Dedication
To my parents, Maryellen and Frank Lacroix,
for your kindness, enthusiasm and courage.
And in memory of my mother-in-law, Susan Harnisch,
who taught us to find joy in life’s simple moments.
Contents
Dedication
Part I Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Part II Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Part III Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Kristen Harnisch
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Part I
Chapter 1
NOVEMBER 1897, VOUVRAY, FRANCE
Sara Thibault had never been this sure—or scared—of anything in her life. Marriage to Philippe Lemieux would be like jumping into the rushing current of a river: thrilling to the senses, adventurous and undoubtedly tumultuous.
When she slid her arms around the man she’d just agreed to marry, his brilliant blue eyes warmed with affection, and his lips formed the crooked smile that never failed to soften Sara’s bones. She pressed her cheek to the lapel of his damp wool coat, enjoying the clean smell of the snow that blanketed them on this crisp, gray November morning. Sara was happy—for the first time since she’d fled Saint Martin last year.
Sara recalled the events that had brought them from Eagle’s Run, Philippe’s California vineyard, back to her family’s vineyard here in the heart of the Loire. The tragedy that had forced Sara and her sister, Lydia, to flee France in the first place had taken Sara to California. There, in spite of the tangled history between their two families, Sara and Philippe had formed an unbreakable bond. She shuddered, remembering how close they’d come to being separated forever—all because of one man.
“Are you cold, love?” Philippe asked. “Shall we go inside and share our news?”
“Not quite yet.” Sara looked past him to the watchman’s shed where her mother, her new husband, Jacques, and Sara’s nephew, Luc, waited. Of course she would have to tell them, but what would she say?
“Sara?” Philippe’s lips skimmed hers, and she instantly craved more.
She explained shyly, “I want to spend more time with you—alone.” The ten hectares of bare, dormant vines and rocky soil beckoned to her, just as they had during the winters of her youth. How could she make him understand? “I want to show you Saint Martin.”
His expression relaxed. “And I’d love to see it through your eyes.”
Sara’s face brightened and she linked an arm through his, tucking her hands into her warm woolen muff. Touring Philippe around Saint Martin was a sensible idea. It would keep her mind off the beautiful planes of his face, his tall, vigorous physique and the simmering need she repressed every time he called her name.
They strolled for nearly an hour. She guided him around the perimeter of the farm, past the watchman’s shed to the stables, which held two horses and a wagon. Sara paused at the spot with the clearest view of the Loire’s surging waters. Philippe was quiet and contemplative when she pointed out the three hectares, now vacant of vines, that had been ruined by the phylloxera louse two years ago. “When will we replant with American rootstock?” she ventured.
Philippe shook his head. “Not quite yet.” What did he mean? Sara grew self-conscious, suddenly aware of how small Saint Martin was in comparison to Philippe’s California vineyard. Ten hectares—nearly twenty-five acres of chenin blanc grapes—was no match for the two hundred acres of cabernet, zinfandel and chardonnay grapes at Eagle’s Run. Eagle’s Run was one of the largest vineyards in Napa, and Philippe was one of the county’s most respected vignerons—how could she compete? Nevertheless, this small patch of vines in Vouvray had shaped Sara’s soul from birth. She’d spent years of her life kneeling on Saint Martin’s rocky soil, plucking the thin-skinned chenin blanc grapes from their stems and tasting their juicy flesh. She and Lydia had chased chickens through the vine rows, their girlish laughter playing on the summer breeze. As a young girl, she’d carved her name into the winery’s enormous fermenting barrels, staking her secret claim upon her father’s legacy. Philippe would never fully understand Sara until he acquainted himself with every meter of Saint Martin—and Sara would never be satisfied until they restored Saint Martin to its former vitality.
She’d gone weak with relief when he’d appeared earlier today, but she couldn’t allow herself to blithely, blindly follow him back to America, away from her own aspirations. She would bide her time, but Sara was determined to have her way.
They finally arrived at Sara’s favorite part of the vineyard, the area that held the most memories for her: the cave dwellings and the family wine cellar, both hewn from a long ledge of tufa rock that ran along the vineyard’s northern border.
“How long ago were these carved?” Philippe asked as he ran his hand along the jagged yellow stone.
“The eleventh century,” Sara guessed. “My mother’s parents refurbished them.” She unlocked the oak doors to the wine cellar and led him inside the dark, limestone cave, which was filled with barrels of the Thibault family’s 1897 chenin blanc. The scent of oak and sweet wine reminded Sara of Papa.
Sara swallowed her grief and walked over to a pyramid of smaller barrels, stacked five high and extending over fifty meters to the back of the cave. Her hand slid over the smooth barrel staves. “My father taught me how to select the best oak from the different forests in France, and how to ferment and rack the wine.” She paused for a moment before adding wistfully, “But Jacques taught me how to press the grapes.”
“Using this beauty over here?” Philippe’s pleasure was evident as he placed a hand on the new Morineau press Sara had just purchased.
“No!” Sara waved off his assumption. “All we had before was the old basket press, like the Romans used centuries ago,” she joked. “We used this one for the first time last month. I’d been pestering Papa to buy a more efficient press for years, but he always believed it wiser to spend the money on the fruit first, equipment second.” She sighed. “Papa was right about most things, but not that.”
Philippe moved closer. “He’d be so pleased with what you’ve accomplished,” he assured her.
Sara squeezed his hand. “He’d be even more pleased if we replanted the vines we lost,” she replied coyly.
“Replanting is expensive, love. I need more time.” But time was the problem. Once planted, the new vines wouldn’t produce decent wine grapes for three to five years. Rather than press the issue now, Sara led Philippe outside. She jiggled the key, trying to lock the stubborn doors. Philippe circled his thumbs between her shoulder blades, relaxing her. “You’ve been busy since you’ve returned,” he observed. “I was hoping you’d spent the last five weeks pining away for me,
but apparently not.”
“I’ll never tell,” she teased, her playful tone masking a deeper truth. Five weeks ago, they had argued terribly, and Philippe had told her to return to France. She had reluctantly left him, believing that they could never overcome the rift between their families. Sara had missed their days of working together side by side at Eagle’s Run, and she’d mourned her long-held hope of uniting their two lives and vineyards. But Philippe had appeared today and convinced her that they could make a new start together, free from the sorrows of the past. Neither one of them, she suspected, could fully live without the other.
Sara stepped back from the cellar door and pointed to the cave dwellings a level above, their doors painted a cheerful robin’s-egg blue. “This is where the pickers live during the harvest season, and where I sleep with Luc now.” She had been mother to her fifteen-month-old nephew since Lydia had died in childbirth.
Sara turned to the scorched earth behind them. She grew quiet at the sight of the two chimneys and the pile of stones, all that remained of her ancestral home, burned to the ground in one night—the night Sara and Lydia had fled. Her pulse quickened. The fire had destroyed all physical evidence of that night’s violence, but not the rush of panic Sara felt every time she passed these ruins.
Philippe squeezed her tightly. She shut her eyes and melted into his chest. His words were tender, but resolute. “Don’t you see, Sara? This is why we need to leave France and live our life in California.” He was right. Her old life at Saint Martin was gone forever.
And everything was settled. They would finally join their lives and their two vineyards: Eagle’s Run in Napa and Saint Martin in Vouvray.
“But we’ll still visit, yes?” Sara didn’t know how Philippe truly felt about Saint Martin.
“As often as we’re able. Your mother and Jacques, God willing, will run the vineyard until Luc is eighteen. What happened here will always be part of us, Sara, but we need to leave it behind.”
Sara pressed her hands to his cold cheeks, her heart filling with the same determination she read on his face. “Yes,” she agreed.
Philippe pulled his gloves back on. “Have you mustered the courage to tell your mother yet?” he nudged. Sara smiled, lured in part by the thought of the warm hearth. He began to pull her back through the labyrinth of vines toward the small watchhouse where her family waited. While she hurried over the chalky pebbles, struggling to match his stride, her coat snagged on some of the smaller vine branches, disrupting its smooth woolen surface.
Sara paid no mind. She had secured her heart’s two desires: to reclaim her beloved Saint Martin, and to spend the rest of her days with Philippe Lemieux. Sara now shared Philippe’s ambition: to make Eagle’s Run the largest-producing and most profitable vineyard in Napa by 1900. In truth, Saint Martin’s survival hinged on Eagle’s Run’s success. Sara stood to gain everything by marrying him, but she couldn’t stop herself from wondering: what might this union with Philippe cost her?
Chapter 2
DECEMBER 1897, SAN FRANCISCO
Linnette Cross was surely a disappointment to her ancestors. Generations of her kinfolk had worked in respectable professions as cobblers, bakers and laundresses. Then there was Linnette, the harlot. Fortunately, she had no family left to judge her.
Since she could remember, men had always found her attractive, and she liked their attention. When Jimmy Mather had offered her a dollar to stroke her sweets, she was a fourteen-year-old orphan, as thin as Job’s turkey. That money had bought bread for two weeks.
Satisfying men’s needs afforded Linnette the freedom and money that most women only dreamed of. She was providing a service, like nurses do for their patients, she told herself.
Still, it had its risks. Linnette had managed to not fall in love with any man she’d charmed—until Philippe Lemieux. She’d first approached him over two years ago on the sidewalk in front of the Clinton Street House—the Napa City brothel where she worked. His fair, lean looks and confident stride sparked her interest. She’d guessed that a man like Philippe would never set foot inside a whorehouse, but she also knew how appealing her golden hair, plump breasts and willingness could be to an unmarried, red-blooded male. Within a week, he’d installed her permanently in the Palace Hotel. She owed him a debt of gratitude for plucking her out of the parlor-house. Philippe and Linnette had reached a satisfying business arrangement: she gave pleasure to Philippe alone, and he, in turn, gave her food, clothing and a home at one of the nicest hotels in downtown Napa.
Linnette guessed—when he came to her that April morning earlier this year and told her he’d met someone—that Philippe never suspected how fond she was of him. She’d hidden it well, sassing him about their time together, enjoying a few laughs and one last roll in the hay. When he left, however, she pressed her cheek to the cool, knotty pine floor and cried herself to sleep. How could one of Napa’s most admired and successful vineyard owners slip from her grasp?
Then along came Pippa, the baby Linnette had birthed in the bedroom of her San Francisco apartment three mornings ago. Philippa Mary was her daughter’s given name. Mary was after Linnette’s mother, who died shortly after giving birth to Linnette. Philippa, Linnette thought, was too grand for a five-pound peanut of a baby, so Pippa would do for now. Linnette figured she must have been two months gone with Pippa when Philippe had broken things off. When she discovered her condition, she thought of using a syringe, or hiring the local woman to fix her up, but she couldn’t bear the thought of killing Philippe’s flesh and blood.
Instead, she caught the ferry from Vallejo to the city, where a friend—from Linnette’s days in the Tenderloin’s finest parlor—offered her a room. Since Linnette couldn’t very well carry on her day job, she agreed to help with her friend’s sewing business: hemming clothes and darning socks. Linnette was relieved to escape Napa, to slip undetected through San Francisco’s loud and lively streets, to never again see or hear of Philippe and his new girl.
Pippa released a satisfied yawn and drifted off to sleep in her mother’s arms. Her pink, wrinkled face reminded Linnette of a little old man, and her hair of a dandelion’s soft down. Only a mother could overlook the defect that marred the newborn’s face. To her, Pippa’s lip simply looked as if God had grown distracted, like a seamstress when her thread snags—she tugs the fabric too hard, causing a tiny rift. The cleft lip had caused others to cringe or brand the baby “the Devil’s child,” but Linnette knew different. This child needed her more than anyone ever had—to nurture her, to teach her, but most importantly, to protect her. Love swelled and filled Linnette’s dormant heart. If she couldn’t have Philippe, his daughter was the next best thing.
Only one thing troubled Linnette: when should she tell him?
Chapter 3
DECEMBER 1897, TOURS, FRANCE
Sara teetered on the edge of the bed, staring at the brass hook on the door. Scarlet floral paper decorated the walls of their hotel room, which was lit by two hand-painted oriental lamps perched atop the bedside tables. She’d released the crimson velvet drapes from their tassels to block all but a sliver of light from the avenue below. The room was small but luxurious. It must have cost Philippe a week’s earnings for the night.
He had chosen the hotel in Tours himself. There was no privacy at Saint Martin with her family there. Sara had been relieved when Philippe insisted they spend their wedding night in a new and fashionable hotel. While she waited for him to return from the washroom, she wondered what on earth she was supposed to do.
Heat rushed to her cheeks. Of course she understood the workings of it all, but she didn’t know how she was supposed to act, or dare undress in his presence. A moment ago, she had changed into the ivory peignoir her mother had given her. Sara recalled her mother’s surprisingly sensible reaction when she’d announced her betrothal to Philippe. She’d expected Maman to object to her marriage to a Lemieux, but Maman wished them only joy, clapping her hands together and proclaiming, “Luc needs a good hom
e, and who better to raise him than his aunt and uncle?”
Sara studied her reflection in the looking glass that hung on the far wall. She had brushed her chestnut-colored hair until it shone, and thick, dark lashes framed her vivid green eyes. The neckline of her gown was trimmed with intricate Amboise lace and tied with an ivory silk ribbon. The cotton draped perfectly from shoulders to ankles, hiding the half-moon scar on her chest but revealing just enough to make Sara shiver from the cold air on her bare skin. Sara had never worn anything so elegant in her life. She sighed, wishing Lydia were here to see it and give her some sisterly advice. Hopefully, Philippe would be too busy admiring her nightdress to notice her shaking hands.
The glass knob turned, and the door creaked open. Sitting on the bed, Sara plucked at the loose threads of the quilt. She drew a deep breath. As he entered the room, she appraised his neatly combed sandy hair, and the column of smooth, unblemished skin that his open shirt now revealed. The butterflies in her stomach danced again.
Warming her cold hands with his, Philippe steered Sara closer to the fire. She inhaled the enticing scent of shaving cream. “You are stunning,” he declared. To hide her embarrassment, Sara trained her eyes on the carpet, which was thick and luxurious. She concentrated on the gold arches along its border and the intricate red and pink floral design. Philippe’s thumb smoothed the crinkle above her nose, a playful gesture he often used to relax her. “What are you thinking about?”
Sara gulped. “How happy I am.”
“Liar,” he whispered as his fingers grazed her jawbone.
Sara cringed at her own ignorance. “You caught me. I was trying to figure out what to do,” she said, flushing. “Um, I mean, should I disrobe and slip under the covers?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” he asked with a mischievous glint in his eye.
Before Sara could say anything else, he’d already started to untie the ribbon on her gown, as if he were opening an exquisite gift. He slipped the white cotton off her shoulders and brushed his lips over the tender skin of her clavicle. “You’ve done this before,” she guessed. Sara didn’t like to think about Philippe with other women, but his confident, easygoing manner soothed her.
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