Sara set the brake and searched Philippe’s face. He stared, shaking his head. Pippa and Luc, on the other hand, clambered up onto the seat next to Sara. “Maman, did you buy this for us? Can we keep it?” Luc cried with glee.
“It’s for Maman’s new business,” Sara explained.
“Is booeyful,” Pippa slurred adorably as she bounced up and down in the seat, testing its springs.
Philippe ran a hand along the centerboard, tugged on the axle beneath, and then stepped back to examine the paint job.
“Lemieux Family Wines?” He squinted.
Sara shoulders fell. “Don’t you like it?”
“It’s very colorful. Where on earth do you plan to drive it?”
Sara straightened her back. “All around town, of course, but I plan to park it at the Napa Junction from ten o’clock to five o’clock every Friday and Saturday this spring, when I start selling Eagle’s Run and Saint Martin wines out of it,” she said proudly.
Philippe rested his hands on his hips and gawked. “Unbelievable,” he finally said, pronouncing each syllable slowly. “You did all this?”
“Aurora helped me find the most suitable wagon, and I used the money you gave me,” Sara replied.
“You could have at least asked me,” he said.
Sara’s chest tightened. The children grew quiet. “I . . . I wanted to surprise you,” she said.
As Philippe circled the wagon again, his expression soured. “Well,” he blustered, throwing his hands up, “you sure shocked the hell out of me, Mrs. Lemieux!” He muttered something under his breath and walked back into the house. Sara sank back down onto the seat.
While Pippa fiddled with the reins, oblivious to the tension in the air, Luc cuddled up to Sara’s side. “I think it’s the smartest wagon I’ve ever seen, Maman,” he whispered.
Sara sniffed and smiled. She didn’t need Philippe’s approval. This was her dream, and she would make him regret ever doubting her.
In mid-April, Philippe admired his cabernet vines, which Mac had planted using premium-grade St. George rootstock. They fanned out in diagonal lines six feet apart, over the ten acres that had been destroyed by the fire.
Planting these vines was the practical way to spend their money. Spending hundreds of dollars on a flashy wagon and a sketchy scheme when they were near financial ruin? That was pure folly.
Still irritated by his wife’s audacity, he shifted his thoughts to the winery. He’d just received the insurance check, which would cover most of the rebuilding costs. He would use the money he had coming in August for their living expenses and to save for new equipment and barrels, which would cost thousands of dollars. He’d thought of applying for a bank loan, but with the phylloxera afoot, grape farming was considered risky. Interest rates on farm loans ran sky-high. After weighing his options carefully, Philippe had decided to wait and pinch pennies until they could recoup enough money to afford new equipment and cooperage.
Luckily, Saint Martin was thriving. In November, Jacques had reported to Philippe that production had hit an all-time high—19,000 gallons were aging. Philippe had written letters to his merchant contacts in Chicago, Boston, St. Louis and Los Angeles to explain their temporary lack of inventory and ask them to consider swapping the Eagle’s Run Chardonnay they’d ordered for bottles of the 1900 Saint Martin Chenin Blanc.
While he waited to hear back, he consulted with Monsignor O’Brien, and brokered a deal with his neighbors to supply the archdiocese with the 144,000 bottles of sacramental wine Eagle’s Run wasn’t able to provide from mid-1901 to mid-1902. They would receive twelve cents per gallon; he’d receive three. That seventy-two dollars each month would cover Mac’s salary and Rose’s stipend. But would it be enough? Could they stay afloat?
Sara’s stomach fluttered with a mixture of fear and excitement. She stepped down from the wagon carefully. Her ample belly set her off-kilter. Before she could unbridle Lady and tie her up, the stationmaster appeared outside the one-room depot, and ambled, bow-legged, down the wooden ramp.
“Bill of lading, ma’am?” he asked. The tall, white-bearded man was wearing a dark blue waistcoat and tie, and a pillbox hat with SPR embroidered in gilt wire. She’d seen him before. Jacobs was his name.
“No, sir, I’m setting up to sell wine and food out of my wagon.”
He popped open the pocket watch chained to his vest. “You’re early. Permit?”
Sara retrieved the paper from her bag. She’d hoped he would overlook the fact that she was setting up a half hour before the ten o’clock train rolled in, but she’d wanted to tidy up the rows of wine, jams, piccalilli and sandwiches she was selling, and set up the umbrellas to keep them cool. Sara handed the permit to the stationmaster. She’d paid the Southern Pacific Railroad an annual fee of thirty dollars for that paper, half of what her wagon cost! Yet she’d only be able to sell her goods on Friday and Saturday, in the high season, from the end of April to early October.
While he studied the permit, she added, “My name is Sara Lemieux, and I live just northwest of here, at Eagle’s Run.”
“Ah, Philippe Lemieux’s bride, are you?”
Sara smiled. “Yes, I am.”
“He was just here last week, loading up shipments for Chicago. Fine businessman he is. Where is he now?”
“In the vineyard. I’m sure you heard about the fire. We just replanted, and he’s tending the new vines,” she prattled on. “This wagon here is my new business.”
He walked over to the wagon and examined the contents. “No bottle openers in there, I hope.”
“No sir, the railroad wouldn’t allow it.”
“More likely Niebaum wouldn’t allow it,” he chuckled. “He wouldn’t want any other vintner to interfere with the sale of his Inglenook on the Southern Pacific.”
“Indeed. It’s a bit of a monopoly, isn’t it?” Sara tested.
“Yes,” he frowned and tipped his hat. “Just keep your distance. We need room for the shippers to move their handbarrows up the ramp and onto the platform,” he said, and disappeared into the small depot building.
Eight trains stopped at the station over the next six hours. Sara sold only two bottles of chardonnay and five jars of jam, but every last one of the sandwiches Rose had made that morning was gone. She hadn’t anticipated that her best customers could be the vintners themselves, who craved a hearty lunch after loading their wine shipments onto the freight trains. They drained her five gallons of lemonade down to the last drop.
Each week, Sara returned with a greater number of sandwiches and more lemonade, and each afternoon she sold out. Once she began offering a wooden fork with every jar of piccalilli, the men bought up those too, eating the tomato and pepper relish on the spot. Revenues were increasing, but even at this rate, Sara was making barely enough to cover her expenses.
One Saturday morning in early June, two women in a surrey pulled up to the station, and as the driver pulled their trunks down, they opened their parasols. The next train was scheduled to arrive in fifteen minutes, and with nothing to look at aside from the depot and a huddle of ten passengers waiting for the train, what else were two wealthy women on holiday to do?
Standing beside the wagon with her apron stretched over her rounded belly, Sara grew self-conscious as they approached. For her weekends at the station, she always dressed in her nicest linen frock and a spotless apron adorned only with her gold suffragette button. These women, however, wore embroidered silk, cotton and lace dresses, in pale peach and white. Their wide-brimmed straw hats were decorated with white feathers, and they accessorized their ensembles with pearl-drop earrings and fluttering, hand-painted oriental fans. Sara was speechless. They were simply the most elegant women she’d ever seen. When they moved closer, Sara could see they shared the same blue eyes and strawberry-blond hair—they looked like mother and daughter.
Sara recalled the high-society Americans she’d observed at the World’s Fair last year. She figured these two women must also be a part of Amer
ica’s elite. She knew exactly how to approach them.
“Good morning, ladies. Might I tempt you with a bottle of our family’s refreshing chardonnay, or perhaps our award-winning cabernet, to bring home?”
They whispered like sisters, but when they addressed Sara, they displayed exquisite manners. “Award-winning!” the mother’s eyes flew wide open. “May I?” she asked. Sara slid a bottle into her gloved palm.
“Goodness, Laura,” she exclaimed, turning to her daughter, “this is one of the wines we served at your debutante ball. Charles, the sommelier at the Palace, highly recommended it. See here,” she tapped the last line on the label, “the 1897 vintage won a gold medal at the World’s Fair in Paris.”
Sara beamed. “Oh, yes, ma’am, my husband and I were in Paris and were delighted to receive such recognition. You know, we deliver regularly to the Palace Hotel and many private residences in the city. If you live in San Francisco, or nearby, we’d be happy to deliver monthly to your home.”
The mother pressed her gloved finger to her lips. “How much for a case?”
“Twelve bottles is five dollars, ma’am,” Sara replied.
The woman switched to flawless French. “You are French-born and make your wine from California grapes?”
Sara smiled, shifting into her native language. “Yes, my husband and I come from the Loire. Our vineyard is a few miles up the road. We make cabernet, a nice dry chardonnay and a zinfandel that pairs nicely with cold meat in summertime. We also own my family’s vineyard in France. Saint Martin Chenin Blanc is sold in some of the finest restaurants in Paris,” she added, stretching the truth.
A train whistle shrieked in the distance. “Mother,” the daughter fretted, “we should move to the platform.”
The woman waved away her daughter’s suggestion and narrowed her eyes. “What a smart wagon, so colorful and attractive. And what an enterprising young woman you are.” She extended her hand to shake Sara’s. “Bridget Donnelly, and this is my daughter, Laura.”
“A pleasure. I’m Sara Lemieux.” Sara took their fingertips delicately, just like she’d seen the rich American women in Paris do.
“Here’s my card, Mrs. Lemieux. We’d like a case of the cabernet delivered monthly to the back entrance. Clifton, our butler, will make sure you receive payment.”
Sara glanced at the card, surprised to read that their home was in St. Helena. “Is next Thursday agreeable?” She remembered Philippe was making deliveries north of Napa City that day.
“Perfect, thank you.”
“Mrs. Donnelly, please accept this bottle of our chardonnay with my compliments,” Sara offered, rolling the bottle in burlap and cinching it with a piece of twine at both ends. “If you like French chardonnay, you’ll love ours.”
Bridget Donnelly tucked her fan back in her dress pocket, closed her parasol and reached for the wine. “I’d be delighted, Mrs. Lemieux, thank you,” she replied warmly. Sara’s offering looked rather drab next to Mrs. Donnelly’s china-white skin and the peach lace that ruffled at the bottom of her quarter-length sleeve. Sara suddenly found herself wishing she had a more elegant wrapping for their wines. But perhaps they’d find the burlap rustic and charming. These wealthy women often appreciated quaint souvenirs of farm life, she’d heard.
When the Donnellys walked away, Sara felt a burst of exhilaration. Her first customers of the day and she’d already sold a case!
Chapter 23
SUMMER 1901
Sara reread the note resting on her swollen belly. Marie and Adeline would be here at the end of July, a month before Sara was due. The child could be born right in the middle of the harvest, the doctor had warned. Well then, Sara mused, she’d just do what the Chinese women did: birth the baby in the field and get on with it, metaphorically speaking.
Marie had graduated two years ago from the midwifery course at the Women’s Medical College. And now she was the first woman accepted into Cooper Medical College’s surgical program. Her classes would begin in San Francisco in August.
Sara admired Marie’s pluck. A woman could become a doctor and attend the same surgical program as the men? What a modern example for three-year-old Pippa and ten-year-old Adeline. She smiled, tucked the letter away in her apron pocket and hoisted herself up from the kitchen chair.
As Sara made her way toward the barn to find Philippe, she cradled her massive belly. A hearty kick greeted her. He, or she, was strong and feisty, a life force within her. Sara felt curiously vigorous these days, even when her lower back hurt. Her skin was smooth and glowing, her hair was thick, her muscles strong and her feet steady.
Luc was doing his chores. He was a beautiful child, with Philippe’s facial features in miniature but Bastien’s dark mahogany eyes and hair. Luckily, he seemed to possess Lydia’s personality: he was kind and high-spirited, and he excelled at his alphabet and arithmetic.
Luc wiped his brow with his shirtsleeve, and continued mucking out one of the stalls with a small rake and shovel. His nose crinkled, and Sara sympathized—the odor was even fouler to her sense of smell than usual. Luc had always preferred picking and crushing grapes to his barn chores. Sara hovered in the doorway, feeling a bit sorry for him.
“How’s it going?” Sara hid a smile. When he saw her, Luc’s face lit up. Two deeply set dimples punctuated his cheeks. “Don’t forget to wash your hands with soap when you finish. I left a brick by the pump.”
“Yes, Maman.”
“And when you’ve washed up, you’re welcome to a slice of the warm cinnamon bread I just took out of the oven. Butter’s in the larder.”
“Oh, thank you!” Luc shoveled twice as fast.
“Where’s your father?”
“Out back.”
Sara waited in front of the barn for Philippe to return from the privy. She disliked it and preferred he use the indoor water closet, but he wouldn’t during the day. He didn’t want to muddy her floors with his boots, and besides, he told her, the workers would think him uppity if they didn’t use the same john.
He grinned as he made his way over to the pump, scrubbed his hands and rinsed them, then splashed his face with cool water. Sara slipped the letter out of her pocket and offered him a corner of her apron to towel off. “Thanks, love.” He placed a hand on each side of her belly. “How’s the pumpkin today?”
“Heavy,” she groaned and waved the letter. “Guess who’s coming to stay?”
On a steamy Friday in mid-July, a cadre of prohibitionists marched toward Sara’s wagon, led by Francine Mason. Sara had instantly disliked the tight-bunned, purse-lipped woman when she’d met her at a suffragette meeting last month. Today, she appeared downright militant, clutching a Bible in her left hand and the pure white flag of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union in the other. The group—wives and daughters of prune, apricot and olive growers—shuffled past Sara as she glared. They encircled her wagon and knelt shoulder to shoulder, forming a barricade that made it impossible for any customer to approach.
Sara seethed. What right did they have to interfere with her livelihood? She wasn’t serving alcohol; she was merely selling it. Why couldn’t they stick to picketing the saloons or the brandy and whiskey sellers? Why target her?
She wasn’t going to tolerate it. “Stand up, Francine!” Sara commanded the pious old woman, but Francine’s twisted arthritic fingers clutched the flag as if it were a talisman against the fires of hell. Her brown eyes hardened when she looked up. Sara had never seen such a mean old face. Rather than standing, Francine stared straight ahead and chanted loudly, leading her WCTU colleagues in prayer for the souls of Sara’s customers. After each sing-songy chant, the group responded flatly, “Lord save them.”
If Sara walked away from the wagon, they might destroy her inventory. They’d been known to take a hatchet to saloons and throw rocks to break the bottles behind bars. But figuring she had no choice, she hurried up the platform ramp, past a whispering group of waiting passengers, and into the depot. Stationmaster Jacobs was flipp
ing through the Napa Register, a mustard-stained napkin tucked into his collar, and eating one of her ham sandwiches.
Sara cleared her throat when he didn’t immediately acknowledge her. He finally peered over his spectacles. “Yes, Mrs. Lemieux?” he asked, looking as if he wanted to return to his reading.
“Do you know what’s going on out there?” Sara’s heart thumped so hard, she had to sit down on a nearby bench and grip its arm to steady herself. Somehow, the fact that she was a pregnant woman being picketed for selling alcohol made the ordeal even worse.
“I can’t stop them unless they start destroying your property or railroad property.”
“They’re interfering with commerce,” Sara countered.
Jacobs shrugged. “Liberty of speech, I’m afraid.”
Sara spotted a flask on the windowsill behind the stationmaster. It hadn’t been opened—yet. “And what’s that drink you’re enjoying?” She flicked her head. Sara thought she saw his cheeks redden. Then again, maybe he’d already taken a few swigs.
“Vodka, but only after work hours,” he added unconvincingly. “I don’t go for that sissy wine you’re peddling, no offense, ma’am. I like a nip of something a little stronger.” Hardly a nip, Sara thought. There must be more than a pint of liquor in that flask.
She pulled her hanky from her apron pocket and blotted her perspiring brow. “I think the police should decide whether or not they’re breaking the law.” Her eyes darted to the telephone on the wall. She tapped her foot impatiently when he didn’t move a muscle. “Well?”
He sighed, reluctantly folded his newspaper and asked the operator to connect him. He looked out the window, studying the prohibs while he described their activity to the police. His tone was flat and, Sara felt, devoid of any urgency.
The California Wife Page 17