Siri Mitchell: Chateau of Echoes

A wave of relief buoyed me. There would be no pity. No awkwardness. Just a simple acceptance that, as I had fought to claim, life moved on. “No. I mean, yes. I couldn’t go back. Too many things had changed. I wasn’t the same person, and I didn’t want the same things I’d wanted before.”

“Did you cook before you came to France?”

I shook my head. “Peter was so busy at the Embassy that I needed to find something for myself. I decided on Cordon Bleu .”

“Sounds glamorous.”

“It wasn’t. I spent two weeks just learning how to use a knife. When it came to actual cooking, I made recipes over and over, memorizing them. Sometimes we ate the same thing for a week and a half.”

“If it tasted anything like this, I can’t imagine he would have complained.”

“He didn’t. Ever.”

At that point, I got up and removed the plates from the table. Then I quickly sautéed three chicken breasts, adding melon jam at the last moment. I took a breast from the pan, arranged it on a plate and reached for the next. Cranwell had anticipated this and was already at my side, offering the plate. He did it easily, smoothly, fitting himself into my rhythm of work but not invading my space.

I heard a familiar shuffle on the stairs and arranged a tray of food for Sévérine.

Lucy growled and moved from her position by the stairs to take refuge underneath the island.

“Excuse me. I do not mean to interrupt.” Sévérine stopped at the foot of the stairs when she saw Cranwell; then she came forward to collect her tray.

Cranwell did what every man does when they see Sévérine: He got to his feet, saying, “Please. No. That’s quite alright.” And then he managed somehow to touch her. Sometimes men touch her arm, sometimes her shoulder. Sometimes they even clasp her hand and pull her closer. The magic of Sévérine is as old as Eve. And it never fails.

“I see you later, Frédérique.”

Nodding, I confirmed, “At eight.” She would serve dinner to my guests.

Cranwell followed her with his eyes as she left the room, and with his ears long after she had disappeared from sight.

Waiting until he was done goggling, I tried to restart the conversation. “And how did you hear about Alix?”

“A lecture in L.A. ‘Feminism in Medieval France.’”

I bent to pick up a scrap that had fallen on the floor. I eyed Lucy and then decided against tossing it to her; she was definitely too high-class for scraps. “How enlightened of you.”

As I set a plate in front of him, he looked into my eyes. “A prospective girlfriend.”

“It didn’t work out?”

“She wasn’t any fun. But the lifestyle of medieval women was fascinating.”

How typically male. “Maybe for you, but I’m sure it wasn’t for them.”

He had been cutting his chicken but waved a hand as if to brush away my remarks. “I asked for a list of references and did some research. I came across an article by-”

“Let me guess: a Ms. Dupont?”

“You know her?!”

“You do too.” The thing that is most irritating about Sévérine is how smart she is. It really is not fair. “Sévérine.”

“Sévérine-?”

It was impossible not to catalogue the emotions as they crossed his face. “That’s perfect.”

Just perfect.

A fter I’d cooked for my guests and Sévérine had finished serving them, Cranwell came back down with Lucy for an evening walk. They returned as we were putting away the last of the dishes.

He rapped on the kitchen door, startling me. It wasn’t the normal entrance for guests.

Sévérine let him in. Lucy barked at her.

“I hear you’re the expert on Alix de Montôt.”

“The expert!” Sévérine laughed. “This is me.”

Cranwell pulled out a stool for her and then one for himself. “What was she like?”

“What was she like?” Sévérine gave the slightest shrug. “Who can say?”

“I mean, was she… a daredevil? A prude? A tomboy?”

“I do not know these words, but you are asking me of her character?”

“Yes.”

“Her character…” Sévérine thought a moment, a slight ‘v’ appearing on her forehead between her eyes, just pronounced enough to make a person want to lean over and smooth it away. “This is difficult, you know, because she is not of our age. This is the problem of history. You see, we cannot expect that a woman in the fifteenth century would be the same person in the twenty-first century. The society are different and they affect the behavior of each person. You understand this, yes?”

Cranwell nodded.

Sitting at my desk behind them, I decided to get a head start on the next week’s menu.

“For her century, she was… I do not know how you say this, ahead of her time?”

“Yes.”

“She was educated. She wrote very much. She had her own thoughts…”

“You mean she thought for herself?”

“Yes. This is what I mean.”

“Thoughts that were not common?”

“Maybe thoughts that were common for a man to think, but not for a woman.”

“That sounds modern. Advanced.”

“Yes, but we find this is because she is not taught.”

“You just said she was educated.”

“Yes. Educated. But not… she was mal élevée .”

The silence stretched and I couldn’t help but interject. “She was poorly raised.”

“Yes. That is the one!” Sévérine turned and smiled her thanks at me. “She was poorly raised, so she does not know what is expected of her.”

“In what way?”

“As a woman. As a wife. She knows how to read and write and do the maths, but she cannot manage a chateau. She knows nothing of food or of servants. She does not do broderie or sing or play music. And of life, she does not understand that she does not have choices, and so she thinks and makes as if she does.”

“So, she’s ahead of her time, but she’s also behind it.”

“No. Behind it would be no education. It is that she is not…”

Again, I intervened. “She’s not socialized.”

“Yes. Not socialized.”

“So did she not want to get married?”

“No. She did. She knew she must because she was a woman, but she did not know what this meant.”

“You mean leaving her home?”

“This she knows. She does not know, by example, about sex. She does not understand what a correct wife does.”

“So what does she do?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.” Sévérine sighed. “This is complicated. You could perhaps read my notes and the journals and understand the marriage better.”

“But what about the history? In her era, Brittany was not a part of France.”

“This is correct. Many parts of the republic of today were not ruled then by the King of France. They owed fealty to the king, but the lands had their own kings or rulers. Brittany was one of the most powerful, but there were many others.”

“Exactly what was ‘France’ then?”

Sévérine shrugged. “It is hard to know, but normally we say Normandy, Champagne, Poitou, Langedoc, Dauphiny, Touraine, and the area around Bordeaux to Cahors.”

“And Alix’s family came from this France?”

“Yes. Her father’s family from Touraine, near Chinon. Her mother’s family comes from Provence, from the land of a different king, King René.”

“Was Brittany friendly with France?”

Sévérine sucked air between her teeth. “Yes. But she is also friendly with England.”

“And England and France hate each other.”

“Yes. The Hundred Year War is not long over. Not even ten years.”

“So Alix’s marriage is strategic.”

“Yes. And this is correct for her family.”