The California Wife

by Kristen Harnisch

  “It’s almost Luc’s naptime, Père, so we’ll go now.”

  He stood and clasped Philippe’s forearm. “I’ve given you all you asked for. Bring Bastien back to see me on your next visit to France, yes?” he croaked.

  Bastien again. Philippe felt sick. He gripped his father’s arm in an effort to steady him. “Père, are you ill?”

  His father ignored the question. “You promise me you’ll bring him here?” he asked frantically.

  Philippe sighed, giving in to his frail father, knowing Sara would be livid. “All right.”

  The rest of the day, Sara didn’t ask about their visit, and Philippe didn’t volunteer details. They spoke only about Christmas and the trip home to California.

  After Mass at Cathédrale Saint-Gatien and dinner with Philippe’s grandparents in Tours, Sara, Philippe, Maman, and Jacques returned with Luc to Saint Martin to discuss how they would manage two vineyards on separate continents. Thank God for Jacques Chevreau, thought Philippe, for Saint Martin would not have survived without his expertise and willingness to help. The new winemaker Jacques had hired last year would stay on, and Jacques would oversee the general management of the vineyard. He had worked there for so many years that he knew Saint Martin like no one else—and was further tied to the land by his marriage to Sara’s mother. They both missed Sara’s father but seemed to have settled into a new life together.

  “I propose we save half of Luc’s ten thousand francs for him, and use the other half to build a new, smaller house. After all, Saint Martin will be Luc’s home someday,” Philippe said, scribbling more estimates down on paper. Surely Sara would agree that a new house for Marguerite and Jacques was more important than replanting the vines.

  “But that could cost nearly fifteen thousand francs!” Marguerite fretted.

  Jacques patted her hand and replied, “I’ll hire masons to salvage the stones and reuse them. Three bedrooms, a parlor, dining room, scullery and water closet should suffice. I’ll oversee the construction myself,” he added excitedly. “Don’t worry, my dear, we’ll find the money.”

  Sara folded her hands and asked brightly, “Philippe, couldn’t we contribute something to help finish the house?” He found it hard to resist those emerald eyes and sweeping dark lashes, but with wine prices falling, they couldn’t afford it.

  “Unfortunately, I need the money for Eagle’s Run, but we could allocate Saint Martin’s profits over the next few years to pay for the project.” He felt like a heel, dashing Sara’s hopes right in front of her mother.

  Jacques agreed, “That’s a sensible idea.”

  Marguerite clapped her hands together enthusiastically, but Sara just shrugged. “I suppose so.”

  The day after Christmas, Philippe slid their three steamer trunks onto the wagon, and they bid adieu to Marguerite and Jacques. With tears streaming down her cheeks, Marguerite embraced her only living child. Her desolation reminded Philippe that Sara and Luc were her only kin left in the world—and he was taking them away. He could hardly conceive, although he supposed it was possible, that his own father felt just as forlorn about the departure of his only son and grandson.

  Chapter 5

  JANUARY 1898

  Once the ship cleared the protection of the Saint-Nazaire harbor, the sea breezes picked up, slapping the waves steadily against the ship’s hull and whipping the wind against Luc’s raw cheeks. Fortunately, they found a spot in the lee of the ship to shield them from the weather. They huddled together for warmth, watching Europe fade over the horizon.

  The ship had a unique rhythm. The crew worked in shifts around the clock to make sure the engines produced enough steam to turn the propellers and drive the vessel through the water. The cook and stewards prepared and served meals on a strict schedule, and the seamen performed myriad duties, from laundering to repairing mechanical failures and cleaning and checking equipment. No sailor on the ship was idle for long.

  During the first few days of their journey to New York, Philippe, Sara and Luc found it pleasant to stroll around the main deck. Their first morning, seagulls squawked above, flying in lazy figure eights. Luc squealed with amusement to see the dolphins jumping in and out of the ship’s rippling wake, as if they were escorting it to America. Even though he’d made this crossing before, Philippe was awed by the brilliant sunsets over the western horizon and the smallness of their ship relative to the endless Atlantic Ocean.

  On the third day, Philippe spied thin, ominous-looking clouds forming off the starboard side. The passengers were instructed to rig their cabins and stow their belongings to prepare for the rocking, climbing and falling of the ship over the coming waves. Out here, with no land for hundreds of miles, Mother Nature—not man—ruled.

  Soon, the cutting winds blew fiercely and the upper deck was off limits. Sara, Luc and Philippe were confined to their cabin. The absence of windows and clocks below disoriented Philippe. To keep his mind engaged, he consumed the trade papers and scribbled calculations in his journal—itemized costs, grape yields, expected profits—attempting to draft a year’s plan for each vineyard. He planned carefully, but there were so many unknowns.

  When, if ever, would prices increase? How much of the ’97 vintage should he keep to blend with the ’98? How could he ensure the archdiocese would renew its contract with Eagle’s Run for sacramental wine? If he lost the business, they would be sunk. Philippe recalled how his critics had jeered when he first purchased Eagle’s Run: “What’s the quickest way to become a millionaire? Invest a billion dollars in a vineyard!” Judging from the pit in his stomach, he had to admit that they may have been right.

  There would be bad years—this was the nature of farming. Yet Philippe had spent nearly five years uprooting dead vines, planting robust ones and then waiting until he could finally harvest enough grapes to press his first vintage. Each year since, anxiety gripped him when he feared they’d picked too soon, and fatigue stripped him bare by the end of each harvest, but the exhilaration of smelling and then tasting the wine for the first time was indescribable. He was creating something from nothing. He would continue to make the finest wines, shipping and selling them across the globe—for as long as he could afford to.

  He considered sharing his worries with Sara, but something held him back. Sara had worked by his side, but he was still the owner of Eagle’s Run—shouldn’t he be the one to devise a solution? Besides, Sara was preoccupied caring for Luc, who had developed a rattling cough two days before their arrival. He cried most of the night, and Philippe did not want to add to her anxieties. They were both relieved when the ship docked in New York.

  “Do you think Marie might have something to cure him?” Sara asked as she rocked Luc on her lap, pressing a wet cloth to his forehead. The boy’s cheeks flushed red while he sucked his thumb.

  “I’m certain she will,” Philippe said with confidence, ruffling the boy’s hair and attempting to soothe him. Marie Chevreau—Jacques Chevreau’s niece and one of the sharpest women Philippe had ever met—was knowledgeable in many areas of medicine. Her life had been entwined with the Lemieux and Thibault families for years, and she had been the truest of friends to both Philippe and Sara. Seven years ago, Marie had been seduced and abandoned by Bastien. Philippe had rescued the eighteen-year-old girl and taken her to New York. There, Marie had given birth to Adeline and subsequently established herself as a successful midwife. Marie had been Sara and Lydia’s only friend in New York when they had arrived in May 1896, escaping their own tragic scandal. The convent where Marie and Adeline lived had been their first home in America.

  Just as Philippe expected, Marie was quick to help them once they reached her small apartment located behind the convent on the Lower East Side of Manhattan. She slipped Sara beneath the bed quilts for a nap and coaxed Luc into drinking a few teaspoons of warm honey, and then slathered eucalyptus oil on his chest. Within a half hour, his cough had eased. Two hours later, Sara rose looking rested and energized, more like the girl Philippe had marri
ed.

  Although he’d seen Adeline just a month earlier, Philippe was certain she’d grown two inches in his absence. Now seven years old, she excelled in her studies at the convent, but was shy of answering Philippe’s questions. However, she perked up when he asked her to entertain Luc.

  “How old is he now?” Adeline asked, playing patty-cake with Luc upon her lap.

  “Almost seventeen months, can you believe it?” Sara smiled proudly.

  Luc tugged on Adeline’s curls, which hung in dark ringlets, framing her sweet face and chocolate eyes.

  “Maman, look how sweet he is,” Adeline said, beaming with satisfaction.

  Marie offered Sara a glass of brandy. “Adeline’s right. It’s such a pleasure to see you three together, as you should be.”

  “Thank you, Marie. We’ll always be grateful to you,” Philippe declared, thinking of her many kindnesses toward Sara and Lydia during their stay at the convent.

  “Now, what about you? How are your classes going?” Sara asked. Marie was studying midwifery at the Women’s Medical College.

  “Quite well. I’ve witnessed several new cesarean techniques and, in all but one case, the mother survived.” Marie continued excitedly, “Do you know that medicine men in Uganda have been performing successful operations like these for hundreds of years? One group of healers uses banana wine to intoxicate the mother, and to cleanse her abdomen before they perform the operation. Then they make the incision and pull the baby out. They cauterize the wound to stop the bleeding, pin the skin together with iron needles, and then apply a salve made from plant roots. In most cases, the mother lives.”

  Sara’s color faded. Philippe might need to grab the smelling salts if Marie shared any more of her stories. Marie, enraptured with her own tale, didn’t seem to notice. “I’m only training in midwifery, not surgery, but wouldn’t it be something if I could one day perform these operations myself—and save women’s lives?”

  “It would indeed,” Philippe agreed, placing a reassuring hand over Sara’s, “and you obviously have the mind for it, Marie.” He needed to change the subject. “And what of Adeline?” Philippe asked cheerfully. “Does she stay here with the nuns during the day?”

  “Yes. I have classes and clinical observations four days a week. On the fifth day, she usually comes with me to visit my patients. The sisters are kind enough to teach Adeline her reading, writing and arithmetic. I think they love having a child around the place.”

  “Forgive me, Marie,” Philippe said, lowering his voice to prevent Adeline from overhearing, “but isn’t it a bit lonely for her, shut up in the convent, with no friends?” He knew he was skating on thin ice, but after watching Adeline cuddle and stack blocks with Luc, it seemed obvious that his niece was starved for youthful companionship.

  Marie swept invisible particles of lint off her skirt. “It might be lonely, Philippe, but it is the safest place for a girl her age in this city. I have to work every day, and we’re very lucky to have the protection of the convent.”

  He’d overstepped. “Of course, Marie, and you do an excellent job.” He watched Adeline hitch Luc to her hip and dance him gently around the room. “I was just hoping that you might consider moving west, closer to us. You and Adeline could live in wider spaces, with fresh air, in a town with children her own age.”

  “Oh, we would love for you to come to California!” Sara echoed.

  Marie’s shoulders relaxed a bit. Perhaps he’d smoothed things over for the time being.

  “Can we, Maman, please?” Adeline chimed in.

  Marie rolled her eyes. Philippe offered one more enticement. “You know, I hear that Cooper Medical College in San Francisco is one of the finest in the country,” he persisted, smiling. “I’ll send you the enrollment forms.” He winked.

  “Very well.” Marie smiled and held up her palms in surrender. “I still have a year and a half of studies left to complete, but after that I suppose we could visit.”

  In Boston, Philippe called on six wine merchants in one day. Fortunately, he was staying at the Parker House, centrally located near the foot of Beacon Hill, Boston Common, Quincy Market and Faneuil Hall. Philippe was able to return at midday to refill his carrying case with more bottles of Saint Martin’s chenin blanc, which Sara insisted he offer as a gift to his potential buyers. He had to commend his wife’s instincts: she had a knack for identifying every possible sales opportunity. So far, he’d secured one order for ten cases of Eagle’s Run 1896 Chardonnay, and another order for twenty cases of the French chenin blanc. Not what he’d hoped, but it was a promising start.

  His last call this afternoon would be on Heath and Strong, the premier Boston wine merchants, whom he’d supplied with twenty thousand gallons of wine from Carneros last fall. Despite Philippe’s letters and telegrams, they still hadn’t paid him the balance due on that shipment—nearly $1,250. Of that amount, Philippe would receive $350, but the rest was owed to his fellow winemaker and friend George Lamont. To make matters worse, Heath and Strong had been Philippe’s biggest sale in Boston, and he doubted Lamont would trust him to sell his wine again if the firm didn’t come through with the rest of the money.

  Unable to secure a hackney to drive him over to Walnut Street, Philippe trudged through snow drifts down School Street. The brisk air smelled clean. He turned left onto Beacon Street, slogging past the white calm of Boston Common and the idle trolleys lining the roadside. Philippe could barely see the fountains or frozen ponds beneath the pearly snow, only the paths cut by children dragging sleds and chasing each other until they tumbled in the light powder. Otherwise, the city was tranquil, for the snow kept many indoors and muffled the noise of the few horses and pedestrians who ventured out.

  When Philippe arrived at the office of Heath and Strong, a red sign announced that the merchants were closed for business—permanently. A tattered notice of eviction hung on the green wooden door. Lowering his bag to the ground, Philippe looked up and down the vacant street, hoping to find someone who might know what had happened. He saw no one.

  Why hadn’t he heard of this sooner? He hadn’t seen an announcement in the trade papers, and had never received any correspondence from the owners. How would he recover his money?

  Philippe’s feet were frozen and his mood dark when he passed through the glass door of the hotel into the warm lobby. He faltered when he spied Sara waiting for him on a lush blue velvet chaise. She was studying a piece of paper clasped in her hand, and speaking in soft tones to Luc, who sat next to her. Her cheeks were flushed a dewy pink, and her hair pulled back into a relaxed knot. She was wearing the simple red dress he’d bought her in Tours, but with her regal posture, she was easily the most elegant woman in the room. As he approached her, he found himself tongue-tied.

  Sara spoke first, running a finger down the piece of paper in her hand. “Do you realize that there are only two California wines offered on this list? A claret and a white wine.” She pursed her lips.

  Philippe held up a hand to interrupt her. “Sara—”

  “Oh, and naturally, the hotel offers Krug’s Champagne, but that’s the only one listed by its proper name,” she huffed.

  Philippe sat down beside her. “Sara,” he began to explain when she lifted her eyes.

  “They’re bankrupt,” Sara announced.

  “What?”

  “Heath and Strong. Bankrupt. Six months ago.”

  “How . . . ?”

  Sara threaded her arm through Philippe’s and lowered her voice. “While you were gone, I struck up a conversation with the sommelier. I mentioned we made wine and that you were, at that very moment, meeting with Heath and Strong. When I mentioned the name”—Sara sighed—“he said he regretted to inform me that Heath and Strong had gone bankrupt in June, without warning, leaving over fifty thousand dollars in unpaid debts. Their assets will be sold off, and the money will be divided between their debtors.” Sara winced. “It could take years, Philippe.”

  Philippe slumped. “So that’s
it? We have no recourse?”

  “You can contact your attorney and have him place a lien on your behalf. You’ll recover something—eventually.”

  “How will I pay Lamont the nine hundred I owe him?” Philippe muttered, staring at the opulent blue carpet that ran the length of the lobby. Who was he fooling, staying in such a lavish place? He was bleeding money.

  “You’ll reimburse him half, but he’ll have to absorb the rest,” Sara replied sensibly. “That’s the risk of doing business.” Yet her eyes twinkled.

  “Wait a minute. What did you do?” he asked warily.

  Sara raised her chin and clasped her hands together, nearly bursting with excitement.

  “I offered a taste of our chenin blanc to Monsieur Clisson, the sommelier,” she announced. “Did I tell you he’s from Montlouis-sur-Loire, right across the river? He knows Saint Martin, of course. I gave him your card and told him to telegraph with his order, if he wished.” Sara smiled mischievously.

  “And?”

  “He ordered twenty cases on the spot. I suggested he try your Eagle’s Run Chardonnay, which is a bit drier, and he ordered two sample cases.”

  “You brokered the deal without me?” Philippe didn’t know if he was impressed or insulted.

  Sara rolled her eyes. “What else was I to do? Wait for my husband’s approval? I would have looked ridiculous.”

  “On what terms?”

  “Half now, half on delivery.”

  “Are you sure he’s good for it?”

  “The Parker is one of the most prestigious hotels in Boston, darling. Now you’re just paranoid.” Sara frowned.

  “Those aren’t my usual terms.” Philippe raised an eyebrow.

  “No, but I added a condition.”

  “Which is?”

  “That the hotel lists our wines as ‘Saint Martin Chenin Blanc’ and ‘Eagle’s Run Chardonnay,’ so people will know exactly what they’re drinking.”