“To catch the last ferry,” she said slowly. She wasn’t going to give him any more details about her life.
“Oh, yes,” Donnelly said pleasantly, rocking back on his heels. Marie wondered if he’d already heard—or worse, believed—those rumors. “Enjoy your weekend,” he said evenly.
“You as well.” Marie smiled, unwilling to allow him to think their conversation had disquieted her. She turned to find her hosts. Even as she shook hands and thanked Dr. and Mrs. Lane, Marie felt Donnelly’s eyes following her. She wasn’t sure she liked the attention.
Marie heard the patter of small shoes in the hallway. Her door creaked open. “Maman?” Adeline poked her head into the bedroom where Marie was studying for her chemistry exam. She placed a mug of coffee atop a folded napkin, next to the stack of textbooks.
Marie stroked Adeline’s long, dark hair absentmindedly. “Yes?” Adeline gazed for a moment out the window above the desk. Her eyelids were puffy from crying.
Sara had mentioned Adeline was upset about something, but when Marie had arrived a few hours ago, Adeline had behaved normally enough. “What is it, darling?” Marie rubbed her daughter’s hands soothingly. Adeline started to shake and cry. “Are you hurt?”
Adeline took sharp, short breaths between sobs. “Jess told me something—a secret about Tante Sara. I told him it was a lie, that it never happened, but he overheard his ma and pa talking about her.”
Marie couldn’t imagine what this could be. “Out with it, child. What did he say?”
Adeline whispered, “He said Tante Sara killed Uncle Philippe’s brother—my father!” Marie’s heart dropped. She pressed her lips tight and closed her eyes. This was the day she’d always dreaded, but she thought she’d be the one to tell Adeline, not some loose-lipped farm boy. How the hell did he know anyway?
“Breathe deeply, Adeline. We’ll talk when you’re calm again.” Marie pulled her near.
“So it’s true?” The girl asked in a panicky voice.
How would Marie explain things so that she could understand? She took a deep breath. “She killed him accidentally while defending herself.”
“From what?” How could Adeline know what her mother was implying?
“Your father was not a kind man. He was married to Sara’s sister, Lydia, and he treated her badly. One night he hurt Tante Sara, and he would have done worse, if she hadn’t stopped him.”
“That’s not what Jess said!”
“What makes you think Jess and his father know anything?” Marie was livid. “They may have heard some half-truths about our past, and now they’re filling your head with nonsense rumors about your Tante Sara!”
“But she killed him, Maman.” Marie realized the poor child feared for her own safety.
“Your father attacked Sara and hurt her very badly, just like he did her sister, Luc’s mother. She had to stop him, or he might have killed her.”
“But you told me he died in a fire,” Adeline accused her.
Marie placed a hand on her knee. “There was a fire after. I thought you were too young to know everything that happened.”
“Were you ever going to tell me?”
“Yes. Philippe, Sara and I all agreed we’d tell you and Luc together—when you were both older.”
“So Uncle Philippe knows?” Her eyes grew large.
“He does, and he knows that Tante Sara had no choice. He loves her in spite of it.”
“You can’t leave me here with her!” Adeline pleaded.
“Darling,” Marie soothed, kissing her small hands. “Sara loves you. She’s not a threat to anyone. She was the victim, not your father. I hate to say it, Adeline, but your father brought it upon himself.”
“Because of her, I’ll never know him!”
“Because of her, your half-brother Luc is still alive.”
“But—”
Marie squeezed her daughter’s hands. “Your father refused to marry me, and cast us both off.” Her words were harsh to a child’s ears, she knew, but this was the truth, and Adeline would have to face it. She squeezed her shoulders gently. “You’re a beautiful, smart, kind girl who deserves more. You deserve to be loved dearly, like we all love you. Your father wasn’t capable of loving anyone.”
At this, Adeline’s face shattered into a million emotions. Marie rocked her heartbroken daughter, and they slipped down onto the floor, holding each other in silence.
The next morning, Sara pressed fresh hay into the bottom of the wagon bed. Adeline handed her bottles of chardonnay and zinfandel, and jars of jam, which Sara nestled into the cushion of hay. After giving Sara four demijohns of lemonade, Adeline finally spoke up. “Maman tells me that you killed my father.”
Marie had warned Sara this was coming. She replied softly, “Yes. It was an accident, Adeline, and I’m very sorry for it.”
“Why are you sorry? Maman said he hurt you and your sister.”
“He did, but I’m sorry that I had to . . . use such force to stop him.” Sara looked tentatively at Adeline.
“Did your father die, too?”
Sara was taken aback. “Yes, in a mudslide when I was seventeen years old.”
“You were young,” Adeline said in a sweet, compassionate voice.
“I was, and it made me very sad. So I understand if you’re sad, too.”
Adeline hoisted herself up into the wagon seat and placed the last of the boxed pies on her lap. “You’re not going to hurt me, are you, Tante Sara?”
Sara felt ill. “No,” she replied hoarsely. She hugged Adeline and stroked her dark curls. “I love you like my own daughter. We will always be family.”
Sara confronted Jess early the next morning while he was filling the horses’ mangers with hay. When he saw her, he stabbed the pitchfork into the bale at his feet. “Ma’am?”
“What were you thinking, telling half-truths to a ten-year-old girl and scaring her senseless?” Sara demanded.
Jess held up his palms. “I only told Adeline what I heard from my father,” he protested.
Sara fumed. She had to set the record straight, even if her past was none of his business. She stared the teenager down. “Philippe’s brother was a brutal man who beat and raped my sister, and tried to rape me. When I fought him off, I accidentally killed him.” She moved a step closer to Jess and hissed, “If you’d rather spend your days here than in the Napa County jail, then I’d suggest you stop spreading rumors and frightening little girls, understand?”
Jess flinched. “Yes, ma’am. Sorry, Mrs. Lemieux,” he said, flustered. Just then, Philippe appeared at the door.
“How’s it going in here?” He looked from Sara to Jess.
“Oh fine,” Sara said breezily. “Jess was confused about a few things, but we’ve straightened everything out, haven’t we?” She glanced back at the taciturn teenager, hoping Jess was convinced that her husband would lock him up if he ever crossed her again.
“Yes ma’am,” he mumbled, swallowing loudly.
Though Sara and Philippe’s relationship was strained at the moment, she knew he would back her on this. She squeezed his arm as she passed outside.
Chapter 26
DECEMBER 1901
Marie had scored high marks on most of her midterm exams, but her fingers trembled as she scanned the list of her final grades: all mid-nineties, except for Donnelly’s chemistry class. How could he justify giving her a measly eighty percent? Before she hopped the ferry to Napa for the Christmas break, she was determined to find out why he’d withheld the grade she knew she deserved. That Friday afternoon, she arrived at Donnelly’s door during the last five minutes of his office hours and knocked.
There was no answer. Marie pounded again. “Dr. Donnelly?” she called.
Then, from down the hallway, she heard a voice summoning her. “Miss Chevreau?” It was Donnelly, holding a pocket watch. “This way, if you please.” He vanished into the stairwell.
She followed him down two flights. He paused to hold the door for her, and
she stepped outside, demanding, “Where are you taking me?”
“You’re here about your grade, aren’t you?”
He was exasperating. “Yes, but—”
“Follow me,” he repeated and began to cross the street toward the hospital.
Marie clutched her books to her chest, rushing to keep up with him, like a puppy scampering after its master. She hated herself for it. Inside the hospital, Donnelly guided her to the operating amphitheater. As they took their places among the hundred other surgeons and students watching, he whispered, “Gangrene has set in, and he’s going to make the cut right above the knee. Watch this.” Marie bit her lip as the doctor sharpened his knives.
Unlike most of the other surgeons Marie had observed over the course of her first semester, this one spoke clearly and confidently during the entire operation, leading the observers on a captivating journey. He detailed his plans for anesthesia, for the guillotine amputation, for the patient’s recovery. Marie was riveted.
The entire procedure lasted two hours. “Why is he bandaging the leg before he finishes closing?” Marie whispered, as the surgeon wrapped the patient’s stump with a bulky dressing.
Donnelly replied, “They’ll finish closing in a few days, when they’re certain the tissue is free of infection.”
Marie realized he was studying her. She shot him a sideways glance, frowning. “What is it, Doctor?”
He nodded toward the spectacle before them. “You love this, don’t you?”
Marie flushed. He must think her an eccentric woman, an unfeminine freak to enjoy such a display. The truth was, she found it fascinating—and exhilarating. “It’s all I want to do,” she said, surprised by her own honesty.
The room was emptying, and she rose to leave. “Stay,” he said gently. The nurses were tossing heaps of sheets and surgical gowns into the laundry bins. Then they scrubbed down the steel table and mopped the floor beneath it, paying no mind to the pair high up in the stands.
Donnelly fixed his eyes on Marie. “If I’d graded you solely on your written results, you would have earned ninety points. But, Miss Chevreau, if you’re going to be a successful surgeon—able to explain your observations and decisions to a roomful of male surgeons like Dr. James did today—then you have to start speaking up in class, and outside of it.”
Marie sat back, stunned. “I’ve answered all the questions you’ve asked.”
“Yes, but I sense that you often disagree with your classmates, or with me. You need to speak up, even if you end up being wrong.”
Marie stood abruptly. “I’m a woman, Dr. Donnelly. I can’t afford to be wrong,” she said flatly. “Thank you for your time,” she added, before turning to leave.
Donnelly stood up as she left, calling after her. “Miss Chevreau, if you want a higher grade, I need to hear what you think, not just what you know.”
Marie just kept walking, limbs shaking, madder than a wet hen.
For three days, Marie stewed over Donnelly’s words. Only at Christmas Eve dinner was she able to quiet her frustration and take part in the family celebration. After saying grace, Marie studied the faces around the table. A wave of gratitude rushed over her. How lucky she and Adeline were to have a family like this, after so many years on their own with only the nuns in the Mott Street convent for company.
Sara held Johnny in her arms while Adeline spooned dabs of mashed potatoes into his mouth. Marie was startled by how grown-up her daughter appeared. Adeline’s dark hair was tied back loosely in a red ribbon, and her cheeks flushed with warmth from the fire. She was no longer the awkward child Marie remembered. Since she’d arrived at Eagle’s Run, her days had been filled with school, chores and playtime with Luc and Pippa. It seemed Adeline liked to be active and busy.
The dining room was lit with candles, and the savory scent of roasted turkey, toasted pine kernels and thistles wafted from the kitchen, reminding Marie of her childhood home at Christmastime. She hadn’t seen her parents or siblings in over ten years, and they’d never even met Adeline. She felt a twinge of sadness. She received letters from them each month, but she missed her mother’s tight embrace and her sweet smell of rosewater and mint.
Before dinner they’d finished trimming the tree with glass ornaments and electric lights, which Marie and Adeline had never seen before. The bulbs sparkled in shades of green, red and gold, giving the usually sparse parlor a festive air.
Pippa, who’d recently celebrated her fourth birthday, wriggled her way onto Aurora’s lap. The child resembled one of the blond tree fairies from Adeline’s books: she was spirited and petite, but sharp as a tack. Once they repaired her lip, Pippa would be able to express herself as eloquently as Adeline, and then they’d be in big trouble.
Aurora placed the maple-sugared sweet potatoes next to Marie, but Luc grabbed the spoon before she could take it. While Marie heaped potatoes, green beans, a bread roll and a stuffed tomato onto her plate, she watched Philippe carve the turkey. He’d always been a striking man. His hand had been badly scarred by fire last year, but that hadn’t slowed him down. Today, however, his eyes were pink with exhaustion.
During her visits, Marie often spied him walking alone in the vineyard or standing on the plot of land where his winery had once been. His preoccupation, Marie suspected, was related to finances. Sara had confided to her that they’d just scraped together enough money this Christmas to make a small raisin layer cake and purchase one toy for each child. They were saving every spare dime to eventually rebuild.
Marie was about to inquire delicately about Philippe’s plans when Aurora beat her to it. “So, Philippe, when are you going to rebuild the winery?” she asked boldly.
He was piling turkey slices high on a platter. “I thought you’d at least wait until I sat down before interrogating me,” he said with a laugh.
Sara shot Aurora a sharp glance, but the older woman ignored her. “We’re all family here, Philippe,” she said as she scooped beans onto her plate. “I’d just love to hear your ideas. In fact, I have a few of my own.”
“That’s no surprise to anyone, Aurora,” Sara replied good-naturedly.
A wide grin lit Philippe’s face. “Now that you mention it, well . . . I plan to break ground next summer on our new winery and tasting room!” he announced brightly.
Marie was surprised, and, judging by the dazed look on Sara’s face, so was she. The children bobbed up and down in their seats and Aurora clapped her hands together, proclaiming, “I knew it! Brilliant!”
Amidst the excitement, Sara remained quietly rigid in her chair. Once the mouths around the table were filled again, and the chatter ceased, Sara turned to Philippe. “When,” she asked deliberately, “did you decide all this?”
Rather than answering her, Philippe addressed everyone. “There’s still a lot of planning to do, and we can’t start until we’ve received deposits for the 1901 vintage. Because Sara has had such success with her wine wagon, I thought that instead of bringing the wine to the masses, we might bring the masses to the winery.”
“How will you get them here? What design do you have in mind?” Aurora sopped her turkey in gravy. Marie continued to study Sara, hoping she’d be pleased with Philippe’s compliment. But Sara just stabbed at her potatoes with her fork, mashing them into smaller and smaller lumps.
“We’ll probably hire a coach to drive visitors from Napa Junction, and the other local train stations, when the tasting room opens. We’ll use the gravity-flow design for the winery. We’ll crush on the third floor, ferment on the second and age the wines on the first floor and in the cellar, similar to the old winery.”
Sara blanched. Aurora, who seemed oblivious of her discomfort, persisted. “With a tasting room on the first floor?”
“Enough to hold fifty comfortably,” Philippe replied excitedly.
When Aurora and Philippe finally drew breath, Sara asked, “And why was I not consulted?”
Philippe stopped carving and smacked the knife down on the table. “Pro
bably because you were too busy campaigning for the tannery workers, or the shopgirls, so they could have a longer lunch break—or whatever.” His voice was dismissive, but anger lurked beneath his tone.
A hush fell over the table. Aurora was the first to risk speaking. “Oh, come now, Philippe. This is a joyous occasion,” she reminded him. “Besides, it’s my fault, not Sara’s, that so much of her time is spent working for these causes.” Aurora wriggled in her chair, and smoothed her napkin over her lap. “You know how I can be once I set my mind to a thing.” She glanced apologetically at Sara.
Johnny’s squirming and fussing broke the excruciating silence that followed. Sara hastened to her feet, bouncing the baby in her arms. “Please excuse me,” she said with strained politeness. “I’ve no appetite.”
After knocking on Sara’s bedroom door, Marie entered. “Where’s Johnny?” she asked her friend. Despite Sara’s tall frame, she looked fragile right now, with her long legs dangling over the edge of the bed.
“Asleep.” Sara shrugged.
Marie creaked the door shut behind her. “Aren’t men the most infuriating creatures?” She sat down beside Sara, wrapping an arm around her shoulders.
Sara let out a short, mirthless laugh. “Yes, I believe they are,” she sniffed, blotting her damp face with her dress sleeve.
Marie squeezed Sara’s knotted shoulder. Her friend had endured so much, and at the young age of twenty-three, threw herself wholeheartedly into everything she did. It hurt to see her like this—and on Christmas Eve, no less.
“I can’t manage this anymore, Marie.” Sara’s voice sounded panicked. “The children, the winemaking, the wagon, the club—what more does he want from me? He’s so damn controlling about every aspect of the vineyard, he works all the time and he didn’t even discuss this with me!”
“I know,” Marie said comfortingly, “Philippe is headstrong, and hard-working and principled. But dearest,” she murmured, “So are you.”
“Maybe,” Sara bristled. “But he doesn’t understand my work with the women’s club. What will life be for our daughters if they can’t vote, or earn a fair wage? They’ll be helpless—just like my mother.”
The California Wife Page 21
