Sara would save two-thirds of their profits to cover the coming year’s expenses and use the rest to start constructing a small family house to replace the manor house she’d grown up in. Jacques had moved into the gatehouse with Maman, and now Sara and Luc were living in one of the cave dwellings. She’d promised herself that she’d never borrow money if she could avoid it, and that meant making sacrifices. Sara’s sole focus was keeping the vineyard afloat.
She had journeyed through two continents and many cities to find her way back home. She was no longer merely a vintner’s daughter. After creating the Eagle’s Run 1897 vintage, Sara Thibault had become what she’d always known she was destined to be: a vintner in her own right. She looked forward to expanding Saint Martin in the years to come, although there was little joy in this life without Philippe.
Jacques had found a buyer from New York who was interested in tasting and possibly purchasing their wines. Sara was excited at this new prospect and had agreed to meet the man today, directly after church. When Sara was finished with her prayers, she made the sign of the cross and began the walk home. She thought about what would be happening there: Luc was probably stuffing Maman’s hot currant buns into his mouth, smearing frosting all over his cheeks. Maman was thoroughly enjoying her new grandson.
As Sara walked down the lane, her thoughts drifted back to Philippe, as they so often did. When she passed the spot where he’d pulled Saul Mittier off her, when they both were so young, she thought of how kind he’d been, never patronizing her like someone nine years her senior might have. Then Sara’s mind flashed, for the millionth time, to their last conversation, their final embrace. He’d seemed so sure that she should leave. Perhaps she should have refused. Maybe she should have stayed and fought for him. In the end, it didn’t matter. He could no longer love her because of what she’d done. It was, she thought ruefully, her long-overdue penance for her crime.
As she neared Saint Martin, she noticed the figure of a man standing near the front gate—the wine buyer. The sight immediately cheered her, for she had always dreamed of shipping Saint Martin’s wine to the New World. After having lived there, Sara knew that their sweet chenin blanc would sell, especially in the eastern markets. She allowed herself the momentary pleasure of imagining Philippe dining at a San Francisco restaurant, surprised to find Saint Martin’s Chenin Blanc listed at the top of the wine list, right next to the Eagle’s Run Chardonnay. She smiled with satisfaction. Sara pulled her mind back to the present as she drew closer to the end of the lane. As the waiting man came into view, she thought she was imagining things again. Philippe? How could it be?
Then he smiled, and he was beautiful. Her memories did not do him justice. He was real, standing in front of her in a tailored suit, something he rarely wore. Sara hesitated, searching his eyes for anger or doubt. She found none. Then Philippe stretched out his arms, beckoning her to him. She closed the space between them in a heartbeat and clung to him for fear he might vanish again. Philippe lifted her up and pressed his lips to hers. She drank in his delicious taste—and felt faint. When Philippe finally broke their embrace, he kept one arm locked firmly around her waist. She gazed up at him and blushed, overwhelmed by his rugged beauty.
“So it’s a good thing I came?” He flashed a brilliant smile. She had missed him so much.
She took a moment to catch her breath. “What took you so long?”
His brow creased and she took his hands in her own. They stood silently, studying their clasped hands. Sara was the first to speak.
“So you’re the buyer from New York Jacques spoke of?”
“In the flesh.”
Sara felt a renewed surge of resentment. “Why did you send me away?” she asked boldly.
“Why did you leave?” he countered.
She examined his long, elegant fingers, and the words tumbled out: “I killed him, and you said you couldn’t love me!” Her eyes flashed to his.
He pulled her close, the warmth of his chest comforting her. Philippe’s voice was steady and sure. “I was wrong to say that. All you did was defend yourself. You didn’t set out to kill him—you were trying to stop him. I would have killed him myself if I’d been there.” He looked at Sara intently. “I was such a fool. I convinced myself that you’d be better off without me, or as far away from me as possible. I convinced myself that it would be selfish to ask you to marry me. That every time I touched you, you would remember how my brother—” Philippe rested his hand gently above her heart, upon the scar. “How he did this to you. I feared that you’d resent me, for asking you to give up what you always wanted. You’d already lost so much—how could I ask you to give up your land?” His eyes locked with hers. “I had to set you free.”
“But you didn’t set me free,” Sara protested. “You sent me away, without asking me what I wanted.”
“I didn’t think you would suffer like I would—that you could feel for me a fraction of what I feel for you. How could you, with everything my family had put you through? But then Aurora gave me your note. That you would give up Saint Martin—the thing you desired most in this world—to try to make amends … well, it leveled me.” He shook his head again, but she caught his chin in her hand. He smiled ruefully.
“No, you’re wrong,” she said. “I didn’t sign Saint Martin over to Luc to make amends. I did it for my own reasons. You see, I realized”—Sara’s eyes darted toward the vineyard, and then came to rest on Philippe—“that this isn’t the thing I most desire in this world.” The relief of finally expressing this truth aloud filled her with satisfaction.
Philippe swiftly countered her. “I don’t want you to give up Saint Martin.” He waved his hand toward the vineyard. “Saint Martin is, by right, yours.”
“Yes, and that’s why I’m free to sign it over to Luc. It’s going to be his someday anyway. It makes me proud that I can give it to him now.”
Philippe tried to interrupt, but Sara continued, “I didn’t want there to be any doubt in your mind. I couldn’t live with your believing that I’d used you just to get Saint Martin back.”
“I did think that when I first discovered what happened. I’ve since altered my view.” He tucked a strand of chestnut hair back behind her ear and smiled. “I visited Marie Chevreau when I came through New York two weeks ago.”
Sara smiled at the memory of her friend. “And how are they, she and Adeline?”
“They’re well and send their regards.” His voice became serious. “Sara, she told me what happened with Lydia, and how brave and unselfish you were.”
“I only did what any sister would do,” Sara insisted.
“Perhaps, but she was impressed enough to send those bounty hunters on a wild goose chase to Virginia, which is why it took them so long to find you. Not to mention that she deceived me—someone she trusts. She didn’t tell me about her friendship with you until now.”
Sara was overwhelmed. Marie had probably saved her life.
“She also told me about Bastien.” Philippe continued. “About what he did to you.”
Sara was stunned. Marie had obviously discovered her identity, but how had she unearthed the rest? “Marie knew? All this time?”
“All this time.”
“But how?”
“Jacques Chevreau wrote her last July and, although he didn’t tell her about Bastien’s death, he did explain that Bastien had attacked you. He told Marie that you two had fled to New York, and asked her to be on the lookout for you. He thought you would probably stay in the city until the baby was born—that maybe you’d cross paths with Marie, because she was a midwife. Little did he know …”
“That we were at the convent the entire time.” Sara shook her head in amazement.
Philippe seemed amused.
“What’s so funny?”
“I’m just trying to picture it—you in a convent.” Philippe pulled her into his arms. “I need you, Sara Landry Thibault.”
“And I you.”
Philippe brought Sar
a’s fingers, chilled in the cool morning air, to his warm lips and murmured into them, “Come back with me to California.”
“Stay here with me in France,” she commanded playfully.
“My vineyard is larger,” he trumped her.
“Mine requires more attention.” Sara tilted her head for emphasis.
Philippe shook his head, laughing. “You’re impossible.”
“Hardly. I’m just intent on replanting our land and creating a legacy for Luc.”
“I can’t object to that.” Philippe smiled and, looking across the road to Saint Martin’s vines, announced, “I have a plan.”
He held her by the shoulders, excitement blazing in his eyes. “We’ll replant with resistant rootstock from Eagle’s Run. We’ll merge the two vineyards and sell our wines to our combined contacts in Europe and America. Both vineyards will benefit, and it’ll only be a matter of time before our wines are well-known on both continents, maybe even in Australia, Asia—who knows?”
Sara admired his enthusiasm, but still had reservations. “Where will we live? I have just returned to my mother.”
He placed her hand in the crook of his arm and started walking around the perimeter of the vineyard. Sara recalled that Philippe always thought more clearly while in motion.
“Hasn’t Jacques managed the vineyard well while you were gone?”
“Indeed, but Jacques and Maman are older now,” Sara said skeptically. She didn’t know how long they’d be able to maintain the vines on their own.
“So we’ll hire more help, and we’ll visit once a year.”
Sara was warming to the idea, but she couldn’t let him off too easily.
“The Saint Martin wines must keep the Thibault name,” Sara insisted.
Philippe nodded, and his eyes filled with understanding. “Luc Thibault?”
“Of course,” Sara replied, thinking of her father, who would have been so pleased.
Philippe circled his arm around Sara’s waist. “Then I suppose there’s nothing left to negotiate, is there?”
Sara stopped and looked up at him. “Yes, there is,” she said firmly.
“What is it?” Philippe’s brow bunched with concern. Sara suppressed a smile.
“If I return to California with you, I need one more assurance,” she persisted.
“Anything,” he whispered, his lips gliding over her hand again.
His touch stirred Sara so deeply that she struggled to remember what she’d intended to say. She closed her eyes, and her thought returned. “That you’ll bring me home as your wife.” She searched his face, waiting for his answer.
“Hmm.” Philippe edged away and looked at her appraisingly. “That could be a problem.”
“Why?” Sara was bewildered. Had she misinterpreted his intentions again?
“There will be talk, you know.”
Sara decided to play along. “What kind of talk?”
“You are my father’s enemy, my nephew’s aunt, and the woman who wrangled Saint Martin right out from under me,” he said, skimming her cheek with his fingers. “It’s highly improper.”
“Perhaps,” she said, throwing her arms around his neck, anticipating the feel of his smooth lips on hers, “but I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He kissed her deeply, more desperately than ever before.
Sara knew that she could never repair the damage she’d done. She could never bring Bastien back to life. Nor could Philippe restore the father and sister she’d lost. Out of their hurts, they would work to create something new—a life defined by love of family and friends, and the joy of making exceptional wines. In Sara’s mind, only one question remained: could they truly let go of the past and forge a future together?
Acknowledgments
The Vintner’s Daughter would not exist without the generosity of my friend, the accomplished writer Holly Payne, who introduced me to my agent, April Eberhardt. When Ms. Eberhardt offered me representation, I was overjoyed. Since then, she has championed my work with intelligence and verve. I am deeply indebted to you both.
My heartfelt thanks to my publisher Brooke Warner and author liaison Caitlyn Levin of She Writes Press, for their eagerness to tell Sara’s story and their unwavering enthusiasm and support. I am grateful to my HarperCollins Canada team, namely Iris Tupholme, Lorissa Sengara, and Noelle Zitzer for their gracious collaboration with She Writes Press and to Sarah Wight for her thoughtful and skilled copyediting. My gratitude also extends to Alan Jones, HarperCollins Canada’s art director, who designed a cover more beautiful than I could have imagined.
I would like to express my appreciation to many who have offered their expertise and guidance: Joe Donelan of Donelan Family Wines, winemaker Tyler Thomas of Dierberg and Star Lane Vineyards, Max Roher of Max Napa Tours, Steve Stone and Paul Torre of Napa Valley Bike Tours, Andy Burr and Susanne Salvestrin of Salvestrin Winery, Rebecca Martin of Chase Family Cellars and Greg Gauthier of Bouchaine Vineyards. I’d also like to thank the Napa County Historical Society, of which I’m a proud member, and my historical guide there, research librarian Alexandria Brown, for reviewing the manuscript and for answering every esoteric question I posed with efficiency and enthusiasm.
Thank you to my first readers, who critiqued my work and encouraged me to keep writing: Mary Ellen Army, Maxine DeBard, Pat Donelan, Susan M. Harnisch, Uma Khemlani, Sharon Onorato, Mary Rys and Richard Rys. I’d especially like to acknowledge Dr. Robert DeBard, S. Taylor Harnisch, Autumn Howard, Elizabeth Murphy, Frank Lacroix and Maryellen Lacroix for your detailed reviews, which greatly enhanced the novel.
To my celestial brother, Commander Matt Lacroix, USNR, whose positivity propelled my writing forward and who continues to be a guiding light, to my sister, Katie Lacroix, for researching winemaking history, and to my cousin John Donelan, who helped create my website, www.kristenharnisch.com, I thank you.
The unrivaled staff at the Darien Library, in particular Tina Bothe, Sally Ijams and Blanche Parker, assisted me in researching French and Loire Valley culture, New York City and California history, and turn-of-the-century winemaking. Thank you for your patience!
I’d also like to acknowledge the excerpt from Edward Roberts’s “California Wine-Making,” which appeared in Harper’s Weekly on March 9, 1889. Roberts was one of the first to write about the growing popularity of California wines in the late nineteenth century. Roberts’s article was also cited in William Heintz’s California’s Napa Valley, Scottwall Associates, 1999. The quote from suffrage activist Mrs. B.F. Taylor was cited in Lauren Coodley’s Napa: The Transformation of an American Town, Arcadia Publishing, 2007. Both books provide wonderful insights into the history of Napa Valley winemaking. Lastly, the quote from suffrage leader Elizabeth Cady Stanton was found in her book, The Women’s Bible, European Publishing Company, 1895.
Finally, I offer my sincerest appreciation to my parents, Frank and Maryellen Lacroix, for your unwavering love and faith in me, and to my husband, David, and children, Ellen, Ryan and Julia—you make every day worth living.
About the Author
Kristen Harnisch drew upon her extensive research and experiences living in the San Francisco Bay Area and visiting the Loire Valley to create the story for The Vintner’s Daughter, her debut novel. The Vintner’s Daughter is the first in a series about the changing world of vineyard life at the turn of the century. Ms. Harnisch has a degree in economics from Villanova University, and currently resides in Connecticut. Visit her online at www.kristenharnisch.com or follow her on Twitter@KristenHarnisch.
A Note on the Type
THIS BOOK WAS SET IN BULMER. Designed in 1792, the typeface is named not after its designer, William Martin, but after the printer, William Bulmer, who used it extensively in his Shakspeare [sic] Press editions. Originally, Martin’s type was the English answer to the sharp, fine letterforms of Italy’s Bodoni and France’s Didot type foundries. But Bulmer was more than an imitation of these stark, modern-style types. By condensing the letter-forms, giving the strokes
higher contrast, and bracketing the serifs slightly, Martin made his typefaces both beautiful and practical. As well as providing an elegant and versatile text face, Bulmer is often used as a display face because of its high contrast and distinctive letter shapes.
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