Siri Mitchell - Chateau of Echoes

“Yes. Everything is as it should be.”

“Was it a family emergency?”

She frowned. “No. This was for research. I have no family.”

“None?”

“My mother is dead. My father is…” She finished her sentence with an eloquent French shrug.

“You don’t get along with him?” I could relate.

“ Non .” She laughed. But it wasn’t filled with mirth. “You are an American, so perhaps you do not understand this, but my mother was a mistress. Of a very powerful man. A nobleman.”

“But that’s…” wrong … immoral … “… fine.”

She looked at me. “For my mother perhaps. But not so fine for me. We French do not progress like you Americans. We still have class structures. We are still the same as King Arthur and his knights. Much is forgiven here, but never a child without a name. Because you cannot make one for yourself in France. It is given you.”

“He ignored you?”

“ Non .” She set her bag down. Put her purse on the table. “He would tell me the most wonderful stories when I was a child. Of Arthur and of the search for the grail. But it was only to make my mother happy. When she died, there was no more connection. No more reason.”

“But you’re his daughter.”

“By blood, not by name. And I must never be named. I do not exist. Anywhere. Not anymore.”

“But-”

“You do not know what it is like to be the child of an affair. Not a one-night stand. An affair is two people, for life. Two people, never three. It was my mother and me during the weekend, the very best of friends. But during the week? At night when my father came? I might as well not have been born. I ceased to exist. So is everything okay? Everything is fine. Better than fine. Because one day my father will want, more than anything, to call me his daughter. Will be proud to claim me as his. One day very soon.” She picked up her bag and her purse and tramped up the stairs. I was left staring after her, uncertain how to respond, because I couldn’t decide what emotion her eyes had been glinting. Triumph? Anger? Defiance? Was I supposed to congratulate her, protect myself from her, or commiserate with her? That evening, even as I was eating dinner with Cranwell, I still hadn’t decided.

If Cranwell had to be around, at least he hadn’t shown himself to be demanding. And since he had been so eager to help with the conference, I didn’t have very many qualms about enlisting his aid for the Journées de Patrimoine . The Days of National History. Every September, historical sites in France opened their doors to the public. They included museums, monuments, parliament, the president’s and prime minister’s mansions… as well as provincial sites of interest like my chateau. The chateau is a site classé , the equivalent of being listed on the National Register of Historic Places. To encourage the maintenance of historic buildings, the French heavily subsidize restoration of those buildings. The price of the subsidy? Letting the public climb all over the properties for one weekend every year. It wasn’t demanded, but it was highly encouraged. And in the next few years I was planning on doing some renovations to the outbuildings and the grounds. I would need all the friends in high places I could make to help speed my applications through the bureaucracy.

If it sounds like I was making a big deal out of nothing, you should see how long it takes me to clean and straighten up after all the visitors. The previous year, I had to have all the carpets professionally steam-cleaned. And I’d need all the help I could get, making sure that fans of Alix didn’t walk away with everything they could stuff inside their pockets. I wouldn’t have thought academics could be such kleptomaniacs.

It was fortunate that I could count on support from both Sévérine and Cranwell. I’d decided that Sévérine would be in charge of the third floor. She had an affinity for the library and I knew she would guard my collection with her life.

Cranwell I would place on the second floor. He didn’t speak French, but that wouldn’t stop him from being able to keep an eye on people.

As owner of the chateau, I would guard the ground floor and the garden area.

The fourth floor of the chateau, housing my room and Sévérine’s apartment, would be off limits. And without extra bodies, I’d have to entrust the outlying grounds to the visitors’ conscience.

The week before the Journées began, I explained my plan to Sévérine and Cranwell.

“Do you mind helping?”

“Pardon me?” Cranwell had clearly not been listening.

“ Journées de Patrimoine . Can you help?”

“When is it again?”

“Next Saturday and Sunday.”

“Sure. No problem.”

“Sévérine?”

“Yes, Frédérique. Of course I will help you.”

T hat following Saturday dawned gray and misty. It looked as if the carpets could look forward to another steam cleaning.

The first visitors arrived at 9:30. I had sworn off cooking that day, figuring that mouthwatering smells wafting up from the kitchen would only encourage people to stay longer. I had dressed in the standard French uniform of black pants and a black V-neck sweater, wrapping a silk scarf around my neck to provide the requisite splash of color. I even went so far as to pin my hair up in a twist.

Those first visitors were students from the University in Brest and they came in a caravan of three minivans. Sévérine went out to greet them. The dark jeans and high-heeled boots she was wearing only served to accentuate her long legs, and the citron green silk shirt she wore made her eyes sparkle and her teeth gleam as she smiled and laughed. She spent some time talking to the professor who had accompanied the students. The students themselves milled around on the gravel drive, smoking cigarettes.

Watching them, I ground my teeth. I’d forgotten how many days it had taken the previous year to locate and dispose of all the cigarette butts my visitors had left behind.

Sévérine was gracious enough to give the students a private tour of the chateau. I stayed by the front door to welcome any guests that followed.

And did guests follow!

It was only when I stopped to take a breath an hour later that I realized I hadn’t seen Cranwell that morning. Racing up the central staircase to the second floor, I prayed that I’d find him in the hallway exactly where I’d asked him to stand.

No such luck.

I poked my head into the rooms, stopping now and then to answer questions from the guests.

He was not to be found, so I sprinted up the stairs to the third floor, hoping he’d attached himself to a group of visitors.

The only person I saw was Sévérine, and she was at her station in the library.

“Have you seen Cranwell?”

“ Non .”

Had he materialized just then, I would gladly have poked his eyes out. “I can’t find him. Could you rotate between this floor and the second?”

“Of course.”

I flew down the stairs, berating myself for having trusted him.

Cranwell drove up at six o’clock that evening in his Jaguar, waving at me as I stood in front of the door watching the last of the visitors leave.

As I watched him walk up to the door, his good-natured grin and dashing tweed overcoat did nothing to soften my heart. In spite of all the things I had to say to him, “Where were you?” was the phrase that popped out of my mouth.

“In Nantes. It was terrific. I was doing some outlining last night and realized I didn’t know anything at all about the city. And it was the capital of Brittany. You were the one who told me that, right? So I decided to spend the day looking around.” He was practically glowing. “Almost every museum in Nantes was free. And they were crowded. The French take their history seriously.”