Vintner's Daughter

by Kristen Harnisch

  “We’re grateful for your kindness, but you are not responsible for us. I am.” She hesitated just a moment before straightening her back and continuing, “I was hoping to ask you for something, a loan, which I’d repay over time.”

  “Of course. What is it?”

  “I want to study midwifery at the Women’s Medical College at the New York Infirmary. It’s an elite program, and I need to improve my knowledge.” Marie’s voice trailed off, and her eyes wandered to a dark painting of the Madonna that hung somewhat menacingly on the parlor wall. When she turned back to face him, Philippe was startled to see her eyes reddened and shiny. “You see, I lost a woman, a friend, this past summer in childbirth.” She was distraught. “I’ve gone over and over it in my mind, trying to figure out what went wrong … what I could have done to save her. She was young—it was her first child. It devastated all of us.”

  “But these things happen. They are not always in your control.”

  “Yes, but I need to study and keep learning. You may laugh at me, and I daresay I’ve been afraid to even say the words aloud until now, but I want to become a doctor someday. I really think I have the strength of mind for it. Would you loan me the money for tuition?”

  “Absolutely not.” Philippe gave her a generous smile. “I insist it will be a gift.”

  “No, it will be a loan. I have some money saved, but the balance I’d need is five hundred dollars over two years. That includes textbooks.”

  Philippe took some cash from his wallet. “This is half, and I’ll send the remainder in a few months’ time. I’m glad you asked.”

  “Thank you, Philippe. I’m truly grateful.”

  Philippe looked down at the cracks in the wood floor. Now he could no longer delay the inevitable. He knew it was tactless to move from such a hopeful topic to one so upsetting, but he didn’t know how else to proceed. When he spoke next, his voice was low and thoughtful.

  “Marie?”

  She must have seen the distress on his face, for she leaned in closer. He took her hands in his.

  “It’s Bastien. I’m afraid … he is dead.” Philippe took a deep breath and continued, “It happened in May.”

  Marie placed her hand over her mouth and, rising, moved wordlessly across the room to peer out the half-shuttered window. Her back was rigid and she stood motionless for several minutes. Philippe did not dare interrupt. When she finally spoke, her voice cracked.

  “How?”

  “We don’t know. Murder, perhaps. There was a fire, but he was found with a wound to his neck. We’ve initiated an investigation.” Philippe’s voice was flat. It was still unreal to him.

  Marie swept across the room to sit down across from him. Her delicate features were creased with pain. She placed her hand on his arm sympathetically. “I’m so sorry, Philippe. How are you managing?”

  Philippe looked down and ran his thumb along his wallet’s worn brown leather strap. He was not prepared to share his emotions—they were too complex, too raw. Marie must have sensed this, for she withdrew her hand and did not press him further.

  “What about his family—his wife?”

  Philippe looked up. “You knew he had married?”

  “Yes, my uncle wrote me in April,” she said slowly. “Uncle Jacques said that he was kept on to help your brother after the marriage.”

  “Bastien’s wife and her sister are missing. Madame Thibault is still in Vouvray, living in the gatehouse of Saint Martin. Neither she nor Jacques knows their whereabouts, apparently. They may have perished—or they may have murdered him.”

  “Is that what you think?” Marie exclaimed. “Why?”

  “I don’t know. To escape something, perhaps,” Philippe ventured tentatively.

  “His viciousness, no doubt.” Marie’s sharp tone startled Philippe. She exhaled. “I’m sorry, Philippe. I’m sorry for you and your father, and I’m sorry that Bastien abandoned Adeline. Or rather, that her father was not the man you are. But, Philippe,” she spoke intently, “that is where my regret ends.”

  “I know. However, my father, in his grief, has seen fit to offer a bounty for the capture of the Thibault sisters. You see, we think they’ve come to America.”

  “How do you know their actions were not justified?” Marie’s tone was mildly combative. Philippe realized that he’d just reopened a wound that had barely had time to heal. Nonetheless, Bastien was his brother, and it was his duty to set things right.

  “Does anyone deserve to be killed in cold blood?” he asked mildly.

  Marie was silent.

  “I have to find them, for my own peace of mind.”

  “How will you find them? Do you have any leads?”

  “Yes, one. Apparently, Lydia and Sara de Coursey sailed from Le Havre to New York in May. Bastien’s wife is Lydia, as you may know, and her sister’s name is Sara.”

  Marie moved toward the window. When she turned back she had transformed her face into a serene mask. Philippe studied her with concern. Perhaps the news was just too much. Or perhaps she knew something she didn’t want to tell him.

  “Our attorney is checking the ship records at Ellis Island to see if we can find an address,” he said.

  “And how long will that take?”

  “A few weeks, no more.”

  “But you leave in a few days for Boston, no?”

  “Yes, and then back home via Chicago. My attorney will forward the information to the bounty hunters and they’ll take it from there.”

  “Bounty hunters? Isn’t that a little much?” Philippe saw fear flicker in her eyes.

  “We need to find them, Marie. Even if we don’t press charges, we need to discover if the child was born alive. My father intended Saint Martin for Bastien’s family. The baby would have been born in early September, by Madame Thibault’s estimation.”

  Marie crossed her arms and her shoulders hunched in concentration. “And what have you learned from my uncle?”

  “He has been questioned. When Jacques awoke, the house was on fire. He saw the flames and rang the bell for help. He searched the upstairs bedrooms before the heat forced him out, but he didn’t find anyone.” Philippe hesitated for a moment. “Tell me something, Marie. Is your uncle a trustworthy man?”

  Marie’s features softened as she faced Philippe. “He is the best of men.” Her eyes, a deep mahogany, widened with feeling. “As are you.” She moved to kiss him on the cheek. “Thank you again for the outing. Adeline and I enjoyed spending time with you.”

  “You are most welcome.” He wanted to offer more, but couldn’t find the words. Instead, he stood and took her small hands in his. “It is good to see you again.”

  He collected his belongings and moved toward the door.

  “And Marie?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You would tell me if you knew anything about the Thibault girls, wouldn’t you?” He was now certain she was hiding something.

  “Of course I would. I’ll ask around and see what I can find out.”

  “That would be most helpful, thank you.”

  “Philippe?”

  He eyed her speculatively.

  “Prepare yourself. Some stones are better left unturned.”

  He nodded, but in his mind, Philippe dismissed her warning. He would find them, with or without her help. “Just remember, Marie, they’re involved in this somehow, and I doubt they are innocents.” He inhaled deeply, trying to shake off his frustration and remember instead their pleasant day together.

  He donned his hat and spoke kindly. “Adieu, Marie. Tell Adeline that I’ll write as soon as I can.”

  “God bless, Philippe. Safe journey home.”

  Philippe was exhausted. He shut the door to his small hotel room on the Lower East Side, and dropped down onto the narrow bed. He squeezed the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb and then rubbed the inner corners of his eyes. His head throbbed with a dull pain. It was a lot to absorb in one day.

  Listening to what Briggs had said
about Bastien had made it all real. Philippe realized that when he’d read his father’s letter in June, he’d not actually thought of his brother as being dead. He had not allowed himself to feel it. Here, alone in his rented room, the weight crashed down upon him. The truth was that he grieved for his brother. For all Bastien’s wretched behavior, now there would never be a chance for Bastien to change, to become a better brother, a better man. Above all, Philippe was angry that someone had killed his brother in cold blood and just run off, taking with her all the chances that would never be. The injustice gnawed at his gut.

  Philippe let out a sigh. As if that all weren’t enough, now he had to figure out what to do with the land. Christ, Bastien had made a mess of things. From what Philippe remembered, Saint Martin had been fairly prosperous and had produced a decent white under Thibault’s stewardship. Now it was plagued with debt and the main dwelling had been destroyed in the fire. It appeared to Philippe that Bastien had given up long before his death. With a pang of sorrow, he wondered why.

  Philippe sprang from the bed and made his way across the cramped quarters to the desk. He began his examination of the papers Briggs had given him: the newly drafted deed naming Philippe as the owner of Saint Martin, signed by his father, and the list of what had survived the fire. The watch house was intact, but only a stone skeleton of the main house remained. All the valuable furnishings and draperies had been destroyed. Copper pots, a curio cabinet and three glass panes had been salvaged. Two horses, one wagon, a mule, two pigs and five chickens. That was all.

  What was impressive was that only the hectare of land surrounding the house had been damaged by the fire, and over sixty percent of the vines were unscathed and thriving. According to Briggs’s scrawl at the bottom of the inventory list, thirteen barrels of wine sat in the cave, unsold at the time of the fire. They would fetch about 700 francs. Philippe read on. The estate’s debts, most of them a result of his brother’s gambling, totaled 3,800 francs, according to Chevreau’s tally. Bastien’s cash holdings added up to a paltry 990 francs, so the burden was considerable. He doubted his father would finance the deficit. Philippe sensed that his father had transferred the land, or, in reality, Bastien’s debts, to him so that he could use his own resources to fund the search for his son’s killer. Retribution was already exacting a heavy price.

  Slowly, his mind began to form the framework of a plan. He now had to manage the production, marketing and distribution of wines in both France and America—and at the same time. Still, the pieces began to fall together, and within a half hour, he had organized his ideas on the back of the official gendarme report.

  The business side of Philippe’s trip east had been a moderate success so far. With Lamont’s endorsement, he had convinced three other Carneros wine men to join him in his endeavor. Philippe had left Napa with two hundred thousand bottles of their best chardonnay, zinfandel and sparkling wines. In Los Angeles and St. Louis, he had sold nearly half of the bottles, at an average price of twenty-three cents per gallon. It was satisfying knowing that he was generating a larger profit for his fellow California vintners back home than the Wine Association had in years. And this was only the beginning. He had also secured orders for another twenty-five thousand gallons to be delivered after the next bottling. He planned to spend the next few days calling on New York merchants to forge relationships with them. On his way home, he would stop in Boston, Chicago and other cities to sell more bottles and secure more future orders. Next year, he would try his luck in New Orleans.

  His mind began to break free from its earlier malaise. Ambition edged forward to inspire the hint of a smile on his face. Saint Martin, a sizable vineyard by Loire standards, had just fallen into his lap. Combined with Eagle’s Run, his was now one of the largest holdings of vineyards that he knew of: 233 acres of fruitful vines. It was only a matter of time and persistence before the Lemieux wines would dominate on both continents.

  He would sign the papers tomorrow.

  CHAPTER 12

  Napa

  DECEMBER 21, 1896, NAPA CITY, CALIFORNIA

  The exhilaration Sara felt as she disembarked from the steam train at the Napa depot was only mildly tempered by fear: here she was, arriving in a new city, not knowing a soul and with only fifty-four dollars to her name. Her limited means were the most obvious concern, but there was an even more pressing matter at hand: what would her new name be?

  She had thought about this endlessly during this final leg of their journey. She could continue to use the name de Coursey, but Philippe Lemieux had just been to New York and visited Marie Chevreau. What if Marie had unwittingly, or, heaven forbid, intentionally, mentioned her? If Lemieux cared enough to check the ship’s manifest, he would find their names there; even more incriminating, Lydia’s pregnancy would be recorded. Sara needed to manufacture a new surname—again. This was the last time, though, she promised herself.

  Sara decided to take her middle name, Landry. Sara Landry. Perhaps it was paranoid, but Jacques had put the fear of God in her with his talk of the guillotine. She’d never truly thought it would come to that, but so many terrible things had transpired over the last year, how could she not anticipate the worst? Sara Landry and Luc Landry. So it would have to be, for their shared protection. At least it was a pleasant name to say, and easy for the Americans to pronounce. No one would suspect that Sara Landry was a Thibault, of the Vouvray Thibaults. No one would suspect that the boy she cared for and now considered to be her own son, was not. Even Sara had to admit how strange it all sounded. In her wildest imaginings, she could never have envisioned her life taking these turns.

  Sara stepped off the wooden platform of the train station and down into the dusty road. The afternoon winds kicked up, and silt swirled around her and the baby. Luc squeezed his eyelids shut, balling up his pudgy fists against his face while he squealed with displeasure. Once Sara had wiped his eyes clean with the sleeve of her shirtwaist, she propped him on her hip with one arm and picked up her satchel with the other. It was sunny out, but colder than Sara had expected. On a bench behind the station, Sara set her satchel down and unlatched it with one hand. She reached in for Luc’s worn gray blanket while balancing him precariously on her thigh. Luc wriggled violently until his legs were free of Sara’s hold. He would have slipped to the ground had Sara not scooped his legs back up and held him tightly against her chest. Motherhood was more challenging than she had ever imagined. Now she could add the dubious distinction of contortionist to her list of newly discovered talents.

  The steam train roared to life again, startling both of them. Luc erupted into hysterical crying. To make matters worse, the iron horse left a billowing cloud of black smoke in its wake, causing both of them to cough. Trying to soothe Luc, Sara headed away from the commotion, to a quiet patch of grass nearby. Sara sat on her bag on the parched grass, and rocked Luc to quiet him. She watched the train until its caboose disappeared from sight, then looked down at her little cherub. He was calm now and his eyes were closed, but he still inhaled sharply and sniffled. His tiny lips quivered slightly, forming a perfect pink bow. Sara couldn’t think of anything more beautiful. She kissed his forehead and murmured into his smooth hair, “Welcome to California.”

  It was half past three in the afternoon, and the streets were fairly empty. She walked up Soscol Avenue and then headed west toward Main Street. She would need to find some inexpensive lodging. The fifty-four dollars she had left would last them about a month, if she was frugal. Because it was late in the day, she would find a hotel room for the night. Tomorrow, she would look for suitable lodgings to rent and begin her search for work.

  The town’s buildings were modern compared to what Sara was used to. Most were made of freshly painted wood, not stone or brick. The sunlit streets were wide enough for a wagon to turn around, not dark and narrow like the streets of the Lower East Side. As she made her way down Main Street, she heard the pleasant chatter of pedestrians in English, French, Italian and German, and the whistle of a s
teamboat docking at the nearby riverfront. Sara made a mental note of the places she’d need to return to: the Semorile Sons’ grocery store, the gothic-style Catholic Church, the hardware store. When she reached the three-story Napa Hotel, she was relieved to find they had rooms to let, and at a rate she could afford. Once settled in her room, she changed Luc’s diaper and fashioned a makeshift bed for him from a spare quilt she found in the closet. Then she strapped him tightly to her chest and made her way to the grocery store.

  She had hoped to slip in unnoticed, but the store was small and surprisingly busy. To make matters worse, the proprietress was a stout, loud-mouthed busybody who had decided that Sara would serve as her entertainment for the afternoon. After introducing herself, the shopkeeper barraged Sara with rapid-fire questions.

  “The name’s Molly. Where’d you come from? How long you staying? Married? Widowed? I don’t see a ring, but that doesn’t mean anything these days. Need milk for the baby? Place to stay? Job? Family in these parts?” She finally came up for air and glared at Sara expectantly.

  Sara felt as though she’d been riddled with bullets. While she understood almost every question, she didn’t possess the English vocabulary to formulate coherent responses. Her eventual reply was heavily accented and brief.

  “Sara and Luc Landry from France.” She ignored the question about her marital status. “Milk?”

  The woman smiled and came out from behind the counter to show Sara where the milk, diapers and baby supplies were located.

  “Thank you.” Fresh milk would be a treat for Luc tonight. She placed a bottle into her basket and continued. “Apartments?”

  “Well, there’s best and then there’s the cheapest. Which do you want?”

  Sara was confused. She pulled out a dollar bill with one hand, and held up five fingers, indicating she could afford five dollars per week. The woman shook her head and made a clucking sound inside her cheek. “Here’s what you’ll be wantin’, honey—at least until you find a job.” She hauled down from the top shelf a thick, folded piece of cloth and placed it at Sara’s feet. “Tent. Pitch it down by the river.”