“That doesn’t signify. She didn’t want me because she didn’t want a baby, and I ignored her wishes.”
His voice was filled with self-loathing, and her heart ached for him. “Why was she so afraid of having a baby?”
He sat down and leaned forward to rest his forearms on his knees, his head hung low. “Her mother had been a midwife, and though Jeanette had usually been the one to assist, sometimes Anne-Marie had been called upon to help, and as a result, she’d seen a number of difficult births. Also, she'd had two miscarriages herself, and both were very painful for her. Shortly after we returned from Italy, a close friend of hers died giving birth, and after that, she wouldn't even discuss having children. She asked me to move my things into the adjoining chamber. I did, thinking it was a phase that would pass. That was eighteen months before she died.”
Tess knew Anne-Marie had caused Alexandre a great deal of pain, and she wanted the other woman to be wholly in the wrong; she did not want to see Anne-Marie’s side in this, yet she would be lying if she ever said these same fears had not lurked in the back of her mind during her pregnancy. Death in childbirth was a very real possibility for all women. But that was hardly Alexandre’s fault. “Is that why you think you killed her? Because she died in childbirth?”
“No.” He lifted his head, but he did not look at her. “There was more to it than that.”
“What happened?”
“After she learned she was with child, she refused to take care of herself. She didn't want the baby, she couldn’t even bring herself to admit she was to have one. She loved the winery and loved to assist with the winemaking, but I wanted her to stay out away. The stone stairs are steep and narrow, and I feared she’d take a tumble and be badly hurt. One day, when she was about seven months along, I found her coming up the stairs from the wine cellars. I was furious that she’d defied my wishes, and I'd had enough. I forbid her to enter the winery again.”
He paused, staring into space, and Tess knew he was seeing the moment he described, reliving it. “We stood there on the stairs, both of us shouting, saying things to each other—terrible things. I said I wouldn't have her taking any risks with my child. She said she'd never wanted to be a mother. I told her a cat would be a better mother than she. She accused me of loving a baby that hadn’t even been born yet more than I loved her, that the baby was all I cared about. I asked her why, if she hated the baby so much, she didn't pay Babette to rid her of it. She said...” His voice broke and he lowered his head into his hands. “She said she had. Babette had refused.”
Tess felt sick. She looked down at his dark head, bent in anguish, her heart breaking for him. “What did you say?”
“I was so angry. I wanted to hit her. God help me, I almost did. She dared me to do it. I grabbed her arms, I shook her. She called me a pig, I called her a coward. And she...”
“What?”
“She yanked away from me. We were on the stairs. I was so angry, I never thought...about where we were, until I watched her fall. She tumbled all the way down, over and over. She died three days later. So did the baby. My fault.”
Tess didn’t know what to say. She wanted to point out that it was an accident, and that accidents are no one’s fault. But others would surely have already told him that. She could have trotted out some of the comforting clichés her father had sometimes been forced to use in his role as a vicar. Those, too, seemed hopelessly cold comfort.
He stood up abruptly. “Now you can see why it would be best if you left.”
He started to walk away, but Tess rose and moved to stand in front of him. She reached up, cupping his face in her hands and forcing him to look at her. “All I see,” she whispered, “is the man I have always seen. The man who rescued me, who takes care of me, who is my hero.” She paused, caressing his face. “I love you.”
He wrenched free. “No, you don't. You can't. You should go with Henri and Jeanette. It would be best.”
He stepped around her and she watched him as he walked away. “I'm not leaving, Alexandre,” she called to his retreating back, but if he heard her what she said, he didn’t acknowledge it. He just kept walking.
***
Alexandre paid no heed to where his footsteps carried him, for Tess’s words ringing in his ears made thinking of anything but her impossible.
I love you.
She couldn’t mean it. Not really. It was gratitude, clearly mixed with some very misplaced hero worship. Deep down inside, he began to shake, and he realized with chagrin that he was afraid—afraid that she did mean it, and that he’d have to live up to it. And that he’d fail.
Hero? What a joke.
He stopped abruptly, realizing he was walking along a path he hadn't taken for three years, one he had vowed he would never take again. He was at the winery.
His steps faltered at the sight of the three stone buildings before him, but now that he was standing here, he was seized by an overwhelming need to go on. He resumed walking, and by the time he opened the door of the first building, his heart was thudding in his chest. When he grasped the rusted iron door handle, his palm was slick with sweat, and the door creaked loudly on its hinges when he pushed it wide.
A rat scurried past him as he walked between huge empty vats, and cobwebs tickled his face. He paused at the other end of the windowless room, staring down the stone steps that led into the wine cellars, where the sunlight streaming through the door faded into inky blackness, but he could still see Anne-Marie tumbling down the steps.
“You were so afraid of dying,” he said aloud. “I know I am to blame and there is no way I can atone for that. I wanted to die, too, but then, I realized my penance was to go on living.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “I have been alone for so long, chérie. I don't want to be alone anymore.”
He turned away from the steps into the cellar and sat down on the dirt floor. He closed his eyes and thought of Tess. He thought of her arms wrapped around him, the taste of her lips, her whispered admission.
I love you.
He already knew she possessed courage enough to have a dozen children and a heart big enough to love them all. He wanted to believe her heart was generous enough to love him as well.
He didn’t deserve that, and yet, he wanted her love because he loved her, too. It would be best for her if she left, and yet, he didn’t have the strength to fight her if she chose to stay.
But if she and the baby stayed, how would he take care of them? How could he live up to what they needed and deserved? He had nothing but a crumbling castle and a broken-down winery. Tess and Suzanne deserved so much more.
Opening his eyes, he looked around him, remembering his surroundings the way they’d appeared years ago, before he had turned his back on all of this and shut everything down. Hope suddenly flickered inside him, like a lamp lit in a dark window.
He rose and began to examine the equipment. The wine press, he knew at once, would have to be replaced. It had already been an ancient and horribly inefficient device, but the past three years of neglect had destroyed it beyond repair. In addition, several of the oak vats had been gnawed through by the rats and would have to be replaced. Other than that, everything still seemed to be in fairly sound condition. His hope flared higher.
He left the first building and entered the second one. Shelves of empty bottles lined the walls, covered with a thick film of dust. Crates of more empty bottles were stacked about the room, still waiting for the wine that had never filled them.
He went next to the brandy distillery, where he found everything in dismal condition. Both stills were gone—stolen, he supposed. Any brandy bottles that had been stored here were also gone, as was all the coal for heating the still fires.
But he pushed aside any glimmer of doubt. He didn't know if he could make wine again. Heaven only knew what condition the vines were in. But though there was a very strong possibility he would fail, he had to try. Tess had told him she and the baby would stay. If so, he had to be able to take car
e of them. They were his responsibility now.
What he needed most was money—to acquire a new wine press, to purchase other equipment and supplies, and to hire the necessary workers for pruning and tending the vines until next autumn. It was already too late to make any wine this year. Even if the vines had produced a decent harvest, which was doubtful, he could do nothing without a press and casks, and those would take weeks to acquire, even if he had the coin to buy them, which he didn’t.
He could raise capital by painting. Henri had said he was still receiving invitations to do exhibitions, which would bring in some money, but the real profit would be in the portrait commissions that would result from those exhibitions. At the height of his fame in Florence, he had done as many as three portraits a week.
If Henri could arrange it, he would go to Paris in early spring, then Florence, then London. Improvements to the winery could be made as the money came in, and they might manage a decent harvest in the autumn, depending upon the condition of the vines.
He left the distillery and went to the vineyards. The vines, though madly overgrown from three years of neglect and laden with unpicked fruit, showed no signs of disease. He pulled a few grapes from the nearest bunch, and popped one into his mouth. Not bad, he decided. All things considered, it might have made a drinkable vintage.
The sun was setting by the time he headed back to the château. He went in search of Henri immediately, and found his brother playing cards with Jeanette in the library. “Could I speak with you a moment?” he asked his brother. “There is something of vital importance I need to discuss with you.”
Henri set down his cards, answering Jeanette's inquiring look with a shrug, and followed his brother out of the house and across the courtyard, but when he realized where Alexandre was leading him, he stopped, laying a hand on his brother’s arm to stop him as well. “Why are we going to the vineyards? What is this all about?”
Alexandre took a deep, shaky breath. “I want to reopen the winery.”
Henri blinked. “The winery?”
“Yes. I need your assessment of the condition of the vines and the equipment and whether or not you think a harvest next autumn is possible.”
“Is that all?” Henri inquired in a joking tone to cover his surprise.
“No. I also have a great favor to ask of you. I want you to become a vintner again.”
Henri’s lips parted, but he couldn’t seem to speak. He stared at Alexandre, silent for what seemed like a century. “Let me see if I understand this,” he said slowly. “You want me to move my family back here again and supervise the winery for you?”
“No. This time, I want you to be a partner. I know you are a very successful wine merchant now, but I would like to have your help and expertise. You know wine as well as I do.”
“Better.”
“Quite possibly,” he agreed at once. “I wouldn't blame you if you refused. I know I have no right to ask you to do this after I closed the winery and sent everyone packing, including you. If you refuse—”
“I accept.”
“You do?” It was Alexandre's turn to be surprised. He'd expected a flat refusal. “Are you certain? Being a vintner is risky at best.”
“I've never been more certain of anything in my life,” Henri said, and then gave a sudden, loud whoop of delight. He jumped high in the air and spun around, a display that spoke more of sincerity than any words of assurance. His eyes shining, he grasped Alexandre by the arms. “I never wanted to be a wine merchant. Making wine, not selling it, is what I love. I have never wanted to do anything else.”
“I also know that I treated you quite badly after Anne-Marie died,” Alexandre replied. “I dismissed you from your position as head vintner. I—”
“Forget about that,” his brother interrupted. “I have. I was angry, yes, and I was hurt. But I forgave you ages ago. Besides, we're family. And you want us to make wine again.” He gave a jubilant laugh. “And you want to make me a partner? Good God, brother, that’s not a favor, that’s a wish come true!”
“What will Jeanette say?”
“She hates Marseilles and she loves it here. She always has. Her father was a vintner, too, remember. Making wine is in our blood, all of us.” He started down the path toward the winery. Alexandre did not move to follow, and Henri gestured impatiently. “Come on. If you want a harvest by next autumn, we’ve no time to dawdle. There’s much to do.”
“Wait. There's more to discuss. I've been down to the winery, and I know I'm going to need a great deal of money to make it run again. I don't have it.”
“I do. I'll provide the capital.”
“No.”
“But surely—”
“No. You may invest up to half, if you wish, but I will provide the rest. That is, if you can arrange for those exhibitions we were discussing a few weeks ago?”
“Well now,” Henri murmured wryly, “this is certainly a day for surprises.”
“Can you do it?”
“Of course. I receive invitations for you all the time. When I return to Marseilles, I shall begin making the necessary arrangements immediately. Now, I want to tour the winery.”
But they had barely taken half a dozen steps before Henri stopped. “What’s brought about this decision, if I may ask?”
Alexandre clapped his brother on the shoulder. “I just decided it was time to stop neglecting my responsibilities.”
“Hear, hear,” Henri said with feeling. “I heartily agree with you.”
“I thought you might.”
***
Henri and Jeanette left for Marseilles three days later as planned. Tess, firm in her decision, did not accompany them. As the days passed, she noticed that Alexandre spent a great deal of time painting, either in his studio or out in the countryside. That in itself was nothing unusual, but she sensed a definite change in him, an aura of energy and resolve about his work that she had never seen before. From the number of paintings he completed, she could only conclude that his artistic side was in a particularly inspired spurt of creativity.
When he wasn’t painting, he worked with Paul to make repairs to the château. The two men repaired fences, replaced flagstones, and cleaned outbuildings. One day, she found them rebuilding the walls around the courtyard with mortar. Alexandre had never taken much interest in such things before, and his sudden preoccupation with making these repairs was remarkable. Tess could not account for it.
One morning in December, after many days of rain, the weather was fine, and she decided to take Suzanne for a walk, but when she went to fetch the baby from the nursery, Leonie informed her that Suzanne was with Alexandre. He had, Leonie informed her, left the house a short time before, taking the baby with him for a walk down to the winery.
Tess was astonished. She knew Alexandre avoided the vineyards whenever possible, and whenever she had asked about the winery, he had always refused to discuss it. What was he up to?
Bewildered and curious, she walked down to the winery to join them, and when she arrived, she found the door to one of the buildings standing open. As she approached the doorway, she could hear Alexandre's voice.
“Now, mon enfant, this is the wine press. We use it to squeeze all the juice out of the grapes. When my father was young, the villagers would take off their shoes and stomp the grapes, but we don't do it that way anymore.”
He was talking to the baby. Tess bit her lip, smiling. When she took a peek around the door frame, she saw him standing beside a large machine, his back to her, Suzanne propped up in the crook of his arm. “But this wine press no longer functions,” he went on, pointing to the machine, “and if Henri and I are to make the best wine in the Midi, we must have a working press.”
He intended to make wine again? Tess stared at his back, stunned by this amazing turn of events. But his next words stunned her even more.
“It is very important that we make the best wine and that our winery regains its excellent reputation. I must ensure that you and your mo
ther have a secure future. I have to take care of you two.”
So that was why he was doing all this work with Paul and why he was intending to make wine again. He wanted to take care of her and Suzanne. He was doing all this for them.
Happiness rose up within her, a surge of it so strong and fierce that it couldn’t be contained, and a sob escaped her lips.
He turned at the sound, and in his face she thought she could see all the same longing she felt, but she had to be sure it wasn’t her imagination. “You wanted us to leave.”
“It’s too late now.” He moved to stand before her. “You’ve lost your chance to go.”
“I never wanted that chance.”
He cupped her cheek in his palm. “I’ll take care of you,” he whispered. “I swear it.”
“Suzanne and I will do our best to take care of you, too.”
He smiled at that. “You think I need taking care of?”
She turned to kiss his palm. “Definitely.”
He leaned down and kissed her forehead. “Do I get blackberry tarts?”
“Every summer,” she promised.
His hand slid away and he kissed her cheek. “And you won't put my paintbrushes away without telling me where?”
“I'll put them in the studio.”
He kissed her mouth, a slow soft kiss that robbed her of the ability to breathe, as his free arm wrapped around her waist to pull her closer. She came, closing her eyes and sliding her arms up around his neck, her heart singing with joy. Yes, she thought, this is how love is supposed to be. Taking care of each other.
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