Vintner's Daughter

by Kristen Harnisch

  After dining alone with Luc that evening, Sara retreated to her apartment. Now, as she stared at the books on her bedside table, she realized the answer to all her questions was right in front of her. She ran her fingers along the cracked binding of her mother’s Bible. Between its curled pages was Bastien’s deed to Saint Martin.

  She’d always kept her books and documents neatly stacked in a crate under her bed, never out in the open. Yet here they were tonight, in plain view on her table. Philippe must have searched her little apartment for evidence of her identity, of her crime. He had found it in the Bible, which her father had signed when he had given it to her mother. There, on the inside cover, Philippe must have read Sara’s record of Luc’s birth date. By leaving the Bible in a conspicuous place, he confirmed that he knew, beyond any doubt, that she was Sara Landry Thibault.

  But rather than turning her over to those ruffians, he had bought her freedom, possibly even her life. Surely that must count for something?

  Sara barely slept that night. Even when Luc wasn’t awake fussing, her thoughts were dark, and she was inconsolable. In the pale light of a new morning, her stomach twisted with anxiety.

  She was disgraced, but she would not retreat without a fight. Philippe was going to stand there and listen to every word of what she had to say before she let him cut her loose. He was the first man she had ever needed—like air, or water. And while she had tried to resist, she knew she loved him. All she could hope for at this point was that she could make him understand that she’d never intended to kill his brother.

  Sara hitched Luc to her hip and crossed the wide yard to the kitchen door. “Rose?” she called. The housekeeper appeared instantly, apron on, skillet in hand.

  “Ma’am?”

  “Good morning, Rose. Where is he?”

  Rose contemplated her shoes. When she finally looked up, Sara could see a flash of fear in her eyes. Rose gestured toward the stables. “Saddlin’ up, ma’am.”

  “Take Luc and feed him some cereal, would you, Rose? I’ll be back soon.” Sara tried to rein in the desperation she felt. She set Luc down in a chair and marched toward the stables. It took every ounce of self-respect she had not to break into a run.

  When Sara walked in, Philippe was saddling Lady, with his back toward the door.

  “Philippe.” He stiffened at the sound of her voice. He may not want to hear what you have to say, but you must make him listen, she reminded herself. “I need to explain.”

  “California is a long way from Saint Martin,” he retorted, turning to glare at her. Sara was shocked by the loathing in his eyes. He continued, his tone cutting, “They never found you or your sister that night. Only my brother’s burned body.” Philippe choked out the last words. “I see that surprises you. That’s right. They pulled his body out before the fire destroyed the entire house, and do you know what they found?” He moved to face her, tall and threatening. His eyes bored into hers. “A puncture wound to his neck. The fatal blow, it seems. How many months has it been? And now you’re ready to explain? Now that you’ve been discovered.”

  Sara was numb with fear, unable to answer.

  “So—where is she?”

  Sara was startled by his question. Did he mean Lydia? Maybe Marie wasn’t behind this after all. Maybe it was someone else …

  “Are you hiding her? Did she even kill my brother, or was it Chevreau? I want the answers you promised.”

  Sara backed away slightly and bowed her head to think. What did he suppose had happened? Her voice shook with uncertainty. “I don’t know what—”

  “Don’t play with me, Sara.” He cornered her, forcing her back up against one of the oak beams in the wall. “Who killed my brother?” he asked hoarsely.

  Sara inhaled deeply and uttered the two words that would ruin everything. “I did.”

  Philippe stood silent, frozen.

  “Let me tell you—” Sara’s voice was soft, repentant.

  Philippe would not hear her. “What? Why?” He looked bewildered, and then his face twisted with revulsion. “Oh, I see. Bastien was not the best of men. He must have made life … uncomfortable for you and your family. So you took his life? Why not just leave?”

  How dare he presume to know what they had endured at his brother’s hands? Sara could feel the blood begin to boil beneath her skin. “You don’t know anything,” she snapped.

  “I know he stole your land.” Philippe’s voice was laced with fury. “Killing him must have been quite convenient for you and your sister. You didn’t get your land back, but you secured your freedom.” He brought his face close to hers and grasped her chin tightly in his palm, making it impossible for her to look away. “And your revenge. I assume that includes me.”

  Sara drew back and abruptly slapped him across the face. Philippe was stunned, but she wasn’t finished. All those months of desperation, of hiding, of fear, of shame—all because of one man who had destroyed everything she had in the world. Without thinking, she raised her left arm from its sling to slap him again, but he was ready for her and caught her hand in his. She winced in pain and struggled to break free, but he’d soon captured both her wrists, pinning them together.

  Her anger flowed forth, and she spat the words at him. “Your brother beat my sister every night for months, and that night—that night he hit me, forced himself on me, and almost …” She squeezed her eyes shut at the memory. “My sister is dead—dead!” Sara almost broke as she screamed the words, but her anger won out, and she opened her eyes to face him. “Don’t you dare stand here and accuse me. I killed him to save myself and Lydia and her child, and I’d do it again!”

  Philippe still held her wrists tightly, and Sara continued to watch his face. He shook his head slightly as if he were trying to make sense of what she’d said. Slowly, he eased his grip on her wrists, but he did not release them. For the first time since she’d known him, she could see raw grief in his eyes. She had caused him this pain. She’d never wanted that. Philippe stared at her for a long time. His eyes eventually softened with sadness.

  Then he did the unimaginable. Without a word, he let go of her wrists, raised her chin gently with the tips of his fingers and pressed his lips to hers. They were soft, searching. Sara was not prepared for this. She kissed him back, tentatively at first. His mouth tasted sweet and warm. His hand moved down the length of her spine and rested at the small of her back, sending a charge all the way down to the tips of her toes. His lips brushed her eyes, her cheeks, the hollow of her throat, before they found their way back to her lips, parting them greedily.

  She wanted so much more of him. She knotted his hair between her fingers, and he tightened his hold on her, pressing her to his chest. She felt his body stiffen, and then, without warning, he broke from their embrace. He turned away from her. She could feel her cheeks redden with confusion. What had she done now?

  He shook his head and whispered, “I can’t. I won’t—do this.” Before she could protest, he turned, took Lady by the bridle and walked out of the barn.

  Sara’s stomach tightened. She stumbled back against the wall, stricken with shame.

  Philippe was gone for ten days. Sara didn’t know which was worse: his physical absence, or not knowing what he was thinking. Both were exquisite forms of torture. Yet she also dreaded his return and the recriminations that would ensue, the pain that would inevitably flash again across his face. She would have curled up into a ball and wallowed in her despair, if it hadn’t been for Luc. Changing, feeding and comforting him were her distractions, along with her work in the vineyard. Until Philippe told her to stop, she would keep on racking the wine and riddling thousands of bottles every day.

  When he finally returned, he came to Sara in the damp darkness of the winery cellar, where she was turning bottles. The light spilling down the stairwell was bright, but the tall outline of his figure blocked the entryway.

  “Sara.” His rough, familiar voice melted something deep inside her, even before her eyes could see him
clearly. She stood silently, waiting.

  He leaned against the stone wall next to the stairs, across the room from her, and her eyes took him in. His arms were crossed, his eyes tired. He was still wearing his traveling clothes and muddy riding boots.

  This time, his voice was pleading. “Tell me more. I need to hear all of it.”

  Sara tried to remain calm, although her heart thudded and adrenaline rushed through her. She had never told anyone the full story of what had truly happened with Bastien. Philippe deserved to know. In a strange way, she was glad he wanted to know—that he would allow her to tell him. She sighed and began, trying to keep her emotions in check. To cry or stammer would be selfish, an indulgence. It was his brother who had died.

  “We struggled. I was trying to push him off me and get away, but he was too strong. I grabbed—” Dear God, she thought, how am I going to say this? She took a deep breath and stared down at her shoes. “I had to stop him, and there was a fork that had been knocked to the floor. I didn’t think—I just grabbed it.” She felt his eyes upon her, but she couldn’t look up.

  When she finally summoned the courage to raise her eyes, she wished she hadn’t. The agony on Philippe’s face was unendurable. He did not say anything, but just squeezed the bridge of his nose between his fingers, struggling to keep his composure.

  Sara could offer no words of comfort. She continued on. “I lost consciousness. What happened after that is unclear to me. When I awoke, Bastien was on the floor beside me. He wasn’t moving.” Saying his name sounded strange to her. She had avoided it for so long.

  “Did you tell anyone?”

  “Jacques found me. You mustn’t blame him—he was trying to protect us. He and Lydia feared that I would be sent to the guillotine. I was seventeen and knew nothing of the world beyond Saint Martin. I trusted Jacques and did as he said. We set sail two days later for America.”

  “So that makes you—what?—eighteen now?” He was surprised.

  She’d forgotten he might assume she was older. She had told him she’d been married. “Just nineteen.”

  “So you were never … married.”

  “No.”

  He paused, staring at the floor, trying to piece together the whole truth from her words. “And Luc?”

  “He is your nephew, Lydia and Bastien’s son.”

  Philippe exhaled and smiled slightly. “My kin, my blood.”

  “Yes.” Sara watched his features soften.

  “So why did you come here? If you feared capture and the guillotine, why did you seek out the very person who’d want your head?” His voice was both curious and confused.

  Sara met his eyes. She could lie and tell him that she had come to seek his forgiveness, just like the priest had instructed her. Maybe, somewhere in her mind, she had almost convinced herself that her motive was that honorable. But Philippe knew her too well, understood her ambition too acutely, to be deceived.

  “I didn’t seek you out. I was picking grapes with the Chinese workers, traveling from vineyard to vineyard. When Aurora found me working at Eagle’s Run, I had no idea that all this was yours. But once I found out, I decided to stay. I stayed because I wanted my vineyard back—Saint Martin.” She spoke the name with reverence. “I didn’t expect—”

  “What? What didn’t you expect?” The look in his eyes filled her with regret.

  She smiled wistfully. “To admire you, to respect you. I began to question myself, to wonder whether the course I’d set for myself was right, whether it was just. Philippe, I am so sorry for hurting you.”

  Philippe grimaced. “But you’re not sorry that you killed my brother?”

  “I’m sorry it had to come to that. That I couldn’t convince my sister and mother to leave before …”

  “Before …” Philippe crossed the room and stood before her. His fingers followed his eyes to her chest, and rested on the delicate fabric concealing the scar that was her reminder of Bastien’s violence.

  “Before he did this to you? Before he almost raped you?” His voice was edged with pain.

  “Yes.”

  Philippe drew Sara tightly to him. She sank into him, relieved. She drank in his heady scent—musk and horse. The heat of his chest warmed her cool skin. He understood. He believed her. For the first time in over a year, Sara felt as if she could exhale. She didn’t know how long he held her, his chin resting on her head, occasionally brushing his lips across her hair. Time stood still for Sara. When he pulled away, his face was less serious, and his eyes lit up as they found hers.

  He held her by the shoulders. “Enough confessions. We can’t change what happened. Besides, I have something for you. It’s the reason I was away.” He pulled some pieces of paper from inside his coat. They were loosely tied together with string, which he slid off with one finger before handing Sara the papers.

  She did not need to unfold the documents to know what they contained. She stared down, clutching the rough paper tensely, but could not bring herself to move into the light of the stairwell to read them. She knew it was the deed to Saint Martin. Philippe had just handed her everything she wanted. She should feel excitement, vindication. What was wrong with her? Instead, she felt only despair.

  Sara could feel Philippe’s eyes upon her, yet she could not find any words. He broke the silence first. “It’s yours—all of it, less the debts. I’ve paid them all.” Philippe smiled, probably waiting for her to awaken from her stupor.

  “Thank you.” Sara’s response was hollow. There was so much more to say, but the words caught in her throat. She wanted return to their embrace, to press her body against his muscular chest, and inhale the intoxicating scent of his skin. Instead, she could only lean against the wall, dazed and still.

  Philippe pulled another envelope from his pocket and, looking down at it, continued thoughtfully. “I assumed you’d want to leave at once, so I’ve booked passage for you and Luc back to New York by rail, and then on to Calais by ship,” he glanced at Sara. “Second class—it’s very comfortable. You leave next Saturday.”

  Sara stared at him, her eyes wide with disbelief. Philippe’s voice then took on a formality that chilled her. “Oh, and here are the sixty dollars you put toward the purchase of those ten acres. I’m buying them back so you’ll have some cash for your journey home. Take it,” he encouraged.

  Sara accepted the money, but struggled to understand what was happening. Her mind froze. When she looked up at him again, she was near tears.

  “You want us to go?”

  His answer broke her heart. “I thought you’d be eager to get home to your mother, your vineyard, as soon as possible, now that all the charges have been dropped.” His smile was warm, but his eyes were impenetrable.

  “Oh …” He was handing her freedom and a livelihood, and gratitude suddenly washed over her.

  “I … my family … won’t trouble you anymore,” he said sadly. “I would like to ask you one favor, if it’s not too much?”

  “Of course.” Sara was still in shock. She wasn’t ready to leave yet, to leave her life in California, to leave him.

  “I would like to stay acquainted with my nephew, perhaps visit when I’m in France.” His words were tentative, as though he thought she might object. “I’ve grown attached to him.”

  Did he not know her at all after these months together? He’d like to visit? What happened to their life together? Why was he sending her away? Then the truth hit her with staggering force. Despite what they had shared and how urgently she loved him, he could not continue to love her, to share a life with the woman who had killed his brother. He did not seem vengeful toward her—but his feelings had changed, that was clear. Dejection washed through her, threatening to destroy what was left of her composure.

  “Visit. Yes, certainly.” She tried to mimic his even tone. “You will always be welcome.” Sara turned away and wiped her tears.

  She could hear him move toward her. His eyes found hers, and his fingertips skimmed the line of her jaw, fr
om ear to chin. Her knees weakened at his touch.

  “It’s what you wanted,” he reminded her without bitterness, without reproach. “Now you can give Luc the life you wanted and the legacy he deserves.”

  “Yes. Of course you’re right. And we’re thankful for all that you’ve done.” Sara managed a strangled smile.

  “It is no more than what I owe you. No more than what my family has taken from yours. Now I’m in a position to restore Saint Martin to its rightful owner, and into very capable hands.” He took her palms in his and rubbed his thumbs in circles along the back of her hands. It was what she’d always wanted to hear: that she was more than a vintner’s daughter. To Philippe, she was a vintner.

  She examined the rough, suntanned hands holding hers so protectively, and something inside her began to ache.

  She looked up at him imploringly. “But what do you want?” She searched his eyes now for a sign that he needed her as much as she did him, but she saw only a fierce determination to set things right.

  “I want you and Luc to be safe and happy, back in your rightful home.”

  Home. But what if she’d been wrong? What if she had been struggling and fighting for the wrong thing? The chasm between what she’d always wanted and what she knew she needed now was too much to endure. Should she return to Saint Martin to reclaim the land that had been stolen from her family, or stay in California to stake her claim for the heart of the man she loved? She knew Philippe was her home now. It broke her inside to know that he didn’t want her here.

  “May I ask you for one other thing?” she said slowly.

  “Of course.”

  She placed her palm on his cheek. “Forgive me.”

  His eyes reddened, and he shook his head. “There is nothing to forgive.”

  “For what I did to your family.”

  “I’m afraid we—well, Bastien and my father—brought this upon themselves.”

  “Please,” Sara entreated him. “I need to hear you say it.”

  Philippe held her shoulders. He placed his forehead to hers and whispered, “I forgive you, Sara.”