Vintner's Daughter

by Kristen Harnisch

  Until Philippe had kissed her last night, Sara could not fathom how a woman could truly want a man to do what husbands did to their wives. But embracing him had ignited something inside her. It was beyond desire—it was need. Sara now understood why Lydia had given herself to Bastien. Impossible as it seemed, Lydia must have felt for Bastien what she felt for Philippe. But really, what was she thinking? How could she get herself into something—a courtship—with the brother of the man she’d killed? What kind of person would willfully deceive another like this? Was she not setting herself up for discovery and disappointment?

  Sara couldn’t begin to count the number of mistakes she’d made so far and, in all honesty, she didn’t care to. All she cared about was kissing Philippe again. She had become besotted overnight.

  CHAPTER 16

  Tremors

  Sara scribbled down the date, 10 August 1897, and made a few notes in her field journal. The vines at Eagle’s Run were healthy and free of insects; the fruit had almost ripened. Another two weeks, she estimated, until they’d begin harvesting the grapes. That left two weeks to finish cutting back the excess leaves so that the additional sunlight could accelerate the fruit’s ripening process. She would inform Philippe at once.

  She knew she would find him in the stables with Luc, for he had decided to start teaching the boy how to feed and care for the horses. Sara thought this was ridiculous—Luc was just a year old this month—but Philippe insisted that he loved being around Red and Lady. Sara had just rolled her eyes, knowing she was not going to talk Philippe out of it. When she entered the stables, she was greeted with a belly laugh from Luc as Lady ate right out of his hand, brushing his palm with her rough tongue. Philippe held Luc easily in one hand and, in the other, carried a bucket of feed. He turned to greet Sara with a broad smile.

  “Wait until you see what your son can do.” His eyes lit with excitement as he set Luc down on his feet. The child stood no higher than Philippe’s knee. Taking Luc’s pudgy hand in his, Philippe gently pulled him forward, step by half-step. Luc tottered, unsteady at first, and then gained enough speed and assurance to let go of Philippe’s hand.

  “Go see Maman. Walk to Maman,” he encouraged the boy.

  Luc crossed the five feet to Sara in no time and fell into her outstretched arms.

  “Oh, Maman is so proud of you!” Sara kissed his plump cheeks. She did not expect the wave of sadness that washed over her when she drew Luc tightly to her chest. Lydia should be the one laughing with excitement and pulling him into her arms, not her. Sara hastened to wipe her damp eyes, but not quickly enough, for a single tear escaped down her cheek.

  “Silly Maman,” she chastised herself for allowing Philippe to see her so overcome with emotion. “You are such a good boy,” she muttered into Luc’s hair. He smelled of hay and sunshine.

  Philippe was somber, silent for a moment. “What were you thinking just now?”

  Sara shook her head in an effort to frame a believable response. “I’m just so proud of him. His first steps …”

  Philippe was standing in front of her now, resting a warm hand comfortingly on her arm. “Were you thinking of your husband?”

  “No, not at all.” Sara dismissed the idea.

  He stood silently, watching her eyes, waiting for her to continue. Clearly, she would have to come up with something more persuasive.

  “It’s just that we’ve been alone for so long. It’s nice to have someone to share these … milestones with.”

  “Which is a polite way of saying it’s none of my business.”

  Sara smiled. “No, it’s a polite way of saying thank you.”

  Philippe bowed slightly. “You’re most welcome.” His words were genuine, but his eyes held their skepticism.

  “You’ll be happy to learn that we’re right on track,” Sara said, happy to change the subject. “The grapes, I estimate, will be ripe within the next two weeks. So far, no insects have been discovered.”

  Philippe was all business as they walked out of the stables. “How many vines have been inspected?”

  “All of them, including the young ones.”

  “Excellent.” He rubbed his palms together, lost in thought. “Any estimate on yield?”

  Sara deliberated. “It’s hard to say at this point. A solid hundred acres, but I’m not sure of the tonnage. Next week I’ll have a better estimate.”

  “Very well, next week. Where are you headed now?” Philippe asked, taking Luc from Sara’s arms and setting him free to walk on his own. “To the barn for the pruning tools, then off to show the workers where they need to cut back. The grapes need more sun.”

  “Well done. Meet you back at the house for supper?” Rather than waiting for her reply, Philippe simply tilted her chin up and touched his lips to hers. It took all Sara’s willpower to pull away, to return to her work—to sleep without him every night.

  The sun was hot on Sara’s neck and shoulders as she loped from the stable toward the barn. Luc toddled along just a few yards ahead of her. Her mood was buoyant. Being close to Philippe every day—his easy smile, his energetic presence, but most of all the way he looked so intently into her eyes—always lifted her spirits. Seven hours was far too long to wait to see him again.

  The quake hit at midday.

  The absence of sound was what first made Sara uneasy. The chirping of the birds, the throaty anthem of the bullfrogs, the rustle of the swaying leaves on the trees—the buzzing din that usually hung in the air this time of day—had ceased. Everything was still. Besides the echo of Luc’s laughter as he ran, all was quiet.

  And then the earth began to shake.

  It started as a trembling beneath Sara’s feet and in moments felt like the fierce vibrations of a thundering steam train. Sara was thrown to her hands and knees instantly. Luc was oblivious to the danger and tottered right inside the barn. She watched in horror as the ground before her cracked, rupturing like a seam being split, right up to the barn door. The barn began to rattle, and its timbers peeled loose from their frame, crashing to the ground. Panic clutched her. Luc was nowhere in sight when Sara reached the doorway, clawing the earth with her fingernails to steady herself. She frantically called his name, but could hear nothing over the shriek of scraping metal and the dull thud of wood hitting earth.

  Where could he be? She could hardly see now, but searched for Luc in the slits of sunlight that pushed through the broken and obstructed barn windows. The violent shaking made it nearly impossible for Sara to maintain her balance, and she stumbled again and again. Sara shouted his name repeatedly. Finally, she heard Luc’s high-pitched squeal followed by a hysterical sob.

  “I’m coming! Maman’s coming!” He would not understand; he would not know to stay still. Sara ducked under the beams breaking around her and slid over shards of glass and metal, searching the debris-filled barn. Oh God, Lydia, protect him! Her thoughts nearly choked her. What if he’d been knocked down, his delicate bones crushed? Sara heard a deafening creak and then watched the northern wall break from its support beams and crash inward. When the dust began to clear, Sara trained her eyes on the area beneath the fallen wall. Her eyes followed a single ray of light shining upon what she thought might be Luc’s dark hair.

  “Luc!” Sara was almost at his side when a heavy weight slammed onto her shoulder and forced her to the ground. After the shock had passed, she realized that she was pinned down by one of the immense oak ceiling supports. Sara was consumed by the searing burn that radiated from her shoulder down to the tips of her fingers. Her vision blurred but she forced herself to look over to where Luc lay; she wasn’t sure he was moving. She heard a scream so fierce and raw its agony resonated to her core and her own grief threatened to swallow her whole. Then the darkness overtook her.

  Sara wasn’t sure where she was. It was dark, but she could hear something. It sounded as though someone were calling her name through a long, metal pipe. The voice was getting closer, but it was not the one Sara wanted to hear. She listened
instead for Luc—where was he? She struggled to fight her way back to consciousness.

  “Sara. Open your eyes.” This voice was loud, commanding. Sara tried to lift her eyelids, but felt as if someone were pressing iron weights down upon them. She squeezed her eyes repeatedly, and when she finally opened them, she saw nothing but a blinding blur of sunlight overhead. She drew an arm over her eyes to shield them. Pain charged through her left shoulder and down her arm, and she could not help but cry out. It was so intense, she thought she might vomit. She labored to catch her breath.

  “Breathe, Sara, in and out. Slowly, that’s it.” The voice was very close to her now. She did as she was told and concentrated on taking long, deep breaths until she felt her heartbeat returning to a normal pace. Without opening her eyes, she uttered his name.

  “Luc?” Her throat was bone-dry.

  The voice was low and silky. “He’s fine. Absolutely fine, just a few scrapes. Aurora’s feeding him right now.”

  Sara’s chest heaved with relief and a single, powerful sob escaped her lungs. “Try to open your eyes,” the voice commanded.

  Sara sniffed and coughed—the air was almost too thick to breathe. She shook her head. “Too bright.” Then she finally recognized the voice. “Philippe?” Sara extended her right hand, and he caught it in his own and held it reassuringly against his warm cheek.

  “Yes, yes, it’s me. I’ve got you.” His words were stilted, his voice hoarse with emotion.

  “My arm.” She let out a low groan.

  “Yes. Does your head hurt? Your back? Where else do you feel pain?”

  “My shoulder, my chest, my arm. Headache.”

  “Your left arm is broken and your shoulder is dislocated. You may have a concussion. I’ve just about stopped the bleeding, and I’ve sent for the doctor, but I don’t know when he’ll arrive. I’m going to give you some laudanum for the pain.”

  She struggled to open her eyes while Philippe cradled her head in his arm and slowly lifted her to a sitting position. Her shoes came into focus first. They were covered with a thick layer of dust, and she imagined that it was the same with her clothes and face. She coughed again, trying to clear the choking dust from her throat.

  “Water?”

  “After the laudanum.” His voice was certain, controlled now. He lifted a small brown bottle to her lips. “Just one small sip—a teaspoonful.”

  Sara cringed at the bitter taste and forced herself to swallow.

  “Water?”

  “It’s coming,” Philippe whispered. He held her in his strong grip, with his face now buried in her hair. She could feel him shudder beside her. She wondered if it was from fear or relief. Or something else.

  “Sara?”

  “Mmm?” Brutal pain—again.

  “In order to stop the pain, I need to relocate your shoulder.”

  She was too shocked to respond, but he must have seen the fear in her eyes when she looked up at him, for he met her concern with a comforting expression of reassurance and determination.

  “Trust me.”

  Sara nodded. She would do anything he asked.

  “Try to relax your muscles. Keep breathing, deeply, even when it hurts. Breathe right through it. I’m going to lay you down now.”

  His words were soothing. Philippe seemed to know what he was doing. She closed her eyes again, not wanting him to sense her fear. She wanted to be brave. She wanted to retreat back into the dark place where she had felt no pain. She was only vaguely aware of his gentle touch as he lay her back down on the dirt floor and drew her elbow to her chest. He took her shoulder in one large hand and held her wrist with the other. As soon as he began to move her shoulder, she was gripped by pain. She gritted her teeth and fought the overwhelming urge to scream. It seemed to go on forever. Each movement sent a shock through her body, but finally, she felt a pop in her shoulder and her torment eased.

  Philippe exhaled as if he’d been holding his breath the entire time. “There. Better?”

  She opened her eyes to meet his. “Mm-hmm. Much.” She tried to manage a quick smile, but the muscles in her face had gone slack. The laudanum, she guessed.

  He helped her sit upright again. Sara’s eyes searched the space in front of her, but all she could see was a pile of wooden beams and torn metal. She looked toward the sky and realized that the barn was now fully exposed to the sun overhead. The roof had collapsed. Sara could feel panic rising up within her. How had any of them survived this? Philippe must have sensed her escalating anxiety and tucked her face protectively into his chest. Then she spied the cloth smudged with blood in Philippe’s hand.

  Sara pulled away to examine him. Was he injured? What she saw shook her to the core. His face was covered in dust and dirt, and his shirt was ripped and matted with blood. One hand was bandaged. He looked as though he had been through battle.

  His voice was steady when he answered her unspoken questions. “Luc is fine. It was an earthquake. The blood is yours, not mine. I’m unharmed. When the beam fell on you, it scraped an old wound.” Philippe’s eyes moved to her upper chest. “A fresh scar?” There was an undercurrent to his question. He was asking what, or who, had done this to her.

  Sara recalled the injuries she had sustained from Bastien’s attack, in particular, the burn of his teeth cutting her skin. She winced and her breathing accelerated. Sharp pain still throbbed in her left arm. “Yes … last … year.” She answered his question, but did not tell him what he wanted to know. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered now except for finding a way to stop the pain.

  He pulled her closer, taking care not to move her elbow, which was cradled again in his hand. “A few more minutes and the laudanum will take effect.”

  “Can I see Luc?” she asked desperately.

  “Not now,” he said. “I’ll need to clean the scrape and bandage it.”

  She looked down. Her blouse had been torn open, revealing a small amount of blood where the wood had chafed her skin, and the old scar burned red again. She couldn’t stop the humiliation from brimming over in her eyes. The last thing she wanted was to cry in front of him, to appear weak. She hated feeling defenseless. She turned her head away and tried not to whimper, but the tears streamed down.

  Philippe did not try to console her with trite words. Instead, he held her, allowing the silence to envelop them. After a few minutes, Sara regained some composure. Philippe rested a warm hand on her uninjured shoulder.

  He was right, of course. Infection would set in if it wasn’t cleaned properly. Sara knew that she shouldn’t be embarrassed about Philippe tending to her so intimately, especially at a time like this, but still she felt bashful, or perhaps she did not want him to examine the scar too closely. She wiped her face with her right hand and moved to face him. Without meeting his eyes, she whispered, “I’ll do it … or Aurora.”

  Philippe sighed and shook his head. “With your broken arm? Aurora has Luc to look after and her own injuries to deal with.” Her face creased with concern. “Don’t worry, just a few scratches. She’ll live,” he said quickly. His expression softened, but now his voice was serious again. “I’m afraid I have to insist.” He took her hand in his.

  Sara hadn’t the energy to argue. She nodded weakly. The laudanum was working. Her pain began to ebb, and a curtain of exhaustion began to close around her. Her eyes fluttered shut, and Philippe lifted her up and carried her out of the wreckage. She was vaguely aware of him placing her on a bed and mumbling something about water.

  Sara managed to murmur one last request. “Luc?”

  “Yes, Sara, soon, but for now, sleep.” She felt his lips press against her forehead, then Sara drifted off.

  Sara was in the long metal pipe again, back in the darkness. This time, she carried a lamp to light her way. Panic pushed down on her chest, and her breathing hitched as she searched, unsuccessfully, for her child. She called to him again and again until, miraculously, she heard his sweet voice light up the darkness. “Maman!”

  Sara
pushed toward him, feeling as though she were mired in mud. Finally, she burst out of the darkness into a muted light. She saw a golden field, an amber sky. She called to Luc again, whirling in every direction and straining to hear his voice. His laughter played on the breeze that whipped through her hair. His features were delicate and glowing, his hair dark, his brown eyes warm. But he was slung over the shoulder of a tall, raven-haired man who was walking, in broad strides, away from her. She shuddered. Where was he taking him? She reached her arms out and started to run toward the boy. He belonged with her; she was his maman. Luc ducked down, burying his tiny face in the man’s neck. When he looked up to smile at Sara, his face was smeared with bright, fresh, dripping blood.

  “No!” Sara’s shriek stopped the man in his tracks. He turned and sneered at her. A river of blood flowed out of the gaping hole in his neck. Her body seized, and she clamored for air. Someone was squealing. She realized it was her.

  She awoke to feel Philippe’s cool hands on her face. “Sara!”

  She could not speak; her terror was real. She had seen Bastien, seen the boy. Her eyes were open now, but she was not breathing. She felt her fingers and upper lip begin to numb.

  Philippe’s lips were at her ear, his voice urgent. “You’re all right—it was just a dream! Breathe, Sara. You must breathe!”

  She gulped for air, then squeezed her eyes tight and shook her head, trying to shake away the truth. The magnitude of what she had done bore down upon her. She had killed Luc’s father, Philippe’s brother. She did not deserve Philippe’s faith; she had done nothing to earn his trust. She deserved to be in constant pain. Sorrow filled her chest and she exhaled deeply. Then her mind darted in another direction. What had Philippe heard? Did he hear her screaming Bastien’s name? Oh God, please, no.