Siri Mitchell - Chateau of Echoes

I made it into the forest before I began to feel lightheaded. I can recall seeing Cranwell and Lucy up in front of me in the meadow, and I think I raised my hand to wave at them, but that’s all I can remember.

When I came to, I was seated on a fallen log with my head between my legs and Cranwell telling me to take deep, slow breaths. He had his hand around the back of my neck as if to make sure I wasn’t going to jump up and run away. I stayed bent over that way for a while, long enough to realize a trail of ants was working hard at storing food in the log. And long enough for Lucy to thoroughly lick my face.

“Are you okay? Did you hurt anything?”

From my doubled-over position, I inspected my ankles and my knees. “I don’t think so.”

“What happened?”

Too tired to answer him, I contemplated the ants, wondering when they were going to stop. Would they ever take a break?

“Do you feel sick?”

“No.”

“Do you have a history of heart trouble?”

“No.” I tried to shrug his hand away from my neck. “Is it all right with you if I sit up now?”

“Sorry.”

He rose to his feet as I closed my eyes, stretched my back, and then sat up straight on the log. When I opened my eyes, it was to find Cranwell staring at me. The furrow in his brow told me he was worried.

“It’s nothing. It’s probably because I haven’t eaten much in the last twenty-four hours.”

“Why not? You definitely don’t need to be on a diet.” He put a hand to my waist as I attempted to stand.

“It’s this conference. I don’t have time to do anything but cook and clean.”

He had shrugged out of his jacket and slipped it around my shoulders, leaving himself clad in jeans and a white button-down shirt. I had to admit that I had been starting to get cold. A jogging top and shorts work well when I’m actually running, but once I stop, I tend to cool off fast.

“Then why didn’t you ask for my help?”

Why? Because I hadn’t thought of it. “You’re a guest. I can’t ask you to help. It’s my inn, not yours.”

He muttered something to himself and then, with a firm grip around my forearm, marched us off in the direction of the chateau. “When we get home, you’re going to sit down, and I’m going to make you something to eat. Then you’re going to tell me exactly how I can help you.”

True to his word, he did find something for me to eat. He made me eat an apple for an immediate injection of sugar, and then he gave me a plate of pasta with gruyère .

He watched me closely while I ate. It almost made me feel uncomfortable.

Finally, I finished and pushed the plate away.

“Feel better?”

Actually, I did. Surprising what a big difference a little food can make.

“What do you need me to do?”

Looking around at the kitchen, I couldn’t think of any cooking that he could help with. I began to shake my head.

“What do you need me to do?” The way in which he said it demanded some sort of task.

“Laundry?”

“Where is it and what do I do with it?”

“All the towels and sheets are in the washers. Could you put them in the dryers and then make the beds and put the towels back?”

“Just tell me where the laundry room is.”

After I had explained the location to him and pressed the master key into his hand, he headed up the stairs like a man on a mission.

Dinner for that evening would be easy to prepare. The oeufs en gelée , halved eggs, were just waiting to be pried from their molds. The civet de sanglier , wild boar stew, only needed to be assembled and put on to simmer; I would add boar’s blood to thicken it. The sorbets were done. The only thing I would need to do at the last minute was boil potatoes to go with the stew.

An hour later Cranwell still had not returned. I wondered for a moment whether he actually knew how to make a bed, but I put the thought out of my mind as quickly as I could.

He appeared in the kitchen several minutes later and insisted on helping me set the table in the dining hall.

When I started up the stairs afterward, he demanded where I was going.

“I was thinking of changing clothes. If that’s all right with you…?”

He scowled and then climbed the stairs behind me. “I’ll change too.”

After I’d taken a quick shower and changed into black pants and a black boat-neck knit top, I returned to the kitchen. And found Cranwell waiting for me. He was still wearing his white button-down shirt, but had exchanged his jeans for a pair of black slacks.

As I finished the dinner preparations, he watched me like a hawk.

“I’m not going to faint again. I promise.”

He grunted as if he didn’t believe me.

Irritated by his constant surveillance, I finally began to give him platters of things to take up to the dining hall, just to give him something else to do.

One good thing about his help: I was actually able to eat after the guests were served and before I had to run dessert up to them. Cranwell helped me clear the table after they were done and stayed up with me while I mixed dough for the next morning’s croissants and baguettes. I even had time to read the paper and learned of the horrendous flooding that had been plaguing Provence that week. France can be a country of meteorological extremes; everywhere else in the country the sun had been shining, the skies unmarred by clouds.

When I got to the kitchen the following morning, Cranwell was waiting for me. “What can I do?”

My eyelids were refusing to remain open. I fumbled for the espresso-maker, but Cranwell took me by the hand, seated me on a stool, and slid a demitasse toward me.

“How long have you been up?”

Cranwell shrugged. “Half an hour.”

Well, he sure beat Sévérine on punctuality. I took my time and savored the espresso as he drummed on the marble island top with his fingers.

“So, what can I do?”

The espresso was starting to kick in. I left the stool and went to punch down the bread dough.

He trailed me. “Unless you give me something to do, I’m going to take over here, and your guests will have milk and cereal for breakfast.” He was serious.

“Can you divide this into twelve equal parts?” I would need twelve baguettes for the combined meals that day.

“Not a problem.”

Leaving Cranwell to dig his hands into the dough and figure out how to separate it, I turned my attention to shaping croissants. When I was finished and able to turn my attention back to him, I found him leaning his back against the counter, arms crossed in front of him. Twelve equal balls of dough were sitting beside him.

I moved to shape them, and as I took a ball of dough and began to mold it, Cranwell mirrored my actions. In ten minutes both the baguettes and croissants were in the ovens.

Since Cranwell had exhibited such sincerity in wanting to help, I set him up with a cutting board and knife and left him to slice fruit while I went upstairs and set the table.

When I came back, he had the fruit neatly separated into different piles. It was sliced, I’ll give him that, although it was a little roughly done. For the sake of expediency, I just dumped it all into a large bowl and asked him to take it upstairs and set it on the buffet.

I’d never before allowed anyone to help me cook. Of course, I’d never before hosted so many guests at one time. But having Cranwell around had been a lifesaver.

Sévérine came back into town just after the last guest had left. I had been in the council room, opening the shades and putting it back to order, so I saw her drive up. And I couldn’t help but stare, because it looked like her car had wallowed all week in a gigantic mud puddle.

I caught her before she went up to her room. “Is everything all right, Sévérine?”