are there as many ships now?”

  “No, actually, the river is not as busy as it used to be. Most of the merchants use the wagon or railcar these days. They tend to be more reliable.” Sara remembered herself and changed the subject rather abruptly. “Tell me, Marie, what is your fee? I want to make sure I have it by the time the child is born.”

  Marie seemed taken aback. “Yes, of course. Because of Reverend Mother’s great kindness to me when I first arrived here, I’ve always halved my fee for her boarders. I shall do the same for you. Six dollars.”

  “So you also boarded here when you first arrived?”

  “Yes, and I now have an apartment in the back, though I’m usually out tending to expectant mothers or delivering babies. You may have heard that I was also with child when I arrived, like your sister. Only, unlike your sister, I was not widowed, but rather … shamed.” Marie’s cheeks reddened a bit, and Sara felt sympathy for her. “I would understand if you didn’t wish for such a woman to deliver your sister’s child. But I am a Christian woman, and from the time of my daughter’s birth, I have lived in a Christian manner, I assure you.”

  Marie turned to Sara expectantly. Sara admired her directness. “The sisters speak very highly of you, Marie. I have nothing but confidence in your abilities.”

  “Thank you.” Marie hesitated uncomfortably. “Reverend Mother asked me to speak to you of another matter.”

  “Of course.” Sara wondered what the shrewd abbess had up her sleeve.

  “When I told her that I had my hands full with expectant mothers, she said she has more than enough help here at the convent and that she could spare you until Lydia has her child.”

  “What could I do?”

  “I was hoping you’d agree to come with me to visit new mothers and even assist in some of the deliveries.” Marie looked askance at Sara. “Do you faint at the sight of blood?”

  “How much blood?”

  Marie put her arm on Sara’s. “Never you mind, my dear. I’m sure you’ll manage just fine. We’re of strong stock, we women from the Loire.”

  Sara had to agree with that and, although she had no medical training, she felt excited to have a reason to explore the world outside the stone walls of the convent. Besides, Marie did not seem to know their identity. Sara would just have to be cautious not to reveal anything while they were working together.

  “I would be happy to help.”

  “Then it’s settled. Shall we shake hands on it?”

  Sara took Marie’s hand in hers. She did not know what this new association would bring, but her instincts told her that Marie Chevreau had a good heart and that she was not someone to be feared. She hoped those instincts were correct.

  Sara had no idea what to expect when she set out with Marie the following morning to visit her patients over on Mulberry Street, in the heart of this mostly Italian quarter. Marie gave her a large basket lined with cloth to carry, but Sara could not muster the courage to ask its purpose. Marie carried only her small leather bag. She had left Adeline in the care of the sisters.

  The morning sun blazed so fiercely that one could have cooked an egg on the cobblestones. Newly laundered clothing, hung on twine strung high above the street, billowed like a parade of flags when the occasional breeze blew. Sara began to perspire heavily in her shirtwaist as she walked toward the Bend, the elbow’s crook in Mulberry Street, and the most infamous slum in New York. Striped and solid-colored awnings shaded shopkeepers haggling with their customers, and a row of wagons waited in the street to make deliveries or haul purchases home. Sara and Marie crossed to the opposite side of the street, dodging men wheeling handbar-rows filled with peaches and plums for sale.

  The smells of the street—garlic and stale Roquefort—overpowered her. Every time a passing horse or cart kicked up dust, Sara could taste it on her tongue. She tried to ignore the assault on her senses and instead listen to Marie. It was a great comfort to converse in French and not have to strain to think of the correct phrase in English. Sara was still learning the new language, but Marie, on the other hand, seemed comfortable speaking English and Italian. She was well known in this part of town. Several shop owners came out to greet her as they passed. Each of them gestured vigorously and invited Marie in; each time she would make a polite refusal in Italian. Inevitably, her admirers would duck back into their stores and reappear with a hot loaf of bread, a savory sausage or even some fresh eggs. Marie would thank each one by name and place the gift in the basket Sara held.

  “I may not be paid too well, but Lord knows Adeline and I are well fed!” Marie patted her stomach and puffed her cheeks up. Sara could not help but laugh.

  “They are friendly, aren’t they?”

  “They are indeed. Good folks, and grateful. They would be mortally offended if I refused their gifts, so alas, we must feast on all this tonight.”

  “Sounds delicious.”

  As they neared the Mulberry Street tenement Marie had just pointed out, Sara became uneasy. She began to notice people loitering in dark corners and cellar stairwells. Sara took pity on a painted woman in a cellar-way whom she saw calling to the young men who passed, her cheeks brightly
rouged and breasts nearly popping out of her tight bodice. It was clear that she was trying to entice men into her apartment below. While Marie was engaged in conversation with another shopkeeper, Sara broke off a piece of bread and knelt down, handing it to the woman. She hoped Marie wouldn’t mind. The woman grabbed the bread with a dirty hand and shoved it in her apron. Then Sara felt the woman’s hand under her skirt, stroking her calf. The woman uttered something in Italian, licked her lips and rubbed her other grubby hand between her own fat legs.

  Sara blushed with embarrassment—such wickedness! She stumbled back into the street at the shock. Marie caught Sara up by the armpits, steadied her and then linked her arm in hers. She guided her away from the licentious woman and they made haste down the street.

  “I can’t leave you alone for a minute,” Marie said, chuckling.

  “Apparently not. Thank you for your help,” Sara replied, flustered.

  Marie was obviously amused that Sara had fallen into the woman’s trap. Sara was just glad Marie had extricated her from it.

  Now Sara noticed more suspicious creatures lurking about, always on the periphery of the sun’s light. Their skin was pale and their eyes hollow. Most of them just blended into their surroundings—passersby would give them no more thought than a plank of wood. Yet when Sara looked closer, she found their blank faces unsettling; each had the vacant visage of a mannequin.

  She was relieved when they finally reached the building. Marie instructed her, “Just stand aside while I examine the mother. I will let you know what I need from my bag.” She hesitated, looking as though she wanted to say something else, but then turned and led Sara up the three flights of stairs to the top floor.

  No warning would have prepared her anyway. A sad-eyed girl, whose belly jutted out from under her threadbare yellow dress, greeted them at the door. When they entered the room, Sara noticed that the girl had tied cardboard to her shoes to bolster their worn-out soles. Sara counted five adults and seven children in the apartment. Three women sat at a table, darning socks and mending shirts. The floorboards in the corner behind them were rotted and damp from the rainwater that dripped from the ceiling. Two large husk mattresses were pushed against the far wall. Three children were huddled together upon one mattress. An infant boy had sores on his lips and an open blister on his right cheek. The older children, who were perhaps ten and twelve, carried the same sores on their hands and cheeks. Their red, sickly eyes followed their visitors carefully as they walked into the room, and each little cough and sniffle they released tugged at Sara’s heart. The other four were squatting around a pile of a something black that she did not recognize.

  Marie whispered, “Tobacco. The children roll cigarettes during the day to earn money for the family.” Of course, Sara thought. The bittersweet smell had reminded her of Papa’s evening pipe.

  Sara marveled at Marie’s ability to ignore her surroundings and speak in authoritative Italian. She shooed the other tenants outside the room so she could conduct her examination in private, pulled the empty mattress to the brighter side of the room and instructed the girl to lie down. She moved her hands around the perimeter of the girl’s belly, pressing down as she did so. The girl winced in discomfort. Marie spoke in Italian to the girl and patted her arm reassuringly. Then she helped her up and asked Sara to take vanilla balm and ginger root from her bag.

  “The baby is coming soon, but she’s not in labor yet. We will come back every day this week until it is her time.”

  In the hallway outside, Marie knelt down and picked up the baby to inspect his sores. The boy squirmed and tried to free his chin from Marie’s grasp, but she spoke calmly, and he soon stopped his wriggling. He never took his eyes from Marie’s face. Marie asked Sara for some salve from the bag.

  “Aloe. It will help the wounds heal. Give them the extra vial.”

  Sara handed it to the woman standing nearest, whom Sara suspected was the baby’s mother. The woman grasped the bottle with both hands. For the first time since she left France, Sara felt as though she were being useful.

  Once they were back on the street, Sara delicately inquired how Marie had become used to confronting such indigence with steady hands and a degree of detachment.

  Marie replied in her matter-of-fact manner, “If I get carried away with the why and the how of a girl’s circumstances, then I cannot properly concentrate on giving her the care she needs to deliver a healthy child. I cannot mend what God or man has rendered. I can only ease her suffering for a time, and in some small way, affirm her and her child’s importance in the world.”

  Sara was silent after that. At just twenty-three, Marie was a wise woman indeed. Sara felt as if she’d learned quite a lot from a few hours in Marie’s company. She was about to say as much when she spied two young boys down a side alley beating another boy with broken sticks.

  All three of the boys were barefoot and dressed in rags. A closer inspection of their dirty faces and hands confirmed a life of wanting. The taller of the two assailants kicked the littlest boy down and pounced upon him, barreling his large fists into the boy’s averted face. The little boy fought back. Marie rushed over at once, shouting in Italian, and one of the boys dropped his stick and ran away. It took more effort to stop the larger boy, but Sara rushed to Marie’s side and the two of them pulled the attacker off. Marie chastised the boy, who stood before her defiantly and wiped his bloody nose on his arm. He spat a tooth on the ground and then bolted into the street. A few coins fell to the ground in his wake.

  The small boy, whom Sara had just helped up, scurried to claim the coins. She followed him with the intention of soothing him or perhaps giving him some of the food in their basket, but the child recoiled from her touch. He turned and staggered away, stumbling a bit until he regained his balance and broke into a full run.

  Sara felt sorry for the boy, for he reminded her of a stray dog left to fend for itself. Marie must have read her thoughts, because she said, “Do not pity him, Sara. You don’t know what happened here. He could have stolen money from the other boys. We don’t know.”

  Sara thought it unlikely that such a small boy would provoke such harsh retribution. “Do they not have any family?”

  “Orphaned, most likely,” Marie shrugged. “Guttersnipes do what they must to survive.”

  “Are there no orphanages?”

  “An abundance, but they run away from them. I’ve visited a few. The food is dreadful, and it’s about the same as living on the street to them, but with less freedom.”

  Sara wondered if her compassionate nature would serve her well in this new city. America was not at all what she’d imagined.

  Soon the sweltering heat of July was upon them, and Lydia suffered from it. The air was so oppressive that she would retire to the privacy of their cell just so she could remove her stockings and unbutton her collar for some relief.

  One day, when Sara came upstairs to make certain that Lydia hadn’t fainted in the heat, she found her seated in the corner, fanning her face with a piece of cardboard. Her other hand was pressed to her midsection.

  “Feel this, Sara. I believe he’s practicing to be a circus performer with his constant somersaulting. I barely slept a wink last night. I thought he would kick my insides out!” Lydia’s face was sweaty, but aglow with pride.

  Sara placed her hand on Lydia’s belly. It was firm and smooth, like a river stone. Just then, the child kicked.

  “Oh my, he’s a strong little one, isn’t he?” Sara was a bit worried for her sister.

  “Eager to meet his mother and have a good stretch, I would imagine.”

  Sara looked at her sister admiringly. She had endured their ordeal without complaint. Sara had been surprised by Lydia’s forbearance in these past two months. “I like to see you content, Lydia. It suits you.”

  “Yes, I suppose it does.” Lydia held her stomach with both hands and smiled. “Do you think he has all his fingers and toes and such from the beginning, or does God shape him in my womb rig
ht before he’s born, like a piece of clay?”

  “I think the baby must grow as the fruit on the vine grows. A grape starts as a smaller version of its ripened self. So did your baby, I would guess.”

  They were interrupted by a knock on the door. It was Anne, who would soon be taking her vows. “I come bearing presents, ladies.”

  Lydia clapped her hands together with delight. “I haven’t had a gift in so long. They are most welcome here. Do come in!”

  “Now, it’s nothing grand. First, something for the baby.” Anne handed Lydia a package wrapped in newspaper. Lydia opened it and carefully fingered the brown cap and blanket Anne had knitted from soft, warm wool. Lydia’s eyes welled with emotion.

  “Thank you, Anne. They’re beautiful, and perfect for the cold winters here.”

  Anne looked pleased. She turned her attention to Sara. “And for you, Mademoiselle de Coursey.” She handed Sara a stack of colorful magazines. Sara tried to pronounce the magazine’s name, but she simply couldn’t cajole her front teeth into pronouncing the American “r.” She always reverted back to the throaty French consonant. Anne corrected her gently. “It’s pronounced Harper’s”

  “Ah, yes.” Sara was not sure of the purpose of Anne’s gift.

  “Mrs. Bourse, my patron, sneaks these to me through the turning box when she comes to visit each month. Look at the beautiful pictures! The articles are very modern. I thought these could help you learn to read English. We can read together in the evenings, if you’d like.”

  What a clever idea, Sara thought. These looked a vast deal more interesting than the English Bible the Reverend Mother had given her to read. Sara began to thumb through the tattered pages.

  “That sounds wonderful, Anne. Would you mind helping me? Won’t it take you from your other duties?”

  “No, Reverend Mother gave me permission to tutor you. Although”—Anne grinned conspiratorially—“I believe I failed to mention exactly what we’d be reading.”

  “Our secret, then?”

  “Yes, our secret.” She giggled.