Siri Mitchell - Chateau of Echoes

To enhance the “Council of War” theme, the walls were decorated with all the shields, pikes, helmets, and spears that I had been able to pick up at flea markets. I’d even acquired two full suits of armor to guard the fireplace.

On the whole, it was a room to be proud of, and I had to admit that if I wasn’t looking forward to the horde of guests that week, I was looking forward to seeing the room used.

In planning for the conference, I’d been certain that I’d thought of everything. I designed the breakfasts around breads and fruit, making sure that they would not require time-intensive preparation. I’d planned lunches and dinners around easy stews or roasted meats with simple desserts such as sorbets, cakes, and cheese platters. And everything would be served from a buffet table. It had been perfect.

Until Sévérine announced that she wouldn’t be able to help.

“But-”

“It is impossible for me to be here.”

“But this is a conference on Alix. Think of your dissertation. All the experts in your field will be here.”

“I have not been invited.”

“So invite yourself. Offer to take notes. I can’t believe you would want to miss this opportunity.”

Sévérine just shrugged and that was the end of it. At least as far as she was concerned. It wasn’t the first time she’d dumped the duties she’d signed on for. A month earlier, she’d left me short-staffed as I was preparing lunch for some guests. She hadn’t returned until late the following day.

Maybe that single-minded pursuit of knowledge was an asset as an academic. It certainly wasn’t appreciated by this employer. Our arrangement wasn’t formal-it had been verbal. That left me with more power, but Sévérine seemed to act, at times, as if she were doing me a favor by showing up to help at all.

If I hadn’t been so busy with my work at the inn and with the foundation, I might have asked her what was going on. I was familiar with the symptoms of a workaholic, and I knew Sévérine was consumed with her academic pursuits. Peter had been the same way with his career. But my role as his wife had precluded me from saying anything because when I voiced my concerns, it sounded like I was nagging.

Sévérine had become my friend. And this time, maybe I could say something.

But not right now. My job had just doubled. Not only would I be making meals, I would be serving them, tidying the guest rooms, doing unending loads of laundry, and trying to wedge in a few hours of sleep when I could.

Deciding to prep as much of the food as possible in advance, I spent an entire day chopping vegetables like celery and carrots and creating pear, apple, and cassis sorbet, as well as delicate chocolates that would accompany espresso during the conference coffee breaks, and oeufs en gelée , eggs in gelatin. I made terrines , both of vegetables and meat, and simmered stock for several of the dishes I would prepare later.

Cranwell appeared promptly that evening for dinner, Lucy ambling along beside him. Frankly, I hadn’t put much thought into dinner, but I made quick work of slicing into one of the vegetable terrines and tossing a baguette on top of the island. Then I seared two steaks and made a quick reduction of wine and mushrooms to accompany them. For dessert I decided some of the aged Roquefort I’d had delivered would sit well with an old Porto I had in the cellar. And I was right.

Cranwell thought so too. “I’ve never tasted a better Roquefort.”

It was the perfect combination of salty tang and cream. “It’s from my secret source.”

“Have you had any other strange happenings lately?”

“No.” I was embarrassed at ever having brought the subject up with Cranwell. “Have you had any other encounters with God in your wanderings?”

He looked surprised and took time to spread cheese on a piece of baguette before answering. “Yes. Quite a few-”

I heard Sévérine coming down the stairs and excused myself so I could prepare her steak. Cranwell never finished his thought.

“Robert, you are well?” Sévérine appropriated my stool and sat down next to Cranwell.

He put down his bread and smiled at her. “Yes. And I have some questions about Alix I’d like to ask you.”

“Of course. I can answer after I have eaten. I will meet you at your room.”

I smiled to myself. Her response was so typical: Never mix business with food… at least not until dessert.

Cranwell glanced at his watch. “Nine?”

Sévérine nodded. Then she rose and took her tray from me and climbed back up the stairs.

“It’s a good thing you caught her tonight. She won’t be here next week.”

“Where’s she going?”

That question stumped me. She hadn’t really said.

F ortunately, the conference guests staggered their arrivals the following afternoon. I was able to give each one an individual tour of the chateau, ending with their assigned rooms. And in between the arrivals, I set the dining hall table and prepared dinner.

At 7:30, they assembled for paté and cornichons pickles, sauced-veal blanquette de veau , rice, and haricots verts green beans, followed by a luscious gâteau au chocolat that was much richer than any “death by chocolate” dessert I’ve ever tasted. I had portioned out enough of everything for Cranwell and me to have the same for our dinner and left it all on the counter, telling Cranwell to help himself. I meant to eat between serving, but after delivering espressos, taking orders for digestifs and clearing off the table, it was well after 10:00. Thankfully, Cranwell had placed all my food in the refrigerator, but it no longer looked so appetizing. I ended up scrambling a few eggs, scavenging some baguette, and calling it a meal. Preparing the bread doughs and setting the table for breakfast took until midnight. When I finally managed to crawl up the stairs to my room, it was all I could do to take off my clothes before falling into bed.

The alarm rang much too early the next morning.

As the conference was to start at 8:30, the guests had wanted breakfast available at 7:30. By the time the breads were shaped and put in the oven, I had to hurry to slice fruit and get a tray set up with espressos. It was around 10:00, after the table was cleared and breakfast dishes put away, that I finally had a breakfast consisting of leftovers: a slice of melon and half a peach. A glance at my watch warned me that lunch was right around the corner, so I reset the table and then started cooking.

I’d decided on small individual salades composées , broiled chicken breasts with ratatouille, and an apple-rhubarb crumble. Crumbles were all the rage at the moment, even at the most exclusive three-star restaurants in Paris. I composed the salads first, leaving them to chill in the fridge, then I sautéed the vegetables for the ratatouille. At the last moment, I broiled the chicken breasts. The crumble, I began to cook after the guests had started to eat. That way, I could guarantee it was served warm.

Cranwell came in about the same time the guests began to eat. I pointed at the fridge, the stove, and the oven in turn, and told him to help himself as I flew up the stairs to check on the guests.

After they had disappeared into the council room, I cleared the table and was beginning to fix myself an espresso when I remembered that I needed to collect their sheets and towels to do the laundry. I raced up the stairs to the first guest room before I even thought about needing my master key to gain entrance to the rooms. Half an hour later, I was out of breath, out of energy, and in general need of a break before I started on dinner. Running usually lifted my spirits, so I decided to slip out for half an hour and take a jog.