This bit of uber Xena fan fiction belongs to me. Any references to the characters of RCA/Universal's "Xena: Warrior Princess" are purely intentional, but are not designed to make me any money. I also owe a debt to Chekhov's "The Cherry Orchard." Again, no insult or infringement is intended.
This story (will someday when it grows up) contains scenes of love and sex between consenting adult women. If this is illegal where you live, or if you are under 18 years of age, do not read any further.
Any feedback, good, bad or indifferent, is greatly appreciated. E-mail: vandersonsc@yahoo.com

Chapter 10

True to his word, Uncle Henri put me to work the following day. While Sunday with Margaret had been heavenly, working the vineyards turned into a bit of hell on earth. If not for my already callused hands, I have no doubt that my fingers would have bled before the end of the day. As it was, by sunset my back was on fire from having to stoop and bend and pull on the assorted weeds and rocks between rows of vines. Uncle Henri had informed no one who worked with me that I was eventually slated to run the operation, nor that I was entirely new to the process.

Once at the field, we were each given a crude wheelbarrow, and assigned a section of the vineyard to clear. Considering modern farming methods, I was amazed that we were still toiling this way by hand. I made a mental note to speak with Uncle Henri about improving this situation. At noon, we stopped for lunch, a quick meal of bread, cheese, and, of course, wine. I should have thought to bring more water with me, because the combination of sun and wine in the late afternoon only made me sleepy and slightly dizzy. I made frequent trips to the water barrel that was located on the tail of the wagon that brought our group out here. No one spoke to me, although I tried to initiate several conversations. Again, the older gentleman paced on horseback shouting to anyone he laid eyes on. I learned that nearly everyone ignored the rider, and took their lead from the wagon driver. All in all, it was quite a miserable experience, and I wondered how long it would take us to clear the entire farm.

I returned to the house that evening covered in dust and tired to the bone. I had never worked so hard in my entire life. Wanting nothing more than to fall into bed and sleep for hours, I knew that I must at least attend dinner, and get some of my questions answered. Lucien had the servants fill my bath, and I luxuriated in the warm, frothy water in front of the fireplace in my room. At this point, I was so tired, I don't think I could have moved quickly to cover myself or jump from the tub should someone have come into the room. It was then that I discovered that no one would disturb me once I was in the tub. I sat for a good 20 minutes, and Lucien never returned to my room to either check the water temperature or whether I was in need of anything. I hoped that I would, from now on, be able to bathe at my leisure.

I dressed appropriately, and went downstairs to the dining room. Margaret and Uncle Henri were nearly finished with their meal. Uncle Henri pulled a watch from his vest pocket, examined it, and snapped it shut. "I fully expect that you will be on time for dinner in the future, Alexander?"

I was flabbergasted. I had only gotten back from the fields a mere hour before! I replied dryly, "I don't know, Uncle Henri. You might ask either the field overseer or the wagon driver if I may be excused from my work for dinner."

I heard Margaret snicker quietly, but Uncle Henri was none too pleased with my response. "Now see here, boy, what's this about being excused from the field? You have only to climb on your horse and come into the house."

Puzzled, I said, "Return on my horse? Uncle Henri, I rode out in the wagon today with the other workers. I was not aware that I had a horse for my use, nor that I was to ride it to and from the fields."

Margaret was nearly doubled over trying to contain her laughter. "Margaret!," Uncle Henri said, "I shall not have any disrespect from you. Alexander, you are, in essence, master of this house. I apologize if I did not make this clear on our ride about the grounds."

I must admit that at first I was quite put out, but upon reflection, found the whole situation amusing, and started laughing myself. "Actually Uncle, there are several questions I have about this entire process, the exact nature of my role not withstanding."

"Fire away, my boy, and I'll try to answer as many as I can. Before we go too much further, however, I must point out again that your lack of proper transportation is entirely your own fault."

I could sense that my Uncle found this situation frustrating, and I did not wish to argue with him. Knowing how ill he had been, I could see that pointing out his miscommunication would only serve to frustrate him more. Likely, it was his failing health that affected his memory. I replied, "I will be sure to take a horse tomorrow. Perhaps I might have use of the Bay mare I rode on Saturday?"

Uncle Henri nodded once, and I sat at the table, putting my napkin in my lap as one of the kitchen staff brought me a bowl of mushroom soup. I was starved, but tried to eat slowly as I continued with my query. Margaret passed the bread and butter to me without my having to ask, and I smiled at her thankfully as I said, "Uncle, I am confused on one or two points that I would like clarified." He nodded again as I continued, "First, the overseer. How shall I put this? No one seems to listen to a word he says, yet there is he all day, shouting orders that are not often followed. What purpose does he serve exactly?"

Uncle Henri smiled, "Hmm. You are very observant, Alexander." I almost pointed out that it was hard to miss a man shouting over your head all day, but did not wish to interrupt. I'm also sure that my marks would be misconstrued as sarcastic, so I let it drop. Uncle Henri continued, "Let me give you a bit of the history of this place. It might help clear up a few of your questions, not only about the farm, but about your family as well." He paused, searching for a place to start his story, and I had to bite my tongue not to prod him too quickly. I was anxious to learn more about my family, and hung on his every word. "My great grandfather made a name for himself in local politics, and was bequeathed this land in 1788 by Louis XVI himself. It was very lucky for him that he was only given the land, and not an official nobility, else he would have suffered the fate of so many noblemen during the revolution. His monarchist leanings were not well known outside of a few individuals at court, and he escaped persecution." Uncle Henri cleared his throat, took a drink of water, then continued, "Great grandfather was a lucky man. It seems that no matter the ruling class, they always have use for wine, and this area of the country fared well during the reign of Bonaparte and the rest of his mob. The vineyard has been passed from generation to generation, finally falling on me. I am, for better or worse, without a traditional family. My young wife died in childbirth, as did the child she bore, and I had no compunction to marry again. My niece, your mother, chose not to remain in France and find a suitable husband. I do not know whether your father filled you in about my relationship with him. . . . " I nodded that he had, a small anger starting inside as I waited for my Uncle to say anything disparaging about my father. He, however, said nothing about their feud, and continued in another vein, "Thanks to your mother and father I knew very little about your family, I was not sure how to approach any contact with them. . . . Margaret's father, my nephew, I decided he was to take over the vineyard until he and his wife's unfortunate . . . . " He paused again, and I could see his eyes glisten with unshed tears. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose before he said gruffly, "As my letter explained, I forfeit these properties should I not find a suitable heir. I am now hoping you will be that someone, Alexander."

I was practically seething inside. First to bring up his lack of communication with my family as if it were our fault! Then to remind Margaret of the passing of her parents! For her sake, I doused my angry spirit in another glass of wine, and politely asked my Uncle to continue explaining about the vineyard itself.

"Ah yes," he said, "the reason for this story in the first place. There is not much to tell. Many of the workers you saw today are descended from the original staff my great grandfather recruited to work here annually. The overseer, Monsieur Horst Schappell, has been with us for a number of years. His family migrated from Germany when he was a boy, and his father worked for my father. He is, rather unfortunately, nearly deaf and blind. He shouts because he thinks he has to, and he does not see anyone NOT carrying out his orders. The wagon driver, a gypsy fellow who comes here once a year for the harvest, Monsieur Spatzo Valshtiké, knows to keep an eye out for him, so you needn't worry on that account. Many of the others are migrant gypsies who depend on this harvest for their livelihood. The continuation of that tradition is one that I fully expect you to carry out."

So, that explained the lack of modern equipment on the property. Not wanting to appear as angry as I felt, I said as gallantly as I could muster, "A more noble gesture I cannot envision, Uncle. I had thought to discuss more modern methods as one way to try to win my place here, but I will concentrate only on the work in the future, and leave the traditions tightly in place."

Uncle Henri nodded his head in approval, and returned to eating his supper. Margaret smiled at me, unable or unwilling to recognize Uncle Henri's misstep at bringing up her parents. Rather sweetly, she said, "Well, now that the history lesson is out of the way, how was your first day in the field?"

Unsure how to answer, I finally decided that honesty was best. "Quite frankly, Mademoiselle Sutton, I have never worked so long and so hard in my life." I grimaced and held up my blistered hands to show her what I meant. She laughed again and said, "Spatzo must be playing a trick on you. He was to give you gloves and a knee pad."

"My hands and knees fail to see the humor in this situation," I replied drolly, but I couldn't help a smirk as she laughed.

Margaret quickly sobered, "I am sorry, Monsieur. I can only imagine the terrible time you had of it today. I too spent a week in the field 'learning the business'," she looked pointedly at Uncle Henri, "and Horst and Spatzo made it a very challenging experience. They are simply testing your mettle. About the best thing you can do is smile for now, but we can plot some devious revenge later that will go a long way towards earning their admiration. I planted rotten fish in their lunch pails. We are the best of friends now."

"I am so glad you are on my side, I cannot begin to think how I would get along without you," I smiled.

The color rose in Margaret's face as I smiled at her and raised my glass in her direction before drinking. "Interesting, " I thought to myself. Unless Margaret was the most accomplished actor I had ever seen, she was genuinely pleased with my remarks. A blush is not an easy think to replicate on command, even though she had a vested interest in our "plot" against Uncle Henri.

Not wishing to make her more uncomfortable, I began a discussion of our day on Sunday, filling Uncle Henri in on a few of the details so as to make it seem I was smitten with Margaret. In fact, I was in such a state, but did not want her to know. She chimed right in, making it seem as though I was the most charming of companions. Over my soup, I winked at her when she glanced my way, and again, she blushed. Nonplussed, I wondered what had gotten into her.

Uncle Henri excused himself from the table, and asked for Lucien to escort him to his room.

Alarmed, Margaret said, "Uncle Henri, are you feeling ill?"

Uncle Henri smiled down on her as he stood up, "No, my child, I am simply tired. Alexander wasn't the only one who had a busy first day of the season. I am going to read in my room for a while, then go to sleep. Good night you two. See that you don't get into any mischief."

Margaret and I sat in silence a while, before I spoke up, "How was your day, Mademoiselle Sutton?"

She smiled and said, "Really, Alexander, I do believe we can dispense with the formalities at this juncture, can we not? Please do call me Margaret."

Unsure about this levity in so short a time, I responded, "I apologize for my previous forwardness in calling you by your given name. I do hope that my leniency yesterday is not what has brought this on?"

"No, Monsieur, it is not." She paused, looking much like Uncle Henri had moments before when he was searching for something to say. "I hope you will excuse my being so forward as to call you 'Alexander', but I somehow feel a connection with you that I have not felt with anyone before. I know it sounds odd. There is some indefinable something about you that makes me feel as though we've known each other for years. Does this sound strange to you?"

I thought for a moment. Aside from my initial physical attraction for Margaret, I had indeed been more inclined to confide in her than even my beloved brother Nikolas. "No, Made . . . . Margaret, it does not sound odd. I too have felt driven to speak with you in a manner I would not have found proper with a virtual stranger."

"Then, Alexander," she said with a sparkle in her eye as she wove her hands mystically in the air, "we are not strangers, but have known each other through the ages, lifetime after lifetime."

I laughed at her antics, "I would not be surprised at all, Margaret."

Chapter 11

Had I not been so exhausted, I would have been happy to sit and teasingly chat with Margaret about our "other lives," but following the meal I had to excuse myself to go to sleep. Aside from using the beautiful Bay, and making it back to the house in time for dinner, the remainder of the next two weeks was much the same. I worked slowly, but steadily and soon had my first assigned area cleared of weeds and rocks. I was assigned a new area late the first Wednesday, and began work on that. Spatzo did provide me with gloves and a kneepad, and these improved my disposition immensely. Margaret was correct that he was simply testing me, and when I merely smiled at his "joke" he laughed heartily and slapped me roughly, but companionably, on the back.

Dinner also fell into a routine. Upon my return to the house each night, either Patric or Lucien would have servants bring my bath. I would bathe, dress, and meet Margaret at the bottom of the stairs. She took my proffered arm, and we would join an already seated Uncle Henri. The food was always excellent, and I made sure to thank the staff at every opportunity. I continued to quiz Uncle Henri about the intimate details of running a vineyard. To my surprise, I found Margaret a fount of knowledge in the area. She explained that she really had worked the farm one entire season, much to her father's delight and her mother's consternation.

During the week, Margaret and I had little time to spend alone together since I was barely able to keep my eyes open even during our supper. I did, however, have the opportunity to observer her closely at the dinner table. I admit I found her more enchanting as each day passed. Not sure what to do about my situation, I simply allowed myself the luxury of observing her when I could, and spending as much time with her as was proper. She nearly always wore her hair in the same simple way as when we first met. Although I knew she had a vast wardrobe, she preferred to wear a particular pale green dress when spending time around the house. Uncle Henri remarked on this twice during the first week, but she patted his arm and said, "Yes, but I am always dressed correctly for every social occasion, am I not?" He nodded assent; she could talk him into or out of any subject she wished, and he adored her for it. I, myself, was beginning to fall under that same spell, and was unable to resist it. Having been an avid reader since she was a small child, Margaret was knowledgeable about a number of subjects, and she could speak at length on topics about which she was most interested. I don't mean to give the impression that she monopolized our nightly dinner conversation. On the contrary, she inquired after both of us and how well we were doing, and soaked up any information we added to the conversation. I found myself speaking at length about Russian customs and habits, and she hung on every word. Yet, if she knew about something, she was not afraid to speak up and expound upon it. I admired her strength of character and her convictions.

My physical attraction also only strengthened as I grew to know her. She had a habit of crinkling her nose just before she started laughing. She would tilt her head slightly to the left when listening to something that particularly interested her, and she would literally put her tongue in her cheek when she was about to say something clever or funny.

My work took me to the fields on Saturdays as well, but Sundays were for the Sabbath. The first Sunday I again rode with Margaret and Uncle Henri to the small local parish. And again, I observed rather than participate in the ceremony. I found the music particularly soothing, and relaxed into the service, which was obviously steeped in tradition; parishioners were able to completely follow each step in the service, rarely casting a glance at the order of service on the wall. After the service, we rode back to the house, and Margaret suggested I allow her to really show me the gardens we'd not seen since my first days at the vineyard. I readily agreed, and a time was set for after our midday meal.

Following our luncheon, Uncle Henri again retired to his room to read, while Margaret and I went to our rooms to change clothes. Nothing formal seemed appropriate for sitting in the garden or lying under a tree. So I decided to change from my church suit to casual attire. A pair of rough, dark woolen trousers, a white collar-less shirt, a pale tan leather vest, the boots I'd worn to work in all week, and I christened myself ready to lark about in the garden. I even slapped on the hat I'd been wearing all week, and bounded down the stairs to meet Margaret.

She was waiting for me at the foot of the staircase, and giggled when she saw how I was dressed. "Well, Alexander," she quipped, "I see you have worn your finest attire in order to impress me."

In mock seriousness I replied, "But, of course, Mademoiselle! I am modeling the finest in vineyard worker this season! She how rakishly my hat sits over one eye, and does not quite fit my head, while the boots are designed to track the most mud through the house." I swept off my hat and bowed low over her hand, upon which I planted a quick kiss.

"Really, Monsieur!," she laughingly replied, "Your forget yourself! I, as you can see, am dressed for the Royal Ball." She pointed to the pale green housedress she favored constantly. "Now, go and change to more suitable clothes or I shall not deign to dance with you this evening."

I laughed, and plopped my hat back on my head. "That would be tragic, milady. Would you prefer the kilt of my Scottish kin or a full suit of armor? Those are the only choices for suitable clothes that I have aside from these."

"Ah well," she haughtily replied, "get the kilt then. I cannot possibly dance with a knight in shining armor."

"No," I said, "but in my armor I can sweep you away on my horse and take you to my castle."

"You have a castle?" she teased, "Like Camelot? Oh, do tell me about it. Does Gwenevere still carry on with that Lancelot chap?"

"First," I said offering my arm, "please allow me to escort you to the gardens. There I will delight you with one tale after another of the courtly goings on in Camelot."

She took my arm and we both walked down the hill. Spring was definitely making her presence felt here. We walked deeply into the garden, with Margaret pointing our various flowers and trees included therein. While the air still held a mild chill, the bright spring sun quickly warmed my shoulders. I deeply inhaled the fresh scent of blossoms, content to walk forever at Margaret's side.

She smiled up at me and said, "You look like a cat curled in a window."

I returned her smile and said, "I am feeling as relaxed as I've felt since coming here, and it's due in no small part to your skills as a hostess."

"Don't worry on my account, Margaret. See?," I held up my hands to her, "No more blisters."

"Margaret?," I asked, "Are you alright?"

She cleared her throat and said, "Yes, why?"

"You just seemed a bit uncomfortable."

She turned to me, "No, really, I'm fine."

We sat in silence a moment, before she said, "Now, Alexander, I believe I was promised tales of Camelot?"

"Ah yes," I said, "I think I have a more productive idea." I drew out the volume of Greek poetry that I bought at the bookseller's. "I thought we might actually spend some time working on our other little project-teaching you Greek and Latin."

"Oh bother!," she said, "Must I really study on a beautiful day like this? Why don't you simply read to me? I would enjoy that much more."

I laughed at her petulance. "Margaret, I am actually only half serious. I brought the poetry to read in the shade if you didn't feel like talking."

"Oh. Isn't that the volume you bought for your brother?"

"Actually," I replied, "I decided to send him the Fairy Tales, and keep this for myself. Especially since it contains the work of your ancestor. In fact, I believe I was promised a story about her . . . ."

"That was thoughtful of you to keep this copy merely because of my relation, Alexander. I would be glad to tell you a story if you'd really like to hear one."

I nodded my assent and replied that I did, indeed, wish to hear a story. Margaret thought for a moment before starting. "Well, I guess I should start the way our family starts the story, by telling you Gabrielle's background story first. You should know that Uncle Henri is not really my uncle or even my great uncle. He is my stepfather's great uncle. We are not blood relations, you see, and so Gabrielle is an ancestor on my mother's side. When my parents . . . when they passed away, Uncle Henri was made my guardian per my stepfather's will. I never knew my real father, he died when I was a small child. Mother had some family in Burgundy, and we moved there when I was about 10 or 11. My stepfather and mother met and married rather quickly, I believe it was within a month of first meeting that wedding bells rang. My stepfather was a wonderful man, a better father I could not have asked for."

She paused here, and looked at me with wonder, "There I go again, telling you things I would tell no one else, AND probably boring you to tears in the process."

I smiled, "No, Margaret, I am certainly not bored, and I'm pleased you feel you can confide in me. Please do go on."

She continued seriously, "I do feel that I can confide in you. Isn't it strange?" She got a somewhat distant look in her eye, before turning to face me and continue with her story. "As the family legends go, Gabrielle was a young girl from a small Greek village when she was kidnapped by a marauding female warlord named Xena. Apparently, it was not unusual for women of that time to lead armies into battle. This warlord initially kept Gabrielle as a slave. She was, however, elevated to the status of the army's bard and historian. Eventually, the warlord took Gabrielle as her mate, and the two traveled together across Greece and Egypt. A few of her scrolls were passed from family member to family member through the ages. They have, however, all been lost to us. We now pass the history down by an oral tradition. Some of her scrolls have been discovered in Egypt, and subsequently translated and published. That is why the poem you read is in that book. How I wish our family still had copies of her original work! As I said before, I understand she was quite prolific. I believe that I personally own all of the volumes that contain any of her work, of which there are only eight poems or fragments. However, it is my plan to try to publish versions of the oral stories so that her legacy will continue, since it appears I am the last of the clan."

"What a fascinating figure, Margaret, and I am sorry to hear that you are the last the her clan. Perhaps you will marry when you return to England, and carry on the traditions through your children?"

"Perhaps," she replied. "Anything is possible."

Margaret pondered a moment before continuing, "Hmmm. I wrote down a list of possible titles at one point. I think there are close to 15. Some of them overlap a bit, and some are so outlandish as to be unbelievable, especially where the pantheon of Greek gods is concerned." Margaret proceeded to relate a very funny tale about Gabrielle and a magic scroll, complete with the god of war and the goddess of love. Since Xena did not figure prominently in the story, I inquired about the relationship of the bard and the warlord. "It is my understanding," Margaret replied, "that they were quite devoted to one another. The oral history states that Gabrielle and Xena settled down near the end of their lives in an Amazon village, and when they died it was on the same day within hours of the other."

We sat in silence for some moments after this, I thought about many things as we did so. I was in awe of the story of Margaret's ancestor, and her devotion to a once ruthless warlord. I was thrilled to no end at the idea of their relationship. And I was elated that Margaret seemed to hold it in no other regard than something entirely natural. Perhaps, when I no longer need to play the part of "Alexander" we could. . . . I did not let my mind wander into such territory. Margaret was as set on returning to England, as I was on returning to Winterhaven. Our lives would forever be separate in a few short months. Yet, when I was with her I felt a yearning so deep within my soul I would have relinquished anything and everything to have her by my side. A thought quietly stole into my head, and surprised me: am I in love? Is THIS what love feels like? When I am with her, there could be no one else in the entire world but us, and I would be content. When we are apart, as we often are when I work in the fields, she is never far from my foremost thought. The image I have of her flitters along my consciousness, and at any moment of the day it can suddenly break free, blinding me to anything but her beauty and charm and laughter.

At that moment, with Margaret silently sitting beside me on the bench, thumbing through the volume of poetry that I'd brought, I realized that I was in a desperate situation. My love could not possibly be returned, and my heart would undoubtedly be broken. How bleak my future years at Winterhaven suddenly seemed. I must have sighed audibly, because Margaret suggested that, if I was tired we could return to the house.

"Are you all right, Alexander?" she asked. "You suddenly seem rather, forgive me for being so forward, sad."

"No, Margaret," I replied, "I am merely tired from my week's labors. I think I shall go lie down a bit before supper."

"Alright," she said, "Shall I send Patric to wake you an hour beforehand?"

I agreed that this would be most generous of her, and slowly climbed the stairs, walked into my room, and closed the door behind me. I really was tired, but did not think sleep would come. I was wrong.

Continued in Part 4...