Thurston House Page 20

  He poured her a glass of champagne. “You must choose, my love. But choose wisely and well. When you rot in Napa for the rest of your life, you will regret the opportunity you missed … when he rapes you and gets you pregnant again …” She shuddered visibly at the thought. “Think of that! I will never ask that of you.” And she knew that sooner or later Jeremiah would. He would want a son. But it wasn’t right to leave him just because of that … she was his wife … she drank the champagne and began to cry and Thibaut held her in his arms and made love to her again, and that night when she went home, she walked upstairs to the nursery and stood watching her child at play. She was a year old now, she said a few words, she had begun to walk, but Camille was no part of the child’s life. She had chosen not to be. And now she wanted to put her face in her hands and sob, she really didn’t know what to do. And that night, when Jeremiah reminded her that they were leaving in five days, she thought she would go mad, and she met Thibaut again in his rooms the next day, but this time he made up her mind for her. He pinned on a huge diamond brooch, which he said was a family heirloom, and pronounced them engaged before making love to her again half a dozen times, and this time when she went home, she had a beaten look about her. She knew that however kind Jeremiah had been, she could not go back to Napa with him, could not bear him another child, could not even give herself to the one they had. It simply wasn’t in her. Thibaut had shown her that, not with the diamond brooch, but with his words, and now she was going to Paris with him. She was going to be a countess now. Perhaps that was what she had been meant to be.

  Jeremiah listened to her in shocked disbelief, and when she had finished what she had to say, he went to Sabrina’s room, and tiptoed past the nurse to look at the sleeping child. It was inconceivable to him that her mother was leaving her, more painful still to think of her leaving him. And the agony of what he felt was impossible to put into words. He thought of her keening as she gave birth to their child, and it was what he felt now. He remembered John Harte losing his wife and child several years before. And now he knew something of what he had felt. He had never felt greater pain, and he wondered if that was what Mary Ellen had felt when he left her. Perhaps this was retribution for his past sins. He laid his head in his hands and silently cried before leaving the sleeping child and going back to the loneliness of his bedroom.

  It took Camille two days to pack, and a pall fell on the house as the rumor spread. Jeremiah said nothing to anyone at all, and the morning before she left, he grabbed her by both arms and pulled her close to him as tears ran down his face.

  “You can’t do this, Camille. You’re a foolish child. You’ll wake up and wonder what you’ve done. Don’t think of me … think of Sabrina … you can’t leave her now. You’ll regret it all your life. And for what? Some fool with a chateau? You have all this.” He waved at Thurston House, but she shook her head and she was crying too.

  “I was never meant to be here … to be your wife.…” She choked on a sob. “I’m not good enough for you.” It was the first kind thing she had said and he held her tight.

  “Of course you are … I love you … don’t go … oh God, please don’t go.…” But she only shook her head, and hurried from the house, running through the gardens as she went, her dress flying out behind her, a vision of blue and white silk and flying black hair as Jeremiah watched blindly from upstairs. Thibaut was waiting for her with a carriage at the front gate, and a coachman came for her things that night. Jeremiah found a single note, with her jewels, “For Sabrina … one day …” And another note in his dressing room, “Adieu.” She hadn’t known when she left the jewelry behind that Thibaut would be furious with her.

  Jeremiah felt like a dying man as he went from room to room that night. He couldn’t believe she was gone. It was an insane thing to do. She would change her mind, would come back, would cable from New York. He put off his departure for Napa for three weeks, hoping that she would return, but she never did, never came, never called out to him. He never saw her again, except in his dreams. He wrote to her father eventually, and explained what little he himself understood, and the answer came back that she was a wicked child, and she was dead to them now, dead to them all, as she must be to him, her father urged. It seemed an unkind way to think of her, yet what other way was left? She never even wrote to him, she disappeared into the night with a stranger who had taken her to France with him.

  Her father had no sympathy for her, even though he was partially responsible for what she had done. He had taught her to want too much, to count too heavily on material things. He had filled her head with dreams and princes and dukes. But the difference was that when he saw Jeremiah, he had recognized a good man, a good marriage for his child, and he had done the right thing. Camille had gone too far, and her father couldn’t forgive her that. She wrote to him eventually, and he told her that she was dead to him. She would inherit nothing from him, or her mother, who was too ill to have any contact with her now. The only one left was Hubert, and he was of a selfish bent, and had never had much interest in Camille.

  And in California, Jeremiah told everyone that she had died, of the still dreaded flu. There had been a recent epidemic of it, and Camille had been wise enough to keep it quiet when she left. It seemed that no one knew that they had gone. Thibaut du Pré left an enormous outstanding bill at the Palace Hotel, so he was anxious to keep his future whereabouts unknown, and he had told no one that he was taking Camille Thurston with him. They simply left, and for more than a week, Jeremiah told everyone in town that his wife was desperately ill. The knocker was draped in black crepe after that and everyone was shocked. A small notice appeared in the newspaper, and the house was closed up, almost sealed, and Jeremiah left for Napa after that. Everyone there believed her dead of influenza too. He explained that her body had been sent back to Atlanta for burial in her family plot, and there was a small memorial service in St. Helena, attended by pathetically few. Almost no one knew her there, and those who did were understandably not fond of her. Hannah came, looking strangely stiff in a black dress, some of the men who worked at Jeremiah’s mines came out of respect for him, and Jeremiah was touched to see that John Harte had come too. He had never forgotten Jeremiah being there for him when his wife and children had died. He hadn’t married again and he still dreaded going home at night to his empty house on the hill. But he shook Jeremiah’s hand with a look of sympathetic grief.

  “Be grateful that you’ve got your little girl.”

  “I am.” Jeremiah’s eyes met his. The younger man was twenty-nine years old now, but he seemed older and wiser than his years. There was a lot of responsibility on his back and he carried it well, and in an odd way, Jeremiah was fond of him. He was touched that he’d come, and shook his hand warmly before he left. And then he went home to Sabrina, who had no mother now. He still couldn’t understand what Camille had done, or why. How could she have run off with him? But one thing was sure in Jeremiah’s mind. There would be no divorce. He wanted no one to know that Camille hadn’t died. There was to be no record of that. He was going to perpetuate the myth of her death as long as he lived, especially to his child. As far as everyone was concerned, Camille Beauchamp Thurston was dead. And only Jeremiah and Hannah knew the truth. All of the servants at Thurston House had been let go, the house was closed now for good. Perhaps he would sell it one day, or keep it for Sabrina, but he would never live there again. There were still some of Camille’s clothes hanging there, the things she didn’t want. She took all of her expensive clothes and her evening gowns, and her beautiful sables, with her. She took almost everything, except the old and the used, and there was precious little of that. She had filled her trunks well when she left, and if she ever came back, she would find herself still married to him. And Sabrina would grow up thinking her mother had died of influenza as so many others had in years past, and she would find nothing whatever to deny that tale, no trace of anything that might suggest the truth. No letter, no explanation, no divorce.
There would be no such thing. Camille Beauchamp Thurston was simply gone. Rest in peace. Forever.

  Book II

  Sabrina Thurston Harte

  18

  The carriage pulled up at the mines just before lunch, and a slender young girl bounded out, her silky black hair neatly tied in a blue satin ribbon, and her pale blue linen skirt and middy blouse made her look even younger than her thirteen years as she ran across the yard outside the mines, and waved to the man just emerging from the office. He stopped for a moment, shielding his eyes against the sun, and shook his head. But he was smiling as he did so. Only the week before, he had told her not to come riding helter-skelter over the hills on his best horses, so instead she had taken the carriage out and driven it herself. He wasn’t sure whether to be amused or angry, except that generally it was a decision he easily made. Sabrina was not an easily repressed child, never had been, and growing up alone with him, she had picked up certain peculiarities. She adored the smell of his cigars, knew all his quirks and needs and catered to them constantly, she rode his horses as well as he, and knew every man at all three of his mines by name. She had even come to know more about making wine from his grapes than he did. And none of it displeased him. Jeremiah Thurston was proud of his only child, prouder than he liked her to know, but secretly she knew it. He had never laid a strap to her or spanked her once in the past thirteen years, he taught her everything he knew, and kept her with him every moment. When she had been very small, he had scarcely ever left St. Helena, but stayed with her constantly, reading her bedtime stories at night, soothing her when she was sick, cradling her when she was sad, and more often than not taking care of her himself, instead of letting Hannah or the maids he hired do it.

  “It’s not natural, Jeremiah!” Hannah had scolded him more than once in the early years. “She’s a girl child, barely more than a baby, leave her to me and the other women.” But he couldn’t do it, couldn’t bear to have her out of his sight for more than a little while. “It’s a wonder you still go to the mines every day.” And after a while, he began to take her with him. He would gather up a few toys, a warm sweater, a blanket, sometimes a pillow, and she would play in a corner of his office, and lie cozily on the blanket by the fire when she grew sleepy in the afternoons. Some people found it shocking, but more often than not, they found it touching. Even the hardest-hearted men he dealt with couldn’t resist the little pink face tucked in beneath the blanket, the curls now turning black cast across the pillow, and she always awoke with a smile and a tiny yawn, and then would come running to kiss her father. It was a love that startled some and filled most who saw it with envy, a rare consuming passion, an understanding for each other’s ways. In thirteen years, she had given him no grief, in fact she had given him nothing but pleasure, and sunshine and affection. And in the lavishness of his love, she felt no pain at the loss of her mother. He had told her simply one day that her mother had died when she was a baby.

  “Was she pretty?” she asked.

  His heart clenched a little as he nodded. “Yes, she was, love. Like you.” He smiled, but in fact, Sabrina looked more like him than her mother. She had the sharpness of Jeremiah’s features and it was obvious early on that she would have his height. If anything, what she had taken from Camille was a sense of mischief. Now and then she played pranks on him, and she was a terrible tease, but it was all in good fun, and she had never shown any sign of her mother’s spoiled, pettish behavior. And in all her years, no one had ever hinted to her that her mother hadn’t died, but deserted them both instead. There was no reason to tell her. It would only confuse her and hurt her, as Jeremiah had told Hannah long before. And in thirteen years, there had been nothing but joy in Sabrina’s life. She had a happy, easygoing existence, and she went everywhere with her adoring father. When she was old enough for him to hire a tutor for her, she waited patiently through the day, feigning interest in her lessons, and then she would fly to the mine to be at his side, and spend the rest of the day following him there. It was there that she learned all that she wanted to know.

  “I want to work for you one day, Papa.”

  “Don’t be silly, Sabrina.” But secretly, he wished that she could have. She was daughter and son all rolled into one, and had a fine head for business. But it would be impossible for her to work at the mines, no one would ever have understood it.

  “You let Dan Richfield work for you when he was just a boy. He told me so himself.” But he was twenty-nine years old now, a married man with five children. How long ago it seemed that he had begun working for Jeremiah on Saturday mornings.

  “That was different, Sabrina, he was a boy. You’re a young lady.”

  “I’m not!” In rare moments of petulance, she did indeed remind him of her mother, and he would turn away so as not to see the resemblance. “Don’t turn your back on me, Papa! I know as much as any man about your mines!”

  He would sit down and take her hand in his with a gentle smile. “That’s true, my love, you do, but it takes more than that. It takes a man’s hand, a man’s strength, a man’s determination. You’ll never have those.” He patted the cheek he so dearly loved. “We’ll just have to find you a handsome husband.”

  “I don’t want a husband!” Even at ten, she had been outraged at the thought, and at thirteen she was no more interested than she had been then. “I want to live with you forever!” In a way, he was glad of that. He was fifty-eight years old now, still vital and strong and alive and full of ideas about how to run his mines and his vineyards. But the pain Camille had caused him had taken its toll. He hadn’t felt like a young man in years. He felt old and worn and tired, and there was a part of him that he would never open up again, just as he would never again open up the palatial house in the city. He had had numerous offers over the years, from people who wanted to buy it, even one man who wanted to turn it into a hotel, but he had no inclination to sell it. He had never set foot in the house again, and probably never would. It would be too painful to see those rooms he had built for Camille, the home he had hoped to fill with half a dozen children. Instead, he would leave it to Sabrina, and if she married, he would give it to her then. Instead of being for his children, it would be for her, it seemed a suitable end to the home he had built with such loving intentions.

  “Papa!” She called out to him as she ran across the yard, leaving the carriage safely tied up. She knew more than most boys about mines and horses and coaches. And yet, her femininity had remained intact, as though hundreds of years of Southern ladylike traditions were bred into her so deep that they would always be a part of her. She was female to the very tips of her toes, but in all the gentle, loving ways that her mother wasn’t. “I came as soon as I could.” She ran up to him breathlessly, tossing her long curls over her shoulder as he laughed and shook his head in mock despair.

  “So I see, Sabrina. When I suggested you drop by this afternoon when your tutor left, I didn’t mean to steal my best coach to do it.” She looked suddenly remorseful and glanced over her shoulder.

  “Do you really mind, Papa? I drove it very carefully.”

  “I’m sure you did. It wasn’t that which concerned me. But you make quite a spectacle of yourself driving a rig like that, my girl. Hannah will surely tan both our hides. And if you did it in San Francisco, they’d run you out of town on a rail and say you were ‘fast’ and behaved in a most unseemly manner.” He was teasing her now, and she shrugged her shoulders with obvious indifference.

  “Then they’d be silly. I drive better than you do, Papa.”

  This time he frowned in mock outrage. “That’s a downright rude thing to say, Sabrina. I’m not totally over the hill, you know.”

  “I know, I know,” she blushed slightly, “I just meant …”

  “Never mind. Next time ride your sorrel over here. It’s a little less conspicuous.”

  “But you told me not to run hell for leather over these hills, to come in the coach, like a lady.”

  He bent toward
her and whispered in her ear. “Ladies do not drive coaches.” And then she began to laugh. She had had a wonderful time driving over. And the truth was that there wasn’t a great deal for her to do in St. Helena. She knew no children her own age, she had no siblings or cousins, and she spent all of her time with her father. So she played pranks when she got bored, or hung around the mines. And now and then, he took her to San Francisco. They always stayed at the Palace Hotel, and he took rooms for her adjacent to his own. When she was younger, he would take Hannah with them, but now the poor woman was too crippled by her arthritis and she did nothing to hide the fact that she hated going into the city. And Sabrina was old enough to go alone with her father.

  They had often driven by Thurston House, and once he had unlocked the gate and they had strolled through the gardens together, but he had never taken her inside, and she suspected why. It was too painful for him since the death of her mother. But she had always been curious about the inside of the house. She had asked Hannah about it, and had been disappointed to learn that the old woman had never been inside it. She had pressed Hannah about what her mother was like too, but she never got much information and early on deduced that Hannah had not been overly fond of her mother. And she wasn’t sure why, but she never quite dared press her father about it. Something so ravaged and sad and angry came into his eyes when her mother’s name came up that she preferred not to cause him any anguish by asking him about her. So there were mysteries and holes in her life, a house she had never seen, a mother she had never known … and a father who adored her.

  “Did you finish all your work, Papa?” she pressed him as they walked toward the coach arm in arm. He had finally agreed to let her drive him home, with his horse tied to the back of the coach, and a shudder for what people would think if they saw them.