Philippe stared, astonished. He had underestimated her again.
Philippe was itching to return to Eagle’s Run. With several hours left on their journey, he looked forward to a nice long stretch and a steaming bath. While Luc happily played with Philippe’s leather wallet, Philippe watched Sara intently. She sat opposite him, looking out the window at the cows and sheep that dotted the blurred California landscape north of Los Angeles. She was content, and Philippe aimed to keep her that way.
“Sara, we should discuss the vineyard.”
“Yes?” Sara’s eyes widened with such allure that Philippe’s heart skipped a beat. Incapable of remembering anything, he just blinked at her. “What?” she asked, laughing.
Philippe’s throat thickened. “You . . .” He couldn’t find the words.
Sara bent forward and kissed him, teasing his lips with her velvety tongue. When she finally retreated, Philippe swallowed hard, battling for control over his emotions.
“Aurora sent a telegram. The Wine Makers’ Corporation is hosting a meeting in February. They’re going town to town, trying to convince growers to sell them their wine. They want to control eighty-five percent of the wine in California, so they can drive prices higher.”
“Would we still be able to sell directly to our buyers?”
“I don’t know.”
“We should listen to their proposal.”
Philippe squinted at the orange sun melting behind the western foothills. “Yes, I suppose we should.” He didn’t like the idea. Herd mentality was dangerous; he had watched many a sheep drown by blindly following others.
“The new cellar man is working out well,” he said cautiously. “I’m eager for you to meet him—a quiet, efficient sort of fellow.” Philippe had hired Mac right after Sara’s departure, but he hadn’t been able to bring himself to hire a foreman or winemaker in her stead. Those had been Sara’s jobs, and it would have been like admitting she was never coming back.
“You definitely needed one.”
“I was thinking,” Philippe ventured, “now that we’re a family, and the new vines will bear a record tonnage of fruit this season, we may need help . . . you know, managing the harvest.”
“Oh, so now you’re hiring someone to replace me?”
Philippe placed a reassuring hand on her knee. “Settle down, no one’s trying to replace you.”
“Some women love to cook and embroider cushions—I’m not one of them. I thought you understood that,” Sara replied.
He laughed. “Of course I do.”
“Growing grapes and making wine, that’s what I love to do.”
“Don’t underestimate yourself, Sara. You’ve done a fine job with Luc, and you had no experience with babies.”
“I’m a vintner first, a wife and mother second.”
“You’re all those things. You’re my Sara. No need to make grand proclamations.”
“I just think that you sometimes forget. I want to make my own wines,” she said feistily. “Don’t think that’s changed just because I married you.”
“Heaven forbid,” he said, resigned to a compromise. “So you’ll continue to oversee the grape growing and assist me with the winemaking—but I’m hiring more laborers to help with the vineyard work. Mac Cuddy claims he can secure high-quality Italian workers for cheap wages.”
Sara shrugged, but her mouth twitched into a smug smile. “Suit yourself.”
Chapter 6
FEBRUARY 1898, EAGLE’S RUN
Sara wandered between the vines, through the shin-high, bright-yellow mustard flowers just beginning to bloom. She inhaled the cool, crisp air into her lungs. After nearly a month in the hot belly of a ship and the cramped coach of a train, Sara was overjoyed to be back home in California.
Sara had been unsettled by their conversation on the train. Why would Philippe even think of hiring another winemaker? Did he really expect her to abandon her passion for winemaking to serve solely as wife and mother? Female vintners were rare, but not unheard of. If she didn’t fight for her place in the family business, she feared that the demands of married life might, over time, eclipse her own ambition.
She rambled down the southernmost slope of the vineyard to the last bare vine and turned her attention to the breathtaking view. The edge of Carneros, where Carneros Creek met the Napa River, felt like the edge of the world. In the distance, the saltwater marshes shimmered in the winter sun, and the rivulets twisted like a maze, winding their way to San Pablo Bay. She could see the shadow of Richmond’s skyline, and to her right, the smooth curves of Mount Tamalpais, the Sleeping Princess. From spring to autumn, the small southern wharves bustled with commerce. Scows laden with hay, oats, barley, apricots, prunes and other crops prepared to set sail for the port of San Francisco.
On this particular winter afternoon, all was quiet; the vines were sleeping. After nine months of hard labor, they had earned three months of slumber. Sara scooped a handful of the clay loam and squeezed it. The small clumps of dry soil did not crumble between her fingers. She loved their rough, rocky texture, so porous, so perfect for growing grapes.
Sara ran her hand along the delicate vine, over the bulge where it had been grafted and up to the eight-inch-long cane, cut back for the winter months but left long enough to prevent bacteria from reaching the vine. In five weeks’ time, the buds would break, starting the new growth season. Ninety days after, in the heat of summer, veraison would begin. The grapes would color, soften and develop their flavors and sugar. Ninety days later, the harvest would begin.
Now was the time to prepare. They would prune the vines and repair the owl boxes. After budbreak, when they counted the buds and estimated the crop, they would order new bottles and barrels. Sara felt a surge of hope, and a tinge of trepidation, in anticipation of a new, bountiful growing season.
The hurly-burly crowd of Napans clamored to be heard over one another. They hoisted their fists, pounded on benches and bickered with gusto—and the meeting hadn’t even started yet. The leaders of the California Wine Makers’ Corporation gathered onstage in the refurbished barn. Everyone was eager to hear what Henry Crocker, the president, along with Hotchkiss and Crabb, some of the most influential wine men in the state, had to say about the mess they were in.
Philippe and Sara took their seats near the back door just as the gavel pounded, calling the room to order. Fifty-three Napa Valley vintners had been invited to St. Helena so the corporation leaders could persuade the winemakers to turn over their wines to them. The corporation, in turn, would manage the supply and sale of California wines to the rest of the country.
With nineteen million gallons of good, sellable wine from the ’97 harvest, and another ten million gallons of older wines still in supply, California had produced enough wine to easily meet demand for two years. With the oversupply, prices had plummeted from an average of nineteen cents per gallon to ten this year—and they were still falling. The corporation argued that if it controlled eighty-five percent of the wine supply, it could bring the price back up to eighteen cents.
Philippe had his doubts. He and other vintners had started negotiating their own contracts because the corporation had failed in the past to strike a fair price with the shippers. However, given the increase in the rail freight tariff, which made it more costly to distribute Carneros wines to the East Coast himself, he’d promised his fellow Carneros winemakers that he’d attend the meeting and hear what Hotchkiss, Crocker and Crabb—and the other Napa vintners—had to say.
Sara stared ahead, silently stewing beside him. He had unwisely suggested she remain quiet. Sara was one of only three women at this meeting of men, already a target for criticism, and he didn’t want to invite unnecessary trouble.
Hotchkiss laid out his argument, insisting that the wine producers of California band together and sign the contract. “Give us a greater percentage of the wine, and we’ll be able to set a better price,” he promised the grumbling crowd.
His remarks sparked a whirlwi
nd of opposition. Philippe listened to his fellow Napans raise every fathomable objection. “I need the money now, not six months from now!” “If we sign, then we lose control of our own wine, and our livelihoods!” “You already control seventy percent of the crop—and prices have still fallen, even though you promised eighteen cents this year. Why would we give you more control?”
Some cheered in agreement with this. Others, presumably those siding with the corporation, jeered at the dissenters. The room plunged into chaos, and none of the corporation’s leaders could be heard. Philippe jumped to his feet and marched down the center aisle toward them, waving his hands in the air, shifting the attention again to the front of the room.
“Gentleman and ladies!” he boomed several times. Once the gavel pounded again, the room quieted. Philippe introduced himself to the crowd. “Let’s give Mr. Hotchkiss and Mr. Crabb the opportunity to respond. I, like most of you, engage in private trade with merchants around the country—”
“And you snapped up the church’s business for yerself, quick as a fox!” someone shouted. Philippe spied Sara’s face in the back of the room, pinched with anger as she scanned the crowd, looking for the culprit.
“That’s un-American!” a stout corporation sympathizer hollered from underneath his bushy moustache.
“Un-American? On the contrary, competition—with the best wines offered to the public, or the church, at the best prices—is a very American virtue,” Philippe shouted over the naysayers. He didn’t believe he had a monopoly; other small vineyards had been providing sacramental wine for years. But Eagle’s Run had received the largest share of the church’s business last year, and that vexed his neighbors.
“Now, I’m sure the corporation has no intention of restricting all of our private trade. Their argument is that they need eighty-five percent control over the California wine supply to boost wine prices. Let’s allow them to answer. Gentlemen?”
Crabb acknowledged Philippe, and immediately assured the vintners that they would receive a three-cent advance on the wine provided to the corporation, and the rest once the wines were sold. That calmed some of them. He said that if the vintners present handed over the wine in their possession, then the corporation could guarantee a minimum price of seventeen cents per gallon, by slowing the supply of wine to the market. Lastly, the winegrowers were free to participate in some private trade as long as it was not in the state of California, or in competition with the corporation.
Half of the vintners signed on the spot. The other half, including Philippe, refused. They wanted time to make the calculations and consider the risk. Philippe wanted to consult Sara.
He handed her into their wagon and slid in beside her. She clasped her hands and stayed as silent as the grave. Not a promising sign, he wagered. “So, what did you think?”
Sara flashed him a sharp look. “Oh, was I to think?” she clucked. “I’m never quite sure when it’s expected of me.” Philippe had anticipated the cold shoulder. He’d insisted she remain quiet during the meeting to protect her from ridicule, but Sara was a more capable vintner than most of the men there.
“I’d be most obliged if you would share your opinion of the corporation’s proposal,” Philippe offered in his most conciliatory tone.
“Fine. From what I understand, the ’93 crop was also sizable, but was followed by a medium-sized crop and two smaller ones. If we assume that because the ’97 crop was large, the ’98, ’99 and 1900 crops will be medium to small-sized, then we should store the wine to meet demand in the upcoming years, when the crops fall short. We can do this ourselves, or hand some of the wine over to the corporation.”
“Yes, we should hold some back. If we hand it off directly to the merchants, they won’t store it. They’ll force unaged wines on the market, which could damage the reputation of California wines,” Philippe agreed.
“But I don’t trust the corporation. How can they promise seventeen cents? They haven’t been able to deliver fair prices in the past,” Sara continued.
“It’s too bad we won’t know the archdiocese’s decision until after the harvest. If I knew we had a contract with them for this year, I wouldn’t feel the pressure to sell to the corporation.”
“However, if we sign and sell them some of our wine, we could temporarily tie the tongues of the gentlemen who are envious of our business with the church,” Sara said.
“You’re probably right about that. Did you see who yelled out?”
“Didn’t you? Boone Sumter. He produces a measly twenty-five thousand gallons a year and he’s throwing his weight around as if he were Niebaum himself.”
“He’s just madder than a hornet that I beat him to it, just like I beat him to Eagle’s Run. Apparently, he had his eye on the land before I bought it.”
Sara squinted with skepticism. “Do you really think he would have replanted the largest vineyard in Carneros—over two hundred acres—like you did? He’s far too lazy.”
Philippe laughed. “You’ve got a scorpion’s bite, my dear. Maybe I should let you handle ol’ Sumter—”
“What are you two spouting off about?” A man’s voice bellowed behind them. Philippe spun around to see Boone Sumter strutting toward their wagon.
“We were just discussing your outburst in the meeting, nothing more,” Philippe said calmly.
Sumter planted his legs wide, flipped open his pocketknife and used the tip to clean his fingernails. “You’re a swindler, stealing the church’s business before the rest of us had a chance.”
Sara tried to interject. “Don’t,” Philippe warned. For some reason, she listened to him. He stepped down from the wagon. Sumter stood shorter but wider than Philippe, with considerably more heft, so Philippe raised his palms and reminded him politely, “I never stopped anyone from negotiating with the church.”
Sumter looked from left to right. Philippe’s friends, Lamont and Gautier, walked over to join them. Sumter waved the blade in the air. “And now yer puttin’ on airs, refusing to sign over yer wine to the corporation? That’s not very neighborly, is it?” His lip curled. “Yer pissin’ against the wind, Lemieux.”
Seeing his Carneros friends filled Philippe with renewed confidence in his decision to hold off on signing. “I’ll take my chances,” he retorted.
Sumter spit tobacco juice at Philippe’s feet and walked away. Lamont, who’d moved quickly, ready to defend his friend if needed, now rested a hand on Philippe’s shoulder. “Word is he lost half his vines to phylloxera. He’s like a caged grizzly. I’d sleep with one eye open,” Lamont said. Philippe shook hands with his friends, thanking them.
“Just returning the favor,” Gautier tipped his hat. Philippe had brokered contracts for Lamont, Gautier and other Carneros wine men with merchants throughout the Midwest and the East Coast. Their loyalty ran deep, and in this tumultuous time of price wars and phylloxera, they had to band together.
Chapter 7
MARCH 1898, SAN FRANCISCO
Linnette wrapped a woolen shawl around her shoulders and another around her head, and swaddled Pippa in a freshly laundered quilt from the mending basket for their journey down Lombard Street.
She’d paid five dollars for a physician to perform a cursory examination of her daughter’s ears, nose and throat. He’d scribbled two remedies on his prescription paper and insisted she visit the local drugstore.
The doctor had warned that infants with a cleft lip like Pippa’s were susceptible to ear infections. The best remedy was a drop of tea tree oil in each ear, twice a day. Pressing a warm hessian bag of salt against her ear before she slept would help soothe her, he promised. Linnette hoped so. For the last two nights, Pippa had whimpered inconsolably until Linnette nestled her into the softness of her chest, so the two could sleep, bolstered by feather pillows, for five hours straight.
On this blustery winter’s day, as Linnette walked from the corner of Scott and Lombard toward Pacific, she was short on sleep, sanity and money. She had fallen behind in the mending, and T
ildy was pressuring her to cough up her share of the rent. Linnette knew how to earn money quickly, but it meant breaking a promise she’d made to herself only three months ago, when Pippa was born.
In any decent Tenderloin parlor-house, she could entertain two suitors in the course of an hour and earn twenty dollars. If Tildy would care for Pippa one evening a week, a girl with Linnette’s pretty face and ripe bosom could perform at the Midway Plaisance, entertaining a visitor or two between acts in the thick-curtained booths on the mezzanine floor.
But now that she had Pippa, the idea of whoring herself made her stomach churn. Her heart was true to Philippe and she couldn’t bear the thought of degrading herself with other men.
At the drugstore, the oil was far more expensive than she’d expected, and the apothecary less welcoming. When Pippa’s covering slipped, revealing her cleft, the man pinched his eyebrows together. “What in tarnation? What is that?” Linnette drew Pippa closer and covered her face. The apothecary pushed Linnette’s items toward the edge of the counter. Coins clattered as he dropped her change. “Kindly take your medicine, miss, and don’t return.”
Heaviness seeped into Linnette’s chest; her limbs lost their vigor. She glared at the apothecary for a few moments, wanting him to feel shame for treating her child like a leper. He broke away to restock his shelves.
Back on the street, the wind moaned and the dirt swirled, pelting Linnette’s face. She ducked her head, still holding Pippa tightly, anxious to rush her home to a warm fire.
The doctor had said there was a surgery that could heal Pippa, but it cost over two hundred dollars. In her heart, she knew Pippa would be shunned if she didn’t have the operation. But right now, Linnette was more worried about affording their rent, food and medicine. There were only two ways Linnette could make more money: beg Philippe for it, or earn it.
However, Linnette was too afraid of what Philippe would say to ask. He might reject them altogether, now that he had a new woman. Her heart sank with the realization that her best option for quick, uncomplicated money was the parlor-house.
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