Siri Mitchell: Chateau of Echoes

“Frédérique. This rain is not good.” She shot me a worried look as I placed a demitasse of espresso in front of her.

“No kidding.” I sat on the stool across from her, propping my chin up on a hand.

She muttered something in French and crossed herself.

“ Pardon ?”

“ S’il pleut pour Sainte-Radegonde, misère abonde sur le monde .”

In spite of her years of education, Sévérine was extremely superstitious, but that knowledge did nothing to stop the chill that crept up my spine. “If it rains on Sainte-Radegonde, misery abounds in the world?”

She crossed herself again.

Needing to do something to shake off the chill, I got up from my stool and turned the halogen lamps up. The increased light did nothing to decrease my unease.

Sainte-Radegonde. Today, 13 August. Was the misery worse if it fell, like it did this year, on a Friday?

And just how long would the misery last?

O n Friday evening my guests arrived from Paris. They splattered around the loop of my drive in a Bentley and parked it right in front of the door. Why not? They were my only guests for the weekend.

Except, I reminded myself, for Cranwell.

The driver, a gentleman, got out, popped up an umbrella, and opened the passenger door for a woman. He helped her climb out, kissing her before releasing her. Then he adjusted the sweater that was flung around his neck, she adjusted the scarf that was around hers, and hand in hand, they climbed the stairs.

As they approached, I pulled the door open wide in welcome.

The gentleman was well known in France; the woman, not known but very beautiful. I’d lived long enough in this country to realize that she was probably not his wife. I sternly lectured my puritan conscience to mind its own business as I led them toward the reception hall and then up the winding central stairs. Their second-floor room was already glowing from the fire I’d lit to counter the chill of the evening. She kicked off her brown Gucci loafers, unwound her blue and brown-colored Hermès scarf, and dropped it over the back of a chair before I closed the door behind me. They requested breakfast in the dining hall at 10:00 the next morning.

By 10:15 that next morning, my sole staff member had failed to appear. “Monsieur is probably becoming very hungry,” I muttered while I arranged the serving tray yet again. I would have delivered it myself, except for the way that I was dressed. I mix all the breads the evening before, then shape and bake them in the morning before I serve breakfast. It’s a job that makes for sweaty work, so I’ve eliminated most of the traditional chef’s wardrobe. I’ve kept the classic baggy white and black micro-checked pants and comfortable shoes. I tossed the oversized white jacket and replaced it with a simple white tank top.

And though I look good in my modified outfit, I don’t look good enough to appear in front of a French cabinet member who expects a lot more for his money. I don’t know what I’d do without Sévérine.

We have an arrangement, she and I. Sévérine has been with me for two months and has another ten to go. I provide room and board, and she provides wait service and cleaning for my guests. It’s a perfect arrangement. Except for the fact that she’s chronically late. But she has such classic French beauty that everyone-including me-forgives her. I turned the dial on the espresso machine as soon as I heard her shuffle down the stairs.

“Frédérique. I am so sorry.” She appeared, breathless, at the bottom of the staircase. Her short black skirt and high-heeled pumps accentuated her long legs, and her deep red V-neck sweater managed to make her lips look even more red and her long black hair even more shiny.

“ C’est partie !” I shoved a basket full of freshly baked pains au chocolat into her hands, and turned her around back toward the stairs. No one stays mad at Sévérine. She started off with a slow ascent that would have been maddening had she not been so elegant. I knew the moment she entered the dining room, the French cabinet minister and his friend would be completely charmed.

“ Je suis bête .” I am stupid. That’s the first thing Sévérine says to any of my guests, and it’s offered by way of apology: for being late in answering the door, for being late in serving breakfast, for being late in picking them up at the nearest train station. My guests would see what everyone saw in Sévérine: long, graceful French legs, a handful of wavy dark hair pulled back into a twist, random strands of that hair pulling out of the twist to frame an animated face, and impish green eyes.

Just as long as they were never subject to the schizophrenic moods that swept over her like tidal waves. I blamed it on her work. She was more passionate about her research than any academic I’d ever met. She’d never yet snarled at one of my guests, but if she ever did, I would have to reconsider our arrangement.

It was after I had turned back to the counter to begin cutting fruit that I realized I had left the sugar bowl off the coffee tray. Quelle horreur! No self-respecting Frenchman drinks an espresso without sugar. I grabbed the bowl and took the stairs two at a time, hoping to catch up with Sévérine before she made it to the dining hall.

After taking two tight twists of the spiral staircase at a fast pace, I was dizzy when I emerged on the ground floor. I meant, of course, to sprint through the narrow door into the front hall and then past the big staircase into the reception hall. As it was, I dashed right through the archway and into Robert Cranwell.

If I hadn’t dropped the sugar bowl to grab a fistful of his sweater, I would have tumbled backward and down the stairs into the kitchen. If he hadn’t dropped his briefcase to grab me around the waist, he would have been propelled back into the table holding the flower arrangement. We wobbled back and forth for a moment until we obtained a collective balance; then I released his sweater and had the chance to look up into his face. I’d have to say that at first glance, I found him even more attractive than the picture that appears on all the jacket covers of his novels.

But he’s exactly the kind of man I don’t trust. If I hadn’t known his age, I would have guessed him five years short of forty-five. He had dark wavy hair, cut short on the sides and slicked back on top. It was graying at the temples, which gave him a look of distinction I was almost certain he didn’t deserve. At least he had a sense of humor; his dark eyes were sparkling. They were probably brown. I didn’t spend time looking. To top it off, he seemed the type that has a perpetual tan, and I could see a handful of chest hairs peeking through the open collar of his long-sleeved carbon-colored polo sweater. In certain circumstances, that has the ability to drive me crazy.

His tan wouldn’t last the week in Brittany.

An apology had almost formed on the tip of my tongue, but then I realized he still had an arm around my waist. I slid out of his grasp, trying to pull myself together and be professional.

“Welcome to Chateau de Kertanuan.” At that exact moment, my hair inexplicably spun out of its knot, and cascaded down around my shoulders. “May I help you?”

“I’m Robert Cranwell. I’d like to see Frédérique Farmer, please.”

There were two choices: I could admit to being me, or I could pretend that Sévérine was me. But I couldn’t go through with the lie. He’d find out the truth sooner or later. It was better to choose humiliation and get it over with. I’d dealt with worse situations.

I held out my hand. “I am Frédérique. Pleased to meet you.”

Something flashed in his eyes that I couldn’t interpret. He clasped my hand in his. “The pleasure is mine.” Then he bent down to the ground and started collecting pieces of the broken Quimper bowl. “I’m really sorry about this.”