Sweeter Than Wine (29 page)

A new what?

She was giving up? His mouth went dry. She had no use for him? After last
night perhaps she did not, but he refused to believe this! If she annulled their
marriage, he would lose Montclair. Where else could he go?

His intention to tell her about what had actually happened at Fountainview
died. He couldn't allow her to give up on his dream! He stood abruptly, and the
chair skittered away behind him. "I drove to Fountainview and made a deal with
Mr. La Fontaine," he blurted, lying through his teeth. "He will buy wine from us, if
we can meet his standards."

She had to believe him. Stretching the truth a little would save him. It wasn't
really
a lie. Mr. La Fontaine would love Montclair's wine when he tasted
it.

"Of course, we cannot tell anyone until after crush, when we will know if the
wine is good enough," Siegfried amended, hastily. He wasn't good at this kind of
deception. She would know...

"This is wonderful news. How did you arrange it?"

He tried to swallow. "I--I presumed upon
Opa
Roye's acquaintance with
Mr. La Fontaine, and brought him some of our wine today. That is where I went."
Frantically he tried to think of something else to say. He stepped close to her, saw
that she was staring at the dirty dishes, her bottom lip white between her teeth. "I
did this for you, Alice. Is this not what you wanted?"
Since you don't want me
as a husband?
"This should make you happy."

She forced a smile. It faded. "Yes. Yes--of course it does. I always wanted my
wine to serve a higher purpose than the liquor trade. I'm...grateful that you took the
trouble. It was kind of you."

"Trouble? Kind? Ah-lees," he said, confused, desperate. "I did this for
Montclair."
I did this for us
. Her perfume tantalized him. Struck dumb, he
leaned forward and kissed her. He was afraid she would flinch away, as she had
done last night, but she kissed him back. She
did
like him, after all!

He drew her closer, burning for her, and put a possessive hand on her breast.
My wife!
When she stiffened in response, he brushed his thumb across her
nipple, expecting her to sigh.

A moment later his leg exploded and he doubled over in agony, clutching his
thigh. Her knee had narrowly missed his groin. Her ferocity had reawakened the
pain beneath his scar, and the damage to his pride was worse.

"Oh, Siegfried, I'm so sorry! Are you okay?" Alice hovered anxiously. "Did I
hurt you? I didn't mean to! I'm sorry! But you shouldn't have--"

"I...shall...be...fine," Siegfried gritted, every word a boulder rolled uphill.

"Can I help you?"

"
Bitte. Geh weg!
"

"I'm sorry?"

"Go. Away."

Alice, still apologizing, disappeared upstairs. Siegfried allowed himself one
whimper as he found the chair and saved himself from falling down, holding his leg
out straight before him. He should get up and assure Alice he was perfectly all
right. Maybe he would do so, when he was able to walk again.

In about fifty years.

* * *

How could I do that?
Alice asked herself, appalled at her extremely
unladylike behavior.
How could I hurt him like that?

Her mother's voice, matter-of-fact, answered her.
Because he was offering
that sub-contract to pay you for--

She clasped her hands over her ears, as if she could shut out the sound of her
thoughts that way. "A bath. I need a bath," she muttered to herself, and went to
her room to take off her clothes. She felt soiled and jittery and utterly unlike her
normal restrained and careful self.

The hot water threw up clouds of steam and she breathed deeply, trying to
quash her recriminations.
You shouldn't have hurt him.

She most definitely should not be thinking about it--about Siegfried's--about
the way he had touched her last night--

She dropped her robe and splashed into the water, hoping the heat would cure
her shivering. She tried to concentrate on the little thunder of the water rushing
from the faucet, and the hollow echoes in the big, deep tub, but the water was
velvet, and lapped her in sensitive places.

Sitting up, she rubbed at her sore knee, which bore a red tender splotch, proof
of her violent and essentially base nature. Her father would be so ashamed of her.
She was her mother's daughter, though she tried to wash it away, tried to pretend
otherwise. She
knew
Siegfried wanted her. She knew how he wanted her to
repay him for getting the subcontract with La Fontaine.

At least, she sniffed, she had made a clear response. Hugging her shins,
resting her cheek on her knee, letting the warmth of the water seep into her
muscles, she wished she were not so smart.

That first moment of Siegfried's kiss had been so nice. She'd felt so safe, so
cherished, so desired...She'd wanted him, too, before she realized what he was
doing.

And now it was all so sordid.

She turned off the water and steeped.

* * *

After the worst of the spasms in his leg faded, Siegfried limped down the hall
from the dining room to the study. He poured himself a medicinal glass of port and
settled down behind the large mahogany desk to contemplate his wreck of a
life.

The port was soothing, lubricating his thoughts. He had bungled very badly
with Alice, when it was most necessary to succeed. He did not want to leave
Montclair! He caressed the old, polished wood of the desk possessively. A spark
of heat in his groin reminded him he did not want to leave Alice, either.

He groaned and hung his head in his hands, calling himself all kinds of names
for fool. He loved her, and he had done everything wrong. Let him only have
another chance to win her!

He swallowed the last drops of the port, deciding what he would do.

In a moment he took paper and pen and began composing a letter to Charles
La Fontaine. He got as far as the salutation, then rolled the fountain pen restlessly
between his fingers. How to make a dignified request? If only he could have
spoken to La Fontaine in person! His good news to Alice might be premature, but
he was determined that it would not prove to be a falsehood.

Liar. And coward.

Siegfried could not even complain about Aramon's rudeness. He concentrated
and forced out the first resistant sentence:

My late grandfather, William Roye of Montclair, often spoke of you. On
numerous occasions he mentioned your respect for fine red wines. I have recently
returned...

It took him another half-hour of heroic wrestling with his rusty English grammar
to complete the brief letter. He copied the text of his rough draft, with its many
corrections and crossed-out lines, onto a clean sheet of paper, and then
addressed and stamped an envelope.

He pushed back from the desk and poured another glass of port. This had to
work. He had to make Alice understand that they could keep the winery going, that
his skills as a vintner would not be wasted, that she really did want to keep
him.

First, he would apologize to Alice for his ungentlemanly behavior. He had
heard the water running in the pipes for her bath, and he wondered if she was
finished yet.

Siegfried pictured her in the tub, her soft white skin beaded with water, her
face flushed and moist, her copper hair curling wildly. At the now-familiar spark of
arousal, he tried to stand. His thigh gave a complaining twinge.

He drank off the port in one swallow, and made his slow way up the stairs.

Her bedroom door was ajar. When his tap produced no answer, he pushed it
open and stepped inside.

Alice's room was furnished with the same cherrywood furniture from his
grandfather's day. Closest to Siegfried was the large bed with its massive,
scalloped headboard and plump goosedown pillows peeking out from under a
crocheted lace bedspread. He longed to sleep here, next to Alice. The master of
Montclair, with his lovely wife curled up next to him...

A wedding portrait in a simple silver frame stood on a lace doily on the night-
table. Siegfried bent closer, recognizing Bill. The Alice in the photo was extremely
young. Siegfried recognized her terrified expression.

How little he actually knew about his wife. A large carved armoire against the
far wall, its door half-open, revealed a modest collection of dresses, skirts, and
blouses. A dresser, mounted with a beveled mirror, stood next to the lace-
curtained window, scattered items on its top: long, bead-tipped hatpins bristling
from a pincushion; hairpins tumbled in a blue-and-white porcelain bowl; a silver-
backed brush and comb framing a near-empty bottle of eau-de-cologne. There
were postcards of Paris and London stuck in the oval frame of the mirror. With a
stab of jealousy, Siegfried realized that Bill must have sent them to her from
Europe.

Something glittered at the edge of his vision. Siegfried saw an open jewelry
box and a huge dragonfly brooch sitting inside. He blinked--the gaudy pin seemed
wildly at odds with Alice's style. Where had it come from?

"What are you doing here?" Alice asked sharply.

Siegfried spun around.

She wore a long robe and her hair was wrapped in a towel. The delicate scent
of lemon soap drifted to him.

Siegfried drew himself up straight, clicked his heels together, and gave her a
stiff, formal bow. "I took an inexcusable liberty earlier this evening, Alice, and I beg
your forgiveness."

Her bare feet, small and white, peeked out from beneath the hem of her robe,
unbearably erotic. Siegfried swallowed heavily and straightened.

Alice's expression was wary again. She held the neck of her robe protectively
closed. "Thank you for your apology, Mr. Rodernwiller." She indicated her
bedroom door with an austere nod. "Good night."

She was very angry with him.
Mr. Rodernwiller, indeed
. "Good night."
He dared not look at her again, standing so deliciously damp next to her bed. He
hobbled into the hallway and heard her door shut firmly behind him.

Back in his own room, he undressed and crawled, frustrated, into bed. He fell
asleep planning how he would make good on his rash promise, how he would
redeem himself in her eyes. La Fontaine would love Siegfried's wine. How could
he not?

* * *

Alice lay awake for a long time, pondering the abrupt reversals in her life in the
last two days. She had failed to obtain a sacramental wine license, but Siegfried
had gotten a subcontract to supply wine to La Fontaine, the licensee. She had
seduced Siegfried for her own selfish ends, but he had nobly renounced the
consummation of their marriage. She had rejected his sexual overtures tonight, but
she still wanted him, his mouth on hers, his weight over her. She wanted to show
him the things she knew, to bring him as much pleasure as he had given her. But
then he would know just how unworthy she truly was...

She was acutely aware of Siegfried sleeping in the next room, no differently
than any night since he'd arrived, except for one. And that night had apparently
made no difference in their life together.

But it had.

She rested her forearm against her eyes. One night together. One night
apart.

All her plans had come to nothing. She wondered if God was laughing at
her.

Sleep brought a welcome end to her thoughts.

* * *

Alice pushed her cup forward as Maria refilled Peter's mug, then Siegfried's.
She needed more coffee this morning. The kitchen was too bright, and too full of
Siegfried. Maria winked at her as she poured, and Alice busied herself with
buttering a piece of toast. The simple task seemed to take forever and she was
clumsy, dropping the dull knife.

Siegfried snatched it from the floor and handed it to Alice without losing a beat
in his debate with Peter. "Once the red wine comes out of the fermenting vats it
must
age in oak. And the old barrels--if they are not ruined already--will
need reconditioning before I will let any wine touch them."

"There's thousands of them!" Peter protested, "Even with Herculio's crew,
you're going to be outnumbered, and I can't spare any more men."

"If we do not have enough barrels, your workers' efforts will be wasted. We will
have to sell grapes, not wine," Siegfried warned, lifting his coffee cup to his
lips.

"With Wartime Prohibition starting next Tuesday, you may have to, anyway,"
Maria said, picking up the remains of a platter of meatless Friday eggs from the
table.

"No, we won't," Alice said with satisfaction. "We have a subcontract!"

Maria's congratulatory murmur was drowned by Siegfried's question: "And if
we need more workers, we will have to hire them, is that not so, Alice?" He looked
hopeful, overlapping his fingers as he warmed them on the fresh cup.

She said doubtfully, "If we can sell Mr. Roye's library wines to the Bohemian
Club for at least four dollars a bottle--"

Maria clucked as she picked up empty plates. "
If
all the rest of the
wineries weren't dumping their stocks, you might."

"And what do
you
know about it?" Peter jeered.

"I can read the paper." Maria nimbly sidestepped the hand he reached to pat
her hip, and deposited the dishes in the sink.

"Little woman, you're a great cook, but don't--"

"She is correct," Siegfried interrupted him. He took a gulp of coffee. "In these
conditions, if we negotiate well," he continued gloomily, "and if the Bohemian Club
sommelier is the same man I remember, we might get two dollars a bottle."

Only two dollars for a premium vintage
! Alice put her toast back on her
plate, her appetite gone. She addressed Siegfried for the first time this morning,
and it was just as difficult as she had expected. "Siegfried, may I speak to you,
privately?"

He walked with her out of the dining room, slightly puzzled but polite enough to
wait for an explanation. She ushered him into the office, closed the door, and
faced him, trying to shut out all the memories of his hands, his mouth against her
skin...She took refuge behind her desk. "We can't afford to spend any more
money."