Siri Mitchell - Chateau of Echoes

Cranwell rolled his eyes and blew me off, reaching to grasp the hands of the guests who had by now reached the front door.

While they exchanged European-style kisses, I fled to the kitchen and began flipping through my Miss Manners book.

Several minutes later, Cranwell snuck up behind me. He wrenched the book from me, closed it, and returned it to the bookshelf. “Listen. It’s not a big deal. They don’t expect any ‘Your highnesses’ or ‘Your graces’. This is a weekend getaway.”

My lunge for the book was quick, but he managed to step in front of me fast enough to block it. He held onto my upper arms and gave me a shake. “For this weekend, just pretend they’re Carl and Fran.”

“When you booked them, you said they were Carlos and Maria.”

He released me and threw his hands into the air. “Forgive me. Maria was last month. This month it’s Francesca. Next month, it will be someone else. It’s not a big deal. The reason he came here is because I said he wouldn’t need a bodyguard, that they would never mix with the general public. So don’t make me regret my advice.”

“I’m not going to do anything differently.”

“Fine.”

“I’m not changing the menu.”

“Okay.”

“And I won’t bow or kiss anyone’s hand. It’s not democratic.”

Cranwell didn’t even bother to respond. He just brushed past me as he walked toward the stairs.

Carl and Fran turned out to be perfectly pleasant. Mostly because I had Sévérine deal with them. Like most French women I’d met, she seemed to have an intuitive grasp of how to treat people from all stations in life.

“Did you know that she is the Princesse de Kohn-Bavarie ?” she asked as she waited for me to prepare a breakfast tray.

“I had no idea.”

“And he a crown prince.”

“That, I knew.”

Glancing over at the island, I saw her sitting on a stool staring off into space with a smile on her lips. Sévérine must have been reliving those childhood fairy tales her father had told her.

Uh-oh. Carlos was a magnificent specimen of a human being, but definitely not of the over-the-counter variety. Bending down, I drew a cutting board from a cupboard. Putting it in front of Sévérine with a knife and a mound of mushrooms, I commanded her to chop.

“Now?”

“Now.”

“But they will brown.”

“It doesn’t matter. I’m using them in a sauce later.”

She sighed in protest and then took up the knife and began to chop. She brightened a moment later when she heard Lucy skitter down the stairs. Where Lucy went, Cranwell could not be far behind.

“Espresso?” he asked me when he appeared.

“Help yourself.” I didn’t have time that morning to wait on him personally. And should he even think of complaining, I planned to remind him that Carl and Fran were his great idea.

“Want one?”

“No, thanks.”

Sévérine?

“ Non, merci .”

Sévérine sounded suspiciously listless. I’d never seen her that way before, and it had the potential to put a damper on my reputation as an innkeeper. She could flirt all day with my guests as long as she was professional. Sulky, however, was another matter. Not everyone of noble blood was a louse like her father. But then again…

“Cranwell, please tell Sévérine what a rat your friend Carl is.”

“Rat?”

“Playboy. Philanderer.”

“He dates around, but in his circle, it’s not unusual.” Cranwell was looking at me as if confused.

“A new girlfriend every month? You’d think he’d run out of eligible women.”

“He is a crown prince, Frédérique.” Sévérine was staring at me with the same look of confusion as Cranwell. “This is normal.”

“Normal? He’s a lecher.”

“Maybe to some people, but in his mind, he’s just having fun. At some point, Daddy will put his foot down and make him marry some suitable sort of woman. Morals aside, he’s a good guy. Very smart, actually.”

“And someday he will be king.” Sévérine put down her knife and shoved the cutting board away so violently that several mushrooms tumbled to the floor.

Lucy growled at Sévérine and then gave them a good sniff before deciding that they were better left alone.

Oh no. Sévérine had that look in her eye again.

I tried to distract her. “But what kind of king?”

“It does not matter. There have been many kinds of king. All of them have left a page in history. It matters only that he is king. And that he choose a queen.”

Rolling my eyes, I looked to Cranwell for help. Surely he could see Sévérine needed a reality check.

“Well, he’s certainly trying.” Cranwell drained his demitasse and then loped off outside with Lucy. A big help he was.

“Not everyone can be Arthur and Guinevere.”

The eyes that looked across at mine glittered. “And why do you think I search so hard for-” She untied her apron and folded it. Then she placed it on the island and left. And then I was left alone wondering why loutish behavior was forgiven in royalty and wondering what Sévérine was searching so hard for. Love? Acceptance? What else could it be? Alix’s journals had already been found.

Sévérine served dinner that evening. I started Carl and Fran with a pinot gris and a salmon mousse served with tarragon sauce, followed by pork with kiwi and onion sauce, and a dessert of key lime pie.

Cranwell, Sévérine, and I dined on pot roast. There are times when I need the food I grew up with. That night was one of them.

For Cranwell’s epicurean taste, I had also offered a generous selection of cheese with our baguette.

“Delicious, Freddie. Dessert?”

“What would you do for a plain old brownie?”

“Almost anything you wanted me to.” He clapped a hand to his mouth. “Did I just say that? I’m sorry.” He really did look very contrite. “Sometimes I speak without thinking. I’m working on it.”

“Relax, Cranwell. We’re all working on it.”

It wasn’t stretching the truth at all to say that he looked irresistible in his hand-knit Norwegian sweater. I offered him a steaming brownie with a large scoop of vanilla ice cream melting across the top.

We savored the marriage of chocolate and cream and talked for a while about how the book was coming. Then Lucy scrambled to her feet, and we both knew that meant she needed to go for her walk.

L ate that night, I awoke to shouting.

It had wafted up the stairs and was just pointed enough to make sleep impossible.

Propelling myself from bed, I threw on a robe and pushed my feet into my slippers. By the time I reached the third floor, Cranwell had poked his head out of his door.

Reaching out an arm, he caught me as I walked past him. He was wearing his signature silk paisley pajamas. His bangs were sticking up as if he’d leaned his head against his palm for some indefinite period of time.

“What should I do?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing? How can you say that? He could be beating her.”

Cranwell shook his head and drew me into his room. “He’s not beating her. Do you hear any fear in her voice?”

Cocking my head, I listened for a moment. “No.”

“Lover’s quarrel.”

As I looked around the room, I realized that he’d probably been working. If the argument had disturbed my sleep, it had probably disturbed his concentration.

I sagged into the extra chair by the desk. “Is he always like this?”

Cranwell shrugged. “He’s temperamental.” He looked at his watch. “It’ll probably be over in fifteen minutes.” He sprawled into the chair in front of the desk, making it look like an extension of his body.