Chateau of Echoes

bathrooms, turning each of the guest rooms into suites. Seven of the rooms have been renovated for guests. One of the larger rooms, I turned into a library; another smaller room, next to my own bedroom on the fourth floor, I turned into a lounge. The remaining space on the fourth floor, I had renovated into an apartment for staff.

I had opened the door to Cranwell’s room and drawn the dark rust velvet curtains from the windows by the time he had joined me.

The olive brocade curtains enclosing the bed had been whisked back and secured to the posters, exposing the rich rust and olive tones of the duvet. I walked across the stone floor toward the tower end of the room. “Bathroom,” I announced, indicating a small door in the stone wall. “If you’d like a fire in the evenings, and if you’re responsible enough to tend it, I’ll have some wood delivered.”

“I’d like that.” He was making a tour of the room, touching a corner of the sixteenth-century tapestry that hung on one wall, fingering the key to the armoire that stood beside it. “This is very nice.”

“Thank you.” The room’s deep autumn tones fit him. I’d decorated specifically with those colors, thinking it would make a man feel at ease.

He half-bowed in an oddly endearing manner as if by way of compliment.

I found myself smiling before I could think not to.

When he straightened and saw me, he smiled too. He pulled a pair of glasses from his pocket. Raising them to the light, he frowned, polished them against his sweater, and then perched them on his nose. Then he bent to look more closely at a small painting that sat on an easel on a rectangular table.

“You’re welcome to move that if you’d like to do your writing there.”

He turned to look at me, his left eyebrow raised.

“I assumed you’d want to work on the table. There’s an outlet right beside it and a plug-in for a laptop.”

“Oh. Thank you. Yes.”

“Once you’ve settled, come downstairs, and I’ll make you coffee.”

“Espresso. Thanks.” He cleared his throat and looked at me over the top of his glasses. “I didn’t mention it in my letter, but I’ll be having someone stay with me.”

Someone else? Two people were a lot different than one person in the language of innkeeping. So now not only would I have to cater to a famous author, I’d also have to deal with his groupie.

“Lucy is…”

Holding up a hand, I put a stop to his explanation. “As long as you pay, you may do whatever you’d like with whomever you want. No explanation required.” I didn’t want to hear about it. One of the most pleasant things about living overseas was being disconnected from the Hollywood scene. Cranwell’s personal life was nothing I cared to investigate.

But I don’t like it when plans change.

When I left Cranwell’s room, I headed up the stairs instead of down. It was probably too late to change an impression, but I wanted Cranwell to see me in something besides my tank top and baggy pants. It was always possible I’d make him leave before the month was up, so establishing myself as a figure of authority was necessary. I spent two minutes in the shower to freshen up and then about fifteen minutes in front of the armoire trying to figure out what to wear. I finally settled on trim black Capri pants and a light blue sleeveless ballet-neck sweater. My arms get a workout from kneading bread dough and stirring pots of soups and sauces for myself or for my guests. They’ve become muscular, so I like to show them off when I can.

As I made my way back to the kitchen, I lectured myself. Cranwell was here because of the chateau. No matter his thoughts of me, he could hardly fail to be impressed by it.

I had decorated with furniture that spanned five hundred years of French history. Most family-owned chateaux are furnished in that fashion. Each new generation would make their mark on the structure by redecorating. I had tried to stay with a single period or theme in each room. The dining hall is Louis XIV: The chairs have crossed, curved supports connecting their legs. The backs are tall and broken by a horizontal rectangle of upholstered material, hung with a fringe. The colors are deep red and wheat gold. The table is more narrow than its modern counterpart, but is considerably longer. It is simply made with no ornamentation save along the legs.

The reception hall is a showcase of high medieval period furniture. The settee, on which I choose most often to sit, is softened with a moss green velvet cushion. The chairs that line the walls are of basic shapes and basic construction. The walnut dressoir, however, is a masterpiece of medieval skill: Its dark wood is carved and shaped into a procession of panels decorated with repeating vegetal designs.

The guest rooms of the chateau run the gamut from Louis XV to art deco styles and are decorated in colors as varied as canary yellow and deep plum. When I have time and the weather isn’t cold, I scour flea markets to pick up accessories to fill them: books, candelabras, linens, timepieces. French furniture styles fascinate me. Each epoch has its own look, its own colors, its own politics, and its own expression. The only period for which I do not care is postmodern.

Medieval and Renaissance period pieces are difficult to find, outside of chests and trunks, so I purchase reproduction furniture at a fraction of the cost. At least with the sturdy fakes, I could be certain that no one would fall through a chair or lift a door off an armoire.

All the guest beds are also reproduction. Antique beds are generally so short and narrow that my guests would have been sleeping with their knees pulled up to their ears. But at least I draped and hung and canopied them in an authentic style. Though sleeping enclosed by curtains or swathed in material makes me claustrophobic, I find the look romantic and knew my guests would too.

When I started decorating, I made a conscious decision to try to divide the decoration of the guest rooms evenly between feminine frills and masculine scrolls. If I took a reservation from a woman, I would give her the Louis XV room with its pink and baby blue upholstered furniture or the Napoleon III room filled with gold-plated, crystal-dripping glitz. If a man booked a reservation, I would reserve the Roman-looking Napoleon I with its colors of avocado and aubergine or the Louis XVI room with its simple straight-lined, columned shapes.

Do I name my rooms? Do I have a Marie Antoinette? A Blaise Pascal?

No.

The French have particular sensitivities and often choose their furniture styles based on their political and philosophical preferences. I might have a guest request the Revolution Room, but the Marie-Antoinette? Never.

Do I collect English or German antiques?

No.

In my opinion, the former are often clunky, of awkward shapes and oddly colored wood. The latter are usually rubbed with finishes so dark and heavy the artistry can’t be seen.

I’m both a Francophile and a snob, and I feel absolutely no remorse.

Besides, it’s my chateau.

4

Cranwell had already made himself at home in the kitchen by the time I arrived. He was deep in conversation with Severine, who was seated on a stool next to his at the island. She had her arm resting on the countertop with her chin propped in her hand. She was looking at Cranwell as if he were the only man left in Brittany.

Spare me.

While they talked, I made espressos and placed a basket of breads in front of them.

He laughed at something she said and then glanced at me.

Turning my back on him, I poured the espresso shots into their demitasse cups.

He laughed again and she joined him, her melodic giggle joining his baritone chuckle.

Chancing to look at him when I set the cups in front of them, I found his brown eyes gazing at mine.

“Sugar?”

“Please.”

As I took the new sugar bowl from the cupboard and set it in front of them, my toe hit something under the