Fortunately, the conference guests staggered their arrivals the following afternoon. I was able to give each one an individual tour of the chateau, ending with their assigned rooms. And in between the arrivals, I set the dining hall table and prepared dinner.
At 7:30, they assembled for paté and cornichons pickles, sauced-veal blanquette de veau, rice, and haricots verts green beans, followed by a luscious gâteau au chocolat that was much richer than any “death by chocolate” dessert I’ve ever tasted. I had portioned out enough of everything for Cranwell and me to have the same for our dinner and left it all on the counter, telling Cranwell to help himself. I meant to eat between serving, but after delivering espressos, taking orders for digestifs and clearing off the table, it was well after 10:00. Thankfully, Cranwell had placed all my food in the refrigerator, but it no longer looked so appetizing. I ended up scrambling a few eggs, scavenging some baguette, and calling it a meal. Preparing the bread doughs and setting the table for breakfast took until midnight. When I finally managed to crawl up the stairs to my room, it was all I could do to take off my clothes before falling into bed.
The alarm rang much too early the next morning.
As the conference was to start at 8:30, the guests had wanted breakfast available at 7:30. By the time the breads were shaped and put in the oven, I had to hurry to slice fruit and get a tray set up with espressos. It was around 10:00, after the table was cleared and breakfast dishes put away, that I finally had a breakfast consisting of leftovers: a slice of melon and half a peach. A glance at my watch warned me that lunch was right around the corner, so I reset the table and then started cooking.
I’d decided on small individual salades composées, broiled chicken breasts with ratatouille, and an apple-rhubarb crumble. Crumbles were all the rage at the moment, even at the most exclusive three-star restaurants in Paris. I composed the salads first, leaving them to chill in the fridge, then I sautéed the vegetables for the ratatouille. At the last moment, I broiled the chicken breasts. The crumble, I began to cook after the guests had started to eat. That way, I could guarantee it was served warm.
Cranwell came in about the same time the guests began to eat. I pointed at the fridge, the stove, and the oven in turn, and told him to help himself as I flew up the stairs to check on the guests.
After they had disappeared into the council room, I cleared the table and was beginning to fix myself an espresso when I remembered that I needed to collect their sheets and towels to do the laundry. I raced up the stairs to the first guest room before I even thought about needing my master key to gain entrance to the rooms. Half an hour later, I was out of breath, out of energy, and in general need of a break before I started on dinner. Running usually lifted my spirits, so I decided to slip out for half an hour and take a jog.
I made it into the forest before I began to feel lightheaded. I can recall seeing Cranwell and Lucy up in front of me in the meadow, and I think I raised my hand to wave at them, but that’s all I can remember.
When I came to, I was seated on a fallen log with my head between my legs and Cranwell telling me to take deep, slow breaths. He had his hand around the back of my neck as if to make sure I wasn’t going to jump up and run away. I stayed bent over that way for a while, long enough to realize a trail of ants was working hard at storing food in the log. And long enough for Lucy to thoroughly lick my face.
“Are you okay? Did you hurt anything?”
From my doubled-over position, I inspected my ankles and my knees. “I don’t think so.”
“What happened?”
Too tired to answer him, I contemplated the ants, wondering when they were going to stop. Would they ever take a break?
“Do you feel sick?”
“No.”
“Do you have a history of heart trouble?”
“No.” I tried to shrug his hand away from my neck. “Is it all right with you if I sit up now?”
“Sorry.”
He rose to his feet as I closed my eyes, stretched my back, and then sat up straight on the log. When I opened my eyes, it was to find Cranwell staring at me. The furrow in his brow told me he was worried.
“It’s nothing. It’s probably because I haven’t eaten much in the last twenty-four hours.”
“Why not? You definitely don’t need to be on a diet.” He put a hand to my waist as I attempted to stand.
“It’s this conference. I don’t have time to do anything but cook and clean.”
He had shrugged out of his jacket and slipped it around my shoulders, leaving himself clad in jeans and a white button-down shirt. I had to admit that I had been starting to get cold. A jogging top and shorts work well when I’m actually running, but once I stop, I tend to cool off fast.
“Then why didn’t you ask for my help?”
Why? Because I hadn’t thought of it. “You’re a guest. I can’t ask you to help. It’s my inn, not yours.”
He muttered something to himself and then, with a firm grip around my forearm, marched us off in the direction of the chateau. “When we get home, you’re going to sit down, and I’m going to make you something to eat. Then you’re going to tell me exactly how I can help you.”
True to his word, he did find something for me to eat. He made me eat an apple for an immediate injection of sugar, and then he gave me a plate of pasta with gruyère.
He watched me closely while I ate. It almost made me feel uncomfortable.
Finally, I finished and pushed the plate away.
“Feel better?”
Actually, I did. Surprising what a big difference a little food can make.
“What do you need me to do?”
Looking around at the kitchen, I couldn’t think of any cooking that he could help with. I began to shake my head.
“What do you need me to do?” The way in which he said it demanded some sort of task.
“Laundry?”
“Where is it and what do I do with it?”
“All the towels and sheets are in the washers. Could you put them in the dryers and then make the beds and put the towels back?”
“Just tell me where the laundry room is.”
After I had explained the location to him and pressed the master key into his hand, he headed up the stairs like a man on a mission.
Dinner for that evening would be easy to prepare. The oeufs en gelée, halved eggs, were just waiting to be pried from their molds. The civet de sanglier, wild boar stew, only needed to be assembled and put on to simmer; I would add boar’s blood to thicken it. The sorbets were done. The only thing I would need to do at the last minute was boil potatoes to go with the stew.
An hour later Cranwell still had not returned. I wondered for a moment whether he actually knew how to make a bed, but I put the thought out of my mind as quickly as I could.
He appeared in the kitchen several minutes later and insisted on helping me set the table in the dining hall.
When I started up the stairs afterward, he demanded where I was going.
“I was thinking of changing clothes. If that’s all right with you…?”
He scowled and then climbed the stairs behind me. “I’ll change too.”
After I’d taken a quick shower and changed into black pants and a black boat-neck knit top, I returned to the kitchen. And found Cranwell waiting for me. He was still wearing his white button-down shirt, but had exchanged his jeans for a pair of black slacks.
As I finished the dinner preparations, he watched me like a hawk.
“I’m not going to faint again. I promise.”
He grunted as if he didn’t believe me.
Irritated by his constant surveillance, I finally began to give him platters of things to take up to the dining hall, just to give him something else to do.
One good thing about his help: I was actually able to eat after the guests were served and before I had to run dessert up to them. Cranwell helped me clear the table after they were done and stayed up with me while I mixed dough for the next morning’s croissants and baguettes. I even had time to read the paper and learned of the horrendous flooding that had been plaguing Provence that week. France can be a country of meteorological extremes; everywhere else in the country the sun had been shining, the skies unmarred by clouds.
When I got to the kitchen the following morning, Cranwell was waiting for me. “What can I do?”
My eyelids were refusing to remain open. I fumbled for the espresso-maker, but Cranwell took me by the hand, seated me on a stool, and slid a demitasse toward me.
“How long have you been up?”
Cranwell shrugged. “Half an hour.”
Well, he sure beat Sévérine on punctuality. I took my time and savored the espresso as he drummed on the marble island top with his fingers.
“So, what can I do?”
The espresso was starting to kick in. I left the stool and went to punch down the bread dough.
He trailed me. “Unless you give me something to do, I’m going to take over here, and your guests will have milk and cereal for breakfast.” He was serious.
“Can you divide this into twelve equal parts?” I would need twelve baguettes for the combined meals that day.
“Not a problem.”
Leaving Cranwell to dig his hands into the dough and figure out how to separate it, I turned my attention to shaping croissants. When I was finished and able to turn my attention back to him, I found him leaning his back against the counter, arms crossed in front of him. Twelve equal balls of dough were sitting beside him.
I moved to shape them, and as I took a ball of dough and began to mold it, Cranwell mirrored my actions. In ten minutes both the baguettes and croissants were in the ovens.
Since Cranwell had exhibited such sincerity in wanting to help, I set him up with a cutting board and knife and left him to slice fruit while I went upstairs and set the table.
When I came back, he had the fruit neatly separated into different piles. It was sliced, I’ll give him that, although it was a little roughly done. For the sake of expediency, I just dumped it all into a large bowl and asked him to take it upstairs and set it on the buffet.
I’d never before allowed anyone to help me cook. Of course, I’d never before hosted so many guests at one time. But having Cranwell around had been a lifesaver.
Sévérine came back into town just after the last guest had left. I had been in the council room, opening the shades and putting it back to order, so I saw her drive up. And I couldn’t help but stare, because it looked like her car had wallowed all week in a gigantic mud puddle.
I caught her before she went up to her room. “Is everything all right, Sévérine?”
“Yes. Everything is as it should be.”
“Was it a family emergency?”
She frowned. “No. This was for research. I have no family.”
“None?”
“My mother is dead. My father is…” She finished her sentence with an eloquent French shrug.
“You don’t get along with him?” I could relate.
“Non.” She laughed. But it wasn’t filled with mirth. “You are an American, so perhaps you do not understand this, but my mother was a mistress. Of a very powerful man. A nobleman.”
“But that’s…” wrong… immoral… “… fine.”
She looked at me. “For my mother perhaps. But not so fine for me. We French do not progress like you Americans. We still have class structures. We are still the same as King Arthur and his knights. Much is forgiven here, but never a child without a name. Because you cannot make one for yourself in France. It is given you.”
“He ignored you?”
“Non.” She set her bag down. Put her purse on the table. “He would tell me the most wonderful stories when I was a child. Of Arthur and of the search for the grail. But it was only to make my mother happy. When she died, there was no more connection. No more reason.”
“But you’re his daughter.”
“By blood, not by name. And I must never be named. I do not exist. Anywhere. Not anymore.”
“But-”
“You do not know what it is like to be the child of an affair. Not a one-night stand. An affair is two people, for life. Two people, never three. It was my mother and me during the weekend, the very best of friends. But during the week? At night when my father came? I might as well not have been born. I ceased to exist. So is everything okay? Everything is fine. Better than fine. Because one day my father will want, more than anything, to call me his daughter. Will be proud to claim me as his. One day very soon.” She picked up her bag and her purse and tramped up the stairs. I was left staring after her, uncertain how to respond, because I couldn’t decide what emotion her eyes had been glinting. Triumph? Anger? Defiance? Was I supposed to congratulate her, protect myself from her, or commiserate with her? That evening, even as I was eating dinner with Cranwell, I still hadn’t decided.
If Cranwell had to be around, at least he hadn’t shown himself to be demanding. And since he had been so eager to help with the conference, I didn’t have very many qualms about enlisting his aid for the Journées de Patrimoine. The Days of National History. Every September, historical sites in France opened their doors to the public. They included museums, monuments, parliament, the president’s and prime minister’s mansions… as well as provincial sites of interest like my chateau. The chateau is a site classé, the equivalent of being listed on the National Register of Historic Places. To encourage the maintenance of historic buildings, the French heavily subsidize restoration of those buildings. The price of the subsidy? Letting the public climb all over the properties for one weekend every year. It wasn’t demanded, but it was highly encouraged. And in the next few years I was planning on doing some renovations to the outbuildings and the grounds. I would need all the friends in high places I could make to help speed my applications through the bureaucracy.
If it sounds like I was making a big deal out of nothing, you should see how long it takes me to clean and straighten up after all the visitors. The previous year, I had to have all the carpets professionally steam-cleaned. And I’d need all the help I could get, making sure that fans of Alix didn’t walk away with everything they could stuff inside their pockets. I wouldn’t have thought academics could be such kleptomaniacs.
It was fortunate that I could count on support from both Sévérine and Cranwell. I’d decided that Sévérine would be in charge of the third floor. She had an affinity for the library and I knew she would guard my collection with her life.
Cranwell I would place on the second floor. He didn’t speak French, but that wouldn’t stop him from being able to keep an eye on people.
As owner of the chateau, I would guard the ground floor and the garden area.
The fourth floor of the chateau, housing my room and Sévérine’s apartment, would be off limits. And without extra bodies, I’d have to entrust the outlying grounds to the visitors’ conscience.
The week before the Journées began, I explained my plan to Sévérine and Cranwell.
“Do you mind helping?”
“Pardon me?” Cranwell had clearly not been listening.
“Journées de Patrimoine. Can you help?”
“When is it again?”
“Next Saturday and Sunday.”
“Sure. No problem.”
“Sévérine?”
“Yes, Frédérique. Of course I will help you.”