Vintner's Daughter

by Kristen Harnisch

  What a shame, Sara thought, that such a spirited girl would spend the rest of her days in a nunnery.

  As the weeks passed Sara learned many things from Anne, who turned out to be quite an accomplished young lady. Anne not only spent time reading with Sara, but told her much about America’s history and peculiarities. The magazines themselves, some of which dated back to the 1880s, were filled with articles on subjects Sara had never thought about. She found herself particularly drawn to a section entitled “The Editor’s Easy Chair.” One story, titled “Women’s Rights,” took Sara, under Anne’s tutelage, a whole week to interpret, but the endeavor was certainly worthwhile. Mr. Curtis, apparently a writer of some distinction, argued that because no one would deny a woman’s right to earn her own living by her own industry and talent, then no one should deny that same woman the privilege of voting alongside the men. Sara thought this argument made perfect sense. Anne did not agree. One afternoon, their debate on the topic lasted well into the evening. Anne, taking her cue from the Bible, believed that women were made by God to be inferior to men and, therefore, voting could not be seen as a suitable womanly activity. Sara did have to admit that since this article had been written, ten years prior, little progress had been made toward securing the vote for women. She was about to concede this point to Anne, when Lydia, who had been listening, snatched the pages from Sara’s hands.

  “God save us all from your tiresome nonsense. I know my sister well, Anne, and I’ll tell you that if I don’t interrupt this conversation, she will ride her side of the argument to hell and back again just to prove her point.” Lydia gave them a sly smile and flipped through the magazine until her eyes rested on the colorful fashion plates of society ladies, dressed from head to toe in lace, frills and flowers. Lydia ran her fingers over the sketches and let out a wistful sigh.

  Sara shook her head and rolled her eyes toward the heavens. Lydia was just so Lydia.

  One evening, after Sara had intelligibly pronounced nearly every word in a long article written by Mark Twain, she came across something remarkable. It was a story dated March 9, 1889, seven years earlier. The article spanned three pages, and Sara could only navigate a small portion of the type that evening. She read the words slowly, not understanding them all. She knew the article described grape growers in California, but she could not decipher many details. Growing frustrated, she begged Anne to translate for her.

  Anne graciously obliged in French: “The two best known valleys—those having soil and climate adapted for the production of the choicest grapes from the Médoc, Bordeaux, and Rhine Valley districts—are Sonoma and Napa. I cannot imagine a more sheltered, pretty nook than the Napa Valley … it is a little world in itself. Several of the Napa growers own estates that have no counterpart in America.”

  “Napa,” Sara whispered with reverence. She pulled her eyes away from the page just long enough to address Anne. “Have you ever been to California?”

  “Heavens, no, it’s clear on the other side of the country, nearly three thousand miles away.”

  “How does one travel there?”

  “The fastest route would be by rail. I believe it goes from Chicago to San Francisco. I’m not sure whether this Napa Valley is north or south of San Francisco, though.”

  “I see.” Sara’s mind raced with the possibilities of moving west to a new land, where she could once again grow grapes and make wine. She would work hard and save the money to purchase a small vineyard of her own. She would eventually make enough of a profit to return to France. Yes, she would return, and she would reclaim Saint Martin. It seemed so far away, but Sara could still smell the sweetness of Saint Martin’s fruit and taste its earth on her tongue.

  “What are you thinking, Sara?”

  “Oh, nothing. Shall we continue?” Sara could not have put her longing into words, and it would have been dangerous for her to do so. She doubted that Anne could have ever understood the strength of her desire, in any case. Sara was born to make wine. Nothing else made sense.

  Sara soon realized that catching babies was not her calling in life. She had, of course, witnessed the birthing of mules and the occasional pig at Saint Martin. Still, she had not been prepared to observe the birth of a child. After assisting Marie in the delivery of five healthy, two breech and two stillborn babies, Sara was still shocked at the sheer violence of the undertaking: the sweat, the screams and the blood seemed to be never-ending. The vast quantity of bodily secretions alone was enough to make anyone turn green, she thought. She knew her mother would be horrified if she knew what Sara was doing. How life had changed in the past three months.

  Sara was amazed at the courage of the women she encountered. In the face of their great labors, she could not possibly succumb to her own squeamish desire to faint. For this reason alone, Sara forced herself to concentrate on handing Marie the necessary instruments as they worked, although Sara was not above sneaking a whiff of Marie’s smelling salts to revive herself. Marie, for her part, reassured and instructed the expectant mothers: how to breathe, when to relax, when to push. She seemed sure of what to do in every situation. Sara was certain of only one thing: she had no desire to endure such an ordeal, even if God had designated it a woman’s most important function.

  It was a late August afternoon, and Sara and Marie had delivered a lusty baby boy to Hettie Smyth, who lived in a tenement located just south of the Bend. Both mother and child had survived—a good day. Marie was eager to get back to the convent to check on Lydia, because she believed Lydia could begin her labor at any time. After spending all day in a smelly tenement, Sara wanted some fresh air, so she told Marie to go on without her and to inform Lydia that she’d return by dusk.

  She did not tell Marie that she had a secret errand. Sara had decided that since Lydia was about to endure the rigors of childbirth, she should have the treat of a new travel dress. Sara quickly reviewed their finances in her head. Of the 1,520 francs she had taken from Bastien and Jacques, which had converted to a little over $300, she had spent $90 on the tickets for their trip here, $30 on rent at the convent and another $20 for cotton flannels and clothes for the baby. The remainder of the money, plus the $7 that remained from selling her hair to a wigmaker on Mulberry Street, she kept hidden under the husk mattress in their room. If Sara bought a dress and hat for Lydia for $20 or less, she would have enough left to purchase two one-way tickets to California with a small cushion left for rent and food once they arrived. She would simply have to find work as soon as they reached California. Having made up her mind, Sara walked into the modest dress shop on Mulberry.

  She had her eye on a dark blue wool dress, fairly plain, but with a black ruffled collar and matching trim on the cuffs. It cost $22, including the matching hat. She held the dress up to her face, inhaling the fragrance of fresh, unsoiled wool. It smelled like Saint Martin when Papa was alive. It smelled like the place Sara desperately wanted to find again.

  Sara’s reverie ceased when she realized that the well-dressed woman behind the counter was glaring at her. For the first time in her life, Sara felt self-conscious in a place of business. She looked down at her own dress and realized that, although its linen fabric was not torn, it was stained and rather dingy compared to the fine wool dresses and silk skirts that lined the shop’s walls. Sara flushed with embarrassment. She carried the dress and hat to the counter and counted out the bills and change she had saved. Without a word, the shop clerk picked up the money using the tips of her fingers. She wrapped the dress and hat in brown paper, tied the package with string, and gave it to Sara.

  Sara took a deep breath upon exiting the store, in an effort to keep her stinging tears from running down her cheeks. You will not, she chastised herself, allow that nasty woman to make you feel worthless. She straightened her back, lifted her chin and walked on, holding her purchase tightly to her chest, for the streets were lined with people.

  The crowd was mostly women, Sara noticed, and they seemed to be looking eagerly down the street.
She heard a drum beat in the near distance, and then she saw why the faces around her were etched with expectancy. A throng of well-dressed women carrying a wide banner marched down the street toward her. They were singing in unison and although Sara did not understand the words well, the song sounded like a church hymn.

  The women leading the group wore smart hats, striped sashes and gold buttons fastened to their lapels. They clutched a banner, which they used as a sort of fortification to push pedestrians off the street and out of their way. Sara was amazed at their boldness. Then she read the one word on the banner she understood, for it was the same in French: prohibition.

  At age eight, she had assumed prohibition was a deadly disease of some kind. The word had been strictly taboo in Vouvray. One did not speak of it nor think upon it, for fear it might eventually come to pass. When Sara eventually did discover what the dreaded word meant, she realized that if the French government were to successfully prohibit the sale of absinthe, it could one day strike at her own family’s livelihood, too. Yet to Papa, prohibition was more than a potential threat to their winemaking business. He had considered it to be a threat to man’s liberty, and vehemently opposed the right of religious conservatives to rule on such personal matters. Sara laughed to herself as she remembered what Papa used to say: “There’s no cuckoo like a religious cuckoo.”

  Sara stood aside while the block-long parade of marchers passed and wondered how in the world they expected to convince an entire nation to give up its diversion of choice. While Sara was ruminating upon this fanciful idea, her eyes landed on another odd sight. Pushing through the crowd was a woman who looked like a seraph, draped and veiled in spotless white on the filthy street, waving her arms and shouting to be heard above the commotion. Sara’s heart leapt into her throat when she recognized Anne. She pushed her way toward her.

  “What is it? What has happened?”

  Anne took a moment to catch her breath. “Oh, thank goodness I’ve found you. It’s Lydia. The baby is coming. She’s with Marie right now. Come, we must make haste.”

  Sara fell in step behind Anne and elbowed her way through the crowd. She did not know if it was apprehension or the afternoon heat that caused her cheeks to prickle and her heart to beat frantically. Only the wall of humanity blocking her path kept her from casting decorum to the wind and bursting into an all-out sprint to reach her sister’s side.

  CHAPTER 9

  Make Straight Your Way Before Me

  Although she ran to their room, Sara still hesitated outside the door and knocked before entering. She did not know how far Lydia’s labor had progressed. Marie answered with an uncharacteristically forceful “Come in.” Sara opened the door and was shocked by what she saw. She smiled as though everything were fine, but was filled with fear for her sister.

  “Sara.” Lydia’s face was pale, and her hair was matted to her forehead in a sweaty tangle. She gripped the bedsheet and, arching her back, let out a howl unlike anything Sara had ever heard.

  “Don’t be alarmed,” Marie interjected. “It’s the normal course of things, but the pains are coming more quickly than expected. I wouldn’t be surprised if she birthed this baby before vespers.”

  “Before vespers?” That was less than two hours’ time. “Good Lord.” Sara was incredulous. “What can I do? Lydia, can I get you some water, or a cool cloth for your head?”

  Marie did not wait for Lydia to respond. “Yes, do that, and Sara, I want you to ask Sister Paulette to prepare some boiled towels, soap and vinegar, and a clean basket for the baby. Tell her to ask one of the novices to wait outside the door. She’ll need to fetch hot water when I call for it.”

  “Do you have your knife and twine?”

  “I see you’ve been paying attention.” Marie sounded pleased. “Yes, I have both.” She turned back to Lydia, who by this time was experiencing another pain. “Now set yourself to work. Your sister’s about to have a baby.”

  The hours passed more slowly than Sara had expected. She sat beside Lydia, stroking her head and reading to her from the Bible, as Lydia requested. Marie read her dog-eared midwifery handbook. Over the course of the evening, Lydia’s groaning became louder, and with each contraction, Sara feared Lydia would break her hand from gripping it so hard. At last, Marie placed the book aside and opened Lydia’s knees to examine her. Lydia looked exhausted and Marie cautioned her to rest. She would need all her strength to push when the time came.

  The time had come.

  “Lydia, listen to me. I can feel the baby’s head with my two fingers. It will only be a little time now before you’ll need to summon all your might to push, all right?”

  Lydia nodded. Marie busied herself readying the basket with clean linens and lining up her instruments. After she was done with her preparations, she seated herself on the stool at the foot of the bed.

  “Sara, I’ll need you to encourage Lydia to push when I tell you. Say whatever you need to. The firstborn babes are often the most stubborn.”

  Lydia turned to Sara and whispered, “I hope you don’t find this difficult, Sara. It is all so awkward.” Lydia glanced at her legs, now sprawled out for Marie’s inspection. She wrapped her hand around Sara’s and looked at her pleadingly. “I need you to stay right here, dearest, to give me courage, or I don’t think I can bear it.”

  Sara pressed Lydia’s fingers to her to her cheek. “Nonsense. You have traveled across the ocean and freed yourself from miserable circumstances, and that took great courage,” she whispered. “You can do this, Lydia. Only a little longer, and you’ll meet your new son.”

  Lydia smiled and closed her eyes. “Yes.”

  Sara fanned Lydia’s face with one of the old magazines that had been stacked neatly in the corner of their room. Marie poked her head into the hallway and instructed the novice to fetch a pail of hot water. “Her time is near,” Sara heard Marie whisper.

  Marie washed her hands and arms up to her elbows with the brick of soap in the basin of water that rested on the small table. She then covered her hands in antiseptic and handed the bottle to Sara.

  “Be certain to scrub between your fingers,” she instructed her.

  Lydia moaned and then cried out, wincing, “I need to push, I need to push!”

  “Wait for it. Let me make sure.” Marie lifted her head and nodded. “You go right ahead, Lydia. Push with all your might—bear down as hard as you can!” She looked at Sara. “Sara, lift her up a bit. Place that other pillow behind her.”

  Lydia’s face scrunched with effort, and she let out a deep guttural moan.

  “That’s it, Lydia, don’t be afraid. Push him out, push him out, that’s it!” Sara prayed silently between each of Lydia’s pushes. Please, God, please.

  Marie’s face was knotted in concentration. She looked up at Sara and Lydia. “The baby’s head is right here, Lydia. Give me one more big push.”

  “I can’t. It’s too much,” Lydia responded breathlessly.

  Sara took Lydia’s face in her hands. “Listen to me, Lydia. You can, and you will birth this baby right now. Push!” She helped Lydia up onto her elbows. “Push!”

  Lydia began to bear down and Sara persisted, “There’s the head! Keep going! Shout as loud as you want, no one can hear. That’s it!”

  Lydia released the most terrifying shriek Sara had ever heard. Her eyes reddened with the strain. She fell back on the pillows and heaved a sigh of exhaustion.

  Marie cradled a slippery boy child in her arms. To Sara, he looked healthy, pink and vigorous. But her concern grew when he did not make a sound. Marie squeezed his nose and used her index finger to clear his mouth. Then she pinched his foot. His lip quivered and he wailed in protest. Sara thought it was the most beautiful cry she had ever heard. Marie expertly clipped the spiraling cord, tied the stump, wiped the baby clean and wrapped him in a swaddling blanket. She handed Sara her nephew. Sara turned her attention to Lydia, who had not said a word.

  Lydia’s eyes were half shut. Sara brought the child’s f
ace close to her sister’s. “It’s a boy, Lydia, just as you said it would be. Your little boy.”

  Lydia touched the child’s fine, matted black hair with her fingertips and pulled his tiny face near to her cheek. Sara kept a firm grasp on him, as Lydia did not appear to have the strength to hold him. Lydia kissed his pink cheek and his cries continued. Then her hand dropped to her side, and she drifted off, exhausted.

  Sara had been so enraptured to see Lydia’s new son that she only now realized Marie was standing next to her, kneading Lydia’s abdomen like a ball of raw dough.

  “Place the baby in the basket—let him cry. I need you to move the bucket underneath her. The placenta will emerge soon.”

  Sara placed the bucket at the end of the bed and gathered the sterile towels beside it.

  “It’s coming, Marie.” Sara stepped aside so Marie could position herself on the little stool. She proceeded to pull a twisted blue and red mass out from between Lydia’s legs until blood began to flow. Although Sara had witnessed this stage of the birthing process many times now, it was another thing entirely to witness this bulbous mass being expelled from her sister’s body. She would have fainted had Marie not shocked her into clearheadedness with her next words.

  “She is torn, Sara, and the bleeding has not yet ceased. Listen closely. Take these towels and hold them here firmly to staunch the flow of blood. Don’t stop until I tell you. Use both hands—yes, like that. Press harder!”

  Marie shouted to the novice waiting outside to bring more warm water. She then filled a syringe with vinegar and water. By this time, the towels Sara was holding were soaked through and her fingers were bloodied. This, combined with her nephew’s crying, felt like too much to bear. Her sister’s blood was pooling around her shoes. The smell pulled Sara back to the night she stabbed Bastien, and she began to panic.

  “What is happening, Marie? Is she, is she …” Sara could not bring herself to say the words.