The California Wife

by Kristen Harnisch

  “I’m not leaving until we discuss everything that happened.” His reply was restrained.

  Marie peeled off her sodden jacket and slapped it down on the floor. “Yes, you’re right.” She tugged frantically at the buttons of her high collar, exposing the lacerations from the knife. “Better yet,” she hissed, “let’s see what happened. This is where Deaver threatened me with his knife.”

  “Marie—” Matthew took a step forward.

  One glance from her stopped him. Marie ripped her shirtwaist open from top to bottom, popping its buttons. She cast the garment aside and unlaced the stays of her corset. As it fell, the thin gauze of Marie’s chemise slipped down over one shoulder, revealing the purple and yellow bruises on her chest. Matthew’s expression of revulsion pained her, yet somehow spurred her on. She yanked down the chemise. “This is what happened when he threw me over the table and slammed my head into the microscope.”

  Matthew stood stock-still. He looked at her with a mixture of curiosity and dread. Marie wriggled out of her skirts. She stood before him clad only in her chemise and drawers, which she then shimmied down over her hips.

  “Marie, enough!” Matthew commanded, but she ignored him. She wanted him to see every indignity she’d suffered. Turning her back to him, she ran her hands up her scratched thighs.

  “This is what happened!” she shrieked. She didn’t know where her angry words were coming from. “Does it excite you? Knowing what he did to me?” she asked viciously.

  “No,” he choked out. “It makes me sick.”

  She couldn’t contain her self-loathing, but nor could she silence her anguish. “You don’t want me now, do you?” Her lip quivered.

  “Marie, you’re unwell. You look feverish.” He held out a hand to touch her forehead.

  She batted him away. “Answer the question!” she cried, halfway between a scream and a sob.

  Matthew lurched forward and shook her, a wild misery etched on his face. “Stop, Marie, stop!” he yelled.

  “What are you waiting for?” she persisted, roping her arms around his neck. He jerked away. Marie screamed, “Take me! Take me, you damned coward!”

  She threw herself at him, but Matthew caught her. She squirmed and kicked, but he held her tightly. “Marie . . .” Her hair muffled his words. She clung to him, burying her face in his shoulder, comforted by the familiar scent of his starched shirt. She shook with despair. Only when the tension in her muscles eased, and she could breathe again, did she become aware of his heaving chest.

  Fatigue underscored his teary eyes. He looked wretched. “I’m so sorry, Marie,” he said hoarsely. The heat of his touch between her bare shoulder blades shocked her senses. Suddenly mortified by her state of undress and her outburst, Marie tried to break away. Matthew held on, reached for the bed quilt, and clumsily draped it over her shoulders.

  Gaining control of his voice, he insisted, “Come now. You’re burning up and you know you need a bath to break the fever.”

  “But—”

  “Marie, I’m your doctor. And besides, I imagine you’re too sore to properly bathe yourself anyhow.” She was too fraught with exhaustion to object.

  She eased into the tub, her back facing the door, and hugged her knees to her chest. The water was lukewarm, and not at all soothing. Matthew entered with a bundle of towels. He knelt down, soaped up a wet flannel and gently squeezed the water over Marie’s back. He skimmed the cloth over her shoulders, neck and arms. She closed her eyes, concentrating on his careful touch, willing her embarrassment to evaporate. Soon, his fingers were tangled in her wet, sudsy hair, massaging the tension away, but avoiding the stinging wound at her temple. When he rinsed her hair, she shuddered violently as the tepid liquid chased the last vestiges of fever from her body.

  It was awhile before Matthew spoke. “Marie?” She didn’t dare turn, but he continued, his voice steady now. “I never had any intention of going through with the engagement to Margaret.” He lifted Marie’s hand and brushed his lips over the split, raw skin of her knuckles. “But you should know—I would have done far worse than lie to keep you.”

  Marie awoke in her bed during the night, wearing her dressing gown, but wrapped in Matthew’s embrace. When she stirred, he mumbled sleepily, “I’m sorry if I woke you. My arm fell asleep.” He shifted, and she felt the long, sinewy lines of his body against hers.

  The intimacy they had forged over the last few hours had broken through their defenses, and now the unexpected desire was too acute for Marie to ignore. She met his gaze, imploring him, “Please.” Her mouth shyly, sweetly tasted his.

  He returned her kiss fervently, and his longing was undeniable. Yet, when she began to unbutton his shirt, he pulled away, clasping her hands together. “No, Marie. Not now, not like this.” He slipped out of her bed to retrieve his shoes and jacket. He crouched down and stroked Marie’s damp hair. She searched his face expectantly. He smiled, explaining, “We’ll wait for the right time, my love. After you’ve walked down the church aisle and we’ve exchanged our vows. Only then.” He kissed her softly, instructed her to lock the door behind him and stepped out into the darkness of Sacramento Street.

  Chapter 32

  Although Thad offered to escort Marie to all her classes, she refused. She had to face things herself. Before entering her biology classroom Wednesday morning, she inhaled sharply, scanning the room for Larry Deaver’s face. He wasn’t there. In fact, he was absent for the next two days. Matthew must have found a way to keep his promise.

  She held it together, but by lunchtime on Thursday, Marie found herself distracted by her memories, scattered helter-skelter through her consciousness like sick snapshots of her ordeal. She walked across the street to the hospital, eager for a change of scenery. She passed the surgical theatre, where nurses were sterilizing the operating table and swabbing the floors. She found Matthew alone in the nearby washroom, scrubbing his hands. When she walked in, his smile sent her stomach somersaulting.

  He grabbed a towel to dry his hands and glanced over her shoulder to make sure no one was listening. “How’s it going today?” he asked in a hushed tone.

  “Better than I expected. Larry Deaver still hasn’t shown his face,” she reported, her eyes narrowing. “You didn’t . . . do anything to him, did you?”

  Matthew’s eyes widened with surprise. “No, although I wish I had.” A look she couldn’t read crossed his face, but it was quickly replaced with a relaxed grin. “I told you not to worry, didn’t I?” He tossed the towel into the laundry bin. “Are you headed to Napa tomorrow?” he asked.

  Marie hesitated. “Maybe. I’m not sure . . .”

  He moved closer, resting his hands on her shoulders. She felt a familiar stirring, but she knew that while they were here at the hospital, they could do no more. She closed her eyes, inhaling the scents of soap and antiseptic. His fingers grazed her scalp. “This cut is healing well, but I wish I could have stitched it.”

  She brushed off his concern. “I want to spend time with Adeline,” she blurted. “She’ll worry if I don’t go this weekend.”

  “Does she understand what happened?” He squinted with concern.

  “Yes, but I want to reassure her that it won’t happen again.” She hoped Matthew would offer to accompany her to Napa, but he didn’t. Marie thought they’d formed a rare bond the other evening, yet he was acting surprisingly aloof. “Are you working on Saturday?” she ventured shyly.

  “Ah, yes. Yes, I had something come up,” he offered absentmindedly, before switching gears. “Perhaps I’ll go with you next weekend?’

  “I’d like that,” she replied with deflated spirits.

  “Me, too,” he replied, and they both turned, suddenly aware of someone watching them.

  “Sorry to interrupt, Dr. Donnelly.” A nurse stepped forward. “You’re needed upstairs to consult with Dr. Meyer,” she said, flashing Marie a sympathetic look. Did the whole hospital know about her misfortune?

  Matthew squeezed her arm reassuri
ngly, and followed the nurse out of the washroom. Marie stood alone for a few moments, wondering if her behavior the other night had scared him off. Had Matthew changed his mind about her?

  Marie had hoped to avoid Larry Deaver for the rest of the week. On Friday morning, however, he appeared in Marie’s calculus class just before the bell. He’d suffered a black eye, a broken nose, scrapes along his cheekbones. Matthew must have lied to her—he’d beaten Deaver to a pulp. Marie gripped the edge of her seat, although her natural instinct was to flee the room. To her relief, five of her classmates surrounded Deaver, herding him to a desk in the back of the room. Thad picked up a pig’s head, jarred in formaldehyde, and plopped it on Deaver’s desk. The professor even nodded his approval, then began the class. Marie sat a little taller that hour.

  By her last class of the day, Marie’s nerves had unraveled. She hadn’t seen Matthew since Wednesday. What if the college had fired him for what he’d done to Deaver? She had to see him before she left for Napa.

  “Hey kid,” Thad called to Marie just before she exited the building. “How you feeling?”

  Marie paused and allowed the swarm of departing students to pass her. “Much better, especially after seeing Deaver’s face.”

  “Oh, so you enjoyed my handiwork?” His expression brightened.

  “You did that?” she replied, bewildered.

  Thad bowed slightly. “It was one of the year’s highlights for me. So where are you headed?”

  Marie shifted uneasily.

  “Are you worried about Donnelly?”

  How did he know?

  “Your face shows everything you’re thinking, and besides, it’s in today’s paper.”

  Dread swelled in Marie’s stomach. Had the college fired Matthew?

  Thad unfolded the newspaper under his arm and opened it to the society section. All she saw was wedding announcements. Marie’s brow bunched with confusion, but then she spotted a headline with a familiar name. The article began, “Margaret O’Shea of Philadelphia married Peter Smithson of Russian Hill in an elegant ceremony . . .”

  Thad watched her carefully. “Marie, what are you waiting for?” He handed her the newspaper. “Go find him.” She stepped back, stunned by his forwardness.

  “Wha—what about you?” she sputtered.

  He glanced down, shuffling his feet. When he looked up, his laughing brown eyes met hers. “Aw, I never had a chance. The man’s a medical doctor and heir to an iron fortune—who could compete with that? But it sure was nice to dream for a while.” He winked.

  As he started for the door, Marie caught his arm and hugged him fiercely. She didn’t care who saw them or what gossip they’d stir. She pecked Thad on the cheek and said, “You’re a good man.”

  He flicked his head, his mouth twitching into a smile. “Up to Nob Hill with you, then. Go on!” Marie’s eyes softened with silent thanks before she stepped out into the sunlight.

  She walked down the street, hopped on the next cable car, and rode it to the top of Nob Hill. She rapped on Donnelly’s front door and rang the bell. Jane answered, and grimaced upon seeing Marie. “Oh, my dear Miss Chevreau! I heard about what happened. What monsters! How are you feeling?” She was so kind, Marie almost cried. “Please, do come in,” Jane offered.

  “Is the doctor here?” Marie asked.

  “Are you ill?” Jane asked.

  “Not exactly. Is he here, Jane?” she whispered, as Virginia passed them, carrying fresh laundry.

  “No,” Jane replied, glancing at the clock on the wall. “But I believe he’s coming in on the four o’clock ferry.”

  “Coming in? From where?” Matthew never traveled out of the city during the week.

  “Vallejo, I believe.”

  Marie was thoroughly confused. “Thank you, Jane.” She hung her head and stepped out the door. Jane followed her, speaking softly.

  “Miss Chevreau, I’m not one to talk out of turn, but if I were you, I’d skedaddle down to that ferry right now,” she advised, a smile tugging on her lips. She disappeared back into the house.

  Marie stepped off the cable car and pushed her way through the Friday afternoon crowds. She would have sprinted, but her heavy bag made it impossible. She scanned the street beneath the ferry terminal’s arched windows and clock tower, but there was no sign of Matthew. She entered the terminal, so elegant with its interior arches and bright skylights. She stopped short when she saw Matthew sitting nearby, his outstretched arms resting casually over the back of a wide, polished bench.

  Marie dropped her bag. Her feet suddenly felt rooted in place. He smiled broadly, stood up and opened his palms, his gentle eyes never wavering. Overwhelmed with relief, she began to shake, a flood of tears streaming down her cheeks. Scores of people darted by, but they were all a blur. She saw no one but him.

  He walked over and drew her close, cupping a warm hand around her neck. “Now, then,” he soothed her. “Just breathe.” She blinked and blotted her face with his handkerchief.

  She sniffled. “Did they fire you?”

  He chuckled and shook his head. “I quit,” he explained.

  “Why? And what were you doing in Vallejo?” Her mind whirled.

  “How did you know—?” Matthew looked surprised. “Well, it doesn’t matter. I resigned to protest the administration’s decision. And I took the ferry because I had an important errand to run. I was hoping to catch you here before you boarded.”

  “Catch me? Here? But why?” Marie wanted to grip his hands in hers. After they’d spent an evening curled in each other’s arms, it seemed ludicrous that people would think them indecent for holding hands here.

  “I knew you’d want to hop the ferry to Napa afterwards.”

  “After what?” she asked, her heart pounding. Hordes of passengers rushed by in both directions, as though she and Matthew were two stones in a raging river.

  He reached into his pocket and dug out a small black velvet drawstring bag. He shook it gently, dropping a sparkling ring into his palm. He slid off Marie’s glove and slipped the diamond solitaire on her finger. Marie was speechless. She had never seen, let alone worn, anything so lavish.

  “Marry me,” he insisted. “I was in Napa, asking Philippe, Sara and Adeline for your hand.” He smiled. “By the way, they said yes.”

  His thoughtfulness astonished her. Marie raised an eyebrow, suddenly struck by another, more worrying thought. “What about your mother?”

  “I’ll have you know my mother offered her highest praise.”

  “What did she say?” Marie asked skeptically.

  Matthew kissed the inside of her wrist. “‘She’s French, but she’s nice.’”

  Chapter 33

  OCTOBER 1902, EAGLE’S RUN

  Pippa smiled from ear to ear in her new pink frock with tiny yellow flowers hand-sewn into the smocking. Sara could still see the thin, uneven line below her nose from the operation, but that would fade in time. From a few steps away, she looked like any other child, laughed and ate and chattered like any other child. She spoke with only a tiny lisp now.

  Philippe, Sara and the children bounced down the road in their wagon, leading the wedding caravan—a string of horses, surreys, runabouts and bicycles—from St. John’s in Napa City to Eagle’s Run for the celebration of Marie’s marriage to Matthew.

  Sara waved to the new Mrs. Donnelly, who was radiant in her ivory silk gown trimmed with Brussels lace. When she had walked down the aisle on Philippe’s arm, holding a bouquet of peach and white cabbage roses, the scalloped hems of her two-tiered skirt swished elegantly. Elbow-length gloves complemented her gigot sleeves, and her floor-length lace veil was held in place by a crown of tiny silk rosettes that beautifully framed her brown eyes and petite face. Marie waved back. It was truly the most perfect day Sara could recall.

  Sara had been thrilled when Marie and Matthew had asked to hold their reception at the new winery. She thought his family would have wanted the wedding to take place at their church in San Francisco, with a
big reception at a fancy hotel. But Marie had wanted something small, and comfortable, at home with her family.

  Still, the Donnellys had spared no expense. Bridget had helped Marie and Sara plan the reception. It was a sunny, cloudless October day, and the vine leaves were stunning in shades of gold and crimson. China, silver and crystal decorated long white tables in the orchard, protected by the shade of the ripening apple trees. Yesterday, Sara and Marie had spent hours arranging vases of deep pink and yellow dahlias, purchased from the hothouse. The colors burst like fireworks against the linen tablecloths. Philippe had brought out the 1901 Eagle’s Run Chardonnay and Saint Martin Chenin Blanc for the occasion, and dinner was to be roasted pig, cooked over a fire pit by George Rogers, Philippe’s old friend and chef from the Palace Hotel in Napa.

  The guests, an eclectic mix of San Francisco society people, doctors, nurses, medical students and Napa natives, spilled out of their conveyances, and children sprinted toward the orchard, winding through the apple trees, playing tag and plucking fruit from the low branches. Philippe opened the immense oak doors of the stone winery, allowing the afternoon sun to brighten the first-floor tasting room. Sara breathed a sigh of contentment mixed with pride. Despite so many challenges, she and Philippe had worked together to make this day a reality. With a wink, he jumped up on an empty barrel behind the gleaming bottles arranged at the tasting bar, spread his arms and declared, “The Eagle’s Run tasting room is officially open!”

  The crowd cheered in response, and even the high-society guests seemed in the mood for a good old-fashioned country party. When dinner was ready, Sara had to ring the bell for ten minutes to gather all the guests, who had scattered across the vineyard and farmland.

  After dinner everyone crowded around to admire the white cake with its buttercream frosting, adorned with sprigs of lavender from Aurora’s garden. As the guests lined up for their slices, Matthew’s mother snapped photos of the wedding party with her new camera. For the first time ever, Sara would have a family photo to place on the mantel in the dining room.