Philippe looked impressed. “It is indeed. But what if the Catholic Church goes dry during the prohibition?”
“I doubt that will happen. The use of alcohol will have to be permitted for medicinal purposes—so why not the Blessed Sacrament as well? Besides, what will you care? You’ll have a contract, and we all know that any prohibition could only be temporary, and the archdiocese will need to have a supply of wine on hand.” She did not give Philippe time to respond. “And to your point, just in case, you really do need to make Eagle’s Run … prohibition-proof. In other words, take Aurora up on her offer to help you cultivate those extra acres of land into a viable fruit orchard. Apples, raisins, prunes, olives—whatever you like, just so long as it’s not grapes.” Sara could have gone on, but decided she had been bold enough already.
Philippe stepped back, and Sara could sense his surprise. “I can see you’ve had some time to think this through.”
She shifted Luc to her other hip. “I’m not naive enough to think that you haven’t considered it as well.”
“Yes, but I confess I never thought of securing the business so far in advance. Or starting the orchard right on the heels of my first decent harvest.”
“But who’s to say it is that far in advance? Prohibition might not be as far off as we think. Can you really afford to put off planning for it?”
“Perhaps you’re right. Hedging my interests certainly would have its benefits—peace of mind being one of them. But why would you share your ideas with me?”
“Well, obviously, I have yet to acquire my own vineyard. Besides, it takes something to admit you don’t know everything,” Sara teased. “Perhaps it’s because you were interested enough to ask.”
Philippe contemplated that for a moment and then turned the full force of his azure eyes upon her. “You are a feisty one, aren’t you?”
Sara was pleased at the compliment. May you never know the full extent of it, she thought with a twinge of remorse.
Philippe bid them goodbye with a bow and ruffled Luc’s hair before riding off. It was well past one in the afternoon. By the time they arrived back at Aurora’s, Luc was sleeping contentedly in Sara’s arms. She laid him in his crib and glanced in the mirror. She was surprised at her reflection. Her hair was disarranged, but not unattractive, and flowed loosely down to her shoulders. Her eyes had a new brightness about them, and her cheeks were flushed a becoming shade of pink. She looked alive and young, and for the first time in over a year, she felt that way, too.
What was she doing? She should run from Philippe and never look back. But she was tired of running, of just surviving. She wanted a life. And despite who he was and what she had done, she was drawn to this magical place, and moreover, drawn to him. She felt as though she belonged here. For the first time since Lydia had died, Sara felt an inspiring surge of hope. She would eventually have to own up to what she’d done. She would have to tell Philippe, make him understand, hope against hope that he’d believe her and see her side of the story. But she knew that even if he did, even if he understood that she had killed Bastien in self-defense, there was one fact that Sara couldn’t escape. After he had attacked her, she had wanted Bastien to suffer. Maybe she had even wanted him to die. Sara closed her eyes, trying to remove the memory from her consciousness. She couldn’t think about it now.
Sara had endured the loss of her family and traveled so far. To succumb to her buried guilt and confess would be to surrender her future—and Luc’s. But to leave now would cast even more suspicion on them. That she could not do. She would stay and create a new life for them among their new friends and hope for the best.
It was six weeks before Sara was once again thrown into the path of Philippe Lemieux. She had kept busy planting beets, corn, tomatoes and herbs in Aurora’s garden, and helping write lesson plans for Aurora’s classes at the Ladies’ Seminary. Today she was pushing Luc down Main Street in a pram, a generous gift from Aurora. The balmy June weather was exhilarating to the senses.
She had journeyed to town to purchase cloth and pins for Luc’s diapers, and notebooks for Aurora. Downtown Napa bustled with an energy Sara had not witnessed when she arrived here in the bleakness of December. The streets were flooded with people and wagons laden with French and American wine barrels, bottles and farming implements. Winemaking in the valley was in full swing; the vintners were racking, blending and re-barreling their wines in anticipation of the bottling that would take place in midsummer. Sara was so absorbed in observing all the people passing by that she was startled when Tan pulled up beside her in Aurora’s rig. It was amazing he had found her in the crowd, but Sara had always admired his quiet efficiency.
In moments, Tan had loaded Sara, Luc, the pram and all her parcels into the wagon. Since they each spoke limited English, Sara understood only that she was to meet Aurora at Eagle’s Run.
“Madame Landry!” Philippe exclaimed upon their arrival, emerging from the winery to greet them, his spirits high. Tan halted the rig, and Sara looked around, perplexed to see no sign of Aurora.
“Monsieur Lemieux, my apologies. I thought I was supposed to meet Aurora here.”
“You are indeed, but I believe she’s coming a little later. Come, let me help you two down.”
Sara was rattled. Philippe’s charm was disarming. She had to look away to assemble her thoughts, and she despised herself a bit for it. Despite her resolve to form an intelligent phrase, she stumbled over her words. “I’m sorry but—well, I don’t really know why I’m here.”
Philippe chuckled. “You and Aurora were invited because I require your counsel.” He took Luc from Sara, securing him in one arm, and then helped her down from the wagon. When he wrapped his rough fingers gently around hers, their touch was electric, the air around them instantly charged. Sara tried not to flinch from the heat of his skin on hers. She thanked Tan for driving her, trying to compose herself, then willed herself to turn her attention back to Philippe. She released her hand from his.
“And what kind of advice do you seek?” Her voice was calm, businesslike.
“I need you to taste the chardonnay and tell me what you think.”
Sara shrugged. “I am hardly qualified, monsieur.”
“Have you not grown grapes your entire life?”
“Yes, but—”
“And are you not a vintner’s daughter, trained in the art of pressing and blending white grapes from the Loire?”
“Yes, but those were chenin blanc.”
“And wouldn’t it be fair to say that because you’ve been drinking wine from—I’m guessing—the age of eight, you are able to distinguish between fine wine and swill?”
Sara smiled a bit at that. “Yes,” she agreed reluctantly.
Philippe grinned. “Then you are completely qualified, I’d wager.”
He held Luc while he led Sara into the dim cellar, which was lit only by a table lantern and slivers of daylight peeking through the window wells. After seating Luc carefully on the floor, Philippe used a pipette to transfer chardonnay from a barrel to three glasses. He handed one to Sara.
Sara held it up in the natural light. The wine was a brilliant pale honey color. She placed her nose over the edge of the glass and inhaled deeply. Oak and vanilla. She took a sip, rolling the cool liquid over her tongue. It was creamy—she tasted butter, oak and perhaps, yes, pear. Philippe was watching her intently. Sara would reserve her opinion until he answered all her questions.
“When was the final racking?”
Philippe looked surprised. “We just completed it. All the wine has been siphoned off the lees,” he added.
Sara took another sip and this time detected a refreshing hint of lime. “And you sweetened with … ?”
“A little beet sugar.”
It had a nice bite, perhaps a bit heavier on the tannins than she’d expected for a white, but not unpleasant. She liked it. Philippe leaned against a nearby table, absentmindedly drumming his fingers on its surface.
“American o
ak?”
He looked up. “Of course.”
“And who will be buying this chardonnay?” She met his eyes, and he cocked his head, brow furrowed in confusion.
“How is that relevant? Either it’s good or it’s not.” There was an edge of irritation in his voice. This was turning out to be much more fun than Sara had imagined.
She laughed. “Bear with me, monsieur. I promise you I shall come to a conclusion soon. Now, are you marketing it to the local merchants or back East?”
“If you must know, we’ll be shipping the bottles to New York, Boston and Chicago.”
“Hmm. The wine you’ve produced is dry, but with a bit of a bite, which I enjoy immensely.” Philippe seemed pleased, but Sara wasn’t finished. “Unfortunately, I am not the person, or rather, the kind of woman, to whom the merchants back East will want to sell your chardonnay. The middle-class and well-off females there prefer a much sweeter drink. My recommendation would be to blend it with a lighter, French-oaked chardonnay, or perhaps a fruity pinot gris, before you bottle it.”
Philippe’s eyes widened. Clearly, he had expected only praise, not advice. “And what if I leave it as it is and take my chances in the marketplace?”
“You can ask Aurora for her opinion,” Sara said matter-of-factly, scooping Luc up in her arms, “but I’d say you risk that the eastern merchants will not renew their orders for next year. Why don’t you blend half, offer both chardonnays to them and see which their customers prefer? It would be an interesting experiment, would it not?”
“Perhaps, but I’d rather not ‘experiment’ with my livelihood.” His voice was tight.
Before Sara could speak again, they heard a wagon lurch to a stop outside. “That must be Aurora. Will you excuse me for a minute, madame?” His voice was softer, more civil now. Philippe bounded up the stairs, two at a time, making Sara wonder at a physically robust farmer taking such pains to craft so delicate a wine. She admired him for it.
“Yoo-hoo!” Sara heard a winded Aurora call to her as she descended the creaky stairs to the cellar. “Sorry I’m late, my dears. I was cornered by Dean Montrose at the seminary. Oh, and my apologies—I simply can’t stay, for I’m already late to Madame Maude’s for my suffrage meeting.” She rubbed her palms together. “What do we have, Philippe?”
He handed her a glass of chardonnay. Aurora took a sip, swishing it about in her mouth. She peered up at Philippe over the rim of her glass.
“And what did Sara make of it?”
Philippe touched Sara’s elbow lightly and whispered, “Don’t you dare utter a word.” He flashed Aurora a smile. “I want another unbiased opinion before I make my decision as to what should, or shouldn’t, be done.”
Sara bit her lip to keep from laughing as Aurora made a display of savoring the wine. She swallowed loudly and emitted a satisfied “Aaah!”
She handed the glass back to Philippe and turned toward the stairs, calling over her shoulder to the pair of them. “Excellent. Particularly bold on the finish. But I enjoy a sweeter white myself. Sara, dear, are you coming to the meeting with me, or walking home?”
Sara smiled triumphantly, and Philippe rolled his eyes. “Coming, Aurora,” she replied.
Sara chuckled and, taking her leave, turned back to address Philippe. “In all seriousness, Monsieur Lemieux, please save a few of the pure, unblended bottles for me. I sincerely enjoyed it.”
It was a half-mile ride to Madame Maude’s estate. This would be Sara’s first introduction to Aurora’s friends, the women who campaigned for the Napa branch of the National American Woman Suffrage Association. Sara had agreed to attend their monthly meeting with Aurora, but, although she was curious, she didn’t intend to do any campaigning anytime soon. She planned to sit quietly and observe the meeting.
When they arrived at the large, turreted stone house, there was scarcely any space by the roadside for Aurora to park her runabout. Wagons, carriages and surreys were scattered all over the yard. Some were modest, others lavishly decorated. Aurora picked up a book that had been wedged in the seat they shared and showed it to Sara. “This will entirely change your thinking—you must read it.” Then she shook her head. “Unfortunately, its radical views are alienating some of our most fervent supporters across the nation. Today we have to figure out how we’re going to respond to the criticism … and how we’re going to regroup after the defeat of the equal suffrage referendum in November.” Aurora smiled with nervous enthusiasm. “Should be an entertaining meeting!”
The book’s title was The Woman’s Bible, and it had been translated into French. The title alone seemed blasphemous to Sara, but she supposed it would help her learn more about the plight of women in California. Gathering Luc in her arms, she followed Aurora into the home’s immense front parlor and took a seat in the back row. Aurora perched herself right up front.
A tall, well-dressed woman stood up before a crowd of fifty, and addressed their host, Madame Maude, while stabbing a finger toward her copy of the offending text. “Mrs. Stanton says right here that the Holy Trinity is composed of ‘a Heavenly Mother, Father, and Son,’ and she goes on to say that prayers should be addressed to an ‘ideal Heavenly Mother’! This is surely blasphemy, and that’s how the majority of our sisters in suffrage will view it!”
The group began to nod and grumble, some in agreement, some opposed. The angry voices in the room became shrill, and Luc began to cry. Sara nestled him to her chest to soothe him. Madame Maude tried to quiet the crowd, but to no avail. Finally, Aurora popped up out of her seat, clearly upset, and began to bang the book on the desk next to her.
“Ladies, ladies, ladies!” she shouted. Finally, the voices dimmed to a murmur so Aurora could address them. “There are many assertions in this book. We will agree with some, and we will disagree with others. We are a branch of the NAWSA—our mandate is to campaign for the women’s vote.” Aurora waved The Woman’s Bible in the air, holding the crowd’s attention. “Ladies, this is an important work because it states that women are just as important and productive as men, and it demands that we receive equal rights. There will be plenty of time in the future to campaign for the rights to which we’re entitled, but if we do not first secure the vote for ourselves, then we will have no power to do anything!”
Cheers and applause erupted. Sara was bewildered by the passion and solidarity. Never in a million years would she have seen a similar display among the women of Vouvray. Sara began to feel that, despite her longing for Saint Martin, perhaps she was better suited to a new-fashioned town like Napa than the staid, traditional French hamlet of her birth.
Once Madame Maude had wrestled back control of the meeting, the gathering lasted another hour or so. New committees were formed, and there was excited talk about pamphlets, banners, pins, Susan Anthony and speaking engagements. Each committee had a list of items they were responsible for accomplishing by the next meeting. Sara was impressed with their organization.
“So, what did you think?” Aurora asked on the ride home.
“I thought you made a good argument. The group seems very committed to the cause.”
“And might you consider joining us?” Aurora raised an eyebrow.
“Would they want me to? I make wine—I can’t support their prohibitionist views.”
“Only a handful of the women in that room are active prohibitionists. Most of us are just working for the vote.”
“I would like to attend another meeting,” Sara said cautiously. “I think that for now, though, I need to spend my time learning more English and working to pay my way.”
“Fair enough,” Aurora said cheerfully. “But it’s young women like you who will benefit from having the power to vote. It’s for women like you—our sisters, daughters, granddaughters—that we continue to campaign so tirelessly for this.”
And Sara was grateful to them. “I understand, but perhaps I should read your book and become a little more informed on the subject first.”
“Sounds reasonable—I
won’t pester you anymore! Let’s change the subject. What did you think of Philippe’s chardonnay?” Aurora gave her a sideways glance.
“I told him that although I enjoyed it, he should blend it with a lighter chardonnay or a fruity pinot gris before he bottles it.”
Aurora chuckled. “And how did that go over?”
Sara smiled. “I think he was a little taken aback by my suggestion. It made me laugh when you told him that you preferred a sweeter wine—then he couldn’t ignore my idea.”
Aurora laughed. “Oh my dear, even if he put considerable effort into it, Philippe Lemieux could never ignore you.”
CHAPTER 14
Proposition
Sara had no idea how long Philippe had been standing in the doorway of Aurora’s workroom. Her stomach somersaulted when she looked up to find him there, keenly observing her as she catalogued her friend’s medicinal herbs.
“Aurora told me I’d find you here.”
“And what else did she tell you?” Sara was surprised by her sudden irritation, and to judge from the look on Philippe’s face, so was he. It had been weeks since she’d seen him, but he always caught her unawares.
“She told me that you’re bored,” Philippe said, gesturing to the bottles and plant cuttings and papers on the workshop bench, “with all this.”
“That’s ridiculous. It’s fascinating, you know, the research.” Sara tried to sound enthusiastic, turning back to her journal and doodling aimlessly on the page to make it look as though she were in the middle of something desperately important.
“Well, if you feel this is your … raison d’être, then you probably wouldn’t be interested in what I came here to ask you.” He leaned casually against the wall, arms crossed, a grin tugging at his lips.
Sara knew she shouldn’t ask, but her curiosity got the better of her. “And what is that?”
A triumphant smile now. “I came to offer you a job.”
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