Sara walked with trepidation toward the house. In the time it took to cross the acres from where she’d met him in the vineyard to his front porch, Sara had come up with at least ten ways she could skulk off to Aurora’s house without having to be formally introduced to him. But all her contrivances were for naught: Aurora appeared on the steps before she could make her escape, beckoning Sara to come in.
Philippe was lighting a fire in the hearth and leapt up to greet the women as they entered. His movements were lithesome, his limbs long and graceful, not like any farmer she’d ever known.
Sara’s heart thudded with dread as Aurora made the introductions. “Madame Sara Landry, may I present Monsieur Philippe Lemieux.”
Philippe extended his hand. She returned his handshake and smiled as warmly as her fear would allow.
“Sara?” he asked with curiosity.
Her heart raced, threatening to explode. “Yes,” she replied, as lightly as possible.
When she realized Philippe was studying her face, she wanted to hide, but instead forced a pleasant expression. He chuckled to himself, and shook his head.
“We’ve already met, Aurora—out in the vineyard this afternoon,” Philippe said cheerfully. Relief washed over Sara; he didn’t suspect her.
“Sara is the daughter of a vintner from the western Loire, near Angers,” Aurora declared.
“Indeed, down the river from where I grew up.” He glanced appraisingly at Sara. “Hmm … a vintner’s daughter. We can always use more of our countrymen in these parts. After all, no one truly knows wine like the French, wouldn’t you agree, madame?” He gave them a radiant smile that nearly melted Sara’s bones.
Before Sara could voice her agreement, Luc began to cry.
“And who is this little fellow?” said Philippe with sudden interest.
“My son, Luc Landry. He’s six months old.”
Philippe rubbed Luc’s fine brown curls with his palm. Luc calmed immediately under his touch and grasped Philippe’s extended finger.
“Is he cooperative when you work? It seems so.” He looked at Sara again and smiled crookedly. “It must be a bit of a strain to carry him on your back while you’re working. He’s quite big for six months, isn’t he?”
Sara felt oddly irritated by his remark. What did he know about babies? She supposed every mother was overly sensitive to what was said about her child.
“Not at all,” she replied. “He’s no trouble and average weight for his age. If you’ll excuse us, Luc needs a change. I should also feed and bathe him.”
“Why don’t you tend to him here and stay for dinner? It’s the least I can offer to thank you ladies for your help with the vineyard.” He looked at Aurora with kind eyes. “I really am most grateful.”
Aurora smiled in return, but shot a sideways glance at Sara. “It wasn’t without its … difficulties. But we’ll talk more of that over dinner. All in all, we had fun, didn’t we, Sara?”
Sara wasn’t sure she could share a meal with Bastien Lemieux’s brother, no matter how charming he appeared. Her wits had left her. She needed more time—for what, she hardly knew. To decide how to make small talk with the brother of the man she had killed. Her mind reeled at the absurdity—no, the tragedy of it all. She realized that Philippe and Aurora were staring at her. She had to invent something to say.
“I’m so sorry, I have to leave you two to discuss these matters without me. Like I said, I need to tend to Luc and … he’s teething and a bit irritable right now, so I don’t think it would be a good idea for us to stay.”
“Oh.” Aurora seemed disappointed, but recovered her good humor quickly. “Oh, of course. Take the wagon home. I’m sure Philippe can drive me back after dinner, if it’s not too much trouble.”
“None at all. Perhaps next time, Madame Landry.” Philippe bowed slightly.
Sara knew she should suggest the idea was appealing. “That would be delightful, thank you.”
APRIL 2, 1897, MADAME THIERRY’S FARM, NAPA, CALIFORNIA
“What is this?” Sara held out a jar filled with dark, glossy chips of glass.
“Obsidian. It’s volcanic glass, from the northern valley. The Mey’ankmah—some of the first inhabitants of Napa—traded obsidian and used it to make spears and arrowheads. I collect it.” Aurora moved around her workroom, organizing books by subject and stacking them on the new bookshelves she and Sara had constructed from pine boards.
Sara placed the jar back on the long table and picked up the next one. “And these dried flowers?”
“Oh, that’s my latest experiment, blue elderberry. I’m told the Mey’ankmah used it for children’s fevers, so I thought, with your permission, I’d make the tea and we’d give it to Luc the next time he’s feverish. Don’t worry, it won’t hurt him.”
“I’m not worried. I’m just in awe of your knowledge. And … I do have to make a confession.”
Aurora’s head turned in interest. “Which is … ?”
“When I was a girl, I read all your treatises on grape and olive farming and now, to be working with you—well, it is unfathomable to me and quite an honor.”
“Well, I’ll be!” Aurora’s hands moved to her hips. “I didn’t know those writings had even reached Europe.” She smiled, satisfied. “I’m feeling rather proud of myself right now.”
“As well you should be. All the best farmers back home read your work.”
“You don’t say? Actually, I’ve been fortunate. Living here has given me the opportunity to research and publish, whereas I probably wouldn’t have had as much success in France. There’s not as much … openness to female writers there. The old ways, you know,” she said wryly.
“How long have you lived in California?”
“Since 1861, when my father brought us to Pope Valley, in northern Napa County—first for the silver mining, then, when that didn’t work out, red cinnabar provided a nice living for us. My husband bought this place in 1875. As stubborn as he was, he was also very patient and taught me most of what I know about farming. Renaud was amazing: he could grow anything.” Her voice was matter-of-fact, with no trace of sadness.
“And how did you meet Monsieur Lemieux?” Sara grabbed the broom and dustpan from the closet and began to sweep up the dried plant cuttings and dirt from the floor.
“When he was looking for property in these parts, he dropped in to ask me some questions about the land he was interested in. I’ve never been one to keep my opinions to myself, so I told him exactly what I thought.”
“Which was?” Sara tried to sound nonchalant, but was eager to learn more.
“That he’d be mad not to take it, and replant the vines and orchards. Plant an olive grove. Would have done it myself if I’d had the money. The place could be a goldmine,” Aurora said enthusiastically.
“It is enormous.”
“Yes, but Philippe’s just the man to put it right.” Aurora sounded impressed.
“How so?”
“He’s savvy—not just about grape growing, but about selling what he produces. And I’ve never seen a man want something more.”
Sara could relate to that. She was surprised that he hadn’t married yet. “Does he not want a wife and family as well?”
“Why? Are you volunteering?” Aurora teased.
Sara blushed a thousand shades of red. “Of course not. I barely know him. I’m just saying, he’s not young.”
“Twenty-eight hardly qualifies him as ancient. Besides, he has his … diversions, from what I understand. He’s had a relationship with a woman in town for the past year or so.”
“Oh, is he engaged?” Sara tried to sound offhand.
“I don’t think she’s the marrying kind.” Aurora gave her a knowing glance, but Sara wasn’t sure what her friend meant to imply. After all, Sara herself was the only girl she knew of who wasn’t the marrying kind, who would rather spend her days and nights growing wine than taking care of a man.
“Do you miss your husband?” Sara asked cautious
ly. She had loved her father, but from what she had seen, husbands could be tricky.
“Every day,” Aurora sighed. “And you?”
Sara felt a pang of shame for deceiving Aurora into thinking she was also a widow. “Sometimes. I regret that Luc doesn’t have a father, you know, to teach him things.”
Aurora nodded. She took a few moments to line up the jarred specimens on the edge of the workroom table before she spoke.
“I had a son. Not many people know—it was before Renaud and I moved here. René was four when he died. Pneumonia, they said. He always had weak lungs. Anyhow, it was a long time ago.”
“I’m so sorry, Aurora. That must have been, must still be, unbearable.”
“And yet, here I stand,” she said bravely, and looked away. “I miss his smell—not at all flowery, mind you. Pure boy. All musk and sweet-scented perspiration. And I miss running my fingers through his hair. Paintbrush hair, Renaud used to call it. It was so thick it never needed brushing, always fell right back into place, like the bristles on a painter’s brush.” Her laugh was wistful, sad. “So you see, when I met Philippe, although he looks nothing like my son, I couldn’t help but think: what would René be doing now if he’d lived? He would have been the same age as Philippe. I wonder if he would’ve been a farmer, like his father. Sometimes, when I’m alone, I think about things like that.”
She glanced back at Sara and smiled warmly. “Which is why it’s good to have you and Luc here—to keep my mind on the present. But you understand, you’ve lost your husband.”
“Luc and I are so grateful to be here and to have you as our friend.” Sara said, trying to dodge Aurora’s unspoken question.
“Thank you. Speaking of which”—Aurora clasped her hands together in excitement—“I’m having a dinner party next Saturday. You, because you are new to town, and Philippe, because he’s just returned from the East, will be the guests of honor.”
Sara tried to hide her horror. “I don’t think—”
“Oh, no, I insist, Sara. You absolutely cannot say no. You have no idea how I love my dinner parties. I’m inviting all the best wine men and some of the worst, so you’ll get a real understanding of what’s going on around here. And their wives are quite tolerable in small doses.”
Sara laughed at Aurora’s enthusiasm. She would not dream of disappointing her one true friend in this part of the world.
“It sounds wonderful. You must allow me to help.”
“Not one bit. You worry about you and Luc. I’ll take care of the invitations, the food, the drink. We’ll ask everyone to bring a bottle of his best wine. It will be positively lavish!”
Sara felt apprehensive and hopeful in equal measure. So much time had passed since she’d dined in proper company that she decided to take extra time with her toilette before going downstairs. She tried to remember Lydia’s painstaking beauty routine as she stared at herself hopelessly in the looking glass. She did not have her sister’s peaches-and-cream complexion or silky hair. Nor had she much of Lydia’s charm. Sara sighed wistfully, and her chest tightened with longing. She missed her sister’s infectious smile, her easy laugh and, most of all, her unfailing ability to diffuse Sara’s darkest moods.
Sara concentrated on her appearance to calm her nerves. She didn’t have any rosewater, so she used the water from the pump to wash her face. She chewed on a mint leaf and then inspected her teeth meticulously. She had splurged on a few special items at the general store for the occasion. On her farm-worn hands—Lydia would have been appalled!—she slathered a thick honey cream, rubbing it into her shredded cuticles until they looked smoother. She brushed her chestnut hair fifty times for shine and pinched her cheeks for a healthy radiance, as Lydia used to say. Dusting powder under her arms was essential in this surprising spring heat. A simple twist at the nape of her neck was the best she could muster with her hair, which had not yet fully grown back.
She could almost see her sister standing in front of her, smell Lydia’s lavender filling their bedroom back at Saint Martin. Lydia would have tugged a few tendrils from Sara’s slicked-back coiffure to frame and soften her face. Lydia always knew how to make the most of their features, while Sara had never paid much attention to fashion or beauty. Now she wished she had. Sara’s eyes, a fleck-less, verdant green, were her most attractive feature, she believed. Would Lydia agree?
Attire was another conundrum. She really only had one choice: Lydia’s old white summer dress, cinched at the waist with a black ribbon, with elbow-length puffed sleeves and a high ruffled collar. She had swallowed her pride and asked Aurora to advance her money to buy some new soles for her only pair of shoes. Fortunately, as Aurora kept reminding her, the people here did not stand on ceremony. They were more likely to judge someone’s intellect than their attire, her friend insisted. Let’s hope so, Sara thought anxiously. Although she had to admit it was a bit senseless to worry about hair and clothing when a much more substantial challenge lay ahead of her this evening.
Sara hated being the center of attention. The only good thing about being one of the two guests of honor was that Aurora would seat her and Philippe at opposite ends of the table, so Sara would not have to make polite conversation with him. She was determined to conceal her identity. Sara had lain awake for hours the night before, racked with anxiety, refining her story until she had the details memorized. She tried to anticipate the group’s questions and manufacture believable but concise answers. The string of lies had to be consistent with what she had already told Aurora. Despite the fact that she would have to act all night, she found herself looking forward to an interesting evening, even though it meant putting all thoughts of her real family and her former life out of her head. That would not be easy with Bastien’s brother sitting a table’s length away from her.
Sara descended the stairs, prepared to meet Aurora’s friends. Candle sconces lit the parlor, which was decorated with a plush velvet settee, carved wooden chairs and faded gold scrolled wallpaper that reminded Sara of a tapestry she’d seen inside the Château d’Amboise. As Aurora welcomed the guests, she introduced them to Sara. Instead of staying for refreshments in the parlor, however, Sara ducked into the kitchen to see if Tan, Aurora’s manservant, needed any help feeding Luc. Tan was preparing dinner and entertaining the boy, who sat strapped into his chair, happily drinking from his bottle.
Before long, Aurora popped her head into the kitchen. “Tan, dinner smells wonderful. Is it ready to serve?” He nodded, and opened the cookstove door, releasing a burst of heat. The aroma of roasted poultry made Sara’s mouth water. Aurora took Sara’s hand, sensing her hesitation. “Come along, dear. They won’t bite,” she teased.
Sara studied the guests as they took their seats. Philippe, of course, was seated at the head of the table, directly across from Sara. Aurora had seated the couples, Monsieur and Madame Lamont, Monsieur and Madame Courtois, and Monsieur and Madame Gautier across from one another. Aurora was seated to Sara’s right, and Father L’Enfant, the village curate, to her left, to even out the numbers. The evening’s early pleasantries showed the guests to be amiable enough. Sara was so delighted to be in the company of her own countrymen again, it did not matter how American she found their manners and tastes. The elegant lilt of her native tongue, spoken around the table, enveloped her in its soft timbre and warmed her lonely heart. The fire was warm and the wine abundant, and Sara began to relax.
She realized, sitting at the table as Sara Landry, that she was completely in charge of her own life. As long as she kept her identity concealed, she was free to do as she pleased in this small corner of the world. She felt suddenly protective of this newfound autonomy.
“These sun-kissed hillocks are the very essence of God’s country, do you not agree, Madame Landry? I daresay our California scenery rivals the very best offered by the French countryside.” One could always rely on Aurora to voice strong opinions.
Sara had to agree. “I could not think of anything more satisfying than to cultivate o
ne’s own patch of vines here. The land is constant and loyal, something a person can cling to.” Perhaps she had overstated her sentiment, but it was genuine.
“Well said, my dear.” Aurora raised her glass.
“And why is that, madame?” Philippe interrupted from across the table.
“Monsieur?” Sara did not understand the question.
“Why would you ‘cling’ to the land?” His eyes searched hers with unexpected intensity, as if he were trying to solve a riddle.
She would have held his gaze, but the incandescence of his eyes, as brilliant as sapphires, unnerved her. She looked down at the napkin in her lap and smoothed its edges with her fingers. In a moment, she had formulated her answer and could look at him again.
“Perhaps because it does not disappoint.”
He was clearly amused. “No, no, I suppose it doesn’t. While wind, hail, disease and quake may wilt the vines and wither the fruit, the soil persists. Even scorched by flames, it comes back to life with a vengeance.”
Sara shifted uncomfortably in her seat at this. She forced herself to hold her voice steady. “Yes, I suppose.”
“And one day, it will gather us up and restore us to itself—dust to dust, as they say.” Philippe finally broke the intense eye contact and speared another morsel from his plate. Was his last remark made in jest? Sara wondered. She decided the best response would be none at all.
“Now you’ve become positively morose, Philippe. Let the poor girl eat her dinner in peace, would you?” Aurora’s eyes sparkled. She clearly enjoyed a bit of sparring at the dinner table.
“Lemieux, how do the vines fare this year? Do you anticipate any difficulties?” Gautier queried. He was a jovial, stout man with a ruddy complexion, who ate voraciously.
Vintner's Daughter Page 19