Chateau of Echoes

“He wanted to be the head of his agency.”

“That’s it?”

“It? Cranwell, that’s like saying, ‘I want to be the president.’ Very few people get to that point in their careers.”

“What did you want out of life?”

Why did Cranwell have to be so nosy? “For Peter to be the head of his agency. I was a good wife.”

“I’m not saying you weren’t.”

“He would have made a good executive. He was smart. He worked hard. People listened to him. He was a natural leader.”

“What attracted you to him?”

“He knew what he wanted from life. And because he knew where he was going, I didn’t have to. He had everything planned. When you met him, you knew it would all work out. And he made you want to be around when it did.”

“Where would you be if he were still alive?”

“Belgium? Switzerland? Morocco? Cote d’Ivoire? Somewhere in French-speaking Europe or Africa. And after, we would have gone back to DC.”

“What about you?”

“What about me?”

“I just can’t see you living that sort of life.”

“I was good at it. We entertained a lot; I enjoyed it. And I’m a patriot; I felt honored to serve my country as a diplomat’s wife. If life hadn’t turned itself upside down, I would still be doing it.”

After clearing away our plates, I portioned out the pintade aux figues seches, a guinea fowl prepared with dried figs. I loved cooking with dried fruit. They always lent an earthy flavor to food. The fowl was cooked to perfection. As I carved, it fell away from the bone. I served it with buttered French-style macaroni sprinkled with chives.

I brought the plates to the table and then took my seat.

“So, are you happy here?”

Surprised at his question, I looked up at him from my food. “I’m very content. I like it here.”

He took a bite of pintade and chewed a moment before speaking. “This chateau suits you. Classic, but comfortable. Traditional, yet surprising. Welcoming, but guarded at the same time.”

“Thank you.” I ripped a piece of bread from my half of the baguette. “I think.”

“It was a compliment. You’re welcome. This is excellent. What’s in it?”

The next several minutes I spent explaining the recipe to him, realizing, over the course of our conversation, how good it felt to have someone to talk to. And someone to listen. Any lingering irritation from earlier in the day had vanished.

We savored our ginger-spiked pumpkin mousse and sipped espresso afterward.

The next weekend, I bought a fortune in game from local hunters. They brought venison, partridge, duck, rabbit, squirrel. The only thing I refused was pigeon. Pigeons don’t have gall bladders, and if not cooked to perfection, their meat can be tough and chewy. And worse, when it’s raw, the flesh is dark, almost purple. In contrast, I love squab, but I don’t cook it. Because squab are baby pigeons, just four weeks old. And that seems cruel. But for the most part, I try to keep ethics out of my kitchen.

Sunday evening I spent dressing the game and portioning it for freezing. I laid aside a nice rabbit to make lapin au moutarde and several squirrels and a hare to make a terrine.

I love fall. It’s my favorite season.

Cranwell’s guests came the next weekend. They weren’t very old, but I could tell they were well-connected. The French would have called them branche. Fashionable. Trendy. And I’m sure the only reason they wanted to stay at the inn was so they could brag to all their friends.

The two men I pegged right away as X-graduates. They had the same arrogant savoir faire as other graduates of Ecole Polytechnique that I had known from Embassy connections. As France’s premier engineering school, it was the most elite of the country’s elite schools. Graduates hired only other graduates, and even a diploma from Ecole Polytechnique with poor grades was more valuable than perfect scores from any other university.

The women I labeled as ENArques; they seemed less Silicon Valley and more Wall Street. ENA, Ecole Nationale d’Administration, was the only other school in France that rivaled X.

They were all pleasant, but in a detached, judgmental sort of way.

The moment I saw them walk up the front steps, I completely changed the menus I had planned to offer them.

Even though I love cooking, I hate it when people criticize my food. And had I served anything classically French, I know they most certainly would have. If I had served duck, then I would have had to serve a Saumur- Champigny wine. Had I served foie gras, then I would have had to offer Sauternes.

So I decided to serve them food they might never have tried before. Not knowing how it “should” be, they’d have no reason to snub it. Their first evening with me, they sampled the delights of prawn-stuffed avocadoes with cumin sauce, green enchiladas, fajita-style flank steak, and salsa verde. I served flan with cinnamon sauce for dessert. And a Chilean wine that I’m sure they would have protested against had they known it cost fewer than 10 euros.

As it was, Severine relayed to me nothing but their compliments.

The next morning, I made the most delicate of New Orleans-style beignets, sifting a generous portion of powdered sugar over the heaping platter. I actually waited until I laid eyes on Severine before I began to fry them; I wanted to ensure that they would still be piping hot when they were served. I saved enough batter to make a half dozen for Cranwell and myself. It had been ages since I’d last made them.

The couples sat in the dining hall through lunch, debating and laughing until they finally jumped into their car and roared down the drive for their afternoon adventures.

For dinner that evening, they started with an American-style shrimp cocktail, which was followed by broiled salmon paired with a cranberry and cilantro relish. In celebration of the next day, Halloween, dessert was a pumpkin cheesecake served over a pool of rich ginger creme.

For their last morning, they ate tottering stacks of hotcakes served with authentic Vermont maple syrup.

By the time they drove away, I was exhausted. I had meant to spend that day putting the chateau back in order, but dawn had brought a raging storm, and the accompanying gloominess inspired lethargy rather than industry. Thankfully by nightfall the storm had blown past and left in its wake a clear, if cold, darkness.

As I walked across my rug from the bathroom to my bed that evening, I glanced out the window and noticed the haziest of rings surrounding the moon: frost. And the moisture left from the storm would make the damage worse. My garden needed protection. I still had tomatoes and herbs that I wanted to cook with. I hurried to my armoire, threw on my robe, and got out my slippers, then I pounded down the stairs, running out the front door to the garage. I stopped only long enough to gather an armful of rags. When I got to the garden, I tucked them around my plants. I had just finished wrapping a rag around the last tomato plant and had risen to step across the row to the herbs when I heard a footfall on the flagstones of the pathway.

I froze. I’d never before felt frightened on my own property.

“Freddie.”

My knees almost buckled in relief. It was just Cranwell. “What?”

“Lucy and I were out for a walk. Can I help you?”

“I’m trying to save these from the frost.” I tossed a handful of rags at him, and Lucy jumped to grab at them. “Drape these across the chives.”

He immediately stooped to the task.

We worked together in silence until the plants at last were covered. He gave me his hand as I stepped back over the rows. Releasing it as I set foot on the path, I was suddenly very aware of my thin cotton batiste chemise. Had the moon not been full, I would not have been so worried, but as it was, the moonlight sharpened every image it touched. I comforted myself with the thought of my robe. The medieval-inspired blue-gray velvet garment fit tightly over my torso but fell loosely from my waist and from its bell-shaped sleeves. I was safe.

“Freddie.”