LITMIR.BIZ

      After boarding school, I had attended Pembroke College at Cambridge, where I’d graduated with a dual degree in classics and economics. Then my father insisted I embark upon a Grand Tour. I thought it an antiquated rite of passage, but he thought it a necessary rounding out of my education. How he prized worldliness! He wouldn’t be able to pass as gentry, but damn it, his son would.

      I traveled to France, Italy, and Germany. The Netherlands, Belgium, and Switzerland. I was supposed to go back to London then, to officially join Bell Textiles as my father’s second-in-command; instead I dropped down into Turkey and then made my way to Egypt. From there I went to the Far East, and after that, to Russia. I finished in Greece, spending a few weeks in Athens before finally returning to England.

      I was gone for over a year. It took me that long to realize how depressed I was at the idea of my future—sitting in a glass room looking down at the unlucky souls on the factory floor. The women spinning and operating the looms. The men weaving and carding. The boys sweeping the floor, dust and lint choking the air. My father’s employees labored twelve hours a day, six days a week, amidst deafening noise for paltry wages. And why was I sitting in that glass room rather than on the floor? Not because of hard work, but because I’d been born into the right family.

      This was not the life I wanted.

      I couldn’t stop thinking of those shimmering days before my father sent my mother away. The world she created. Between the hours of eight and seven, the household hummed and buzzed joyfully. No job was valued more than another. There were no delineations between rich or poor. To be useful, to do good work with people that you respected, that’s what was important. But that world did not exist anymore.

      I’d have to go out and create it.

      It was in June of 1889 that I stepped off the train in Glen Ellen, California, steam curling around my ankles, the smell of fate in the air. I took a deep breath. A perfume of mountain laurel, ripening grapes, and chaparral danced on the breeze, deepened with a base note of sun-baked rocks and ferns.

      My requirements for our new home? Close to a train—there were two train lines that ran through Glen Ellen. Near a large city—Santa Rosa and San Francisco were not more than a few hours away. Arable land—the hills were veined with springs.

      I was enchanted as soon as I stepped off the train. As were the hundreds of others who got off the train with me who were now in the process of climbing into buggies and wagons, en route to the dozens of resorts, enclaves, and tent campgrounds in the area, where they would soak up the sun, get drunk on Cabernet, swim and picnic in the druidy redwood groves while reciting Shakespeare.

      I climbed into a wagon and was driven off by a Mr. Lars Magnusson to view the old Olson farm. We traveled a mile or so into the hills, past oak glens, brooks, and pools of water, past manzanitas, madrones, and trees dripping with Spanish moss. Sonoma Mountain was to the west; its shadow cast everything in a soft purple light. When we finally reached the farm and I saw the luscious valley spread out in front of me, I knew this was it. Greengage. It would be a home for me and Martha at first, but I hoped it would soon be something more. A tribute to my mother and her ideals; a community in which she would have flourished, where she would have lived a good long life.

      Greengage. The burbling creek that ran smack down the middle of the property. The prune, apple, and almond orchards: the fields of wheat, potatoes, and melons. The pastures for cows and sheep. The chicken house and pigsty. The gentle, sloping hills, mounds that looked like God’s knuckles, where I would one day plant a vineyard. I was done with fancy trappings, done with servants, with balls and hunts, with titles, with soot, with my Cambridge pals, the stench of the city streets, with war. I was about to cast off my old life like a tatty winter coat.

      “Did you know the Olsons?” I asked Magnusson.

      “We emigrated from Uppsala in Sweden together.”

      “Why are they selling?”

      “Dead.”

      “Dead? Of what, may I ask?”

      “Husband, diphtheria; wife, scarlet fever.”

      “I’m very sorry to hear that.”

      “One right after the other.”

      “Really?” My mouth twitched in sympathy. “How difficult that must have been for you.”

      Magnusson scowled. Compassion from a Brit was both an unexpected and unwelcome intrusion. “You plan to use this farm for a commune?”

      “A commune? Who told you that?”

      “Jake Poppe. The proprietor of the general store.”

      “No. He is mistaken. It will be just me and my wife. At first,” I added, not wanting to mislead him. There were already twelve people waiting to join us. Three farmers and their wives, four children, a carpenter, and a stonemason.

      “You will need help. It’s a large property,” he said.

      “I’ll get help.”

      “You will pay well?”

      “Yes.” And I would pay for everything to get the farm up and running, but hopefully it would eventually pay for itself. That was my plan.

      “Look, what is your price?” I asked, unwilling to reveal anything more to him.

      Magnusson stared stonily down into the valley as if I hadn’t spoken. I couldn’t have guessed that this gruff, withholding Swede would not only join my endeavor but eventually become my indispensable right-hand man.

      “Five thousand dollars,” I blurted out. “That’s more than fair. Fifty dollars an acre.”

      In a matter of weeks, on my twenty-fifth birthday, I would come into my full inheritance, and that would fund not only the purchase but all the other initial costs. My father would not be pleased. I would rarely speak to him again once he heard of my cockamamie plan.

      Five thousand dollars was a fair price. The farm had gone to seed; it would

Скачать книгу