Siri Mitchell - Chateau of Echoes

And outside, after, on the path to the chateau, I listened to hear the animals speak, or to see the stones rise, or the fruit trees flower during the twelve rings of the church bell at midnight; we must have been too late, for I neither saw nor heard anything. I kept close watch also for witches or demons that come out this evening. I gave myself fright for I did not remember having left the door open for bad spirits to leave the chateau, but on our return, I saw that someone had it done.

For the meal we had a roasted boar and oysters and cakes and chestnuts and a potage of truffes. And everything served on the table this night. Anne says me that this is so the dead can serve themselves and take part with us in the fête. And there must have been some dead among us, for at the end of the meal, I saw no food uneaten.

day of the new year

Anne had some men find a ball of mistletoe and had it hung between the hall of reception and the hall of dining.

Anne and my lord walked in to dinner together.

The rest of us had already assembled.

As they passed beneath the door, my lord realized there is mistletoe and he must kiss Anne. He did it, and Anne blushed. She is very pretty.

I demand of myself why she is not yet wed.

day of Epiphanie

This day, we celebrated Epiphanie, the coming of the kings. The galette des rois, was served. And in his part, my lord found a fève.

He was crowned king, and he must choose his queen.

I was saddened at first that I was not chosen to be his queen, but then he had chosen Anne, and I was glad. It is kind of him to look after her interests, as she is left unmarried at such an old age.

We instructed the cook to give the part left of the galette, the part of the Virgin, to the first mendiant leading a horse decorated with laurier who will pass by the chateau.

two days after Sainte Agathe

My lord came to my room this night to tell me a story.

I have taken the decision that if my lord is to tell me stories, then I will write them down. As they are Breton, I have heard nothing of them before. It will also serve as good practice for my penmanship. The follow is the story he told me this night:

Trédamial has many people in good health. This is because the Chapelle de Notre-dame-du-Haut is possessed of seven healing saints. They are: Eugénie who heals head-aches: Houamiaule who heals fear, anguish, and nervous illness; Hubert who heals rage; Lubin, who heals joints and eyes; Mamert, who heals intestinal difficulties; Néen, who heals troubled minds; and Yvertin who also tends to head-aches.

I demanded of my lord what good this story is. It does not amuse.

He told me again of the saints and the maladies they heal and bid me remember in case I will have need of them.

I reminded myself at this moment here that his young sister caught an illness and died. And also, my mother.

My lord sat by the fire, morose.

I rose from bed, pushed back the curtains, and sat at his feet. He seemed in need of company.

We stared into the fire together for a long while.

C ranwell and Lucy spent their time in September just roaming the estate. I would see him sometimes while I was jogging, sitting in the forest on a fallen log scribbling in the notebook he always carried in his pocket, or throwing a stick for Lucy in the meadow. He would wave at me and then turn back inside himself.

At dinner, as a rule, he was attentive and made for good company. I asked him about his walks one evening over gougère bourguignonne and braisé de boeuf . The spongy texture of the cheese bread was a perfect foil for the meat.

“So what is it that you do out there in the forest with Lucy all day?” I asked this as I unwound my hair from its bun and combed through it with my fingers. The uncommonly nice weather was drying out my skin, making my scalp itch. Of course, I wouldn’t be caught dead scratching in Cranwell’s presence, but the feel of my fingers gliding through my hair was soothing.

“Hmm?” He looked up at me over the rim of his wineglass.

“You’ve been wandering around out there for the past three weeks.”

“I’m getting ideas. Talking to God. I think best when I walk.” He reached toward his back and pulled his fisherman’s sweater over his head, leaving his hair in an uncharacteristic sprawl across his forehead.

I resisted an urge to reach out and push it back into place.

He unbuttoned the sleeves of his faded denim shirt and rolled them up. I’d like to know why denim shirts always look so good on men.

“How’s it coming?”

“Well.” His eyes were glazing again and their focus moved from my eyes to my hands, to my hair. He stared, as if mesmerized, and reached out a hand, fingering the ends of my hair.

I could feel my chest constrict.

“What color hair did Alix have?” It was clearly a question he was asking himself. I couldn’t have answered if I’d tried. My voice had disappeared.

He put his other hand to his chest as if to search inside a pocket on his jacket. When he realized he wasn’t wearing his jacket, his lips curved into a self-deprecating smile. “I think I’ll take Lucy for a walk.”

He let go of my hair. I watched him rise like a sleepwalker and snap for Lucy.

She rose and sighed, sending me a beseeching look.

I gave her a pat and then shook my head as they walked up the stairs to the back door.

“Don’t forget your coat.”

He paused and then turned, staring at me for a long moment. “Right.” Reversing directions, Cranwell came back down the stairs and then went up the spiral staircase toward his room.

Watching them leave, I put shaking hands to my hair, gathered and rewound it, and knotted it back into place.

That week I dedicated to making confiture , or jam. I’d put foundation correspondence on hold, canceled my regular trip into town, and decided to skip the week’s regional flea markets. September is the traditional month for jam making in France. In fact, in the 1700s, when the revolutionaries renamed the months of the calendar, September became Fructidor, identifying it with the fruit processing done during the month. In case of questions regarding my cooking diploma, I do adhere to the laws of jam making. (In France, birthplace of bureaucracy, you cannot doubt that there are laws governing this skill.) For to make jam is not to make marmalade; neither is it to make compote. Jam is composed of great quantities of both sugar and fresh fruit, whole or juiced. Marmalade, of course, includes gelatin and purée, while compote violates the jam rules by including very little sugar.

My boxes of fruits verger , or orchard fruits, covered every available space of the kitchen. There were apples, pears, peaches, plums, figs, gooseberries, and black currants, as well as a mound of lemons, a pile of vanilla beans, and bag after bag of sugar. I also had a selection of hazelnuts and chestnuts to add to several of the jam mixtures, and I had an assortment of jars and lids.

Standing back to survey the work before me, I suddenly felt very tired. Over an espresso I organized my work according to the ripeness of the fruits in front of me. The prep work wouldn’t take too much time: squeezing the lemons, crushing and chopping the nuts. The more perishable fruits I would process first: peaches, pears, gooseberries. The others could safely be left for the end of the week.

After my espresso, I rearranged the boxes in accordance with my plan of work: Those I would process first were nearest my work area; the rest were placed farther away toward the back door.

I’d made sure I’d taken no reservations that week, and I’d stocked the freezer with food from Picard… but that was my little secret. The Picard frozen food grocery chain sold anything one could imagine from sauce béarnais to coquilles St. Jacques . And the preparations were extremely well done. Serving Picard wouldn’t damage my reputation in the least. I only hoped it wouldn’t help it!