“Peach and mulberry-leaf tea, with a teaspoon of honey to make you even sweeter.” Aurora smiled, but Pippa sniffed it twice and then turned up her nose. “The feistiness is a good sign,” Aurora whispered to Sara. “The tea will reduce the inflammation in her lungs and relax her chest, so she can breathe easier.”
“Come now, Pippa,” Sara begged. “You must drink.”
“Let me try,” Aurora interjected. “The inside of your chest is black with soot, but this tea will wash it away and make it shine. Don’t you want your insides to be sparkling?”
Pippa squinted, but she took the spoonful offered by Aurora. Two cups later, Pippa drifted back to sleep. Aurora rubbed her leg soothingly. “I’ll stay with her and clean her up—you go to Philippe,” she insisted.
Sara was eager to return to him. She grabbed the copper stock-pot from the kitchen and burst out the front door. She gagged on the air, heavy with smoke and flyaway particles of ash. How stupid! She hadn’t thought to cover her face. Sara grabbed the kerchief off her head, wet it under the pump, and tied it to cover her nose and mouth. She then filled the pot to the brim and scrambled up the hill as fast as she could.
When she crested the hill, Sara was unprepared for the sight before her. More men and women had joined the fight, forming a bucket brigade from the creek to the fire’s border, which was now creeping westward. In its path was a grove of tall eucalyptus trees only fifty yards away. God save us, Sara thought. The eucalyptus oil was so flammable that if the fire came any closer to the trees, their crowns would burst into rings of fire.
Over the next hour, the roar and crackle of the winery fire quieted to a hiss, and curling gray smoke replaced the orange flames that had illuminated its now melted windows. Sara, Philippe and their neighbors continued to beat back the vineyard fire while it snapped at their feet. She was stunned by its sheer power, the way the flames climbed trees and crawled over vines and rocks. Sara continued to throw water over dry gunnysacks, passing them out to her neighbors. Adrenaline coursed through her veins, and the scorching heat stung her eyes.
Hours later, Sara’s spirits flagged as she took in the scene of destruction before her. The damage to the winery was irreparable. They had used nearly a hundred thousand gallons of premium wine to drench and extinguish the fire inside. The rest of the wine in the cellar was tainted by smoke—unsellable. An entire year’s work lost. The nine-year-old cabernet vines that were now burning had been at the peak of their production, yielding over six tons per acre this year. Sara’s hands hung uselessly at her sides. These vines that had produced gold-medal and sacramental wine—the cornerstones of their business—were turning to ash before her eyes.
The instant Sara turned away, she heard the pit-a-pat of a steady rain. The crowd murmured in astonishment, and Sara lifted her face to the sky, overjoyed to feel the refreshing drops on her soot-streaked skin. She heaved with relief: the downpour would help snuff out the rest of the fire.
A few women lifted their voices in a chorus of “Blessed Assurance.” Slowly the anthem gained volume and strength, until the impromptu choir sounded as powerful as a host of angels. Over a hundred men and women encircled the pyre, swatting it with fervor for two more hours, watching it diminish before their eyes. Their voices rang out in thanksgiving—all but one.
Sara found Philippe kneeling on the ground with his soot-darkened hands pressed to his thighs. He was coughing so hard he could barely draw breath. How badly was he hurt? When she threw her arm around him, he pulled her tight, squeezing her so hard, she felt ashamed that she’d ever doubted his devotion. “Sara, Sara,” he gasped, his chest convulsing.
Yellow light from the morning sun ascended like a halo in the eastern sky. The fire had died, but to be safe, every man selected one section of the charred, blackened acreage to canvass for embers. They stomped their boot heels into the smoldering remains to ensure the fire was completely extinguished. After checking the last acre, Sara and Philippe shook the hand of each man and woman who had come to their aid. Words, at this moment, failed them.
Sara assumed that Aurora had fallen asleep with Pippa, but was anxious to return and check on her. Too tired to think, she turned toward the house. Philippe caught her hand. “Are you hurt?”
Sara shook her head, blinking back tears.
“The children?”
Sara glanced at the tree where they’d found Pippa. Philippe’s face crumbled. “Sara?”
“Luc is fine. He’s with Rose. Pippa . . .” Sara’s fatigue made it hard to form the words. “Pippa was out here. Sumter found her unconscious, up near the tree. She inhaled a lot of smoke. She’s wheezing. Aurora is with her.”
Philippe squeezed his eyes shut. “What the devil was she doing out here?”
“I don’t know. Sleepwalking? Did you bolt the door last night?”
“I—I don’t know.” Philippe erupted in a coughing jag.
Sara laid a hand on his chest, still hot and dark with ash. “It doesn’t matter. Lord willing, she’ll recover. What about you?” Spying the blistered skin on Philippe’s left hand, she reached for his arm and gingerly examined the wounds. The welts were red, and the skin had melted off in parts. “Philippe!”
He flinched. “Aurora will have something for it.” He draped his wounded arm over Sara’s shoulders as she helped him back to the house. When he glanced back at the scorched earth and mangled shell of a winery, his face twisted with anguish. Sara pressed her palm to Philippe’s chest, steadying him. What on earth would they do now?
Aurora wouldn’t allow Philippe through the door. “No sir, you are not coming in here wearing all that grime. Pippa’s lungs are very fragile right now.”
“Is she going to recover?” he asked, panicking.
Aurora moved closer, whispering, “Too soon to tell, but she’s breathing easier now.”
Philippe exhaled with relief. He was blocking the doorway, so Sara peered around his shoulder, asking, “Aurora, what should I put on that?” Aurora followed Sara’s eyes to the blisters on his hand. “Good Lord! Sara, you wash off and sit with Pippa. I’ll dress his wound.”
Even with Aurora’s salve and bandage, Philippe’s hand still hurt like hell. He slept in fits, coughing up dark phlegm, rolling from side to side, too dazed and pained to find comfort. Had he left the door unlocked? Why had Pippa left the house? Could she have started the fire somehow? Philippe’s mind tossed in turmoil.
He walked downstairs, carefully sidestepping each of the floorboards he knew would creak. Aurora slept sitting up in the rocking chair, while Sara snored softly next to Pippa. His wife’s long dark lashes could not cover the deep purple smudges of weariness under her eyes. Philippe stroked her hair, still braided down the back, but disheveled from a long night of work and worry.
Sara’s hand encircled Pippa’s delicate wrist. The girl’s head was elevated on two pillows, and her breathing was shallow. Here, in deep slumber, when she wasn’t contorting her lips, working so hard to form words with a mouth that betrayed her, her face was serene.
Philippe had never been one for deep prayer, but he muttered a Hail Mary before quietly slipping out of the house. He walked into the vineyard and kicked the black earth. The smell of burnt leaves and wet cinder overwhelmed him. As he picked up a gnarled vine, it disintegrated in his hand, falling like snow to the ground.
He’d worked tirelessly to make Eagle’s Run the most productive and profitable vineyard in Napa, and he’d come within a hair’s breadth of succeeding. He’d been too proud, too certain his luck would continue. In one night, all his hopes had been dashed, and now his child lay fighting for her life. How had this happened? There was no open flame, no lightning strike. Losing the entire vintage and ten acres of vines was torture enough, but watching Pippa fight for the shallowest breath had gutted him.
Philippe walked toward his once beautiful winery. The fire had burned the wood interior of the first floor, though most of its stone exterior was still intact. Flames had consumed the entire second flo
or, causing it to collapse, pulling the third floor and all its equipment down with it. Thousands of dollars of machinery, redwood tanks and oak barrels were destroyed. The unbottled wine in the cellar would be undrinkable. The empty bottles were now pools of glass melted into the floorboards.
Philippe stared at the shattered fermenting tanks. The entire 1900 vintage—chardonnay, cabernet and zinfandel—had been wiped out. To make matters worse, wine prices had just reached twenty cents per gallon, and he’d just renegotiated his contract with the archdiocese for fifteen cents per gallon. Instead of raking in the cash this year, Philippe had just lost fifteen thousand dollars of future profits in one night.
With his uninjured hand, he picked up the ax lying near his foot and raised it over his head. He struck with all his might, again and again, attacking the chunks of barrel that remained, hacking the staves into splinters, spewing profanities like a possessed man. When his limbs finally lost all strength, Philippe sank down on an overturned bucket. Thirty thousand gallons of the 1900 cabernet had already been ordered for delivery next fall—14,000 for the archdiocese and another 16,000 for shipment to local and eastern merchants. How would he fill the orders now?
The sun cast macabre shadows over the piles of debris. A silver gleam caught Philippe’s eye. As he moved closer, he realized the object was a blade’s edge, glinting in the light. He picked up the pocketknife and wiped it off. Barlows were a dime a dozen in these parts. Mac must have dropped it last night. Philippe turned the haft in his hand. The letters B. SUMTER were carved into the handle.
His first thought was that he ought to return it to Boone Sumter, and personally thank the man for saving Pippa. Yet, even in his sleep-deprived state, through the haze of bewilderment, Philippe sensed something was amiss. Why would Sumter’s knife be in the winery ruins, where only he, Sara and Mac had fought the fire?
Chapter 20
Pippa’s color returned and her chest cleared. Father Price rode out on Sunday to offer Mass for the Lemieux family and their neighbors, entreating God to spare them from further trials. He baptized Pippa, sprinkling holy water over her head three times and anointing her forehead with chrism oil. In front of all their neighbors, he signed the cross above the cleft lip that frightened so many. His compassion surprised Sara.
Since the fire early Tuesday morning, the larder and icebox had been filled to the brim with breads, cheeses and meats from their neighbors. They had so much food that Sara and Philippe invited everyone to a stay for picnic after Mass. A crowd gathered around the old cart laden with fruit-filled crates, meat pies and bread. Sara approached some women sitting at the picnic table, intending to thank them. Before she reached their circle, she heard one of them whisper, “Devil’s child, fer sure,” and another, “Born of a strumpet, a city streetwalker.”
“The child conjured up that fire with her dark magic,” a shriveled, graying woman mumbled snidely. They didn’t seem to notice Sara standing ten paces from them, or if they did, they didn’t care. She bit her lip and darted toward the other side of the house. She pushed her spine into the wall, trembling with anger.
Maybe it was her fault. She’d been so busy with the farm and the children that she hadn’t had any time to attend the suffrage meetings where Napa’s women gathered and socialized. Perhaps she appeared aloof, or unapproachable.
When Sara returned, she hoped no one would notice her red, puffy eyes, but Philippe appeared beside her. “What is it?” he asked, touching her elbow gently.
“I’m fine, it’s nothing,” Sara replied. “Just some old crows cackling about Pippa—about how she’s somehow responsible for the fire.”
“Who said such things?” he fumed.
She sighed in defeat. “It doesn’t matter, Philippe. They all think them.”
Philippe looked ready to explode. In a hushed tone, he replied, “Their tongues have been wagging, that’s for certain. Father Price pulled me aside. The archdiocese is canceling our contract because my illegitimate child ‘presents a moral conundrum for the archbishop.’ Can you believe it? What about all the priests who’ve sired children? Hypocrites.”
Sara held up a hand. She couldn’t believe O’Brien had double-crossed them. “Are you sure about this? Wouldn’t Monsignor O’Brien have sent you a letter or paid a visit?”
“Perhaps he’s just as pigeon-hearted as the rest of them,” Philippe said with disgust.
Sara left Pippa and Luc with Rose for the day. Philippe had left early for Napa Junction with barrels and cases of the 1899 Eagle’s Run Zinfandel, ready for shipping to his eastern merchants. Sara anticipated he’d be running errands in town until supper, which would give her and Aurora ample time to travel to the city and return without raising his suspicions.
When Sara and Aurora stepped off the omnibus near the archdiocese’s Chancery Office on Franklin Street, Sara looked up at the imposing stone structure and thought about turning back. Thinking about the archdiocese’s action against them, and the thousands of dollars they’d be losing, her heart raced and her palms began to sweat. Such injustice required a bold response.
Sara and Aurora stacked the boxes they were carrying on the front steps. Sara pounded on the door. A slender, aging priest soon answered it. He looked vaguely annoyed by their presence.
“Father, I am Mrs. Philippe Lemieux, this is Mrs. Aurora Thierry, and we were hoping for a brief word with Monsignor O’Brien, if he’s in.”
“And what is your business with the monsignor? There are no females allowed within the sanctum of the chancery,” he added.
Sara bristled, but was determined to remain pleasant. She shot Aurora a quick glance, trying to convince her to do the same. Passivity wasn’t their strong suit.
“I am aware, Father. My business with the monsignor is of a personal nature. My husband and I are acquaintances of Monsignor O’Brien.”
“He is a very busy man.” The priest stared at her—as if he were willing her to disappear.
Sara considered how she could convince him. “It’s an urgent matter, regarding the purity of the sacramental wine provided to the archdiocese,” she fibbed.
“Wait one moment.”
The priest did not return. Within a few minutes, Monsignor O’Brien appeared in the doorway. “Mrs. Lemieux! What a pleasure to see you again,” he declared, as he stepped out onto the stairs, introducing himself to Aurora. “Pleasure,” he repeated. “What brings you here?” Sara was surprised that he didn’t know.
“Father Price, the curate of our parish, told us that the archdiocese is terminating its contract with our winery because of some past behavior of my husband’s—immorality and infidelity, we were told.”
“Glory be to God! I knew nothing of it.” O’Brien scratched his chin. “Tell me, did he give you specifics?”
Sara resented having to explain her husband’s indiscretions to others. “Before we were married, my husband had a liaison with a woman and she gave birth to a child. Neither he nor I knew of it until she died recently, and the child was placed in our care.”
“Illegitimate, I presume.”
Sara nodded, her throat dry. At least he hadn’t used the word “bastard.”
“Very grave, indeed,” he said. “Someone must have reported this, but since I handle the wine contracts, I’m surprised I knew nothing of it.”
“Tell him, Sara,” Aurora nudged.
“My husband doesn’t know I’m here. Three weeks ago our vineyard caught fire, and we lost ten acres.” She hesitated. She couldn’t tell him they’d lost the entire 1900 vintage of sacramental wine. “Losing your business now would truly jeopardize us.”
“Dear Lord, how awful,” O’Brien said.
Sara sighed with frustration. “We were only trying to do the right thing.”
“Which was?”
“To take in a two-year-old child, who is orphaned and deformed, and give her a proper home.”
O’Brien rocked back on his heels and scratched his head. “What would you have me do?”
Aurora proclaimed, “‘Let ye without sin cast the first stone.’” She always proffered her biblical guidance at the worst times.
Fortunately, O’Brien’s brown eyes warmed with understanding. “Wait here.”
Aurora paced back and forth on the street, while Sara sat on the top stair and tapped her shoes upon the brick step. Twenty minutes later, O’Brien returned. His expression was unreadable.
“Your contract was canceled, but without my knowledge,” he announced solemnly. “An additional complaint was lodged, but it seems outlandish, if you ask me.”
Sara’s heart thumped in double time. “What is it?” She glanced at Aurora uneasily.
O’Brien cleared his throat. “That you killed a man, your husband’s brother. The letter reprimands the archdiocese for allowing ‘a murderess’ to touch sacramental wine.” There was a question in his voice.
Then it dawned on Sara. Boone Sumter had overheard Gilles Bellamy’s accusations at the Paris Exposition. Sara’s anger rose from the pit in her belly, and would have spewed from her mouth had Aurora not clutched Sara’s arm.
“Monsignor,” Aurora spoke up, “my friend was attacked by the man you mention. She defended herself when he tried to rape her, and accidentally killed him. Her husband knew this before he married her.”
O’Brien might have been knocked over with a feather, he looked so stunned. Sara squeezed Aurora’s hand in thanks; she didn’t know if she could bear to explain it herself. However, she did want to assure the priest of one other thing. “Monsignor,” she said contritely, “you should know that I have confessed, and received absolution.”
The California Wife Page 14
