Her Own Legacy

By Debra Borchert

A Woman Fights for Her Legacy as the French Revolution Erupts 

Headstrong Countess Joliette de Verzat prefers secretly managing her family's Loire Valley château and vineyards to the cut-throat politics of Versailles. For nearly three centuries, generations of families have

• Language: English
• Publisher: Le Vin Press
• Release date: Sep 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9780989454544

Debra Borchert

Debra Borchert has had many careers. She debuted, at the age of five, as a model at a local country club where her crinoline petticoat dropped to her ankles in the middle of the runway. Since then, she's been a clothing designer, actress (starring in her first television commercial with Jeff Daniels for S.O.S. Soap Pads), TV show host, spokesperson for high-tech companies, marketing and public relations professional, and technical writer for Fortune 100 companies. Her work has appeared in The New York Times, San Francisco Chronicle, The Christian Science Monitor, and The Writer, among others. Her short stories have been published in anthologies and independently. A graduate of the Fashion Institute of Technology, she weaves her knowledge of textiles and clothing design throughout her historical French fiction. She brings her passions for France, wine, and cooking to all her work. The proud owner of ten crockpots, she is renowned for her annual Soup Parties at which she serves soups from different cultures. She offers her soup recipes on her website.Debra's debut novel, Her Own Legacy, is the first in a series that follows headstrong and independent women and the four-hundred loyal families who protect a Loire Valley château and vineyard, and its legacy of producing the finest wines in France during the French Revolution. Her Own Revolution is the second book in the Château de Verzat series.She lives in the Pacific Northwest with her family and standard poodle who is named after a fine French Champagne.

Book preview

1

Joliette

Château de Verzat

August 30, 1786

Wine flows in your veins. Grandmaman brought her lorgnette to her eyes, examining the underside of a grape leaf.

I walked with her through the undulating hills covered in grapevines. Bees swarmed the grapes’ syrupy juices, their humming reverberating in my chest, reassuring me I was home. Ever since I could walk, I accompanied Grandmaman on her daily inspections of the vineyard. I peered over her shoulder at the leaves, but I did not see any mites or cutworms. My tutor told me blood flows in our veins.

She nodded and brought her arm beneath the leaves, lifted them, and exposed the grapes, round and full and close to ripe. It does. But you are a Verzat, and wine is in your blood.

That is silly. A giggle rolled through me. You know I am allowed only sips—I am just twelve.

It is not from the drinking of wine. She straightened and dug the tip of her walking stick into the cracked earth, releasing a mineral scent. It is from the terroir. Everything around you contributes to the wine and your blood.

I laughed. You are making that up.

I am not. She lifted her cane, waggling it at me. You are as rooted to this estate as the vines, and I shall prove it. Close your eyes.

As always, I obeyed her.

What do you smell?

A trickle of sweat ran down my neck. I was grateful I was not wearing the tight sleeves or heavy underskirts required at the Court of Versailles. I wanted to give her the correct answer. To her dismay, my papa had no interest in the vineyard, and I often heard him arguing with Grandmaman about it. I could not further disappoint her. A cool breeze brought the scents of mud and fish from the Loire, but they merely influenced the terroir, they were not a part of it, like the earth that rooted the vines.

I turned my back to the wind. Another fruit, besides the grapes. I sniffed again. Peaches? I inhaled a scent so luscious, my mouth watered. Sun-ripened apricots. I opened my eyes.

Her smile lit up her face and warmed me. She lifted her stick toward the far hill, where an orchard grew. She wobbled, and I reached to steady her until she replanted her stick. You would not have been able to identify that scent if you did not have wine in your blood.

There was no arguing with her. Will this year produce as good a vintage as the last?

She adjusted my bonnet to shade my face. You have your maman’s luminous complexion, and we must protect it, else she will forbid your accompanying me. She pinched my chin. What else do you smell, child?

Another scent? My tutor gave fewer tests. I inhaled deeply. A thick aroma shimmered in the heat, as if I had entered a patisserie. A sweet nectar, like honey.

Her face glowed. The fruit is smaller globed than most years but bursting with ripeness. Look. She ran a finger along strands of juice trickling from a split grape. Aging will intensify the ambrosial flavor that accompanies that scent. Her blue eyes sparkled, casting magic, as she searched the vineyard, stopping when she spotted a tall man. Joseph! She waved her cane.

Wearing a dilapidated straw hat and blue tunic, Joseph waved and loped through the vines to us. He removed his hat and bowed. Yes, Madame la Comtesse?

Send the pickers here this afternoon.

Just the southern slope, Madame?

Her smile broadened. This is why you are an excellent vigneron, Joseph. You require specifics. Yes, just the southern slope. Will you join us on our walk?

Of course, Madame. Joseph followed us at a respectful distance.

You will see why I am grooming Joseph as my apprentice until you can take over, my dear. Grandmaman cupped her fingers along my cheek, and I leaned into her touch like a puppy nuzzling its maman.

That will not be for a long time. I have much to learn.

She tapped the tip of my nose. You have a vintner’s sense of smell. That honeylike scent makes the wine robust and gives some wines a hint of caramel, like the caramel in Cook’s pastries. It only occurs during years of scant rainfall. I believe this year will be an excellent vintage, better than the last.

I picked a grape and savored the taste, imagining how the flavor would change after fermentation. The cracked dry soil released puffs of chalky dust with our footsteps. If I breathed through my mouth, I tasted the chalk. Like the parched earth, I wanted to soak up every drop of her knowledge. But if there is little rainfall, will the harvest yield less fruit?

She planted her walking stick and lifted her face to the sun, her wrinkles slipping away in the golden light. You are correct. And you have the mind of a viticulturist. She tilted her head, examining me.

I wrapped my tongue around the word, forming it silently and feeling a strange pride growing in me for having the mind of an expert.

Rather a large word for the growing of grapes. True? Her lips formed a pink heart. The black lace cascading over her straw bonnet and tied beneath her chin accentuated the heart shape. Leaning on her cane, she wavered a bit.

Viticulture?

Oh, how I wish your father had been as curious at your age. He has the Verzat palate, of course. She stabbed the earth with her walking stick. But he did not, and still does not, possess the desire for learning how to preserve the Verzat legacy.

A tightness wrapped around my chest—pressing me to not disappoint her. Yet, out of loyalty, I hastened to defend my father. Papa granted the vassals houses and land on the estate in return for their working the vineyard.

Yes. That was democratic of him, and he is a good businessman. She twisted her stick in the dirt. Your father considers himself a student of the Enlightenment. He spent many years studying Locke and Rousseau.

I turned and pretended to examine a leaf. He had encouraged me to read the same, but I did not confess it.

In recent years he spent much time with that American…the man with the funny fur hat…what is his name?

I laughed. Monsieur Benjamin Franklin. He made embarrassing mistakes in French, and Papa had difficulties not laughing at the Ambassador’s faux pas.

That is the man. My son is more interested in the American democracy than the Verzat winery. But should Château de Verzat fail, the land will be sold. And four hundred families will either go back to being vassals or be without homes and work. And it would be the end of the Verzat legacy.

A niggling sensation moved through my stomach. It will not fail so long as you run the winery, Grandmaman.

For now. I am nearly sixty and will not be here forever to ensure its success. Her eyes grew moist.

I squinted in the bright light. She could not leave me. I would die without her. I reached out and held her arm. You are too young to die, Grandmaman.

Not for a long time. But someday, I will. She gazed out over the Loire River, her eyes unfocused, as if watching the past. My dear husband taught me nearly everything I know, and it is most fortunate laws allow widows to inherit and run businesses. Still, I made mistakes without him, in the beginning. But I learned from them and survived along with the winery. Otherwise, the legacy would be no more. She pulled me close and wrapped her arm about my waist. Her heart beat rapidly, far faster than mine. I loved the vineyards so, I never returned to my position as lady-in-waiting to the Queen. You know the legacy?

Joseph stopped near us and removed his hat, in what seemed like reverence.

Bien sûr, Grandmaman. Château de Verzat wine is the finest in France. Verzats have held the vineyard and legacy since 1515.

Joseph smiled at me.

My throat grew dry, but I forced myself to speak. If Papa had a son, would you be training my brother to be vintner?

Her eyes flashed as her gaze locked with Joseph’s. He bowed his head and stepped back, replacing his hat.

She looked at me and pulled at her emerald earring. Perhaps…but I doubt anyone would be your equal. Her voice brightened. If your father does have a son, your brother will forever depend upon your nose, palate, and intelligence.

Pride skittered up my backbone. Part of me wanted a brother, so he could inherit the estate and continue the Verzat legacy and name. And although I had often asked my parents for a brother, I was now glad I had none, for I wished more than anything to be like Grandmaman and preserve the legacy, myself. Yet, if Grandmaman and my parents died before I married, a distant cousin would inherit the entire estate and legacy. Everything I treasured and cherished would be lost, and I would be left to the mercy of a man I had never met.

Most girls were thrilled to train as a lady-in-waiting, drinking chocolat chaud, dressing in silks and lace and jewels, and making wealthy nobles fall in love with them. Other girls would be glad their brothers would take over the vineyard and legacy. Although my name would change with marriage, at least I could ensure the winery and estate would always be Château de Verzat, but I would have to find a husband who desired the same.

She placed her hands on my shoulders and looked deeply into me. I was glad I did not lie to her, as I so often lied to fool my parents. I also kept no secrets from her, for her gaze would surely expose them.

"You have your father’s eyes—that miss no detail—and his fine mind. Fortunately, that is all of him you have inherited. You have my nose and determination. She pinched my chin. It is time for your first official tasting, ma chérie."

She turned to Joseph. Please prepare for us.

Joseph hurried down the hill toward the cave’s tasting room.

I hiccupped from my excitement. I had been allowed watered-down glasses of wine, but without knowing what I had been drinking. Now I would learn to identify varietals.

She gripped my arm, tightly, and I slowly led her uphill toward the cave entrance. She stopped to rest, and I waved my fan before her, the breeze stirring her gray curls. The hum of cicadas filled the air. She bent and coughed roughly. I patted her back, which was damp.

Let us continue. She gripped my hand and we climbed and stopped and rested and climbed again until we reached the terrace outside the cave.

I guided her to sit on a silk-covered divan beneath an arbor. On a low table before us stood a silver bowl mounded with clusters of grapes, a pair of crystal wine goblets, sparkling in the dappled light. On a side table sat a green leather-bound book in which I had often seen her writing. Joseph stood holding a carafe, a white serviette draped over his forearm.

My hands jittered, and I smoothed the lace on my sleeve. My glasses of watered-down wine had been served at dinner, never a formal tasting.

First we shall start with the fruit. Close your eyes, my dear.

I squeezed them shut.

Taste this grape and tell me the varietal.

I nearly coughed. What a test. The vineyard grew at least five types, perhaps more. I knew them all by sight, but she wanted me to identify one by taste, alone? I swallowed, willing my palate to cleanse itself.

The grape, warm from the sun, trembled against my lips. I opened my mouth and held it with my teeth, sliding my tongue against its shape, which did not give me a clue about variety. I bit. Juice burst in my mouth, tasting sweet, but not overly so; fruity, yet slightly tart; raspberries at the end of the season; ripe plums splitting from an overabundance of juice.

I held the grape in my mouth, inhaling, determined not to disappoint her. I chewed. The Chenin Blanc would be tarter, Sauvignon Blanc greener, the Gamay and Muscat more floral. I swallowed. S’il te plait, mon dieu, let me be right, I prayed. Cabernet Franc.

Correct!

My eyes sprang open.

She dangled a cluster of purple-black grapes and crowed a laugh.

Joseph’s smile was broad.

My face warmed as my success washed through me.

Are you ready for the next step?

I nearly jumped up. Yes!

Pour the wine, Joseph.

He poured the bright pale-yellow liquid into two glasses etched with the Verzat crest of grapevines entwining a fleur-de-lys. He stepped back, watching me.

Picking one up by the stem, she instructed me to hold the glass the same way. She swirled the liquid and brought the glass to her nose, closed her eyes, and inhaled gently. She looked at me and cupped her other hand, bidding me to do the same.

The scent dizzied me, so intense was the aroma—like a mélange of all the fragrances of the estate.

Her blue eyes sparked like the wine. What does your nose tell you?

It smells like home. Like here.

She smiled. What specifically?

Fresh green grass, after a rainstorm.

Her smile deepened the lines that sprang up from the corners of her eyes.

The chalky tufa stone. My words surprised me. I had not expected the taste of rocks to appear in a wine.

She nodded and caressed the emeralds circling her neck.

She wanted me to discover more. I inhaled again and sensed something flowery or herbal, reminding me of my maman, but the fragrance was faint and elusive. I sniffed again.

Take a tiny sip, hold it in your mouth, and inhale through your mouth.

As the wine touched my tongue, I sipped a breath, and the taste exploded. I swallowed the delicious drop. Lavender.

You picked it up! Grandmaman clapped. She caressed my cheek. Ma chérie, you do have wine running in your veins. You are a true Verzat. Is she not, Joseph?

Indeed, Madame.

Her enthusiasm filled me with such pride my corset pinched as I inhaled.

If your father does not have a son, this château, the entire estate, and the Verzat legacy will rest in the hands of you and your husband, Joliette. You and I must train our expert vigneron, Joseph, until you can become vintner. As your assistant, he will serve you well.

Joseph bowed and moved back from the table.

Vintner? Me? A prickling crept up my back. What she had said was true. Papa was with the King. He would not be here to oversee the harvest. I did not remember him having anything to do with the vineyard. If I married a man who knew as little as I did, how could we possibly succeed?

She sat watching me, her head bobbing like a sunflower bloom at the top of its stalk, battling a breeze. The oppressive heat made my head pound. The thought of Grandmaman no longer being with me squeezed my chest. I fanned myself. What will happen if we do not finish training?

"We must find an accomplished vintner should I fall ill before you are vintner. Joseph is an excellent vigneron, but he has neither your nose nor palate. She brushed her fingertips across my forehead. Do not worry, ma petite princesse. I shall not leave you for a long, long time. I shall dance at your wedding." She pointed to the green leather book.

Joseph hurried over, retrieved it, and placed it upon the table before me.

I picked it up. It was heavy with thick worn pages and smelled musty, as if many drops of wine had splashed upon it over the years. I placed it on her lap.

She caressed the book like it was her most precious memento. I have kept a diary, of every one of my days in this vineyard. It will explain what to do in any event, a hailstorm, draught, flooding, frost, fungus, pests. She held it out to me. I give it to you, my dear. For only you can advise the future vintner. Her hands shook, and I rushed to take it from her.

Its weight pulled at my arms, but I hugged the book. I shall read it every day, Grandmaman. I wanted to be exactly like her, a fearless, knowledgeable keeper of the Verzat legacy, but she had to show me how.

She patted her mouchoir to her face. As you should. Be prepared for anything, Joliette, then you can make decisions and take actions, quickly. Your wise choices may save a vendanges.

My decision could save an entire harvest? A tightness in my chest trapped my breath. She spoke as if the Verzat legacy would rest upon my shoulders very soon. "I will learn everything to ensure that Château de Verzat produces the finest wines in the world. I placed the book on the low table before us. And I will ensure that wine flows in Verzat blood for another two hundred and seventy years."

I know you will never abandon the legacy.

I opened my fan, pretending to relieve the heat, but actually hiding my fingers as I tugged at my gown’s bodice, loosening the laces, hoping she would not notice. Joseph knows much about the vineyard and winemaking, but do you not wish to know more so that you might direct him? Her face was still, but her eyes sparkled.

Bien sûr. I never wanted anything more in my life. But how would I learn everything? Perspiration collected on the back of my neck. I had tasted but one wine of the six Château de Verzat produced—and every vintage was different. Grandmaman was faltering. Would she have time to teach me everything? I spent most of the year at Versailles, training to become a lady-in-waiting. My parents would not allow me to interrupt those lessons. Only Grandmaman could teach me the Verzat secrets. But she was old and frail. Do you think I can learn it all?

Commoners are apprenticed at thirteen. And they must live up to expectations without the advantage of your fine education.

I grabbed at the challenge. If a commoner could succeed, a Verzat certainly could. The heat dizzied me. I knew nothing.

If I believe you can, and I do, her eyes cast their magic over me, then you can believe it, also.

An excited giggle caught in my throat. I pressed my hands below my ribcage and exhaled against my nervous excitement. I had to act as an adult—to ensure the Verzat legacy.

She gripped her cane and stood, looking out over the vineyard. I thought she was bending to pick up the book, but then her body twisted and slumped. Her stick clattered to the stone.

I caught her in my arms. Staggering, I laid her on the divan. Joseph!

His arms were beneath her in an instant. He tenderly lay her back upon the divan.

Grandmaman lay, eyes closed, yet smiling, like she was content and happy.

I shook her. Grandmaman! Her eyelids fluttered. I patted her hand and whispered, I promise, Grandmaman, but you must help me. I have so much to learn and only you can teach me.

She closed her eyes. Her smile grew peaceful.

Joseph picked her up in his arms. I held her hand, not leaving her side, as we hurried toward the château.

I whispered to her. I will make you proud, Grandmaman. I promise. With every step, I prayed, S’il te plait, mon dieu, let her live.

2

Joliette

Château de Verzat

September 1, 1788

I stood in the small graveyard overlooking the vineyard, envisioning Grandmaman in her straw bonnet, carrying her cane, bending over the vines, inspecting the grapes. You were my best friend. A hollow yawned in me. How can I live without you?

I forced myself to inhale—the scents of apricots, lavender, and honey. She had been right. I was as much a part of this vineyard as the rootstock penetrating the chalky soil, the breeze ruffling the leaves from dark to light green, the golden sunlight ripening the grapes to an ambrosial sweetness. She had continued my lessons from her bed, which she had never left after the day she had collapsed, two years earlier. I ran my hand over her white-tufa mausoleum. I pray I do not disappoint you, Grandmaman.

At the top of the hill, the château glowed like an amber brooch, lit from within. Its future lay within my hands, but only if I could convince my father of my abilities. I had little time to accomplish that miracle. But I might be able to convince Papa to appoint Joseph, who would rely upon me. I would have to make Papa think Joseph was his choice. Grandmaman, help me.

I returned to the château and stood at the threshold of the salon, Grandmaman’s jasmine scent lingering in the warmth of the room. My hands trembled as I plucked her rosary from my hanging pocket and fingered the beads, trying to summon the confidence and calmness she had worked to instill in me. I found a shred of neither. I sipped in a breath, remembering how that tiny act could make a wine’s flavor blossom. Help me convince him, Grandmaman.

Papa stared up at her portrait above the fireplace. Maman sat on the dark green silk couch, silently praying her rosary. A breeze billowed the white linen curtains, softly dragging them against the parquet floor—the only sound in the room.

I gripped the rosary before my bodice, keeping my grief hostage until I won my case. Only when I controlled the winery would Grandmaman rest. I gazed up at her face, so lovely, so serene, so proud. She held her smiling two-year-old son, my papa, in her arms as if he were the most treasured child in the world. I smiled. He was. How Papa’s nose had grown so crooked, I did not know, and I hesitated to ask.

Taking a deep breath, I entered the quiet. How old was Grandmaman when she sat for that portrait?

Papa clasped his hands behind his back. Twenty-five. It was painted just before my father passed.

She learned everything in ten years. I had had less than three for my studies. I pressed my thumb against my stomach, rubbing and pushing the tension down. Grandmaman had not found a vintner. Had she avoided finding him purposely, leaving no one else but me to occupy the position?

I clutched her rosary in my fist. If we did not find a vintner now, the cave, estate, and legacy, were at risk. I was the only one prepared to fight that risk. But how to make Papa think it was his idea? In my mind, I heard Grandmaman whisper: Surprise. Charm. Plan.

You have hired a vintner, Papa?

His eyes were dull. Deep lines on either side of his mouth drew his lips down. I had never seen him look lost. He appeared a child. I wanted to comfort him. His sigh pulled his shoulders lower. The châtelain can see to it.

I dropped the rosary. The châtelain had no training. That would be like watching the Loire flood the entire vineyard. I dared not say those words. I pushed my hands together in prayer. He already has much to do, Papa. And he has not the experience, otherwise Grandmaman would have appointed him.

He picked up my rosary and returned it to me, then walked to the bookcase and ran his finger along the spines as if looking for a vintner there.

Your maman would be disappointed in you, I whispered.

He turned abruptly, his eyes moist.

I pressed my fingers to my lips. I had been too harsh. I softened my tone. Unless you have a son, she would want you, the holder of the Verzat legacy, to find an appropriate vintner.

Maman cleared her throat, her eyes aslant as she stared at Papa.

His face reddened. I suppose I should before we return to Versailles. He nodded. I will do it tomorrow.

Tomorrow he would say there was no time to find one. I pressed my palm against the knotting in my stomach. He would leave everything in the châtelain’s hands—a grave error. I gazed up at Grandmaman. How can I help him? The memory of my first wine tasting bloomed in me. Her face, full of wisdom and pride and mischief. She had asked questions. I made my voice sound curious. What will you ask the potential vintner?

He turned toward me, his eyebrows rising. His experience.

That is important. And what else?

Is that not all he needs?

He will need to know how to determine the optimal time for the vendanges. I placed my hand on his velvet sleeve. But you know how to determine that, of course.

Certainement. He tapped his finger to his thumb. One pinches the grapes.

I gentled my laugh. No, Papa. Grapes are not plums. Pinching does not play a part. My heart grew heavy. Grandmaman had not exaggerated. I opened the curtains, letting in the golden light, and looked out over the vineyard. An image of my twelve-year-old self walking with Grandmaman hovered amongst the vines. He also must know the extra step required when crushing for the white wines. I glanced over my shoulder.

He turned his palms out.

He should show initiative and ask if Verzat wines are filtered.

His mouth dropped open. Are they?

Yes, Papa. I wanted to shout, yet I made my voice kind. But by various methods depending upon the wine. I pressed my fingers to my eyes. This was far worse than I imagined. Little wonder Grandmaman was so adamant I learn everything. Grandmaman taught me everything she knew. Perhaps I could help you interview him—if you like.

Maman looked up from her rosary. That would be highly inappropriate and unladylike, Joliette.

Heat rushed up my back. She taught me everything she knew because Papa did not learn it. I pressed my hand to my heart. Papa needs my expertise.

Maman tucked her rosary in her sleeve and opened her fan. Should it be known that you are involved in the winery, your reputation at Court will be sullied. She spanked the fan shut.

A sullied reputation is nothing compared to the loss of the Verzat legacy. I knelt before her and took her hands in mine. Besides, who would tell if only we know?

She loosened my grip and pressed her hands along her gown. Your grandmaman was ostracized from Court because she worked like a commoner in the vineyard.

I sat back. I thought she had lived at the château because she hated Versailles. She told me she never visited us there because the winery could not function without her for even one day. She may have been ostracized, but I suspected she was happy about it. But Papa works as a minister to the King, and you work as a lady-in-waiting to the Queen.

That is not work. Those are our duties. And becoming a lady-in-waiting—if you are fortunate to be chosen as one—will be your duty.

Yes, Maman. Would they deny my desire if I were a son? I stood and walked to the windows. Clouds gathered from the north. It was too warm for sleet, but hail was always a danger to the vines. My court-duty was as threatening as the weather. Without me here at the estate, who would oversee the vendanges? Joseph could not do it alone.

Papa’s heels clacked as he paced the parquet floor. I have been advising the King to levy a tax on nobles. If he does—and it is inevitable, for funding the Americans’ quest for liberty has left the King and France facing bankruptcy—we will need the money the winery generates to pay the taxes.

Maman stood and faced him. That is very enlightened of you, Henri. But your ancestors fought wars for François I. Your family received this estate as payment for their loyalty. She pressed her fist to her bosom. We are noblesse d’épée.

He smiled a sad smile. The privileges of the Nobles of the Sword are not democratic, my dear Catherine. Across the country, peasants have been burning crops and châteaux. If the King does not willingly change taxation, I fear commoners and peasants will force him.

I stood between them, looking from one to the other. And where will the money come from if we lose the winery?

You are a child. These things do not concern you. Maman touched Grandmaman’s emeralds circling her neck.

I pressed the rosary to my bodice and inhaled the confidence Grandmaman had instilled in me. I am fourteen—a woman—and I shall be married within two years. I am a Verzat, and the legacy very much concerns me, as my husband and I will inherit it—unless you and Papa have a son.

Maman flicked her eyes at Papa, who looked away.

Grandmaman trained me to ensure the legacy, and she would never want you to sell her jewels to pay taxes.

Maman dabbed her mouchoir at her eyes.

I was sorry I made her cry, but I pushed on, as Grandmaman would encourage me. I vowed to not only protect, but also extend the legacy, and I shall send Cabernet Franc cuttings to Monsieur Thomas Jefferson.

Maman burst into tears. You, too, shall be ostracized.

I stared at the carpet border, a pattern of grapevines twining around fleurs-de-lis. I will never embarrass you, Maman.

How do you know the American Minister? Papa drummed his fingers on the mantel.

I played cards with him at Versailles. I picked up my skirts and turned, pretending to examine an enameled box. I could not lie while looking at him, and I had to convince them both of my seriousness. I won and, rather than accept my winnings, I asked a favor of him: to plant the cuttings and rootstock I shall send. I looked out at the darkening clouds. We could have Verzat vineyards in America—if they thrive.

And he agreed? Papa’s tone rose.

Bien sûr. He has a great interest in viticulture. I could arrange meeting with Jefferson when we returned to Versailles, but winning at cards? That would take more than charm. But how to hire a vintner tomorrow? Joseph had been born on the estate, but as Grandmaman pointed out, he lacked my palate. I could exchange letters with him and oversee him from Versailles. I could suggest the châtelain recommend Joseph, making it look like his idea. I wonder… I tapped my chin. Would the châtelain know of any vintners?

Papa’s eyes lit up. That is a very good idea. I will ask him for a recommendation.

I looked from Papa to Maman, and back to Papa. My legs shook so that I doubted their support. I had to be a part of that conversation and make it appear as though it was Papa’s idea. Grandmaman taught me much, but I still have much to learn. May I accompany you? I smiled my sweetest smile.

Maman sank onto the divan, her skirts puffing out around her. Papa rubbed his thumb along his bottom lip.

I extended my hand. Come, Papa. It would please your maman to know you are teaching me. And it is very democratic of you to discuss viticulture with the châtelain.

His eyes held a glimmer, and I seized it as a sign that he might trust my judgement. But what if I made a grave mistake and the winery and reputation suffered? What if I was not ready to make any decisions?

Papa took my hand and placed it on his arm. "Let us go."

Grandmaman, help me ask the châtelain the right questions so he will volunteer Joseph.

PART II

Henri

3

Henri

Paris

August 13, 1786

Ever since I learned other boys had fathers, I wanted to meet mine. And today was my last chance to find him because tomorrow, I had to begin my apprenticeship with the stinking tanner and would have no time to look for him.

I scuffed my sabots, spraying gravel along the path of the Palais-Royal—a place where anyone could buy anything. As it was the most crowded place in Paris, I figured I’d find my father there one day.

I’d been dreading turning thirteen, because then you had to be apprenticed. I should’ve been grateful I had any apprenticeship, for it was all Maman could afford, but being a tanner was the worst job in Paris. I’d have to scrape bristles and rotting meat and fat from the skins and then throw naked hides into a steaming vat of piss and crap. Being a butcher, or chandler, or even a rat catcher would’ve been better, but those men had sons and didn’t need me.

Knowing today had to be the day to find my papa, I raced down a gallery lined with cafés and shops, past ladies smelling of lilies and waving their fans at men carrying silver-topped walking sticks.

I climbed a tree for a view of the stalls lining the garden paths. Bourgeoisie lined up before a fat man selling ribbons. A gangly man blasted a brass trumpet at a few prettily dressed boys. Laughter made me turn toward the central arena where a marionette show played. Since this was my last day for fun, I slid down and peeked behind the stall. Two men and a woman, standing on a platform, worked wooden crosses with strings attached to the marionettes below.

Entranced, I walked to the front of the rickety frame with a painted false roof, surrounding the stage. At its center flounced a marionette wearing a shiny pink gown. Her wig resembled a sailing ship so large it doubled her height—perfectly mocking Queen Marie Antoinette. Others, dressed as peasants not nearly as raggedy as real commoners like me, held strings of glass beads, looking like sapphires, pearls, and rubies. They lined up, bowed before her, and dropped the necklaces around her neck. With each one, she staggered and sank into her skirts. The audience applauded and cheered her descent—inch by inch—before she struggled, rose, and screeched for more.

She’ll drown in her jewels, yelled a flower seller.

I laughed along with the crowd.

Stop! Thief! A male voice shouted.

A street urchin ran into me, shoving me into a lady who glared at me. I begged her pardon and turned to grab the little beggar.

A noble, dressed in breeches and waistcoat the color of mustard with lace gushing from his cuffs and a jeweled scabbard hanging at his waist, raised his fist and shouted, Stop that thief! He stole my purse!

The urchin dodged through the crowd as the stage curtain dropped and people fled. I stood in the emptying space searching the noble’s face, even though my papa couldn’t be a noble. The nobleman had brown eyes, but they weren’t kind, and they stared—right at me. I turned. Two uniformed guards ran down the arcade—right at me. I held out my open hands. They charged—right at me.

I opened my mouth to yell it wasn’t me, but I was nothing compared to a noble. Nobles thought all the poor looked alike, so he figured I must be the thief.

If I were sent to prison, who’d deliver the laundry and carry water for Maman? I’d never meet my papa. I ran for the alley, toppling a lemonade seller and spilling her drink across the cobbles. Sorry!

Behind the café, I yanked open a rotting wooden door, flung myself down stone steps, and sprawled at the bottom. The door above bounced shut. I pushed myself up and stood, squinting in the darkness, breathing in dank air, and recalling my mental map of the tunnels. I pressed my hands against the rock wall, forcing myself to calm, then counted twenty-three paces. I felt for and entered the passage on the right, under rue Boucher. A door creaked.

Light slid down the main tunnel. I ran down the side-passage, seventeen paces to the wine merchant’s cellar door, and pushed. It didn’t budge. My