“But you don’t … love me?” she whispered.
He closed his eyes and sighed. “I can’t love you.”
When Philippe pulled away, Sara could see his distress. But when he spoke, his voice was distant, his heart retreating already. “Go home to Vouvray,” he said. “You need to pick up where you left off with your mother, with Saint Martin. You’re going to work wonders with that place, I can feel it.”
Hearing Philippe say what Sara knew to be true, she snapped. She remembered the promise she’d made to herself: to never allow herself to feel powerless in the shadow of a man. She clenched her teeth and stared Philippe straight in the eye.
“I will work wonders with Saint Martin.” She raised her voice. “My father resurrected that vineyard, and I’ll not only make it profitable again, but when I do, I’ll buy up the surrounding land and establish an international winery to rival Eagle’s Run!” Sara was trembling so fiercely she clenched her fists to steady herself.
Philippe was silent. They suddenly stood a world apart, even though they’d shared a life for the past three months. Sara would leave and make her own way, as she’d always planned. The Lemieux family had brought her nothing but pain—why would Philippe be any different?
He shifted uncomfortably under her glare. “Aurora and Tan will take you to the station next Saturday,” he said evenly. “I have to head back to the city for a week. I’m sorry I won’t be here to see you and Luc off.”
Sara nodded and blinked back her tears. Her grief, and her fury at losing him, swallowed her whole.
He leaned over and kissed her forehead. “Safe journey.”
Then Philippe was gone.
They rode in silence to the station. The only sounds from their carriage were Luc’s excited outbursts as he pointed to the wagons and bicycles that swarmed around them as they approached Napa Junction.
Aurora brought the rig to an abrupt stop in front of the station and set the brake forcefully, as if to emphasize the point she was about to make.
“He can’t force you to leave, Sara. You’re my friend, too, and you and Luc can stay with me indefinitely. You know I love your company, and there’s plenty of work.”
“I’m not sure what Philippe told you, but I’ve decided to return to France. My mother is alone there, and she must see Luc grow up. At last I am taking over my father’s vineyard, and I have big plans for its expansion.” She tried to sound cheerful. “Besides …” Sara felt the tears pooling in her eyes and looked away, ashamed. She was overwhelmed with sorrow. Sorrow that she had to leave her friend, sorrow that she had to leave him. Sara’s shoulders shook uncontrollably, betraying her pent-up anguish. Aurora draped her arm around Sara and offered her a hanky. Sara wiped her eyes. “I can’t live near to him and not be with him. It’s better this way. I will miss you more than you know, Aurora.”
The two women huddled together until Luc broke their embrace by squirming his way back into Sara’s arms.
Aurora laughed. “And you, little man, how could we forget you? Always vying to be the center of attention.” She placed her palms gently upon his cheeks and sniffed. “I will miss you, Luc. Be a good traveler for your maman, all right?”
Sara pulled Luc into the crook of her arm and rummaged through her satchel. She couldn’t believe she’d almost forgotten it.
“Will you do one more thing for me, Aurora?” She handed the note to her. “I didn’t have the opportunity to tell Philippe everything I needed to before he left. Will you give him this?”
Aurora took the note and tucked it in her jacket pocket. “Of course, my sweet girl. He’s insane to let you go. You are the smartest, most hard-working, handsome young girl I’ve ever met. A fool he is—and I’m going to tell him so.”
“No, Aurora, don’t do that. Trust me, I’m the bigger fool.” A fool to think he could love her. A fool to have come here in the first place.
“You’ll write me? At least once a month, now, I insist.”
“Of course. You’ve been so kind and generous. I could never repay you.”
“Nonsense,” Aurora said, shaking her head vehemently. “You have given me more happiness than anything since my husband died. A family—that’s what you’ll always be to me. And you’ll always be welcome here.” She ruffled Luc’s hair and kissed his forehead.
“You’ll come visit us? In France?”
“Yes, certainly. Now you two better get along or you’ll miss the train.”
“And you’ll remember my note?”
“Of course. I’ll give it to Philippe when he returns Monday.”
Sara slowly pulled Luc down from the wagon. “Thank you, Aurora, for everything.”
Aurora smiled ruefully and blew them a kiss.
Sara turned to face the station and took the first step back toward her old life in Saint Martin.
CHAPTER 18
Regret
The following Monday morning at Eagle’s Run, Philippe picked at the eggs and potatoes on his plate, and then glanced at the pages of the Wine and Spirit Review, eager for distraction from his thoughts. He’d been wrong not to see Sara and Luc off at the station. His visit to town was a fiction he’d invented to avoid saying goodbye. He had feared that when the time came he would beg her to stay, when he knew deep inside she had to leave. He wasn’t sure whether he had done it for her sake or for his, but alone at the table, in this empty kitchen, he wanted nothing more than to touch her again.
Before he had even read the first line of the paper, he heard the creak and slam of the screen door. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was. He felt her eyes burning a hole through the pages between them.
“Aurora.” He folded the paper, placed it down neatly and waited.
Without a word, she marched over to him, stood across from where he sat and slid a small envelope across the table. It bore his name. Aurora was uncharacteristically silent; it was the calm before the storm, he presumed.
“Did they get to the train safely?” he asked as nonchalantly as he could manage.
Aurora turned toward the door.
“Aurora, you and I have been friends for a long time, and I know you disagree with what I did, but you have to trust me. I had a good reason.”
That did it. She whirled around, teary-eyed and ready to explode.
“Pride is not a good reason, Philippe. In fact, last time I checked, it was still one of the seven deadly sins.” Her hands went to her hips and she stood ready for the challenge.
“You don’t know all the facts.”
“No, I suppose I don’t. Even when I called you a fool to her face, she defended you and told me I was wrong. That she was the one who had been foolish.” Aurora shook her head and held up a hand to rebuff any objection. “I don’t need all the facts. She loves you. You love her. You love her son. And you just cast her off, like she means nothing to you?”
Philippe took a deep breath to steady his emotions. “She lied to me, Aurora, and covered it up. She lied about who she was and what she’d done.”
Aurora eased herself into the chair opposite Philippe. “It can’t be all that bad, Philippe! She’s just a girl. What did she do?”
“I can’t tell you right now. But what she did makes it impossible for us to be together.”
“Another man?” Aurora looked confused. “That can’t be. I’ve seen the way she looks at you.”
Philippe waved this away. “Nothing like that. Worse, if you can imagine.”
“You’re not going to tell me? I suppose you think it’s none of my business. But I found Sara in the vineyard that night and invited her into our lives, and she is my friend, just as you are. It’s not happenstance that you two were brought together, that you share a love of winemaking and, from what I have seen, of each other. You were intended for her, and she for you. Yet you push her away—you spit in God’s face.” Aurora shook her head disapprovingly.
“What do you expect me to do?” Philippe retorted angrily. “Marry the woman who killed my brother?�
�� He paused as Aurora’s face registered shock. “Yes, it’s true.”
“Oh.” Aurora’s voice quivered. She reached across the table and placed her hand over Philippe’s. “Why? What happened? Sara is not violent by nature.”
“Of course not.” As he explained, Aurora listened wide-eyed. Philippe’s final words were the hardest. “My brother attacked her, and tried to rape her. She fought back.”
Aurora examined her hands. When she looked up again, there was a new light of understanding in her eyes. She asked softly, “If you had walked in on your brother trying to rape Sara, would you have stood by and let it happen?”
“Of course not.” Philippe clenched his fists. “I would have killed him myself.”
“Yes. Yes, I believe you would have.” Aurora inhaled deeply, wiped her eyes and stood to leave. “I’m sorry, my friend. You’ve had a lot to contemplate these last few days. You were right. I didn’t know the facts, but here’s what I do know. Sara’s affection for you and her passion for the work you shared were all very real. She’s only nineteen years old, Philippe. She’s lost her father, her sister and now you. For God’s sake, go after her.”
Philippe rubbed his tired eyes and looked up at Aurora. “I can’t, Aurora. I had to let her go. I have to.”
“I’m disappointed, Philippe. I never took you for a coward.”
As Aurora left the house, Philippe stared down at the sealed envelope. A coward? He loved Sara and he had let her go. Hadn’t that required infinite strength and selflessness? He had sent Sara home for good reasons, he thought. She was young. She needed to return to her family and to Saint Martin, the vineyard she had always wanted. And how could he live with the woman who had killed his brother?
But then he understood. How could he live without her? He couldn’t sleep or eat. He couldn’t finish a thought without feeling a desperate need for her. He hadn’t realized how deeply he’d miss the elegant line of her neck, the curve of her hip, the defiant lift of her chin when she disagreed with him. Her green eyes pierced his soul, and in their depths he had recognized her desire for him too. Aurora was right. If he was going to give Sara up to appease his pride, he was indeed a coward.
Philippe’s heart hammered in his chest; he ran his hand over the delicate lettering on the envelope Aurora had given him, feeling both hope and fear. He tore it open carefully.
October 2, 1897
Dear Philippe,
I cannot repair the damage I have inflicted upon you and your family, in deed and word. However, allow me to set one thing right. Although I am grateful to you for restoring Saint Martin to me, I have decided to transfer the ownership of Saint Martin to Luc Thibault, our mutual nephew, and will serve only as its steward until he is of age.
Thank you for your friendship and your faith in me. May God bless you and keep you safe.
Yours,
Sara Landry Thibault
He folded the paper and tucked it absently into his jacket pocket. Her message was clear. Her words shattered his resolve. In all his life, he’d never felt like such a jackass.
CHAPTER 19
Home
OCTOBER 25, 1897, VOUVRAY, FRANCE
As Sara, Luc and Jacques turned down the road to Saint Martin, Sara expected to see Maman running to welcome them home. But her mother was nowhere in sight. Instead, Sara spied two gendarmerie wagons parked outside the watchman’s shed. Her heart sank. She had thought the ordeal of Bastien’s murder was over. How could she have been so naive?
Jacques squeezed her hand and advised, “You stay in the carriage with Luc. I’ll speak with them.” Sara nodded, too nervous to reply.
Four tall uniformed men armed with rifles and bayonets appeared from behind the shed accompanied by a gentleman dressed in a derby and frock coat. He looked like a town official. The shed door opened and Maman stepped out, her face creased with worry. She approached the carriage where Sara sat, afraid to move.
Jacques greeted Maman. Then he marched over to the men and extended his hand. After a brief conversation, the official called to Sara.
“Sara Landry Thibault?”
“Yes,” Sara replied. As she stood, her knees buckled, and she felt as though she might collapse. The concern in Maman’s eyes as she helped Sara down from the carriage was only slightly overshadowed by the radiance in her face as she embraced her grandson for the first time. Holding Luc tightly, she kissed her daughter, whispering, “My dear, brave Sara.” Maman’s wistful smile broke Sara’s heart.
“I am Monsieur Morel, the magistrate in charge of investigating the murder of Bastien Lemieux. We’ve been anticipating your return.”
“Why?” Sara knew why, she just wasn’t ready to face it.
“A murder has been committed, and I am responsible for interviewing all parties involved, most importantly you.”
Sara was confused. “But the Lemieux family has dropped all the charges against me.”
“Yes, but until my investigation is complete, I cannot decide whether to close the case or send it to the state prosecutor.” The short, brusque magistrate turned toward the shed. “This way, mademoiselle.”
“I will come with you,” Maman declared. She handed Luc to Jacques, linked her arm through Sara’s and escorted her inside. Mother and daughter sat at the table near the fire, while Morel paced back and forth.
He barraged Sara with questions about her identity, about how she had killed Bastien, and why. He did not react to any of her testimony; he simply recorded everything in his leather-bound notebook.
“Mademoiselle, do you have any proof that Monsieur Lemieux attacked you?”
“Other than the testimony of Jacques Chevreau, who found me unconscious and bleeding on the scullery floor?” Sara retorted.
Morel cleared his throat. “Yes, other than that.”
Sara stood up, removed her gloves and coat, and began to unbutton her shirtwaist.
“Sara.” Maman shook her head.
“Maman, he must see.” And so must you.
Sara pulled her blouse down to reveal the crescent scar that marred the skin of her chest. Her eyes blazed. “This will have to be sufficient, monsieur. I cannot, in all decency, show you the more intimate injuries I suffered from Bastien Lemieux’s attack.” Tears streamed down Maman’s face; she gripped Sara’s hand. Morel closed his journal and his eyes shifted to the floor.
When he looked up, his voice softened. “Mademoiselle, if Bastien beat your sister and threatened you, why didn’t she seek a divorce, or leave?”
Maman stood up. “That is my fault, monsieur. Sara urged me to help Lydia escape, knowing that Bastien would never consent to a divorce. But I refused. I should have protected my daughters. I am the one responsible for Bastien’s death.”
Sara was stunned.
Morel exhaled, made a few notations in his journal, and then clapped it shut. As he moved toward the door, he turned and offered Sara an understanding nod. “Thank you for your time, mademoiselle. We won’t be troubling you again.”
After Mass, Sara knelt before the statue of the Blessed Mother in the nave of the Église de Tous les Saints, her hands clasped in prayer. She studied the serene features of the statue’s white marble face. The figure’s robes cascaded smoothly down to her delicate feet; she stood upon a serpent’s head to symbolize the defeat of Satan. Sara had finally made her confession and received absolution for her sin. Yet her heart was still heavy. She would not face prosecution for Bastien’s death, but was enduring something that felt worse: the absence of Philippe. On this late November day, she thanked the Lord for Luc’s health, and for the peace and contentment Maman seemed to have found. She prayed that Papa and Lydia would be brought into the light of eternal salvation. Lastly, she asked the Lord to heal the gaping hole in her heart.
Sara had found that nothing was the same at Saint Martin. She’d been shocked when she arrived to see how much damage the manor house had sustained from the fire. It was now no more than a burnt-out shell of crumbling, blackened clay and r
ock. Only the two chimneys still stood intact. The roof had collapsed, pulling the dormer windows and the second floor exterior walls down with it. She barely recognized her childhood home.
When Sara told Maman about Lydia’s last moments, how hard she had fought to give birth to Luc and how happy she was to hold him, their mother grew tearful, but never reproached Sara. Sara had expected Maman to blame her, to resent her for having taken Lydia away. Yet Maman never uttered a word in anger. Instead, she seemed to blame herself. “If only I had listened—if only I had been strong enough to help Lydia,” she had whispered during Sara’s sorrowful account.
Sara had withheld from Maman the nature of her relationship with Philippe Lemieux. It pained Sara greatly to even utter his name. Instead, she explained that they’d come to a mutual agreement about the vineyard and that he’d been generous and kind. Maman might have suspected more, but did not pry.
Maman was a changed woman. Somehow, despite everything, she’d emerged from the dark tunnel of depression that followed Papa’s death. Her cheeks were rosy now, and her eyes danced with emotion. Once the magistrate closed his investigation, Maman was positively radiant. She hadn’t stopped embracing Sara and Luc in the five weeks since their arrival. Even more surprising was Maman’s interest in the vineyard. Sara thought she’d returned to the wrong farm when she caught sight of her very own maman on bended knee, picking grapes. It was obvious that the reason for Maman’s metamorphosis was none other than Jacques Chevreau.
Apparently he hadn’t wasted any time. After receiving the news of Lydia’s death last winter, Jacques had feared for Maman’s sanity. The two of them were alone at Saint Martin during the winter months, with only a skeleton crew of hired hands to help in the vineyard. By March, Jacques had realized he was in love with Maman; they had been married this past June. When he recounted the story to Sara, it was all she could do not to burst out laughing. It seemed absurd, but they both seemed entirely enamored of one another.
Jacques had eagerly shown Sara what he’d done with Saint Martin in her absence. It was a sight to behold. Jacques had followed Philippe’s instructions and sold the estate’s remaining barrels of wine to pay off some of Bastien’s debts. He’d worked the undamaged seven hectares of vines expertly the previous year and extracted two hundred barrels of premium chenin blanc. They’d fetched a decent price and Jacques was able to turn a small profit. This year’s harvest had just been completed, and the total yield was a hundred tons of fruit. Sara couldn’t help but notice how small Saint Martin was in comparison to Eagle’s Run, where the harvest was five times that.
Vintner's Daughter Page 27