The California Wife

by Kristen Harnisch

  He really is a beast, Linnette thought, trying to hide her distaste by humming her favorite ditty, “San Francisco Sadie,” while she unfastened his red silk waistcoat. She needed to finish this quickly so she could return to Pippa. Suddenly, he swayed from side to side, and then his eyes rolled. He fell back onto the bed with a light thump and began to snore.

  Linnette wasted no time. She peeled off every last stitch of his clothing and covered him with the quilt. She tangled the bedsheets on the other side of him and used the heel of her hand to make a head-sized dent in the adjacent pillow. She winced as she plucked three strands of hair from her head and arranged them on the white pillowcase, along with the silk rosette from her hair—a souvenir for the dreadful dolt.

  Linnette dressed and sifted through his belongings. She pulled fifty dollars from his pocket, dropped twenty in the till downstairs for Madame Beaumont and sauntered out the front door.

  Chapter 10

  SEPTEMBER 1898, EAGLE’S RUN

  Philippe and Mac were loading the second batch of grapes into the crusher when Monsignor O’Brien arrived, wearing his thirty-three-button cassock and black cappello and carrying a leather satchel and walking stick. He looked cheerful, with lively brown eyes, a fleshy pockmarked nose and a ruddy complexion. Standing in the doorway of the winery, he doffed his hat, dropped his bag and rubbed his palms together. “This looks like great fun!”

  Philippe shook the cleric’s meaty hand. “Welcome to Eagle’s Run, monsignor.” Philippe exhaled the breath he’d been holding for weeks, anticipating the arrival of the priest. His contract with the archdiocese hinged on satisfying O’Brien that the sacramental wine was produced to the standards of canon law. His approval was the only judgment that mattered.

  “Will the curé be joining us today?” Philippe was surprised by his absence, for Father Price, their new Napa priest, had never been one to pass up the opportunity to lick the boots of his superiors.

  “He intended to come. However, when I made it clear that I would be laboring in the vineyard, up to my elbows in grape sludge, he demurred. Apparently he has to work up Sunday’s sermon.” O’Brien added slyly, “One wouldn’t want to disappoint.”

  Philippe stifled a laugh. They would get along just fine.

  Getting down to business, Philippe regarded the monsignor’s cassock. “If you’re serious about helping, Père, you’d best change into some work clothes.”

  O’Brien clapped his hands together excitedly. “Show me the way, kind sir.”

  After he had changed and washed his hands at the pump, Philippe led him back to the winery. “Have you inspected many wineries?”

  O’Brien smiled wryly and replied, “I’ve inspected many wines, but this is my first assignment for the archbishop. I was a parish priest in Monterey for the last two years.”

  This could work to Philippe’s advantage. He would tell O’Brien what he needed to know. Beyond that, the priest probably wouldn’t know enough to ask.

  Philippe brought O’Brien to the edge of the third-floor door and pointed to the horses and lift below. “This is what we call gravity-flow. The grapes are lifted up here and poured into this crusher, which moves the grapes through a set of corrugated rollers, breaking the skins but keeping the seeds intact. Then they move through this de-stemming machine.” Philippe pointed to the chutes in the floor. “The pulp flows down to the next level into the fermenting tanks. This way, we don’t need to use pumps, like they do in the single-level wineries.”

  “Brilliant,” O’Brien replied, peering down a chute to the tank below.

  Philippe led him down to the second level. He pointed to a vat of crushed grapes sitting between the fermenting tanks. “Cabernet grapes with the skins, to give them a robust red color. They’ve started fermenting. Press down on the cap with your hand.”

  O’Brien lit up like a child with a new toy, and placed his hand gingerly on the skins resting at the top. Philippe demonstrated, pushing his hand down and releasing it. O’Brien followed suit and laughed. “Bouncy! Like sponge cake, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, I suppose it is.” Philippe continued, “About six inches of skins are forced to the top by the carbon dioxide that’s released when the grapes are fermenting. We punch down the cap four or five times a day so all the flavors, color and tannins are released out of the skins and into the juice. Cabernet grapes have the thickest skins, but they produce the most vivid reds.”

  O’Brien’s face lit with understanding. “Just like our Savior’s blood,” he whispered with reverence.

  “Indeed.” Philippe was a believer, though he still harbored doubts.

  “And no yeast is added?”

  “No, the wild yeast that grows on the grape skins ferments the grapes naturally.”

  “Fascinating. Just like the Old Testament. And what happens to all the stems?”

  “We use them as fertilizer for the vines.” Philippe gestured out the window to a patch of purple-stained dirt adjacent to the vine rows. “That’s a compost of skins and stems from the red grapes.”

  “Excellent use for them.” The priest’s enthusiasm for learning was infectious. “So how many bottles will this harvest yield?”

  “Depends,” Philippe said. He didn’t want to offer too high a number, for he knew the price would drop accordingly. “One ton of grapes usually yields about seven hundred bottles. Nearly three pounds of grapes are pressed to make each bottle.”

  “And how many tons per acre?”

  “About five, for a total of a thousand tons this year, we hope.” Philippe looked at him quizzically. “Do you want a journal to write this down?”

  O’Brien tapped his temple with his forefinger. “I have the memory of an elephant.”

  Last, Philippe showed him the cellar, filled with barrels of sacramental and non-sacramental red wines. A burst of cool air and the heavy aroma of oak greeted them.

  “My goodness, I didn’t realize the size of your operation.”

  “And, with any luck, we’ll continue to grow. See these barrels?” Philippe pointed at the pyramid against the cellar’s northern wall. “All American oak, from various forests, all reused four or five times, but only for the sacramental reds.”

  “So, upstairs the juice is drawn off the pulp and flows down here, where it’s stored in these barrels?” O’Brien was a quick study.

  “Exactly, but the work doesn’t end there. Every four months, we drain off the wine from the sediment and move it to a new, clean barrel. Then we top it off with more wine, to make up for the angels’ share.”

  “Angels’ share?”

  “The barrel loses some wine to evaporation, and that’s what we call it.”

  “How charming. I’ll take care to remember that one.” O’Brien looked up to the heavens and smiled.

  Although Rose, their housekeeper and cook, had set the dining room table for supper, O’Brien asked to eat with the vineyard workers outdoors. “Lately I find myself dining with the archbishop in very formal surroundings. I enjoy a hard day of work ending with a glorious sunset,” he said.

  Sara and Rose threw a tablecloth over the picnic table out back, and set out the jugs of wine and plates of ham, cheddar, bread and piccalilli.

  Sara poured two glasses of wine, a zinfandel and a chardonnay, for their guest.

  “Now tell me, Mrs. Lemieux, what’s the best way to taste wine? Aren’t I supposed to swirl it?”

  Sara laughed and obliged him. “Yes, you swirl it, sniff it and sip it, but don’t swallow. You want to breathe a little air into your mouth, slurp it a bit, to feel its texture. Once you swallow it, wait for the finishing taste.”

  “Ah,” O’Brien closed his eyes, relishing the flavor. Everyone at the table watched, hoping for his approval.

  “What do you taste? Berries?” Sara guessed.

  “Yes. Blackberry, maybe even a bit of cinnamon?” The priest smacked his lips.

  “Could be. The cinnamon taste comes from the inside of the barrel. The staves are toasted t
o give it that flavor.”

  “Really?” O’Brien released a satisfied sigh. “Delicious.”

  Halfway through the meal, their guest dropped his cutlery with a loud clank, startling everyone. He exclaimed, “I haven’t tasted a piccalilli that good since my Aunt Maeve’s back in Brooklyn. Where did you find this?”

  “I made it,” Sara replied proudly. “It’s the only thing I make, besides wine. It was my mother’s recipe.”

  “Saints preserve us! I’ve not tasted its rival.”

  Sara puffed with pride. “Then you must take some jars back with you.”

  O’Brien glowed with appreciation. “I’d be most obliged to you, ma’am.”

  Monsignor O’Brien spent the rest of his week in the field picking grapes and in the winery punching down the fermenting grape caps with a wooden paddle. Whenever Philippe encountered him, he was wholly engaged in the task at hand and seemed without a care in the world. Rather than slowing down the harvest, his presence revitalized the workers. He prayed with them, ate with them and worked alongside them. Each man gathered in an average of two tons per day, working ten hours a day, from the evening into the early morning hours, to pick the grapes at their coldest. Philippe rather wished O’Brien would stay on as their mascot.

  Philippe was surprised when the priest, on the last day of his visit, divulged his other reason for coming. He sat at the kitchen table and slid a letter over to Philippe. Ten Napa vintners had scrawled their names at the bottom.

  “We received this several months ago. They’re all parishioners, and they’re protesting your position as the major supplier of wine to the archdiocese. They say it’s risky and unfair for us to purchase the bulk of our wine from one winery.” O’Brien opened his palms. “They do have a point.”

  Philippe recoiled. “How is it risky? Eagle’s Run has reconstituted rootstock, virtually immune to the threat of the phylloxera. Can these growers say that?” Philippe tapped his finger on the list of signatures.

  “Probably not. I’m going to visit each of them over the next two months before I make a recommendation to the archbishop. Here’s the rub. Over the past year, you’ve served us well. You do a credible job, and I will recommend that we keep you as our largest supplier. However, as an archdiocese committed to supporting the plight of the laborers, we need to spread our business around. We can’t play favorites.” O’Brien took a deep breath and blurted, “We’re cutting back your contract by fourteen thousand gallons a year, and we’re asking for a price reduction of two cents per gallon.”

  “But that’s half of what we provide you now, and we’re already at twelve cents!”

  “These winemakers are offering ten.”

  Philippe’s revenue would drop by nearly two thousand dollars until he found replacement buyers. He knew delivering the wine locally was cheaper, but keeping the sacramental wine business was critical in case a prohibition of alcohol was passed.

  “Agreed,” he said, before deciding to push him further. “Monsignor?”

  “Yes?”

  “As the archdiocese expands, will you consider Eagle’s Run first if you need to increase your supply of wine?”

  O’Brien hesitated for a moment.

  “Perhaps on your next visit, you should try your hand at making your own wine, and take a few cases home with you,” Philippe said, trying to tempt him.

  O’Brien smiled broadly. “Agreed.”

  Philippe blotted his damp forehead. Every wine man for himself, he thought bitterly. Because he hadn’t sold the bulk of his wine to the Wine Makers’ Corporation, his fellow Napa winemakers had retaliated against him. Boone Sumter, along with a handful of other vintners who were too lazy to go out and make merchant contacts of their own, was more than eager to steal Philippe’s ideas.

  Chapter 11

  JANUARY 1899

  Aurora burst into the kitchen, breathless, waving a thick book in the air. “My dears, you must write at once.”

  Sara and Philippe stared at her as if she’d lost her mind. “What is it?”

  “I borrowed it from Berkeley. Hot off the press. The instructions on how to apply to exhibit in Paris!”

  “You want us to showcase Eagle’s Run wines at the World’s Fair in Paris? Against French wines?” Philippe asked.

  “Yes!” She plunked the book down on the table, and flipped the pages. “Group Seven, Class Sixty, right here on page sixty-one: ‘Wines and Brandies.’ We’ll send your application and bottles of your best wines, along with my recommendation.”

  Aurora looked from Sara to Philippe, her eyebrows arched in anticipation. Sara was surprised at Philippe’s reluctance. She thought it was a grand idea. Philippe could check on Saint Martin if he went to Paris, and if Sara wasn’t needed here, perhaps she could even go with him.

  Philippe lowered himself into a chair. “Do you honestly think, Aurora, that we can compete against French wines in an internationally judged competition? Do you think we can win?” Philippe had a point. If they entered their wines in the World’s Fair, and came back without so much as an honorable mention, they would suffer universal humiliation.

  Aurora hands flew to her hips. “Would I be standing in your kitchen waving this book around like a madwoman if I didn’t?”

  “If they accept us into the competition, merchants across the globe will hear about Eagle’s Run wines. But if we win,” Sara added with a smile, “then they’ll actually buy them.”

  The threesome took the next month to complete the commissioner’s application and taste all the vintages, finally selecting the ’97 cabernet and chardonnay. They packed up three bottles of each, along with recommendations from Aurora Thierry, world-renowned expert in grape varietals and professor of husbandry at the prestigious Ladies’ Seminary, and from Monsignor O’Brien of the Archdiocese of San Francisco, who confirmed the archdiocese’s business arrangement with Eagle’s Run and vouched for Philippe’s character. On top of the application and recommendations, they placed the four blue ribbons Eagle’s Run had been awarded in the last two county fairs. With an Our Father and three Hail Marys, they mailed it to the commissioner’s Chicago office and waited on pins and needles.

  Chapter 12

  MAY 1899

  Luc raced through the tunnel of towering eucalyptus trees that lined the roadside. It was nearly suppertime, and after a grueling day of weeding, Sara wanted nothing more than to sit on the grass and enjoy the soothing, menthol scent of the eucalyptus oil floating through the air. Luc finally slowed and stayed close by, peeling the long strips of gray bark from the tree trunks and humming softly.

  When they returned to the house, Sara pecked Philippe on the cheek and excused herself from supper. Her back felt as though someone had clubbed her from behind, her head throbbed and she couldn’t stay awake a moment longer.

  Lacking the strength to even change into her nightgown, Sara drifted off to sleep. In her dream, she was holding a child—a girl—with dark hair and lashes, perhaps a year old. She was rocking her to sleep in the black lacquered chair Philippe had given her. She was singing Brahms’s lullaby—Bright angels beside my darling abide—when a man wearing a priest’s robes appeared and ripped the child from Sara’s arms.

  Sara awoke with a start, heart thudding. Her shirt was soaked with perspiration, and the hair framing her face was matted with moisture. She sat up, wondering if she were still asleep. Philippe’s reassuring hand squeezed her shoulder, bringing her back.

  “Sara?” he touched her forehead. “Sara, you’re feverish.”

  “No, it was just a dream.”

  “A nightmare. You screamed just now. I’m surprised Luc didn’t wake up.”

  Sara remembered the girl, the feeling of serenity, and then the evil man with black robes and no face. An iron weight of sorrow pressed upon her chest.

  “Should I fetch the doctor?”

  The moonlight shining through the bedroom window cast a glow on the bedside table. Sara picked up Philippe’s pocket watch, straining to see the ti
me. Two o’clock.

  “No, that’s silly. Once I change, I’ll be fine.”

  “I’ll fetch him in the morning.”

  Sara peeled off her damp clothes, slipped on a cotton nightdress and ducked out of the room. She opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch. She could barely see the front garden, but could easily view the glowing moon and stars, and wondered if Lydia and Papa could see her gazing up at them in the heavens.

  Sara sat on the top step of the porch stairs and hugged her knees to her chest. The night air chilled her skin, and she liked the quiet, with only the chirping of the crickets to keep her company. Sitting still, without the daily demands of Luc and the vineyard to distract her, she realized she felt different.

  Her fatigue consumed her, but it wasn’t harvest time. She felt twinges of pain in her breasts, and instead of her monthly curse, she’d only spotted blood for a few days. Her corset made her nauseous, so she only wore it to church and social outings. Sara’s mind whirled like a prize wheel at a carnival, and then finally clicked into place.

  Might she be pregnant?

  If she were, Sara didn’t want Philippe to know yet. She loved children, but after what she’d witnessed Lydia and so many others suffer, she had trouble forgetting the screams, the blood and the mortal danger of childbed. Nothing frightened her more. She’d even considered asking Philippe to wear something to prevent pregnancy. However, she hadn’t done it, knowing it would put her soul in jeopardy and that Philippe would never agree to it.

  No, she wouldn’t tell him until she was ready.

  The next morning, Sara wouldn’t hear of Philippe fetching the doctor. Instead, she suggested that he drop her off at the doctor’s office on his way to the general store. He reluctantly agreed.