An Orphan’s Harvest of Love (Preview)

Chapter One

California, Summer, 1886

“Rhoda, can you tie my laces? I still don’t know how to do it right,” the little boy said, looking up at Rhoda, who smiled and rolled her eyes.

“Oh, Louis, you need to practice—like I showed you. Here, let’s do it together. Take both the laces, cross them over, fold under, and pull,” Rhoda said, demonstrating the action to Louis, who furrowed his brow with an uncertain look on his face.

“Then the loops?” he asked.

“That’s right, then the loops,” she replied. “Now, first loop, then pull the next one underneath. You don’t need to be wearing the shoes to practice. Do it every night before you say your prayers. You’ll soon manage it.”

Louis nodded, smiling at Rhoda, who ruffled his hair and smiled back at him.

“You’re not like Miss Peacock and the others, Rhoda. She was angry with me for asking…I’m just not as quick as the others,” Louis said.

Rhoda put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed it.

“Miss Peacock…has her own way of doing things, Louis. But I suppose I understand better than most what it’s like for you. I’m an orphan, too. I was raised here just like you. It’s all I’ve ever known,” she replied.

Louis nodded. “Do you ever think about what it’s like to have a family? I never knew mine.”

Rhoda sighed and shook her head. She tried not to think too hard about what might have been. It was the curse of the orphan—the imagined family, the things missed out on, the perception of other people’s happiness.

“You might not have known your real family. But you’ve got a family here at Saint Anthony’s. We’re one big family—you’ve got brothers and sisters, and aunts and uncles. Families come in all sorts of shapes and sizes, Louis. This is yours and mine, too,” Rhoda replied.

She knew nothing about her past. Only that she had been brought to Saint Anthony’s Orphanage in Burrville when she was just a few weeks old. It had been her home ever since. First, as a child, and now, at the age of twenty-two, she was working as Miss Peacock’s assistant, one of several who helped look after the children.

“I suppose so. I just wish I knew who I was. Sometimes, I try to picture what my parents looked like, and then I wonder why they didn’t want me,” he said.

Rhoda was worried he would get upset, and stooping down, she put her arms around him and hugged him.

“No one’s unwanted, Louis. Your parents had their reasons, and often it’s because they want what’s best for you—perhaps they didn’t think they could look after you,” she said. “But don’t ever think you’re not wanted. You’re special. And you’re loved. That’s what it means to be here. All children at Saint Anthony’s are special.”

Louis’s tears were averted, and with his laces tied, he went off to join the other children outside in the yard, where an enthusiastic game of ball was being played. Rhoda watched from an open window in the dining room, smiling at the sight of the children playing together, laughing and enjoying themselves.

There were so many tragic stories among them, and to see them doing as children should do—being carefree and having fun—brought a lump to her throat. Their story was hers, and Louis’s words had resonated with her.

She often wondered who she was, even as she knew the futility of doing so. Who she was, where she had come from, what might have been—those were questions she never expected to find the answers to, and that was something she had to be content with. She knew nothing about herself, and that was that. She was who she was because of what she had made herself.

This is who I am, Rhoda reminded herself, waving to some of the children, who had come running toward the window at the sight of her.

“Rhoda, will you come and play with us?” one of them called out, and the others nodded enthusiastically.

“I don’t think Miss Peacock would like that. Besides, I’ve got my chores to do. These tables won’t set themselves,” Rhoda said.

Miss Peacock was a stern woman, and as a child, Rhoda had been scared of her. She wore her hair in a graying bun with her hair pulled back severely and was always immaculately dressed, her pince-nez spectacles hanging on a chain around her neck, giving her something of an intimidating look. But Rhoda would be forever grateful to the orphanage mistress for offering her a job when she had reached the age when most of the children had no choice but to take work wherever they could find it.

“I’ll always remember the arrival of Rhoda Blue,” Miss Peacock had said.

No one knew Rhoda’s surname, but they had called her “Blue” on account of her bright blue eyes, and the blanket she had been wrapped in when she had been left on the steps of the orphanage. Rhoda still had it. It was a pretty thing, lovingly made—embroidered with swirling blue patterns.

Someone, somewhere, had cared enough for Rhoda to wrap her in a blanket like this, and such a thought gave her hope whenever she found herself thinking as Louis had done. Her mother, whoever she was, had left her with a reminder, and it was one Rhoda clung to with hope.

“Will you read to us later? I can’t wait to hear what happens to the princess,” one of the children said, and Rhoda smiled.

“I will, if you let me get on. Go back to your game. It won’t be long until suppertime,” Rhoda said, and as the children ran off to join in the game of ball, Rhoda turned to the lines of tables in the dining room, now needing to be set for the evening meal.

***

“Benedictus, Benedicat per Jesum Christum Dominum Nostrum,” Miss Peacock said, and the children responded with a loud “Amen.”

Rhoda sat down to eat, sitting between Miss Peacock and Amy Clearwater. Amy had been an orphan, too. She was a year younger than Rhoda, a shy, retiring young woman who had come to the orphanage after her parents had been killed in a fire on their ranch. She and Rhoda were friends, sharing in the domestic tasks around the orphanage and taking care of the children together.

“Delicious soup,” Amy said, helping herself to a slice of bread from the dish placed between them.

“Very nice, yes,” Rhoda replied.

Miss Peacock did not encourage idle chatter at the table. The orphanage workers were to set an example to the children, but some conversation was permitted—Saint Anthony’s was not a convent, but its foundation had come from an order of sisters, nuns of the Holy Spirit, whose influence appeared everywhere, especially in the rather large and dramatic crucifix hanging on the wall above them.

Rhoda took her faith seriously, but there were times when the stories the children told about their pasts made her question the goodness of the God she had been raised to know and love. She believed, but it was the example of Jesus Himself she was most drawn to—His love for the poor, the outcast, the widow, and the orphan. Rhoda had experienced that love for herself from those who had cared for her as a child, and now she wanted to do the same.

“There’s a letter for you, Rhoda,” Miss Peacock said when the meal had come to an end. “It’s in my office. It arrived just before dinner. Once the children are in bed, you can come and collect it.”

Rhoda was surprised. She couldn’t remember the last time she had received a letter. Who would be writing to her? Outside the orphanage, she knew no one, save for a few of the orphans now working in the town. But none of them would have need to send her a letter…

“For me?” she said, and Miss Peacock nodded.

“I don’t know who it’s from. It’s marked from Sonoma County, but that’s all I know,” Miss Peacock replied.

Rhoda was intrigued, and later, after having gotten the children to bed—hastily reading a chapter of the book she had promised—she made her way to Miss Peacock’s office. It was a comfortably furnished room, part study, part sitting room. Miss Peacock’s own life had been something of a tragedy. Her betrothed had been killed in the Civil War, and a failed religious vocation in the convent had led to her eventually finding purpose at the orphanage.

Rhoda only knew this through Amy, for Miss Peacock never spoke of herself, though how Amy had come to know of it, Rhoda did not know. Miss Peacock’s emotions, if they existed, were hidden behind an unwavering façade, but it was clear she harbored a deep sorrow. There were times she appeared lost in thought, and having ushered Rhoda into the office, she sat for a moment, her brow furrowed as though she were somewhere else entirely.

“The letter, Miss Peacock,” Rhoda said, and the orphanage mistress looked up.

“Oh, yes…I’m sorry, Rhoda. I’ve got a lot on my mind. But that’s no concern of yours. Here you are. You can take it away or read it here,” she said.

Rhoda liked Miss Peacock’s office. As a child, she had only ever entered it when she had been naughty, but now, on occasion, Miss Peacock would invite her and the other orphanage workers in for a glass of sherry or tea and cake. It was her way of thanking them for their work, though there was never any sense of intimacy in their conversation. Miss Peacock would always remain a distant figure, one who, though kind, would never let herself be more than their superior.

“I’ll read it here, thank you. It might be something you need to know about,” Rhoda replied.

She was still curious as to who could be writing to her. She knew no one in Sonoma County and didn’t recognize the writing on the envelope addressing it to her.

“Not if it’s private. But please, open it here,” Miss Peacock said, and she passed Rhoda a letter opener.

Opening the envelope, Rhoda pulled out a letter, and she was surprised as she unfolded it to find a sum of money enclosed.

“Twenty-five dollars,” she exclaimed, staring at the money in disbelief.

Miss Peacock raised her eyebrows. “Goodness me. Whoever could be sending you such a sum?”

Rhoda unfolded the letter. It was signed by a Monty Rutherford, though the name meant nothing to her. Now, she began to read, furrowing her brow at the extraordinary story that now unfolded.

Dear Rhoda,

You must forgive me a great number of failings, and I can only tell you how sorry I am for not having written to you sooner. In truth, I have only just discovered your whereabouts, and I write now in some considerable haste, given the condition I find myself in. This letter comes from your uncle, and here, I must offer the first of my apologies. You have lived your life not knowing anything of your family. You are my sister’s daughter, and for many unfortunate, reasons, she was forced to give you up when you were a baby.

At the time, I knew nothing of where you were or what had happened to you, but now I do, and I want to make amends to you for the years of hardship you have no doubt endured—a hardship that would not have existed had you lived the life I, and other members of your family, have been fortunate enough to live.

I am writing this letter from my sick bed. The doctor tells me I have only a short while left to live, and having set my affairs in order, I write to ask for your forgiveness and your presence here in Sonoma County. Our family owns a vineyard here. It is profitable and will provide you with a good income when I am gone. And that is why I am writing to you, Rhoda—to tell you of your inheritance and to let you know that your future is assured.

I have instructed my lawyer to ensure my estate in its fullness passes to you. I hope this can go some way to making amends for the life you have lost, and if you can find it in your heart to come to me, I will receive you with great joy. The enclosed money will help with your journey. God bless you…

As she reached the end of the letter, Rhoda shook her head in disbelief. It was incredible, and she did not know what to think of it—was it true?

“I…Miss Peacock…would you read this, please?” she asked.

Miss Peacock had, once again, been lost in thought, and she looked up at Rhoda and nodded, reaching out to take the letter from her.

“If you’re happy for me to do so, yes,” she said, and Rhoda nodded, watching Miss Peacock’s reaction to the extraordinary words the letter contained.

“What do you think? Did you…did you know anything about it?” Rhoda asked when the orphanage mistress had finished reading the letter.

Miss Peacock shook her head, handing the letter back to Rhoda with a look of astonishment on her face.

“I had no idea. It’s simply extraordinary, isn’t it? A vineyard in Sonoma County, left to you…an uncle you knew nothing about. This is your story, Rhoda. It’s remarkable. I don’t know what to say,” she said.

Rhoda did not know, either. There had often been times when she had wondered about her past. But to have it outlined in this way, and to go from knowing nothing to knowing everything was remarkable. Unfolding the letter, she read it through again, shaking her head in disbelief at the thought of what it promised. She was the heir to a vineyard, and that meant money, wealth, security…

“What should I do, Miss Peacock? He wants me to go there. If he’s dying, it means I don’t have much time. But what if it’s not real?”

There was every possibility of a hoax or a mistake. How had this man—her uncle—discovered who she was or where she was? It didn’t seem possible. Miss Peacock thought for a moment, furrowing her brow.

“He’s sent you twenty-five dollars, Rhoda. That’s a lot of money. There’s enough there to get you to Sonoma County and back again if something doesn’t feel right about it once you get there,” she said. “You’ve made a life for yourself here, and I’ve tried my best to help you over the years. But there’s an opportunity here, and if it’s the truth, well…you’d be set for the rest of your life.”

Rhoda nodded. She knew nothing other than the orphanage. It was her life. But it should not have been her life—the letter proved it. Despite this, there was still a doubt in her mind, and she feared it could all be too good to be true. After all, was this not the dream of every orphan—a long-lost relative with good fortune coming to whisk them away from the life of poverty they had found themselves in?

“I think I’ll go to the chapel and pray about it,” Rhoda said, and Miss Peacock nodded.

“I think that’s a good idea, Rhoda. Be guided by the Lord. And listen to your heart. That’s where He speaks,” she replied.

Rhoda nodded and, thanking the orphanage mistress, left the office, her mind racing with thoughts of the change the letter represented.

It’s extraordinary, she told herself, and looking down at the letter, she wondered again if it could really be the truth.

Chapter Two

“It’s hot work today, Stephen,” his brother, Robin, said, mopping his brow with a handkerchief as he looked up from his picking.

Stephen Kemble had come out to check on the progress with the harvest in the vineyard, where the fertile soil and good weather had combined to produce a bumper crop for picking.

“It’s going to be a good vintage this year, the fruits of your labor and all that. Just wait until you taste the wine,” Stephen replied, smiling at his brother, who nodded.

“I’m not complaining. Look at this place. It’s paradise. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else on earth,” he said, looking out across the gently sloping terraces of vines stretching down into the valley below.

Stephen smiled. Robin was right. The Sonoma Valley was a paradise—rich and fertile, kissed by the sun, lush and green.

“I’m glad to hear it. I feel just the same. Have you seen Aunt Sabina? Monty’s asking for her,” Stephen said, looking down into the rows of vines below, where several dozen pickers were busy harvesting the grapes.

“She just took a basket of grapes back to the winery. She’s probably still there,” Robin said.

Stephen nodded. He had been busy that morning at his desk. The vineyard was going from strength to strength under his leadership, and inquiries were coming in from as far afield as New York City, where the wines produced in California were highly regarded by discerning connoisseurs in the grand hotels and restaurants.

Stephen was proud of the work they were doing, and with Monty—who had established the first vines over twenty-five years ago—now on his sickbed, it had fallen to Stephen to take the lead in managing the vineyard. He had learned a lot over the past six months, taking on responsibility for both the making of the wine and the selling. The vineyard employed dozens of people, and Stephen was well respected in the valley as a man of business and principles.

“All right, I’ll go and find her. Thanks. I’ll leave you to it,” Stephen said, nodding to his brother before climbing back up the terrace through the vines, pausing to inspect the grapes as he went.

It really had been an excellent year for the harvest, and soon, they would reap the rewards of what they had sown. Glancing back down the terraces, Stephen couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride in what he had achieved.

“Stephen?” a voice behind him called out, and Stephen turned to find his Aunt Sabina coming toward him, carrying a large empty basket under her arm.

She was his mother’s sister. A short, slim woman with graying hair and large green eyes. She had taken Stephen in when he was a child, his parents having died of influenza during an epidemic in the western states. She had been working at the vineyard at the time, and its owner, Monty Blackwood, had offered to take Stephen in. The rest was history, and Stephen had grown up with the vines—harvesting the grapes, watching Monty make the wine, and learning how to bottle and sell it.

“I was just coming to look for you. Monty’s asking for you,” Stephen called back.

His aunt set down her basket and nodded. “We can walk up to the house together, then. The pickers are making good progress, aren’t they? We’ll soon have the harvest in,” she said.

They emerged from the vines onto the cobblestones in front of the house, a few moments later, just as Doctor Porter was coming down the steps from the house. He looked grave, shaking his head as he approached them.

“It’s not looking good, I’m afraid,” he said. “It’s influenza. He’s growing too weak to fight it. I’m not sure what more I can do. He’s a strong man, but even the strongest men have their weaknesses.”

Stephen’s aunt raised her hand to her mouth, her eyes growing wide with horror. Monty had been ill for some time, but to hear his prospects spoken of in such stark terms still came as a shock, and Stephen put his arm around his aunt’s shoulders to comfort her.

“Thank you, Doctor Porter. Are you saying we should start making arrangements? He seemed all right earlier on. He was asking for my aunt just before you arrived,” Stephen said.

He and Monty had had a conversation about the vines that morning and, though weak, Monty had been alert and interested in what Stephen had to say. The doctor shook his head.

“Like I said, he’s a strong man, but he’s fading. I’d suggest you plan for the worst. He’s had a long life, blessed by the sun of our beautiful valley. But it won’t be long before he moves to a different paradise. I’ll call on you tomorrow. Keep him comfortable, and if he wants a last glass of wine, don’t deny him that pleasure,” the doctor said.

Stephen watched him go, trying to take in the enormity of what the doctor had said. He had always believed Monty would get better, and yet the signs had been there.

“Poor Monty…oh, it’s too terrible,” Stephen’s aunt exclaimed, pulling out her handkerchief and dabbing at her eyes.

“I suppose…well…we can do whatever’s necessary to keep him comfortable. He might still rally. You heard what Doctor Porter said—he’s strong,” Stephen said.

His aunt and Monty were close, and Stephen knew his death would come as a terrible blow. She had been diligent in taking care of him, doing so alongside her work in the vineyard and looking after the house.

“I know, but…what will we do when he’s gone? The vineyard means everything to him, and…it just won’t be the same without him,” she said.

Tears rolled down her cheeks, and Stephen put both his arms around her to comfort her.

“We’ll keep going. I’ve been running things ever since he took ill. I’m ready to take on the responsibility. I mean…perhaps he has someone else in mind. But he’s been preparing me for this day since I was a boy,” Stephen said.

He was not an ambitious sort, and he had never coveted the vineyard for himself. But Monty had always been kind to him and had often spoken fondly of what might be.

“I need to make sure these vines have someone who really cares about them, when I’m gone. Winemaking isn’t just a business. It’s an art. That’s what I’ve always tried to teach you, Stephen,” he had once said, and Stephen had taken those words to heart, remembering them now as he thought of what the future would hold.

Sabina nodded, pulling away from him and drying her eyes.

“Yes, you’re right. Stephen. I know you’re right. You know the vines better than anyone, apart from Monty,” she said.

“He was asking for you earlier. Why don’t you go and see him,” Stephen said, and his aunt gave a weak smile.

“I will. And then you should, too. Bring a bottle from the cellar. The two of you have a lot to talk about,” she said.

As she walked off across the cobblestones, Stephen sighed and ran his hands through his hair. He felt the burden of responsibility resting heavily on him. It was one thing to be in charge when Monty was there to make decisions and give advice, but the thought of taking on the vineyard, of it being his own, was entirely different.

Am I ready for it? I don’t know if I am. He let himself into the cellar by a door down a flight of steps below the house.

After the heat of the day, the cellar felt refreshingly cool, and lighting a lamp, Stephen made his way into the cavernous set of rooms where the previous years’ vintages were kept. Wine had been made at the vineyard for twenty years, and most of the bottles were covered in a thick layer of dust. Barrels stood on one side of the largest of the rooms, labeled with the vintages of the past five years. But Stephen was in search of something special.

Holding up the lamp, he made his way along the rows of bottles until he was at the very back of the cellar. Peering down, he smiled, pulling out a bottle so covered in dust as to disturb several spiders from their webs. He held it up to the lamp, narrowing his eyes to examine the label.

Eighteen sixty-six. The first vintage. Monty’s first bottle. Satisfied with his find, he returned from the cool cellar into the warmth of the sun.

His aunt had just emerged from the house, and pointing at Monty’s window, she urged Stephen inside.

“It’s you he wants to see now,” she said.

“Is he all right? I got a bottle of sixty-six,” Stephen replied.

“You’ll see,” his aunt said, and shaking her head sadly, she walked off toward the vines.

Stephen took a deep breath, walking up the steps to the front door, and entering the parlor. The house was a handsome one—made of stone, built in the sandstone of the valley, with a large parlor and dining room. There was an office downstairs, and a private study, too, with stairs leading up from the large hallway to the bedrooms above.

Stephen and his aunt lived in one part of the house, and Monty had his own rooms in the adjacent wing, though before his illness, they had always eaten their meals together and spent the evenings in one another’s company. It was a strange arrangement, but it suited them well enough. Monty had never married, and Stephen had never asked why.

He was a private man, but he had been kind to Stephen and Robin, who lived in a cottage adjacent to the house with his wife, Moira. They were expecting a baby, and Monty had been generous in his help towards them, gifting them the cottage, and promising them a share in the profits from that year’s vintage.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Kemble,” the maid said, emerging from the kitchen with a jug of lemonade.

“Is that for Monty, Minnie? I can take it up, if you like. Could you fetch some glasses and a corkscrew, please?” Stephen said.

The maid, an older woman of forty who had worked for Monty as long as Stephen could remember, smiled and nodded.

“I’m sure he’ll be glad of that,” she said, glancing at the dusty bottle in Stephen’s hand.

“I hope so. I’ll go up now,” Stephen replied, taking the jug of lemonade from the maid’s hand.

Making his way upstairs, Stephen felt suddenly nervous. He had spoken to Monty only that morning, but the doctor’s words had changed everything. It seemed this was no longer an illness to recover from, but a gradual fading away, one they would all have to prepare for. Sunlight was streaming through the landing windows, casting its rays on the wood paneling that adorned the walls. Monty’s bedroom lay at the end of a corridor to the right, the door slightly ajar as Stephen approached.

“Is that you, Stephen?” Monty called out, and Stephen opened the door to find him lying in bed, propped up with several pillows and covered by a blanket.

The room was warm, but it seemed Monty was cold, and he looked somehow smaller, huddled beneath the blankets. In his prime, Stephen remembered him as a fine figure of a man—tall and well-built, with a fine head of black hair and a muscular frame. But now, to see him at the end of his life, it was as though he was a shadow of the man he had once been.

Stephen knew he had been foolish to think Monty would ever recover, and as he approached the bed, he felt again the burden of responsibility now to be his.

“My aunt said you wanted to see me,” Stephen said, setting down the jug of lemonade and the bottle of wine on the bedside table and pulling up a chair.

“I’ve had the doctor here, Stephen. He told me to put my affairs in order. Luckily for him, I already have,” Monty replied, glancing at the bottle and smiling.

“Doctor Porter told me…I know it can’t be easy,” Stephen said, but Monty shook his head.

“Oh, I’ve known it was coming for long enough, Stephen. You don’t recover from this kind of thing. No one does. But there’s something I need to tell you. It’s not easy,” he said.

At that moment, Minnie brought in the glasses and the corkscrew, and before they went any further, Stephen opened the bottle and poured them both a glass of wine. Raising the cork to his nose, he breathed in the bouquet. It was perfect—full of the rich, fruity scent of the matured grapes. A perfect vintage and testament to the winemaker’s art.

“To you and all you’ve achieved,” Stephen said, and he and Monty clinked their glasses together in a toast.

“And it’s thanks to you it can continue, Stephen. You’re the one who’s taken up the mantle. And I’m proud of you for that,” Monty said.

Stephen felt certain he knew what was coming—Monty was about to tell him he was leaving him the vineyard. His heart was beating fast—a mixture of fear and trepidation—and now he took a deep breath, waiting for Monty to say the words.

“I’d do it all again,” Stephen replied.

“I know you would, and that’s what means so much to me, Stephen. And I want you to promise me something—that you’ll do as I’m about to tell you. I’m not going to be here much longer, and I need to know the vineyard’s in good hands. That’s why I want to make you the permanent manager for the new owner,” Monty said.

At these words, Stephen’s expression changed. He tried to hide it, but he couldn’t help but show surprise at Monty’s words.

“The new owner?” he asked, and Monty nodded.

“I finally found her. My niece, Rhoda. I’ve left the vineyard to her, and she’s going to need all the help you can give her when she arrives. I’ve written to her, and I hope she’ll be here before…well, before what’s going to happen happens,” he replied.

Stephen didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know Monty had a niece, and to think of her taking over the vineyard when she knew nothing of wine or grapes seemed astonishing.

“I…I see,” he said, for there was nothing else he could say, except to accept what Monty was telling him.