Siri Mitchell - Chateau of Echoes

When I lifted the top of the last box, I couldn’t believe my eyes. I plunged my hands into the most extravagant fur I’d ever seen. I lifted it out by the shoulders and gaped. The floor-length fitted body was of silky black fur and the collar, cuffs, hood, hem, and opening were lined with an explosion of the fluffiest of sable in charcoal gray. It was beautiful. It was gorgeous.

For five long minutes, I argued with myself about whether or not to accept Cranwell’s gifts. I felt again the buttery-leather pants, the soft cashmere, and the silky fur. If Cranwell hadn’t tried anything romantic last night, I rationalized that he wasn’t going to. From this perspective, his gifts had no strings; there was nothing he was trying to buy from me; he was simply being friendly. Friendly at my income level usually meant a nice houseplant. Friendly at his level… was very nice indeed.

He knocked on the door again. “Freddie? You ready to go? The auto shop was supposed to have delivered the car by now.”

“I’m coming. Give me five minutes.” I was afraid to put the clothes on. I’d walked down rue Faubourg-St. Honoré in Paris many times, and I knew at a minimum what they must have cost.

After trying to use the hotel’s built-in hair dryer, I gave up: the air pressure was too low, and it was only distributing further the smell of cigarette smoke that permeated the room. I ran my fingers through my hair, gathered it in a hand, and tied it in the usual knot.

Makeup? I had none. I pinched my cheeks to make some color rise. It would have to do.

And I was left with having to put on my new clothes.

The pleasure was indescribable. I don’t know how Cranwell managed it, but everything fit perfectly. I could have done without the stiletto heels on the boots, but aside from those, I felt like at least $200,000.

When I placed my hand on the doorknob, I suddenly felt shy.

There was a soft knock on the door. “Freddie?”

Putting a hand up, I stroked the door above my head, knowing exactly, from experience, where his face would be. I caught myself smiling. I opened the door.

“Cranwell-” Whatever it was that I was going to say died on my lips. The way he was looking at me sent a tingle down my spine.

“Wow.” He bent at the waist, made some silly gesture as if he were doffing his hat, and then offered me his arm.

“I don’t know how to thank you.”

“Just give me your hand and tell me again that you didn’t freeze to death last night.”

He let me slip a fur-covered arm under his. “But-”

Cranwell covered my hand with his. “It was nothing. I’ve never known a woman to want to wear the same thing two days in a row. My car and my own stupidity put your life in danger. It’s the least I could do.”

He stopped on our way out the door to grab a piece of designer luggage. “I’ll carry this out for you.”

“It’s not mine.”

“It’s got your things in it, so I guess it is now.”

This I’ve learned in life: If you don’t believe in Santa Claus, he can’t bring you any presents.

I believe.

Cranwell’s car was waiting for us in front of the hotel. It didn’t look anything like the arctic coffin it had seemed the previous night.

A valet opened the door for me. Cranwell helped me in. It made me feel just like a model.

As we dashed through town, I noticed the clock on the Tour de l’Horloge. It looked as if it were already afternoon.

Cranwell must have read confusion on my face. “It’s about two o’clock. After what we went through last night, we needed the sleep.”

Involuntarily, I shivered. I never wanted to be that cold again.

We reached home about an hour later. Cranwell parked in front of the steps and then came around to help me out.

Not being used to the stilettos, I teetered on the first stair. Cranwell reached an arm around my waist to steady me and then decided the better of it and lifted me easily into his arms. He marched up the steps and set me carefully on my feet in the entrance hall.

“Sorry about those heels, but that’s all the designer carried this season.” He flashed me a grin and then jogged back down the stairs to park the car.

“Frédérique? Robert?” Sévérine’s call advertised her advance up the stairs from the kitchen. She burst into sight, followed, from a distance, by Lucy. “I was so scary.” She put a hand on my arm “You are well?”

“I’m fine. Didn’t Cranwell call you?”

“ Oui . Robert called last night from the hotel. But he told me near to nothing. He was very occupied.”

“Preoccupied.” I could imagine.

For several minutes, I petted Lucy and listened to Sévérine chatter. I heard Cranwell crunch through the gravel across the drive and shuffle up the steps. The great oak door opened behind me.

Giving Lucy a final pat, I started toward the stairs. I thought I’d give the lovers a chance to be alone.

“Robert!” I heard Sévérine kiss Cranwell’s cheeks and begin to accost him with questions.

I picked my way up the first spiral of the staircase.

“Freddie?” His voice broke free from the conversation. “Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

After walking up another turn of the staircase, I sat down on a step in my fur coat to take off the boots. I just wasn’t a stiletto type of girl.

“I’ll bring up your bag when I come.”

“Thanks.” I was beginning to feel tired again, though I’d only been awake four hours. I trudged up the stairs to my room and hung my coat in the armoire before I collapsed on the bed. I was overcome by gratitude: I was alive. Every day I would live after that was a gift. I curled up on top of my duvet and marveled at this miracle. I allowed myself to drift off to sleep.

When I woke, the sun had set. I was surprised I hadn’t become cold, and then I realized I was snuggled underneath my duvet. I thought for a moment that I had done this in my sleep, but when I got up to walk to the bathroom, I saw my new suitcase on the floor beside the armoire.

Cranwell.

Again.

my sixteenth year

the first year of Louis XI, King of France

day of Saint Michel

My lord was angry this night.

We were having a fête special for Saint Michel. I was wearing an houppelande of velvet the color of the summer sky with sleeves very close and the lining beneath and below of the furs of squirrel. I wore also a chemise of silk the color of straw, the neck being straight and low and the chemise showing itself beneath the houppelande. My ceinture was of gold and fixed to itself with a jeweled clasp. My headdress, shaped as a butterfly, was more comfortable than my henin and less tall. It is of gold and studded with pearls and beryls the color of water.

This feast day, the comte de Dol had honored us with his presence. The comte is very old. He has at least fifty years and only half of his teeth, and difficulties with hearing.

The comte bowed low to me and made homage.

I replied to him, My lord, and he raised himself And he looked at me and I did not like it.

The comte demanded of me how many years I had and I told him. Sixteen.

And he demanded of me from where I came. And I told him. The country of Touraine.

Anne and my lord came and joined us. And the comte bowed low and made homage, but I made note that he did not look at her, but kept his eyes on me.

I placed myself near to my lord, and put my hand on his arm and he covered it with his own.

The comte told Anne that her cousin is very beautiful and certain he is that she searches a husband. He told her also that she should have no problems with such a body for bearing children and so fair a face.

And I had the realization that the comte believed that I was the cousin and Anne was the wife of my lord.