The California Wife

by Kristen Harnisch

  Chapter 8

  MAY 1898, EAGLE’S RUN

  At seven o’clock in the morning, Philippe appeared in the winery. “Sara,” he barked, poking his head into the manhole of a cask, “will you please let the cellar man do his job?” Sara stood inside, clad in Philippe’s work boots and rain slicker, scrubbing the staves with soda and hot water. Philippe shot Mac an apologetic glance, but Sara worked on unperturbed.

  Mac Cuddy had grown up running scows from Cuttings Wharf to San Francisco, until he began working at Los Hermanos with the Beringer brothers, where he’d served as cellar man for the last ten years. He knew all the special requirements for making sacramental wine, and had been looking for work south of Napa City—closer to his sister in Vallejo. His reference from Jacob Beringer had been excellent, Philippe told her. Sara chuckled, remembering Mac’s surprise when she introduced herself as Philippe’s winemaker. She rather enjoyed shocking people.

  “I’m just showing Mac how we take extra care to scrub our equipment as clean as a whistle.” Sara smiled at the cellar hands, who regarded her strangely. Luckily, Mac Cuddy didn’t seem threatened by a woman with ideas. He was the youngest of an Irish Catholic family, with five older sisters and a widowed matriarch who reportedly ruled the household with an iron fist and a blue-ribbon soda bread. He had a sense of humor about things, and Sara liked that. “Hose it down, Mac. Cold water until it runs clean.”

  “You’re taking the day off, so Mac here can get some work done,” Philippe teased as he handed her out of the barrel. “Aurora is taking you to town, where you’ll buy a new dress and shoes, and then you’re off to the milliner’s. Tomorrow, you and I are going to a picnic.”

  “Where?” The affair must be quite elaborate if Philippe was encouraging her to purchase new attire. Their neighbor, Aurora, would make a delightful shopping companion. She had been a surrogate mother to Sara since her arrival in Napa. Aurora was a widow, a professor of husbandry and a suffragette—born with an extra helping of gumption. Sara couldn’t admire anyone more.

  “We’ve been invited to the festival of the Italian Swiss Colony in Asti. We take the ten o’clock train tomorrow, and we’ll return home late in the evening.”

  “Oh—will there be a lot of people there?”

  “Over two hundred winemakers, bankers, Supreme Court justices, millionaires . . .”

  Sara rolled her eyes, mostly in an effort to hide her nervousness about attending such a grand party.

  In town that afternoon, Aurora was bursting with opinions. She helped Sara choose a summer silk-and-cotton dress, with a parasol to match. Sara objected to the generous frills at the cuffs, but Aurora insisted that if she wanted to blend in with the San Francisco socialites, and appear as guest rather than servant, she couldn’t dress like a farmer’s wife. Sara decided this was good advice, and that she could justify the purchase because she now had one elegant summer costume in addition to her handsome winter walking suit, with matching shoes for both. She required no more.

  “What have you done with my wife?” Philippe mused, eyeing every detail of Sara’s ensemble later, back at home. He made a twirling motion with his hand, and Sara spun around. Aurora beamed, bobbing her head with satisfaction, which whipped her springy auburn curls into a frenzy.

  “You like it?” Sara felt silly, all done up with puckered lace at the collar. Thankfully, sleeves and skirts had slimmed in the last few months, and, with help from her S-curve corset, she looked slender, if more curvaceous.

  “I think you’re far too fashionable a creature to be my wife.”

  The train chugged along, whistling its high pitch before every stop. The highfalutin San Francisco socialites had boarded earlier, and now Sara and Philippe watched their Sonoma and Santa Rosa neighbors pile in, not nearly as stylish as the city-dwellers, but far more interesting.

  At the station, a string of carriages lined up to take guests to the Colony, home to Italian and Swiss families for whom cultivating their two thousand acres of fruit was more than just making wine. The Colony was recreating the feel, the smell and the taste of Italy and Switzerland—right here in California. How ironic, Sara thought, that she had more of an opportunity to immerse herself in other European cultures while living in America than she’d had in Europe!

  Once they arrived at the vineyard, Sara took Philippe’s arm, and the pair followed the crowd through a row of sweet-smelling lilac bushes and into the immense winery buildings. On their tour, Sara marveled at the gigantic fermenting room, which housed eighty tanks, three times the height of any man, and the vast cellars, where barrels were stacked five-high.

  “Wait until you see what’s next,” Philippe whispered.

  In her wildest dreams, Sara couldn’t have imagined it. The crowd advanced toward the broad concrete structure, which looked like the lower portion of an Egyptian pyramid. A reverent hush fell over the crowd; only an occasional “ooh” or “aah” could be heard.

  Philippe explained softly, “One thousand barrels of cement and six thousand barrels of sand and gravel from the Russian River bed were used. Fifty men spent fifty days and nights building it. Once the 500,000 gallons of wine are steam-pumped inside, the hold on top is hermetically sealed. They emptied it in March.”

  Sara’s jaw fell open. “How do you know all this?”

  “The men I hired to bench graft the vines at Eagle’s Run all live here. When I met some in town last week, they told me all about it and invited us to their fête. Are you impressed?”

  “Goodness, yes—it’s the eighth wonder of the world,” Sara gushed.

  Philippe laughed. “Indeed, but the best is yet to come.” Philippe was cut short by the line of Italians standing on the edge of the cistern roof, clapping their hands to gain the crowd’s attention. The president of the chamber of commerce waved his hands and began speaking.

  After thanking the leaders of the Italian Swiss Colony and the dignitaries present, he invited the guests inside. The crowd exploded with a huge cheer, and everyone lined up to climb the concrete stairs to the cistern roof. The flat roof was decorated with a potted tulip garden and six stone walkways leading, like sunbeams, from the arched fountain in its center out to its edges. Underneath the center fountain, from which no liquid flowed, was a hole three feet in diameter, which was the entrance to this immense wine cistern. From here, the guests descended down to the floor of the reservoir via a twenty-four-foot spiral staircase.

  What a treat to escape the midday heat and enter the cool, damp reservoir! The glazed walls were stained a bishop’s purple from the Chianti that had rested inside for five months. Once every last guest was inside, a jovial Italian man stood atop a small ladder and announced, “Buongiorno!” Buongiornos echoed around the reservoir walls for over a minute before petering out, and the crowd applauded the trick of acoustics.

  Next on their journey of pleasure was a quarter-mile walk across the viridian lawn through the vibrant pinks, yellows and whites of the rose garden to the banqueting grove, where they dined under a lush canopy of trees and trellises. The waiters were all teenagers from the Italian Swiss Colony, in native costume, serving the elegant fare with the grace of quadrille dancers. The diners sat at white-linen tables, drank local Chablis and Chianti from crystal glasses, and speared their cold mutton with silver flatware. Sara took in the scene: over two hundred guests, ten to a table, silver clinking, faces shining, laughter and celebration on the breeze. She was in a new country, with new friends and her new husband—could any day be more glorious?

  After numerous toasts and introductions, Philippe excused them from the table, guiding Sara to the orchard. She was relieved to escape the hammock-tossing, chair-pulling antics that had started once the diners were properly crocked.

  “Are you enjoying yourself, Mrs. Lemieux?”

  “I’ve never enjoyed myself more.”

  “Never?” Philippe winked.

  Sara swatted him. “Not in polite company!” Truthfully, she was pleased with his attention. Philippe
was always near her today, with his arm threaded through hers, his palm resting on the small of her back or his fingers wrapped reassuringly around hers as she descended the stairs. He understood her from the inside out.

  Philippe led her deep into the orchard, choosing an obliging pear tree for their resting spot. He tossed his straw boater on the grass, spread his jacket beneath the tree branches, and seated Sara upon it. When he lay down, placing his head in her lap, she tensed. With eyes shut, Philippe reassured her. “There’s no one here to see, love. Besides, we’re married.”

  “You seem to think marriage entitles you to all kinds of liberties,” Sara teased.

  Philippe grinned lazily. “I’m just allowing the wine to soak in. You should try it.”

  Sara examined his face, in awe of his sandy hair and cinnamon lashes resting above high cheekbones and a square jaw. He looked as though God had hewn him from marble. Sara swept a few strands off his forehead and exhaled. Reclining against the tree, she felt its rough bark chafe her skin through the thin cotton of her dress. The day smelled of lilac, fresh-clipped grass and Chianti.

  Sara awoke to coquettish giggling and panting—and it was coming closer.

  Out of the grove of apple trees only twenty paces away burst a young woman with a scarf of loose, golden hair flying behind her as she zigzagged. In rapid pursuit was a young man, calling out, “Isla!” Neither was a guest, Sara surmised, for he was wearing a server’s livery and she a plain skirt, her hands and apron dusted with flour. When he finally caught her by the waist, he tipped her back and planted a lingering kiss on her lips. She didn’t resist.

  Before Sara knew what was happening, Philippe was on his feet. “Giuseppe!”

  The man stopped and turned. “Filippo? Ah, Filippo!” He didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed, but instead took the girl by the hand and pulled her over to meet Philippe.

  Although Sara understood none of the introductions, she managed to croak out a buongiorno and a few grazies. Philippe seemed quite at ease, conversing alternately in Italian and English with Giuseppe. Giuseppe’s girl whispered something in his ear, lowered her eyes and curtsied, then dashed back toward the banqueting tables.

  Feeling a bit woozy in the afternoon heat, Sara sank down on Philippe’s jacket and fanned herself with his hat. The two men chattered for another twenty minutes, pausing only to gesture toward the banqueting grove.

  The blaring of a trumpet ended their exchange. Giuseppe shook Philippe’s hand, bowed his head toward Sara, and then inquired, “Noi danziamo, va bene?”

  “Si!” Philippe responded with gusto. He turned to a bewildered Sara and, taking her hand, hoisted her up.

  “What’s happening?” Sara smoothed her wrinkled skirt.

  “The party’s in full swing. Come with me—I’ll show you.”

  Philippe guided Sara back toward the enormous wine cistern.

  “What were you two talking about?”

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to exclude you. Giuseppe was speaking so quickly, I couldn’t take the time to translate. I just wanted to remember everything he said.”

  “About?”

  “Giuseppe, who was very skilled at grafting my vines, has also been planting apple, pear and olive trees since he was eight years old. His father is the orchardist for the Colony.”

  “No!” Sara said in amazement. “Between his knowledge and Aurora’s, we’ll be set!” she said excitedly, but then caught herself. “But why would we plant an orchard at Eagle’s Run before we replant the grapevines at Saint Martin?”

  “Because, Sara,” Philippe paused, pressing his shoulder against a tree, “planting fruit trees is less expensive and requires less labor. We can do it ourselves, on a small scale.”

  Sara sighed with frustration. “Perhaps, but it will take years for them to produce fruit, just like the grapes,” she cautioned, turning away. Philippe clasped her hand, pulling her back to face him. “You’re never going to honor your promise to me, are you?” she accused. “We only need three hectares of new vines at Saint Martin. Surely that won’t bankrupt us!”

  “Keep your voice down!” Philippe’s grip tightened. “You don’t understand, Sara.” His voice faltered when he uttered her name. “We’ve lost forty percent—over ten thousand dollars—of our income this year because of this damned price war. We must use some of my grandfather’s money for the orchard. We can’t waste our time planting more grapes now. We need apples, pears, anything that costs less money to harvest.”

  Sara stumbled back, shocked that he’d kept these details from her. No wonder he’d been so secretive about their finances. Eagle’s Run was teetering on the edge of insolvency. A thousand questions leapt to mind, but Sara forced them aside for the moment. Bewildered, she asked, “So, what’s our plan?”

  Philippe inhaled deeply and explained, “We need to dig five-foot holes, ten paces apart, clustering trees of the same fruit together. We’ll plant on the slopes of the foothills, not too high or too low. And they should be planted straight, but then pushed to lean slightly in the direction of the prevailing wind.

  “Giuseppe also said something about bacteria.” Philippe began to weave between the trees, running his hand down one tree’s smooth bark, examining the leaves of another. “Yes, he said we should come up here to Asti and find the very best specimen of each tree we’ve planted. We should take soil from the Asti trees to use for ours. He says it never fails.”

  “How many trees?”

  “I’m not sure. A hundred?”

  “Hmm. Very well,” Sara acquiesced. “And Saint Martin?”

  Philippe placed a hand on her shoulder. “Patience, my love.”

  Two more glasses of wine blunted Sara’s irritation. She joined Philippe and the other revelers inside the cool wine cistern, enjoying the Strauss waltzes and two-steps. Sara danced like she hadn’t since Papa was alive, especially when Philippe demonstrated the cakewalk for her to mimic. Such silliness! He swept her up and spun her across the floor until it was time for the last train home.

  Sara and Philippe lifted bucket after bucket from the wagon. They had brought a total of twenty, filled with soil taken from the colony’s orchards and marked with the type of fruit that flourished in them.

  They had planted twenty-five each of apple, pear and apricot trees on the southern foothills of Eagle’s Run, just north of the intersection of the Napa River and Carneros Creek. Luc loved plunging his hands into the buckets, sprinkling soil around each tree and patting it down to make sure the nutrients seeped in to feed the roots.

  Sara had underestimated the time and strength it took to plant an orchard: before the grape harvest, they only had time to plant seventy-five trees. In three years, they would bear fruit. But what could they do to earn money now?

  Chapter 9

  SEPTEMBER 1898, SAN FRANCISCO

  Linnette had three hours to earn thirty dollars. The money would sustain her and Pippa for two months, if she scrimped.

  Her roommate, Tildy, who had offered to watch Pippa tonight in the hopes she’d receive her rent money tomorrow, tightened the stays of Linnette’s corset while Linnette hoisted up her breasts as far as gravity would permit. She slipped a peach silk dress over her head. The garment hung loosely off her shoulders, and it was a tad outdated, but Linnette was certain that her coiffure would make up for what the dress lacked.

  Tildy, who had quick fingers and a keen eye, arranged Linnette’s hair in loose waves, with a soft pompadour at the front and a fluff at the neck. Three horizontal puffs were arranged at the back, held in place by two tortoiseshell combs on the sides and an elegant ivory silk rose on top. Linnette sprayed herself with Coudray’s violet scent, which, ironically, Philippe had purchased for her.

  Madame Beaumont had promised to give her a go. Linnette had lied, insisting she was twenty rather than twenty-four. Most of the girls who worked there were ten to twenty years old—Linnette hadn’t started till fourteen.

  She deliberately arrived fifteen minutes late so
she could make an entrance and catch the eye of a wealthy gentleman. The parlor room at the front of the Italianate house was small, hot and populated with smartly dressed johns petting gussied-up girls. Bodies sprawled across the expensive furnishings, some drowsy with opium, others chewing on chicken legs and sipping red wine. Linnette’s stomach somersaulted at the mingled odors of sickly sweet perfume and gamy chicken fat. She was far too sober to be in this company. Still, she intended to proceed with her plan, so her darling Pippa would never have to debase herself like this.

  Linnette knew she was still vibrant and beautiful and that any man in this room would be lucky to touch her. She walked over to the sideboard and poured wine to the goblet’s rim. After three sips, she felt its warmth spread through her chest and her muscles begin to relax.

  Madame Beaumont walked to the center of the room. “Gentlemen, we have a stunner for you this evening. Mademoiselle Cross, who has been independently employed for several years, is available for your entertainment. She is quite talented and therefore comes at a premium this evening of five extra dollars.”

  Linnette nodded to thank her and smiled without sincerity at several men who had put down their goblets and pipes to gawk. She could tell by their desperate leering that none were accomplished lovers. Still smiling, she walked over to an empty wingback and sat down next to a middle-aged businessman. Linnette leaned in, dramatically revealing the full heft of her cleavage, and murmured, “I hope you find the weather to your liking tonight, sir.”

  He did.

  He was not attractive, with a gut hanging over his belt and an unruly black beard, but he was dressed to the height of fashion. Linnette allowed him to guide her to an upstairs chamber, where he began to undress her. His clumsy fingers floundered—he was unable to free the buttons on her dress. She finished the task herself, and then stripped down to her corset and drawers. He watched her with glassy eyes. When she sat beside him on the bed, he began to paw at her chest. His hot breath smelled of boiled onions, and his hands were still soiled with grease from the chicken thigh he’d been gnawing earlier.