Siri Mitchell - Chateau of Echoes

Or she told me that I had the right to demand Awen as a husband. And as his wife, I had the right to send Anne away.

I must think.

I must pray for to be wise.

eight days before Saint Simon

He came to me this night, but I did not open the door to him.

six days before Saint Simon

If I were a crazed creature before, I now feel as shriveled inside as a prune. If I go home, father will find for me another husband, I am certain. But would this new husband please me?

four days before Saint Simon

He came to me this night, but I did not open the door to him.

three days before Saint Simon

I cannot go on as if I understand nothing.

two days before Saint Simon

He came to me this night, but I did not open the door to him.

one day before Saint Simon

Do I want a husband? Must I have one? If only I could live alone. But I cannot. I am much too valuable. If I return to home, if the marriage is annulled, I would be fiancéed within one month.

How much more easy it would be to just leave things as they are. And pretend as if I understand nothing.

day of Saint Simon

He came to me this night, but I did not open the door to him.

one day after Saint Simon

By times, I truly hate him.

I cannot have him as my husband and leave him also Anne. I would never have any confidence. I would never have my own life. It would always be shared. With her. In addition, it is me the wife. It is mine the marriage. If there remains something which can be blessed by God, it is my life and my marriage, and none belonging to Anne. It is she the penitent and me the righteous.

Anne must go.

two days after Saint Simon

He came to me this night. I unbolted the door to him, and then walked toward the fire. My soul sought all the warmth it could find.

He pushed the door open and stood in the doorway, searching my eyes.

I turned away from him, back toward the fire.

He closed the door and came to me.

I backed away from him, toward the windows, as he advanced until I discovered my back was against the wall.

I warned him not to come near.

He would not stop.

I touched the cool stones and felt their strength.

He stopped just in front of me.

I took my hand from the wall and slapped him across the face.

He spoke no words, but drew me into his arms.

Women are weak, for I could not save myself I wept. But I would not be held. I broke from his arms and he let me. I went to stand in front of the fire and he let me. But he stood behind me and placed his hands on my shoulders.

I closed my eyes and tears fell from them. I wept for all the sweetness and trust which had gone from us. I could now never maintain my honor. I felt stupid. Bête. For Anne had done the thing with him that I do not. Since three years.

I told him he had made me so happy I thought my heart would burst of it. And he had made me so sad I thought my heart would die of it. I told him all this and had no strength left. No strength to cry, no strength to stand.

I shook off his hands from my shoulders and placed myself by ground on the fur in front of the fire. I wanted only to be alone.

But he would not leave. I heard him sit behind me, but he did not touch me, not for the time it takes to repeat ten Ave Marias.

Then he put a hand to my hair and ran it all the length.

I had tired of tears. He must have known it, for when I moved, he let me curl in toward him, like a dog, and rest my head on his thigh. He stroked still my hair and I closed my eyes to listen to the fire snap.

He explained to me that he had loved Anne when he had seen her the first time. And she him. And because their bloodlines were so close, they knew they could never be married. And when first he had seen me, I seemed to him the same as his sister. And thinking of her, he could not be a husband to me. And these three years, I had become grown and he found that he had grown to love me. And the night I had seen Anne go to him was the last they had spent together.

I told him, with my eyes closed still and my head against his thigh, that she must go. That my father had found for her a chevalier possessed of a good property and age. I told him if he wanted me, I would have him in whole, but not in part.

He made no reply, but stroked still my hair. And with the heat of the fire and the feel of his hand, I found sleep there on his thigh, although when I woke, we were in bed, together. He heard me stir and placed his arm around me. I came close to his warm body and slept still more.

A ll havoc broke loose in March.

It began, innocuously enough, with a visit from my contractor.

When I’d first purchased the chateau, his name was given to me by the real estate agent as an expert in historical renovation. The chateau had been vacant for years before I purchased it, and the last “renovation” had been done in the 1920s. It had taken weeks to get an appointment with him, but as soon as he stepped in the front door, I knew he’d been worth the wait. He spent the entire day crawling over the chateau and the grounds, tapping at windows, knocking on wood, chipping at masonry, and scribbling comments in his notebook. At the end of the day, dust and cobwebs obscured his thinning blond hair, and dirt was caked into the wrinkles of his fifty-year-old face, but his blue eyes were twinkling, and his head nodding in an ever-more-confident cadence. He told me he’d be back the next weekend with some plans and an estimate.

I drove back to Paris right after he left and waited that next week with trepidation, having no idea the cost of such an undertaking.

The next week, we met again at the chateau. Thankfully, M. Mailly was convinced the chateau was structurally sound. His main concerns were updating the wiring and the plumbing. Fortunately, the former owners hadn’t done much besides install “modern” bathrooms and a kitchen, phone lines, and electricity. At least I would not have to undo anything they had done. We talked, at the time, about the stable. He commented that at a minimum, it needed reroofing, and to convert it into any sort of living quarters would require doing everything. I had decided to use it as a garage while I pondered what should be done with it. M. Mailly had many ideas: a restaurant, groundskeeper’s quarters, a conference hall, an interpretive center, luxury suite accommodations. I was hesitant to pour more money into the estate than was absolutely needed… especially when I wasn’t sure how business would be.

There was no doubt in my mind, however, about letting him manage the renovation of the chateau. I was even able to convince him to let me be the on-site supervisor. After that meeting, I returned to Paris, put in my notice with my landlord, and packed up and moved into a small room in the chateau.

It had been fascinating to watch M. Mailly’s subcontractors dismantel centuries-old walls and ceilings, perform their work, and then erase the evidence of their tampering. As the work came to an end, I agreed to call M. Mailly when I was ready to work on the stable and talk about creating a formal garden out in front.

Considering the number of guests I turned away, I decided that moment had arrived. My flow of revenue could only increase. And Cranwell was right, I needed to join the land of the living.

M. Mailly appeared exactly at 9:00 a.m. that morning. I’d just had time to change out of my working clothes and into slim black pants and a cadet blue spread-collar long-sleeved shirt. I tied a colorful scarf around my neck and drew on a short-waisted tailored black blazer. If we spent any time outside, as I expected, I wanted to be warm.

I met the contractor at the door and offered him an espresso.