The Winemakers, Book One
Historical Romance
Date Published April 25, 2022
"A headstrong Portuguese meets her match in the arrogant Englishman who threatens her beloved vineyards. Dive deep into Portugal's rich culture in this intoxicating story about wine and love."
Portugal, 1870
A winemaker desperate to save her vineyards...
Julia Costa is the best winemaker in the Douro. When a greedy tradesman threatens the land her family has held for generations, Julia prepares to defend her legacy and independence by any means necessary.
The Englishman sent to uncover her secrets...
The last thing Griffin Maxwell wants is to waste time mired in a Portuguese backwater. Still, to guarantee a partnership with Oporto's largest trading firm, he agrees to travel up the Douro river and chase some reluctant debtor.
A meeting of two cultures...
Nothing prepared Griffin for the headstrong winemaker. Alluring, she tempts him into enjoying Portugal's vibrant tastes and is a threat to his carefully constructed plans. The arrogant Englishman arrived at Julia's lands, believing himself entitled to everything, including her heart. But how can she resist an attraction headier than a vintage?
An enemy too powerful to fight alone...
When a mysterious plague decimates Europe's vineyards, Griffin and Julia put differences aside to find a cure, blind-tasting their way into an intoxicating passion. But reality demands an answer: will they choose their ambitions or the love of a lifetime?
Oporto, Portugal -
June 1870
A gust of wind blew in from the sea. Members flocked inside the British
Factory House, holding their top hats and flapping coats. They lived outside
the motherland but could still enjoy a gentlemen’s club as luxurious as White’s
in London.
Griffin left his hat and coat in the vestibule
and entered the foyer. Light from two horse-sized chandeliers flashed on the
arched ceiling. Voices and clinking glasses mingled with the pianist playing a
sonata in the corner. All the British port-trading gentlemen were here. Some
stood near the tall colonnades while others talked in groups, their black and
white finery stark against the blue walls. Friends, passing acquaintances,
competitors — all would give their left foot to be in Griffin’s position. After
courting Croft for a year, he would extract a yes from the wily fox.
Nothing could go wrong. Their partnership was
a fait accompli.
Griffin’s pulse hammered a staccato rhythm on
the veins of his neck. He rolled his shoulders to release the tension as he
scanned the crowd. Coat straining over his stomach, Croft chatted with Fladgate
and Taylor. He looked like a benevolent sea lion with the points of his
mustache curving down like ivory tusks. His appearance masked his ruthlessness
in business. The man knew the value of things, be it wine, horses, or
properties, and could bargain a fellow out of his trousers and sell it back to
him for double the price.
They made eye contact, and Croft waved.
Waiting to speak with him until after lunch would be as pleasant as shaving
himself with a barbed wire. Griffin wrestled a place on the leather couch and
hoisted the Times, scanning the London news.
He usually enjoyed the newspaper, as it
arrived in Oporto only once a week, but today the headlines blurred. Failure
crept into his thoughts, listing everything that could go wrong. Griffin shut
his eyes, dispelling the unusual pessimism. Croft neared retirement. With no
sons to assume his business, he had reason to value a partnership.
The upholstery dipped. “You know what would be
grand? If my dear friend lent me the phaeton and his flashy team tomorrow.”
Griffin lowered the paper a few inches and
raised a brow. Charles Whitaker eyed him expectantly, his hair in disarray,
sporting a bright yellow vest that clashed with his striped trousers. No doubt
he had sailed from a night of debauchery straight into the Factory House.
Griffin lowered the paper. “Another race?
After last time—”
“No, no! Not that. Your blacks put to shame
any horseflesh in Oporto, and I mean to impress—”
“The baroneza’s husband
will kill you if the races won’t.”
Charles’ affair had ended in a very public and
embarrassing duel. Griffin abhorred expressions of passionate liaisons, be it
drunken serenades or pistols at dawn. His mistresses needed to be desirable,
but discreet. Let the Portuguese rant and rave about love. His life would never
be ruled by such animal instincts.
Charles extracted a cigar from his pocket.
“This isn’t about Carmen. I promised Anita an outing to Sintra. You know her.
The ballet dancer. Come with me tonight.” He brightened. “She has this blonde
roommate that does a marvelous rond de jamb.” He
licked his lips as if he meant a dessert and not a dance step.
Griffin grimaced at the alcohol fumes his
friend exhaled, strong enough to burn his nose. “I’m taking Anne to the opera.”
His little sister had pestered him all week to see the reopening of Nabucco. The brat had a way of sweet-talking him into doing
her bidding. “Why don’t you try a respectable outing for a change? You may even
like it.”
“You sound like my father. But I must warn
you, I have a hell of a time understanding his speeches when I’m soused.”
Charles perked up and spoke in a plummy imitation of Mr. Whitaker, the senior.
“What a man does in private, he repents in private, but what he does in public,
he regrets in his privates.”
Griffin hid his laughter under a stern façade.
“A little decorum, for heaven’s sake. This is the Factory House, not some shady
tavern.”
The two gentlemen across from them glowered,
whispering behind their hands as they moved to the whist table.
Charles narrowed his eyes. The devil-may-care
attitude seeped from his features to reveal an unusually thoughtful expression.
“You are just like them, are you not? The best sportsman in Oporto, a really
capital fellow, locked in this… this paddock like sheep.” He gave the company
of gentlemen a contemptuous look. “There is a whole of Portugal you ignore,
waiting beyond these walls.”
Not caring for Charles’ unflinching stare,
Griffin crossed his arms, forcing a blank expression. If he had embraced
Portuguese temptations, he wouldn’t have transformed his uncle’s small trading
firm into the fastest growing port company in the city. “I’m taking the coach
to the countryside tomorrow.”
Charles gaped, the unlit cigar slipping from
his lips. “You? Leaving town?”
Griffin shrugged. “A few weeks. I’m going to
the high Douro. My late uncle’s Quinta is leaking more money than a drainpipe,
and I will set it to rights.”
“You know there are no English people up
there, don’t you?”
The Douro River was Portuguese territory—home
to the Quintas that produced port wine. It was a wild, unruly corner of the
world that held no interest for Griffin. Still, the business required his
attention. “I’m perfectly aware the Queen won’t be there to greet me.”
“Will you sell the place?”
“I don’t know yet.”
The bell sounded, and Charles staggered to his
feet. “It will do you good to spend some time outside this paddock.”
Griffin watched him swagger to the dining
room. Had Griffin ever been carefree like Charles? Of course not. His mother
and sister had been under his care since he was seventeen years old. If this
partnership went well—no, not if, but when—he would restore his family to the
former status they’d had in London.
The hours dragged by as Griffin endured lunch
and stilted conversation. His watch pulsed inside his pocket as if counting the
seconds until he could speak with Croft, a countdown to his future. On a
sidebar, servers lined up port decanters.
Croft grabbed a bottle, chest puffed. “I
raided the cellar for this gem. I dare you to guess the year and the producer.”
Members applauded while the footmen
distributed chalices. Griffin ignored the bets. When his glass arrived, he took
it by the stem and twirled the amber liquid. Why this fuss? There was good wine
and bad wine. Obsessing about terroir, vintage, and bouquet fell in the same
category of Portuguese romantic notions he avoided. When Croft declared the
winner, Griffin didn’t raise his eyes.
Finally, members left in pairs and trios, some
unsteady on their legs.
Griffin strode inside the treasurer’s office,
taking in the battle paintings, the stale tobacco smell, and the tray filled
with port and whiskey decanters. The anxiety that had plagued him all day left
in waves, leaving in its place the cold-headed focus that guided him in daily
life. Croft sank behind his Georgian desk and invited Griffin to sit.
“Great lunch,” Griffin said, wondering how
much small talk was needed before he could speak about the partnership.
“Glad you enjoyed it, Maxwell.” Croft lit a
cigar and puffed a steady stream of smoke. “Do you know a wine property named
Quinta do Vesuvio?”
If he’d never heard about the best wine
producer in the Douro, he wouldn’t have a long life in this business. Griffin
pulled the flap of his coat to sit. “I believe they neighbor my uncle’s
plantation.”
“Two years ago, I lent money to Mr. Bernardo
Ferreira so he could increase wine production. But the man died, and I’m
worried—”
“You want me to see if they complied?”
“I would consider it a great favor.” Slightly
out of breath, Croft flattened a yellowed map over the desk. Vesuvio stood to
the Douro River’s right side, closer to Griffin’s property than he had
expected. “These are the current plantings. Call it an old man’s intuition, but
I think they hide something there, and it’s not codfish.”
Griffin pocketed the map, dismissing Croft’s
fears. In his few dealings with the Portuguese, he found them to be many
things, but not dishonest. “I will let you know.”
“I’ve sent Mrs. Costa a letter. I told her it
would be a personal favor to me if her estate manager gave you guidance in
winemaking.”
Griffin needed no help from this widow. How
hard could it be to make a Quinta profitable? If the Portuguese could do it, so
could the English, with better results. A few weeks in the countryside would be
enough to succeed in this now dual-task—check if Vesuvio had increased
production and make his property thrive.
Croft stood and faced his battle paintings,
cigarette smoke cascading from his mouth. “We won Portugal back to them. I was
a lad, but my father helped Wellington’s forces scourge the frogs out of
Oporto.”
If Croft started talking about Napoleon’s
peninsular battles, Griffin would never hear the end of it. It was time.
Griffin rose and moved behind the chair. “I
examined your firm’s client list. If you agree with the partnership, the
overlap will be small. Your clients are based in London, while mine are spread
over Scotland, New York, and Russia. Together, we’ll have a major market
share.”
Heart pounding in his ears, he counted the
rise and fall of the older man’s chest. One, two, three.
“I don’t want you as a partner,” Croft said,
staring at the redcoats.
Griffin gripped the back of the chair, his
stomach lurching as if he was inside that clipper again. Croft knew. A vision flashed
of his family’s retreat to Oporto twelve years ago—the cramped third-class
cabin, his sister’s gray pallor, his mother’s constant weeping.
Croft turned, his skin flushed, and laid a
chilly hand on Griffin’s shoulder. “I want you as a son.”
Griffin sucked in a breath, thoughts
scattering like pickpockets after a police raid. Speech deserted him, and he
focused on Croft’s red-rimmed eyes.
“Cheer, boy, cheer! You look as if you saw a
ghost. I am not getting any younger, you know.” Croft chuckled, exposing
yellowed teeth. “I fear for my business, but also for Beth’s security.”
Griffin staggered away. What a wallop in the
gut. Had he heard correctly? Could he be proposing marriage? “Your daughter
wants this?”
“What is there not to want?” Croft followed him
around the room like an insistent salesman. “She is probably in love with you
already. Half the girls here are. Anyway, she is a dutiful English lady.” He
extinguished the cigar in the crystal ashtray. “Go fix Quinta da Boa Vista.
When you come back, we will sign the papers.”
About the Author
Giovanna Siniscalchi chased narrative arcs and climax points in the Nasdaq for twelve long years working as an economist. Still, her romantic imagination was wasted in the financial markets, so she decided to put it to better use: write fiction. She is married and has two great kids. Her passions are eclectic, including reading, traveling, surfing, wine, and of course, historical romance.).
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I love the cover, synopsis and excerpt, The True Purpose of Vines sounds like an excellent read. Thank you for sharing the author's bio and book details
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