Much of New Year’s Day I spent wondering whether or not to be thankful for the turn my life had taken the previous year. The week before, I’d wondered if I’d even make it to January.
Cranwell had been a man with a mission. He’d tramped through the forest and identified a fifteen-foot tree that he just had to have. Unfortunately, he didn’t foresee the effort it would require to transport it to the chateau. He’d ended up dragging it through the trees, grass, mud, and gravel, straight through the chateau and up the central stairs.
I nearly cried when I saw the trail of dirt and needles he’d left strung behind him like a sort of demented Hansel. But when I saw what he had done with the tree, I nearly laughed.
Cranwell decided to set it up in my room. He and Sévérine decorated it while I was busy cooking. It would have been a nice surprise except that, being so suddenly brought from the cold into the warmth of the chateau, it dropped all its needles. And because Cranwell forgot it needed water, sap from the trunk seeped all day from the tree directly onto the stone floor.
I hate Christmas.
Of course, Cranwell apologized and Sévérine cleaned up the mess, but the thought of that naked tree laden with luxurious ornaments still made me smile… when I didn’t think about the cost of cleaning all the carpets he’d soiled on the way up to my room.
Cranwell had redeemed himself on Christmas Eve. He’d had a seven-course meal delivered from Fauchon, the gourmet grocery store in Paris. It was fabulous. From the foie gras to the three-chocolate bûche de Noël served with Maury wine. And he had truly excelled when he’d selected the cheese course: eight cheeses which ranged from a mild chevre to a strong Roquefort and came complete with all the right wines.
That evening, we drove into the nearest town and attended midnight mass. I wouldn’t have gone with him except that his heart was set on going to church. Somewhere. Neither one of us understood a word, but the liturgy was so familiar that it seemed as if no one was there to actually hear it, but to experience it. To enter a stone country church lit by candlelight on the holiest evening of the year. To hear a priest intone those precious phrases in so solemn a voice they evolved from mere words into a priceless blessing. To see the incense from the censor spread its fingers out over the congregation. To belong to a ritual so ancient that, more than anywhere else I’d been, it provided a glimpse of a little manger in Bethlehem and a connection with saints both past and present. I could feel my soul relax. And when I felt like God was sitting on the pew beside me, I didn’t have the heart to tell Him to leave.
The wonder on Cranwell’s face at the end of the mass was worth any misgivings I’d had about coming. He looked very humble. At that moment, I was almost able to believe that his conversion had been real. But then I remembered Sévérine.
The moment she returned to the chateau, he bombarded her with questions about Alix. She didn’t even have time to take her coat off. He ran up the stairs when he heard the door slam, and he came back down dragging her behind him.
I poured them both a Lillet and happened to be handing one to Sévérine when Cranwell asked her his question. “Could Alix have been a Jew?”
Sévérine’s face froze, but her eyes registered a dozen emotions before she answered. “Why would you think this?”
“You said her mother was from Provence.”
“Yes, this is true, but not everyone in Provence is a Jew. In fact, there would not have been many left in France at that time. And recall that her father was of noble birth.”
“But her mother was very beautiful.”
“And this makes of her a Jew? I do not understand.”
“I’m just trying out different angles. Maybe that one won’t work. But what if she was?”
“If she was, then she may not have known.”
“Why not?”
“For her own protection. For the advancement of the family. If she was a Jew, the comte de Barenton might never have agreed to marry her.”
At the time, Cranwell’s thought about Alix seemed like a non sequitur. But Sévérine’s answer seemed to satisfy his curiosity. And I was too busy preparing the New Year’s meal to draw any of my own conclusions.
The champagne was my favorite, from a small but prestigious maker. For the meal I had decided on magret de canard with puffed potatoes and French green beans. The appetizer would be foie gras-to serve anything else would have been a huge gaffe. Dessert was still undecided. I pored through my cookbooks trying to find something special. When I saw the recipe for chocolate cheesecake soufflé with Chambord sauce, I knew I’d found my dessert.
The meal was fabulous, and by the time the clock struck midnight and we toasted in the New Year, I was exhausted. Cranwell and Sévérine convinced me that they could handle the cleanup, so I stumbled up the stairs and fell into bed.
During my New Year’s Day reverie, I decided to keep my Italian vacation plans. It wasn’t that the weather was particularly terrible-that January had been one of the warmest on record. It was just that watching Sévérine work her charms on Cranwell was becoming tiring, and I didn’t want to watch anymore. I counted down the days until the fifteenth, when I took the train into Paris and from Paris to Charles de Gaulle Airport.
It wasn’t until the plane lifted off and Paris disappeared beneath gray clouds that I finally felt able to relax.
It didn’t last long.
Once in Rome, I stayed two nights. That first morning I spent pacing up and down the Forum. I bought a slice of pizza from a sidewalk vendor and ate it in the shade of the Basilica of Maxentius. Then I stalked down the ancient streets and stayed what seemed like ages at the House of the Vestal Virgins. Was their life as wonderful as it sounded? It was difficult to tell with everything in ruins, but how easy it would make life to know that you were forbidden to be intimate with a man. I wanted to shove back the rose bush and leap over the crumbled walls. To throw myself into what used to be their courtyard and beg their spirits to take me in.
After, I went to a hill south of Rome and spent an hour eating gelato, draped over the railing, looking down on Rome, envying the anonymous problems of the anonymous people scurrying through the streets.
That evening, I tried to climb the Spanish Steps, but gave up halfway for lack of interest. I even entertained thoughts of eating dinner at the fast-food restaurant just around the corner from the plaza. That’s how depressed I was.
The tragedy was that I loved Rome. I was used to tramping all over the city, losing myself on purpose just to pretend I was a part of its history.
Even eating at La Pergola and La Terrazza held no special thrill. In previous years I had looked forward to the occasions, had looked to them for culinary inspiration. I had divided my time between the masterpieces of world-renowned chefs and hole-in-the-wall mamas and papas, equally satisfied and equally inspired to things both great and small. It is just as difficult to turn out a perfect veal marsala as a perfect gnocchi. But this trip, food didn’t interest me at all.
So depressed, so listless was I, that even the street urchins and gypsy gangs left me alone.
Having ruined my own good time and not knowing quite what to do with myself, I took the train to Sorrento on the third day. I stayed at the Imperial Hotel Tramantano, overlooking the Gulf of Naples, and insisted on a bayside room. Then spent hours on the balcony watching the hydroplanes ferry tourists to and from Capri.
In Sorrento, I prefer to eat not downtown among the winding streets filled with pottery and souvenir shops, but at the harbor of Marina Grande where I can watch the fishing boats come in, see wedding parties taking pictures in front of the old church, and watch grandmothers go to mass. I usually love the walk that plunges steeply down the hillside, twisting through narrow streets and passing underneath the city’s ancient gate. And there’s nothing like eating outside at a table on the crude dock that hovers just above the lapping waves. But that year, I couldn’t get excited about the long walk back up the hill to the hotel, and I decided not to make the trek.
The second afternoon, I did, however, visit a marquetry shop run by a family who sells antique boxes pieced together from miniscule bits of colored wood. Among all the containers and plaques and trivets, I saw a box that would have been perfect for Cranwell; he would have appreciated the artistry required to make it. I punished him by not buying it, and on my walk back over to the hotel, I purchased a bottle of limoncello for myself instead.
I spent that night parked in a chair on my balcony, sipping lemon liqueur, watching the activity, hearing the humanity in the town around me.
The next day I spent on Capri.
And that year, I found no pleasure in the hydroplane ride across the bay. In the past, I had loved the strength in the wind as the boat rounded the corner of the peninsula and pointed its nose toward the island. That year, it required too much energy to keep my hat on my head, so I went inside the boat and sat on a bench. If I wasn’t happy, at least I could nurse my self-pity in the relative warmth of a southern Italian winter.
My thoughts kept stalling on Cranwell. I kept wondering what he was up to. And even as I climbed the hill that the town of Capri clings to, I tried to decide whether or not he would be doing whatever it was with Sévérine.
Even the view from the top of the hill at Tragara, of the wedge-shaped Faraglioni formations jutting from the sea, seemed mundane. In past years, I had followed the path beneath the hillside terrace to the water. That year, I found a bench beneath a tree and, hidden by my sunglasses, closed my eyes and dozed in the breeze.
From hundreds of miles away, Cranwell had managed to ruin everything.
From Sorrento, I took the train back to Rome and flew out of the Eternal City seven long days after I’d landed there. It was only after I reached Paris that I realized my thin black pants, black tight-fitting long-sleeve sweater, and hair spun into a French roll were reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn. And wasn’t her Roman holiday nearly as pointless as mine?
I returned to find Cranwell waiting on my doorstep with Lucy beside him. He was wearing a black leather jacket fastened with toggles over a pair of jeans. Forlorn little kids sitting on the stoops of their tract homes in mid-America have nothing on forlorn grown men sitting on the huge steps of a gigantic chateau.
He shot up like a rocket and a grin creased his face as soon as my car looped around the drive. He practically skipped to the car, opened the door for me, and then insisted on carrying my suitcase up the stairs.
“And where is Sévérine?”
“I have no idea. I haven’t seen her in a week.”
For the first time since I’d left on vacation, I felt my spirits lift.
We had dinner together, as was our habit. I had to admit that it was nice to see him again, although I still clenched my teeth whenever I thought of Sévérine.
His soap and woodsy scent overpowered the smell of everything else. And it was not the first time I’d noticed that it had a dizzying effect on me.
As I placed an espresso in front of him after our meal, he cleared his throat as if he had something important to say. I suddenly felt very nervous.
“I have something for you Freddie.”
“Oh?”
“I saw it in Paris. It made me think of you. Merry belated Christmas.”
He passed a small rectangular package to me. I opened it. Found it to be an antique cookbook that was at least three hundred and fifty years old.
“I know it’s not quite fifteenth century, but I thought it might be interesting all the same.”
When I clenched my teeth that time, it was to keep from crying. All I could see was that perfect box sitting in the marquetry shop in Sorrento. I kept my head bowed until I regained control.
How did the book come to be clasped to my chest?
I smiled and looked at him. “Thank you. It’s really very…” I couldn’t help myself: I burst into tears.
“Freddie.” He drew me close and put his arms around me. “What’s wrong? Why are you so unhappy?”
He pressed his cheek to my hair and stroked my back as I allowed myself the pleasure of being held by him. His shoulder was the perfect height for me to rest my head on. Closing my eyes and feeling the roughness of his taupe wool sweater against my face, I imagined for just a moment that he loved me.
If only he weren’t with Sévérine.
As if on cue, the door slammed in the entry hall.
“Cou-cou.” Sévérine’s voice drifted down to us. I pulled out of Cranwell’s arms, turned my back to him, rubbed a hand across my face, and took a tremulous trial sniff.
“Frédérique?”
I walked toward the stairs and shouted up at her. “Down here.”
Quickly walking back to the table, I palmed Cranwell’s present and slid past Sévérine as she came down the stairs. She was wearing a well-cut black blazer and a jaunty red chenille scarf over tight-fitting jeans.
Leaving the lovers to themselves, I took my misery upstairs.
I passed the week kicking myself for breaking down in front of Cranwell again. My emotions didn’t usually live so close to the surface. Finally, I was able to look Cranwell in the eye, and by that time, my next guests had arrived. They came, surprisingly enough, on a Tuesday.
They drove up in a Mercedes and parked exactly in the center of the drive.
As I watched, a man opened the driver’s door by degrees and appeared in increments, first a foot, then a calf, then a leg. An arm. The top of his head. Finally, he straightened. Although he was old and hunched, he had a magnificent head of hair and a regal cut to his suit. Pausing for a moment, he put a hand to his tie and then made his way around the car to the passenger’s side.
He opened the door and offered a hand to the passenger. In contrast to the gentleman, she floated out of the car to her feet, and after settling a sweater over her shoulders, she slipped a hand around the gentleman’s arm.
Together they turned toward the chateau.
My jaw dropped.
Never had I seen a more beautiful woman.
She, like the man, was probably at least eighty years old, but where he was stooped, she stood straight as a ruler and carried her head high. At a younger age, she would have had the blackest of hair, for that was the only way to account for her brilliant white locks. They had been drawn back from her face and then curled up at the ends. And her body was one that even I would envy. The drapey crepe dress she wore recalled the sirens of the 1940s.
And then, she turned her face to the man and smiled. The glow in her eyes and the round apples that appeared in her cheeks cast the illusion of a woman in her thirties.
They came up the steps toward me, and I opened the door wide for them.
“Monsieur et Madame Duroc.” I inclined my head as I greeted them.
The light went out in the woman’s eyes and she extended a slender jeweled hand toward me. “Please. Call me Sophie.”
Surprised at her informality, I took her hand and shook it.
We walked, at a slow pace, up the central staircase, and I gave myself credit for having placed them in a room on the first floor near the stairs. I made sure they knew where the bathroom was and asked if they required anything.
Sophie walked me to the door saying, “We require nothing.”
I’d never been brushed off so politely.
They came down to dinner late that evening. Both had changed into more formal clothing. M. Duroc was wearing an honest-to-goodness tuxedo, and she was wearing a backless floor-length gown.
They spent four hours on dinner: foie gras on toasted brioche with Sauternes, Coquilles St. Jacques, scallops, filet mignon de porc with mushrooms and steamed green beans, and a gâteau aux trois chocolats.
Sévérine sat with Cranwell and me in between serving courses. At one point she came back down in the middle of a conversation Cranwell and I were having.
“I haven’t seen it that often,” I told him.
“It’s not so rare.” Cranwell shoved up the sleeves of his butter cream cotton sweater.
“Maybe between an eighty-year-old man and a thirty-year old woman, but not with a pair of eighty-year-olds.”
Cranwell scoffed at me. “You just haven’t been to Florida lately. Happens all the time.”
I whipped his plate away from him, meaning to carry it to the sink.
“Do you mind?”
“Sorry. You weren’t done?” I placed it squarely back on the island in front of him.
“No.” He reached for the remaining baguette that rested between us, tore off a piece, and began sopping up the mustard sauce from the rabbit we had been eating.
“Honestly, Freddie, love can come at any age.”
“I know…” I just hadn’t seen a love so passionate. At any age. Not in a long time.
Sévérine perched herself on a stool beside Cranwell and tore off a piece of baguette for herself. She began to run her bread around the rim of Cranwell’s plate. Her hand bumped into his. She let a tiny giggle escape and smiled into his eyes when he looked over at her.
He dug an elbow into her side. And winked at her. Then addressed his next comment to me. “Freddie, you’re the one who insists King Arthur’s nationality was French.”
“Breton.”
The glance Cranwell sent me let me know he’d been teasing. “The love story between King Arthur and Guinevere is a classic. Passion that’s withstood the passing of centuries.”
“But they weren’t really in love, were they?” I was unclear about the finer details of Arthurian legend, but I knew someone who had believed in fairy tales. I looked at Sévérine, raised an eyebrow and tilted my head in Cranwell’s direction.
She finished chewing her bread. Sighed. “It is difficult, the legends of King Arthur and what is known about his relationship with the queen. The knowledge expands through the centuries of the Middle Ages, and this is the reverse of what we expect during this time period. So what is true, and what is a tale? It must depend on the writer and on the nationality Guinevere is given.”
“What nationalities has she had?”
“Roman, Welsh, Celtic, British. She is like Mariamne, the symbol of the French Revolution; her attributes change according to the decade.”
“So she’s a symbol, not a person?”
“In some ways. She is a symbol of the changing thoughts of women. In any case, we know Guinevere to have been the focus of the attentions of many different men. Whether this is because she is abducted against her decision or because she chooses to run away, it is difficult to say. But always, she is married to Arthur, a man she respects but does not love. And always she is in love with someone she can never have. And this passionate but chaste affair of the heart destroys the finest kingdom on Earth. That is the tale of King Arthur and his Queen.” Sévérine picked up her new tray and headed toward the stairs.
“Thanks. You seem to know as much about Arthur as you do about Alix.”
Sévérine paused, and then turned, her face hidden in the shadows. “I learned these stories on the knee of my father as a child.”
Pulling up the neck of my angel blue angora turtleneck, I rolled my eyes as I went to portion out dessert. Cranwell and Sévérine may have been having a fling, but it was not the same thing. I was right, and I knew it. A love as passionate as the Durocs’ was rare.