The California Wife

by Kristen Harnisch

  Philippe flattened his hand against the wall for support, his skin crawling with dread. He trembled as he pushed the bedroom door open. His father was lying on the floor on the far side of the bed, but Philippe could only see his stocking feet. Philippe ventured closer, his legs dragging as if shackled by iron bands. He collapsed on his hands and knees at the sight before him.

  There was more blood than he could have ever imagined. His father’s hands were curled inward, and smoke curled from the gun by his side. His eyes stared vacantly ahead. But it was the sharp smell of gunpowder invading his nostrils, and the shards of bone and bits of blood-soaked hair on the braided rug that forced Philippe to vomit. He turned from his father’s lifeless body and rocked on the edge of the bed, trying to wrest control of his thoughts. He retreated deep inside himself, cowering like a child.

  Jean Lemieux was buried a few days later. At the graveside, Philippe’s thoughts raced. If only he’d stayed by his father’s side that evening, if only he’d remembered the gun under the mattress, if only—Philippe stopped himself. As tortured as his death was, Jean Lemieux had brought it upon himself. In life he’d driven away his wife and sons. He’d abused Bastien, turning him into the kind of man who gambled and caroused and attacked Sara. And now, instead of making amends, his father had committed this last horrid act.

  Had his father loved them, or just the thrill of dominating them? Philippe would never have the answers, no matter how hard he tried to understand the man whom he’d spent his entire adult life trying to forget.

  Chapter 17

  JULY 1900, SAN FRANCISCO

  Linnette’s fever would not break. Her skin itched and her throat burned. Pippa nestled beside her, as she had for the past two days, pacified by her mother’s warmth.

  When Linnette’s neck swelled and her heart misfired, she’d sent Tildy for the doctor. That was hours ago, and now Linnette labored to catch each breath. Her fingers and toes tingled with numbness, and it frightened her. She couldn’t move her neck to look down at Pippa, but she could smell her daughter’s soap-washed hair and feel her little heart, fluttering as fast as the wings of a hummingbird against her ribs.

  Linnette stared at the curling paint on the ceiling above her bed, sucking in a thin stream of air as her throat constricted. With rising panic, she closed her eyes and listened to Pippa babble and sing, unaware of her mother’s struggle. Pippa’s contented sigh rolled over Linnette like a calming wave.

  She’d sinned for seven years, but for the past two she had loved this child fiercely. Linnette had never feared death, but she was terrified of abandoning Pippa. The room grew smaller, darkness closing in from the corners to the center, until the pinprick of light vanished. Linnette could no longer feel Pippa’s heat against her ribs, could not see her face. Yet she could hear her feathery whisper. “Mommy?”

  Pippa.

  Chapter 18

  AUGUST 1900, EAGLE’S RUN

  Philippe stabbed the toe of his boot into the clay loam. The pebbles of porous rock crunched under his thick sole, dry again after a week of rain. After touring Eagle’s Run with Sara, he wanted to kick himself. If only they’d returned a week earlier. A week of heavy rains in mid-July had soaked the grapes, placing them at risk for mildew.

  Mac, after consulting with Aurora, had decided to prune back the leaves to allow more sun to reach the grapes. But the crew had over-pruned the vines on the southernmost hill, which received the most sunlight. As Mac sheepishly walked his employer through the vine rows, Philippe’s concern mounted. He flipped over a few clusters and cringed: the grapes had withered from overexposure. Many Napa vineyardists had reacted just like Mac, but Philippe wouldn’t have made this mistake. They would lose ten tons, by his estimate.

  Sara and Philippe broke open a sampling of grapes: some that received morning sun, and others that basked in the afternoon sunlight. Their skins were soft, their pulp was white and their seeds were brown. The juice was sugary and delicious. They both agreed: they must harvest the grapes at once.

  Late that evening, after Sara and Luc had settled into bed, Philippe sat at the kitchen table, flipping though the pile of mail Sara had left for him. At the bottom, he discovered the envelope he’d mailed to Linnette before he left for Paris. It had been returned—unopened.

  Philippe ripped it open. The fifty dollars in tens he’d sent her fell onto the table. Had Linnette moved? Why hadn’t she written?

  Sara ran through the vines faster than a streak of greased lightning, as giddy as a schoolgirl, waving a newspaper in the air like a banner. She was out of breath when she reached him, but it didn’t matter. He guessed why she was so happy: they’d won a medal.

  The article was just below the photograph of Sara and Philippe standing next to their display table in the annex of the Palais d’Agriculture. Philippe read every word aloud. The decisions of the international jury at the Paris Exposition had been announced. California wines had won nine gold, seven silver and twelve bronze medals. The grand prix medal had gone to a French vintner, but Eagle’s Run Cabernet Sauvignon had won gold!

  Every muscle in his body relaxed with relief. He’d been holding his breath since they’d returned—hoping, and praying. His bravado had been an act. He knew the vintage was superb, but he didn’t know how it would fare against over thirty thousand other wines. He picked up Sara and twirled her around, bursting with pride. She laughed, and her soft lips smacked his robustly. God, he loved this woman. Her mile-wide grin, her tenacity, her trust in him made him believe he could do anything.

  “I must tell Aurora. You coming?”

  “No, you go ahead. She’ll be dying to know, if she hasn’t already bribed the paper boy to deliver an advance copy.” Philippe was grateful to Aurora for pushing him to enter the wines in competition.

  Sara kissed him again, lifted her skirt hem and skipped off as though she were filled with a renewed zest for life. He wished it could last, but he knew he’d eventually have to tell her about Linnette and Pippa.

  Once they had harvested the grapes and filled the fermenting tanks with 150,000 gallons of juice, he was able to break free from the vineyard and take the ferry to the city. He’d received no correspondence from Linnette, and the silence worried him.

  Tildy, whom Philippe had met on his previous visit, answered the door. “Philippe—oh, come in,” she said, obviously startled.

  “Is Linnette at home?”

  Tildy’s quivering fingers covered her mouth. “I didn’t know how to reach you,” she blurted. “Linnette . . . well, she died . . . of diphtheria.” He stared blankly at her. Why hadn’t he suspected something like this? Because Linnette was young, strong and seemingly healthy.

  “When?” His voice cracked.

  “July.” Tildy didn’t blink, or shed a tear.

  “In July?” He felt a surge of pity for Linnette and Pippa. Pippa! He pushed past Tildy into the hallway, looking, listening for any sound. “Where’s the child?”

  “Family Services took her.”

  “Where?”

  “She’s probably at one of the city’s orphanages.”

  Philippe wanted to throttle the woman. “My daughter’s in an orphanage because you didn’t have the decency, or sense, to figure out where I lived?”

  Tildy grimaced. “I gave your name to the women there. I thought they’d find you.”

  “Where is the Family Services office?” he asked. Tildy shrugged, her expression blank.

  Philippe was disgusted. He turned to leave, but she grabbed his arm. “There’s the small matter of Linnette’s back rent,” she said in a syrupy voice. “She owes me twenty-five dollars.”

  Philippe gripped her fat wrist until she winced. “Linnette doesn’t owe you anything,” he exploded. “She’s dead.” He slammed the door behind him.

  •

  Philippe was certain about one thing: he must find Pippa. He was frantic to rescue his child from the misery of the city’s orphanage system. He didn’t have time to enlist Sara’s help—
or Aurora’s—to locate the girl. He would have to stay in the city and search himself, until he found her.

  Philippe telegraphed Sara only to say he’d be delayed. Then he rode the omnibus to the new Ferry Building. There, he waited until a throng of disembarking passengers strolled past him. He asked twenty people if they knew where Family Services or the local orphanages were located. A young woman finally directed him to the Protestant orphanage asylum, bound by Haight, Buchanan, Hermann and Laguna streets.

  Philippe rode to the outskirts of town. The orphanage was a four-story stone mansion, with wide gables and sharp spires that pierced the afternoon’s yellow light. It was a formidable structure, and one that would scare the living daylights out of any arriving youngster. However, as he came closer, he witnessed a surprising sight: laughing children of all shapes and sizes, running up and rolling down a grassy knoll. They looked healthy, even happy.

  Philippe examined their faces, hoping for a glimpse of Pippa. He did not see her. Perhaps she was inside, or perhaps she’d fallen ill and died, like her mother—alone. Fear gripped his heart. He could not lose two daughters in a year—he would not.

  Philippe entered the foyer, where a middle-aged matron greeted him. “May I help you, sir?” She had a pleasant, motherly demeanor and sounded as though she might be hosting a garden party, not caring for dozens of unruly children.

  “I’m looking for a girl—my daughter. Her name is Pippa. She’s nearly three years old.”

  The woman’s face brightened and she regarded him curiously. “Forgive me, but it’s rare that children like Pippa are ever claimed.”

  “She’s here?” He dared to hope.

  “Yes, she’s here. However, I’ll need to see your identification, and I’ll need you to describe your daughter.”

  Philippe pulled out his citizenship papers, which he always carried with him while traveling. “I’m Philippe Lemieux.” He pointed to his written name and continued, “And her mother was Linnette Cross. From what I’ve been told, Linnette died of diphtheria this summer. The last time I saw Pippa was almost a year ago. I’ve been in France. That’s why I didn’t know. Pippa has beautiful blue eyes, straw-colored pixie hair and a cleft lip.”

  The matron extended her hand to shake Philippe’s. “I’m Katherine Miller. Follow me.”

  She led him to a dormitory where three toddlers lay on cots. A young woman, presumably one of the nurses, sat reading a book by the window in the fading daylight. Philippe froze when he saw Pippa. A tousle of blond hair covered her face. She was snug in bed under a light blanket, with a stuffed doll wedged beneath her chin. She looked delicate, and Philippe felt the fatherly urge to hold her, to shield her from all of life’s difficulties. But they would not allow him to take her. Matron Miller insisted that a thorough investigation into Philippe’s financial situation and living arrangements was compulsory.

  She explained that Pippa had had a difficult time when she first came to live at the orphanage. Obviously, she missed her mother, but she was also isolated from the other children—quarantined to make certain she didn’t carry diphtheria.

  When Pippa awoke, Philippe was pleased to see she had grown a few inches, and her cheeks blushed a healthy, rosy hue. She blinked, twisted her lips into a half-smile, and returned to playing with her toys. She didn’t remember him.

  Truth be told, Sara was happy to have some time alone while Philippe was in San Francisco. Since the harvest, he had continued working night and day, sleeping only in fits. Sara often awoke near midnight to Philippe’s absence. Spying the unruffled quilt on his side of the bed, she would tread quietly downstairs to find him scribbling numbers in his journal. He seemed so distracted that Sara hesitated to ask him what he was calculating. Perhaps the visit to the city would do him good.

  Today was a Saturday, and she planned to spend the day indoors, rummaging through old boxes, organizing closets and, with Rose’s help, dusting and polishing the furniture to a high shine. Sara despised housekeeping and preferred to be outdoors, but now that Luc trailed a mess of toys, dirt, grasshoppers and sticks through the house each day, nothing made her happier than the scent of Rose’s olive oil and lemon polish.

  Sara started with Philippe’s closet. She laid out all his hanging clothes on the bed and lined up his black leather high-button shoes and muddy work boots to clean later.

  She dragged out two boxes filled with old office items and papers. Sara was about to sweep the closet floor when she spied a torn-open brown envelope in the corner. She threw it on top of the box behind her and finished her sweeping. When she turned around, a stack of ten-dollar bills lay on the floor. Sara gingerly picked up the envelope, which was addressed to an L. Cross at a post office box in San Francisco, but had been returned to sender. The sender had been her husband.

  Sara picked up the money, and fingered the loose cord around it. Then she remembered sorting the envelope into Philippe’s pile of mail. She’d assumed L. Cross was a merchant or a friend of Philippe’s in San Francisco. She had placed it with the rest of Philippe’s mail on the desk in his study without thinking anything of it.

  He was hiding something. Did he owe Mr. Cross this money? There was only one person she could think of who might know. She would march over to Aurora’s farm at once and ask.

  It was a balmy late-summer day, so she packed up a basket with chicken, cheese and bread and headed to Aurora’s house. Luc ran ahead of her through the vines and a small meadow. Although only four years old, he was sturdy and energetic, and could easily run the distance.

  Aurora was standing on her tiptoes with her pruning shears, cutting back her azalea bush until it looked like a tight green box, reminding Sara of the hedges in the Versailles gardens. For a moment, she was a tourist in France again, her arm in Philippe’s as they wandered through the Orangerie, down its gravel path, past the Bacchus fountain and through a smattering of small trees. The citrus scent had been heavenly.

  Luc squeaked upon recognizing Aurora. “Tante Rora!”

  Aurora squatted down, and opened her arms. “My sweet boy Luc!”

  “Join us for a picnic,” Sara urged her gaily. “Have you eaten?”

  “I’d love to!” Aurora smoothed Luc’s hair, washed her hands at the pump and dried them on her apron. They sat down under a dwarf apple tree in Aurora’s backyard and ate their fill. Luc dangled from the lowest branches of the tree. Sara thought it dangerous, but Philippe always chided her, “Boys need to explore.” She reluctantly allowed Luc up, but kept a watchful eye.

  “Philippe’s in the city this weekend, so we’re on our own.”

  “What’s he doing? Visiting the archdiocese?”

  “I don’t think so.” Sara broke the chunk of bread in her hand. The crust flaked and fell on her napkin. “I think he’s visiting a gentleman by the name of Cross. Ring a bell?”

  Aurora shrugged and nibbled on her chicken leg. “No, I can’t say it does.”

  “Oh, I just thought you two had so many common connections, you might know the gentleman’s trade.”

  Aurora poured them each another half-glass of chardonnay. “No, I can’t say that I do.”

  “First initial is L—L. Cross,” Sara persisted.

  Aurora’s eyes shifted from Sara to the basket. “Any cakes? Luc, your Tante Aurora can never pass up a sweet.”

  “Aurora?” Sara pressed.

  “Are you sure Philippe is visiting an L. Cross?”

  “No, but he’s had some communication with him recently. I found an envelope addressed to him that had been returned to Philippe. It was full of money, Aurora.”

  “Oh, my.” Aurora’s voluminous chest heaved with a deep sigh. “Now don’t jump to conclusions, but . . . L. Cross is Linnette Cross.”

  Sara looked expectantly at Aurora. Who was Linnette Cross?

  “You don’t know?”

  “About . . . ?”

  “Jesus, Mary and Joseph, he could have told you,” she muttered. “Linnette was the one before you.”


  “His mistress?” Sara blurted. The words sent her mind into a tailspin. Was this money part of a business transaction, or was he seeing this woman romantically again? The thought made her sick. She dropped her plate.

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you her name. If Philippe’s corresponding with her, then you’d best confront him about it.” Aurora shook her head and clucked her tongue. “Believe you me, there’s never a good explanation for cavorting with a known strumpet when you’re a married man.”

  Philippe’s telegram, delivered on Monday, had said that he’d been delayed. But now it was Tuesday afternoon. Sara was pacing the kitchen floor wringing her hands, imagining him with her, considering what she’d accuse him of when he returned.

  A voice called through the screen door, “Mrs. Lemieux?”

  Startled, Sara nodded, and a boy swung open the door, presenting her with another telegram. He would be home on Thursday. He was bringing a guest for an early supper and asked that she invite Aurora. That was all. Not a word of apology or explanation.

  Sara scrunched the paper into a tight ball. She tried to tell herself that the guest could be anyone, but all she could think was, How dare he bring that woman into their home!

  Sara hurried to the door when she heard the carriage. Philippe dismounted his horse, opened the door of the black phaeton and handed down a tidy, dark-haired woman. She wore spectacles perched atop the bridge of her nose, and carried a small case and folded parasol.

  Sara felt very attractive in comparison. This couldn’t possibly be Linnette, could it? The woman was old enough to be Philippe’s mother.

  “Sara, so sorry for my delay,” he said, as he pecked her on the cheek and turned to his companion. “Miss Carmichael, this is my wife, Sara. Sara, Miss Carmichael from San Francisco.”

  “Nice to have you with us, ma’am,” Sara said politely, even though she felt like screaming.

  “Yes, thank you. Mind if I walk around a bit? I need to stretch after the long ride.”