Marie opened the hospital room door, just a crack, to see if the young man was conscious. Thad Holmes, who seemed to have recovered from his seizure, was sitting up and eating some hospital sludge—and looking rather down in the mouth.
Marie knocked shyly on the door. He beamed when he saw her. “My angel!” He stretched his arms wide to welcome her.
Marie laughed, “Come now, stop.” She swatted away his praise as she would a hovering fly. “Feeling better?”
“Much, thank you.”
“Anything hurt?”
“Only my pride,” he confided.
“No, it could have happened to anyone,” Marie lied, and quickly changed the subject. “I came to thank you.”
“Thank me?”
“Yes, for stealing all the attention.” Marie plopped down in the bedside chair. “The scrutiny has been unbearable.”
Thad smiled. “Happy to be of service, miss. Or is it missus?”
“Miss, but please call me Marie.” Marie hoped she wasn’t giving him the wrong idea. She was here to study to become a surgeon—nothing else.
“Marie, from what Dr. Donnelly tells me, you were the only one who realized I was having a seizure, not just fainting because I’m afraid of corpses.” So he was Matthew Donnelly, the surgeon she’d heard so much about.
“I thought I’d give you the benefit of the doubt.” Marie smiled.
“Well done. Would you . . . would you join me for a cup of coffee when I get out of here?”
Marie hesitated for a moment. She didn’t want to raise his hopes, but then again, he’d had a trying day. Perhaps he needed a boost. “Sure, sounds good.”
Thad Holmes grinned widely. She’d have to let him down easy.
Marie was already drowning, and this was only her second week. With the exception of Thad, the other students ignored her. She had anticipated that the young men would be put off by the presence of a woman in their midst, but she hadn’t expected hostility from them. She would have to ask more questions, and know more answers, to excel here.
From her second-floor apartment, Marie navigated down the narrow stairs carrying three heavy books, her satchel and a small jug of water. She rented a two-room flat in a three-story walk-up on Sacramento, just blocks away from the college and several cable car lines. When she stepped out of the doorway, a burst of cool morning air greeted her. She loved this time of morning, when the street was quiet, save for the squeaky wheels of the milk wagon stopping every twenty feet to make a doorstep delivery. Her stomach rumbled at the sight. For breakfast, she’d eaten a roll topped with strawberry jam, the cheapest she could buy, and sipped a cup of black coffee. Milk would have been nice, but she was saving every dime.
This afternoon she’d hop the ferry to Vallejo and take the train to Napa Junction for the weekend to visit Adeline, who was staying with Sara and Philippe. Marie knew she’d be holed up in her bedroom studying most of Saturday, but she couldn’t wait to share breakfast with family again.
Marie arrived at the college and looked up, intimidated by a building that towered five stories above her, with the pointed arches and tall spires of a gothic cathedral. Built by Levi Cooper Lane, the current president at the school and a prominent professor of surgery, the college was located at the corner of Sacramento and Webster. A new addition housed a lecture hall and laboratories, the hallmarks of a premier medical institution. Adjacent to the medical school was the two-hundred-bed Lane Hospital, where Marie hoped to work one day. For now, however, she felt fortunate that they’d chosen her and that she’d saved enough money to attend for four years before moving on to the required year-long internship. She inhaled deeply. She could hardly believe she was here.
Marie climbed the stairs to the second floor. Students bustled about, and one or two threw her a smug glance. Other faces were set with nervous frowns. She understood that sentiment, for she too had her toughest class this morning: chemistry.
Marie selected a seat in the center of the classroom. She didn’t want to seem too eager by sitting in the front, or too meek by sitting in the back. Smack in the middle, they would be forced to reckon with her.
Her twenty-four classmates were buzzing like bees in a hive. How funny. She’d spent the last eleven years in a nunnery and couldn’t fathom that a group of men could cluck like a brood of hens. From what Marie could overhear, Matthew Donnelly had replaced their former teacher.
Dr. Donnelly was one of three professors of surgery who taught classes gratis at the college while managing his own robust practice. He had a reputation for precision and surgical innovation. He was highly educated, liked by the faculty and feared by the students. He was hard-boiled, and had a reputation for throwing unprepared students out of his classroom.
The bell rang, and everyone took their seats. A few students who had been loitering in the hallway rushed to their chairs. Matthew Donnelly walked purposefully into the classroom, his hands in his pockets. He carried nothing and wore a suit, tie and a stern look upon his face. He was good-looking in a fair-skinned, Irish sort of way. Marie judged him to be between thirty and thirty-five. When she began to wonder whether there might be a Mrs. Donnelly, she scolded herself silently. If she were to become a surgeon, she had no time for distractions.
Dr. Donnelly cleared his throat. “I’m a professor of surgery, not chemistry. However, given that Dr. Wenzell is temporarily out of the country, you’ll have to contend with me for the semester.” He smiled, revealing a row of straight white teeth. He probably intended to put them at ease, but Marie found his expression a bit menacing.
“Mr. Deaver,” he said, approaching a student at the front of the class. “Tell me, what is the difference between a mixture and a compound?”
Larry Deaver flipped through his notes, attempting to hunt down the answer. Donnelly sighed and moved on. “Mr. Schmidt?”
“The parts of a mixture can be separated by mechanical or physical means, but the parts of a compound must be separated chemically.”
“Thank you, Mr. Schmidt.”
“Miss Chevreau,” Donnelly called out, clasping his hands behind his back and pacing across the front of the classroom. “What constituents are found in the compound of air?”
Marie’s head popped up. She heard sniggering behind her and hesitated for a moment. “The question is flawed. Air is a mixture, not a compound. Liquid air can be distilled to separate the more volatile nitrogen from the less volatile oxygen and argon.” The room grew quiet.
“Very well, then,” Donnelly replied. He leveled the full weight of his gaze on her. “What are the percentages?”
Marie glanced downward, trying to retrieve the information from her overloaded brain. “Seventy-eight percent nitrogen, twenty-one percent oxygen and one percent of argon mixed with carbon dioxide and other trace gases.” When she looked up, Donnelly had moved on to his next victim.
Marie exhaled. She’d passed the first test, and he’d treated her like any other student.
After spending some time in the library, Marie returned home to pack up her bag. She caught the Sacramento–Clay line to the Ferry Building and stepped onto the four o’clock ferry to Vallejo. Less than two hours later she disembarked at Napa Junction and was greeted by a smiling Philippe and her own dear daughter, Adeline.
She could swear that girl had grown an inch and gained five pounds in the last two weeks. Adeline was blossoming in the fresh air of the farm. She looked healthy and happy.
Philippe took Marie’s bag, feigning that he couldn’t lift it. “Heaven’s sakes, Marie, what do you carry in here?”
“About fifty pounds of books—but hardly a stitch of clothing.” She laughed.
Adeline was bouncing on her toes and swinging her arms, but the excitement in her expression was from more than just seeing her mother.
“Go on,” Philippe urged, “you tell her.”
Adeline threw her arms out and announced, “I helped birth Tante Sara’s baby, Maman!”
“A healthy, feisty baby b
oy, born yesterday morning,” Philippe said proudly. He looked tired, but thrilled.
This was a surprise. The doctor had said the baby wouldn’t come for another two weeks, and Marie had secretly hoped she’d be there to help. “How wonderful! Congratulations, Philippe! And you, Miss Adeline, birthing a baby at only ten years old.” Marie was astonished. “You’ll make a fine doctor one day.”
“Thank you, Maman,” Adeline replied softly. Her timidity had returned, but Marie had seen the fire flash in her eyes when she spoke about the baby. Perhaps she did have a calling for healing.
Marie peppered Philippe with questions all the way home. Was it a normal birth or breech? How long was the labor? Did the doctor give her anything for the pain? How were Sara’s spirits?
“See for yourself, Marie,” Philippe said as he pulled up to the house. As the wagon dust settled, Marie sighed deeply. The beauty of the vineyard at harvest time, with its gentle slopes and lush vines, left her speechless. She could smell the eucalyptus trees and the sweet, earthy scent of freshly picked grapes wafting from the wagons. Pippa and Luc came running from the pump, where they’d been scrubbing up, to greet the carriage. Marie hopped down, and Pippa hugged her skirts. Luc scrambled into the wagon, eager to help his father unload, while Adeline followed her mother to the house.
Sara met them at the front door, holding a little white bundle. Her hair hung in silky waves, her cheeks glowed and her striking green eyes positively danced. Marie was so happy that Sara, who’d endured so much, now had this great joy in her life. She kissed her friend and admired the baby. His paper-thin eyelids were closed, his delicate hands folded together and his little lips were pursed in a bow. He was sleeping soundly.
“How are you feeling?” Marie asked, stepping into the kitchen. “You’re radiant.”
“I feel a bit tired, but so very happy!”
Marie pulled down the blanket to see more of him. “And what is the little prince named?”
“Ah, you two kept the secret?” Sara asked Adeline and Philippe, who’d just dropped the bags in the hallway. The two of them exchanged merry glances. Sara announced, “His name is Jean-Marie.”
Although Marie rarely cried, a few drops welled in the corners of her eyes at this. “Oh, Sara. You didn’t have to do that.”
“We wanted to. If it hadn’t been for you, I never would have survived New York or made it to California to eventually meet Philippe.”
Marie was overwhelmed by the gesture, but all she could muster was a heartfelt “Thank you.”
“What smells so good?” Adeline piped up.
“Rose is baking ham and biscuits,” Sara announced. Just then Rose bustled back into the kitchen. She maneuvered around the crowd to the stove, donned an oven mitt and handed Adeline the spatula. She nodded to Marie. “Welcome, Miss Marie. We’ll have dinner fixed in no time if you’d all shoo outdoors.” She smiled at Adeline. “Miss A., will you help me serve?”
Marie was impressed. During her stay here, Adeline had milked a cow, baked biscuits, harvested grapes and, apparently, birthed a baby. Not too shabby for a city girl.
Adeline sat with Pippa on the bench in back of the house, patiently braiding a cornflower-blue silk ribbon through the toddler’s straight, blond hair. Sara, washing clothes nearby, had noticed that Adeline was most content when her hands were engaged—kneading bread, cleaning out the larder or planting peas in the garden. “Where’d you find that ribbon, Adeline?”
Adeline blushed, but her eyes stayed fixed on her fingers. “I had a pair of old stockings that Maman wanted me to throw away, but instead I pulled out the ribbons from the tops, and saved the stockings for hand puppets. Something fun for Luc and Pippa, maybe,” she said meekly. Her eyes flitted to Sara’s and back again. “Do you think Maman will be cross?”
Sara stopped plunging and scrubbing the shirt in her hands. “I think your maman would be impressed by your resourcefulness.”
“There, all done,” Adeline announced with satisfaction. “You look like a princess!”
Pippa dashed up the stairs, turning just before she opened the door. “Looking glass, Maman?” She slurred, but Sara couldn’t recall when Pippa had appeared more beautiful.
She felt a lump rise in her throat. “You go right ahead, dearest,” she encouraged.
Sara watched Adeline carefully roll up the remaining blue ribbons and slip the small scissors into her dress pocket. “That was very kind of you, Adeline.”
Adeline shrugged. “I want her to think she’s pretty.”
“Because of her lip?”
“No, that’ll be fixed in time,” Adeline said sagely. “I mean because her mother died.”
“Oh.” Sara was surprised and moved by Adeline’s understanding. She didn’t know how much Marie had told her daughter about Pippa’s circumstances.
“You and Uncle Philippe take good care of her, Tante Sara. I just know what it feels like. She doesn’t remember her real mother, and I don’t remember my father.” Adeline stared at her shoes for a moment before tucking her legs beneath her skirt. “Did you know my father, Tante Sara?”
Sara sucked in a sharp breath. “A little,” she replied, wondering how much the girl knew.
“What did he look like? Maman doesn’t have a photograph, and when I ask about him, she changes the subject.”
As much as Sara abhorred thinking about Bastien Lemieux, she owed it to his child to answer her questions. “He was tall and thin, with jet-black hair, an aristocratic nose and eyes very similar in shade to yours.”
She perked up. “So he was handsome?”
“Very,” Sara confirmed.
“He died in a fire. He never married my mother. He married Luc’s mother instead, but I don’t blame Luc,” Adeline said sweetly. “Maman said my father didn’t want us, so that’s why Uncle Philippe brought us to America.” Her tone was matter-of-fact. Did she understand that Luc was not only Philippe’s nephew, but Sara’s too, born of her sister, Lydia? That Luc was her half-brother? Sara doubted Adeline remembered their stay at the Manhattan convent, over five years ago now.
“You are a very fortunate young lady to have such a considerate uncle and a mother who loves you dearly.”
“I am. A lot luckier than other kids,” Adeline agreed, her angelic face scrunched in contemplation. “How did you meet Uncle Philippe?” she asked. Sara could see Adeline struggling to piece the puzzle together in her mind.
Sara slid two clothespins off her belt and fastened a shirt to the line. “I knew Philippe and your father a long time ago in France, when I was a child. We lived in the same village of Vouvray, very close to Tours, where your mother’s family still lives. But I met him again here in California four years ago, quite by accident, while I was pruning the vines here at Eagle’s Run.”
Adeline picked through the laundry bin, handing Sara a pair of soiled breeches to wash. “Did you always know you loved him?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, when you saw him again, did your heart know that you had loved him all those years ago?”
Sara marveled at the child’s perceptive nature. “You know Adeline, I think I did. But it wasn’t a woman’s love then. When I was nine, it was a childish love. I think I loved his kindness, his protectiveness toward me at the time. But he was nine years older than I was, so I couldn’t possibly have captured his attention then.” She winked.
Adeline’s chocolate-brown eyes filled with hope. “But when the time was right, Tante Sara, you scooped him up, didn’t you?”
Sara laughed. “I think we scooped each other up. We have our difficulties, but in the end, I believe we are supposed to be together,” she added wistfully, hoping her words were true.
Just then, Jess emerged from the stables. Adeline stared at him and sighed. He broke into a smile and waved. Sara watched the girl’s face turn pink. Oh Lordy, she thought, Adeline Chevreau is sweet on Jess Sumter. Why on earth hadn’t she seen this coming?
Chapter 25
OCTOB
ER 1901
“You will do no such thing!” Philippe roared. Sara placed a finger to her lips, trying to hush him. She’d just laid Johnny in his bassinet for his morning nap. But Philippe wouldn’t let it go. He followed Sara from their bedroom down the stairs and into the foyer.
She whirled around, determined to fight. “We’re marching for better pay and working conditions for the shopgirls and factory workers in Napa. The march—and the boycott—are the only ways to persuade these business owners to do the right thing,” she countered passionately. She turned toward the kitchen, but Philippe caught her arm.
“If the shopgirls and factory workers don’t like their wages, they can work elsewhere. Besides, good men like Jed Miller and Paul LeRoy aren’t breaking any laws.” He released her arm and pleaded, “These men are our customers, Sara. They’re my friends.”
Rubbing her aching arm, Sara replied stonily, “Your friends are wrong, Philippe.”
He threw up his hands in exasperation. “What’s next, Sara? Are you going to drag your club women over here and start picketing the vineyard demanding—oh, I don’t know—better meals for the pickers?” The sharp look of disgust on his face stabbed her to the core. She stood frozen, bewildered by the stranger before her.
“You take an eager interest in the concerns of others,” he persisted. “What about our vineyards? Our family?”
“I’m doing this for the girls—for their future. I’d hoped you’d be happy that Aurora and I formed this new club to distance ourselves from the temperance fanatics.”
He exhaled loudly. “That’s all well and good, and you know I think sensible women like you should be allowed to vote. But most women, if given the chance, will vote in favor of prohibition. You can’t take sides against the family business!”
Philippe was right about prohibition, but Sara felt like she had no other choice. Standing up for Adeline and Pippa’s rights was too important. She turned and walked into the kitchen.
Rose stood at the stove, humming to herself while frying up a skilletful of chicken. Sara felt a twinge of embarrassment upon realizing that Rose might have overheard their disagreement, but she hoped the sizzle of the oil in the pan and the clanking of crockery had obscured their voices in the hallway. “Children should be home any minute,” Rose called, glancing at the clock that hung over the carefully set kitchen table. Sara brightened. Every weekday she looked forward to sharing lunch with them and hearing all the news from school. Her cheer faded when Philippe trailed her into the room. Rose quickly exited the kitchen, muttering about fetching more butter from the larder.
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