Chateau of Echoes

Deciding that I deserved an espresso, I shoved the letter into my pocket and walked back into the entry hall and downstairs into the kitchen. As I went, I knotted back my hair. It’s wavy, so when I twist it into a cord and tie it in a knot, it actually stays. I always knot my hair when I walk into the kitchen; it’s a habit left over from cooking school.

I counted coffee beans, ground them into powder, and pressed them into the filter basket of my espresso maker. I love the smell of freshly ground coffee. And I don’t care what the French insist: Starbucks beats Carte Noire any day of the year. I perched on the stool in front of my desk and fiddled with a pencil, waiting for the espresso.

The kitchen has no direct light, but half-moon windows high on the walls allow enough indirect light for the stone vaults to multiply; I’ve never had a problem reading recipes. And for the short winter days, I have several halogen lamps that streak light up the ribs of the vaults and down into my workspace, lighting the marble-topped island in the center with its stools and providing enough light to see into the doorless wood cabinets that line the walls. My pots and pans hang from a hand-wrought iron rack suspended above the island.

Six months.

It was difficult to keep from making a face as I poured the espresso into a demitasse. Six months would be a huge commitment. And I was in the habit of turning down prospective guests. I can afford not to run my inn full time, and so I don’t. If Cranwell came in September as he planned, he’d be with me through… February. That was grim. January was not pleasant in northern Brittany, so I usually spent a few weeks after Christmas in Rome and Sorrento, enjoying the mild Italian sun.

Although I would never describe myself as a hedonist, I did live a life that pleased me. Following the death of my husband in 1998, I used the money from his insurance policy and an inheritance from the estate of my parents to purchase the chateau. While my husband had been working at the Embassy in Paris, I had put my time to use studying for a diploma at Cordon Bleu cooking school, and I had graduated at the top of my class.

Following renovations to the chateau, I had opened my inn during the spring of 2000 and was given a rave review by a Paris magazine that keeps the jet set informed of what’s trendy. Apparently in the world of quaint inns, it’s me. I charge a ridiculous amount of money for each of my seven rooms and an equally absurd amount for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. It keeps away the crowds, but I still only agree to one reservation in eight.

A remote location in northern Brittany, chronic bad weather, and outrageous prices: my secret to success.

Since I could afford to be choosy, Robert Cranwell would just have to find somewhere else to stow his pen. I dropped the letter into the garbage can on my way out of the kitchen.

For the rest of the afternoon, I worked in my garden. It supplies my chef’s need for fresh herbs and vegetables, and I had planned it so that something is always in season.

Guests usually expect me to have a medieval garden, but I don’t. My garden is purely practical. The only flowers I grow are my favorites, and they’re used to decorate the entry hall and guest rooms. The edible flower fad in France is long gone, except perhaps in Provence where lavender has always been used in cooking.

If I catered to the tourist trade, I would be more interested in medieval gardens and medieval cooking, but my guests aren’t here to gnaw on haunches of venison. They want the type of cuisine they eat at France’s three-star restaurants. I’ll never make that list: I don’t have the staff or necessary level of service, and the wine list begins and ends with me. If a meal needs a $300 bottle of wine, then I provide it. I make the choices. But that’s what my guests pay for.

My garden is parterre style: laid out in geometric patterns. It’s situated behind the chateau close to the kitchen so that I can climb out the back door and quickly gather what I need. Most French formal gardens use low-clipped hedges to outline beds. I use rocks. My garden is a forty foot by seventy foot rectangle. Along the edges are beds of flowers. Tall flowers like cheerful yellow rudbeckia, sweeping blue perovskia, lavender asters, and the pink spear-like Lythrum virgatum. They’re meant to fill the large spaces between the floors and ceilings of the chateau. Around the foundation of the chateau I placed flowering shrubs of hortensia, spirea, forsythia, and heather to mix with the ivy that has climbed the stone walls for centuries.

Down the middle of the garden are three rows made of square beds divided into four sections each. These squares are mostly herbs. Between the flowers and the squares, I have several long rows stretching the length of the garden for things that need space: tomatoes, raspberries, peas, and beans.

My garden is not meant to be pretty. It’s meant to be serviceable. I spend at least a quarter of my day tending to it, and I make my menus from what is ripe and ready to be picked. In the fall, I pay local hunters a premium for whatever they bring me. I prefer wild duck and rabbits, but I’ve also been known to use squirrels, deer, and geese.

I live in a personal paradise where I get to do what I love: create recipes, cook them, and eat them. For me, life is filled with pleasure. At that moment, I was savoring sweet melons, crisp cucumbers, and the sunny taste of eggplant.

I was having dinner that evening, listening to R.E.M. and reviewing the newsletter of the foundation I’d set up in my parents’ and husband’s names. My father had been a loud voice in the U.S. Senate and spokesperson for the trade-as-diplomacy brand of politics. After they had all died, I’d formed an intercultural foundation in their memory. Although it expressed my own ideas about politics, it did emphasize the importance of intercultural education. The foundation sponsored lecture series at influential universities. It also sponsored visiting professorships on high- profile campuses. That summer I had also decided to investigate possibilities for business exchanges among people in similar industries.

The foundation required more work than I’d imagined, but I kept reminding myself that the rewards to humanity were worth the effort.

The phone disturbed me. The phone always disturbs me. I glanced at the calendar, counted ahead five weekends, and decided I’d only accept the reservation if it were for that weekend. Some people might think me eccentric, but I can’t help it, I need my solitude.

After turning down the CD, I picked the phone up from the desk and then walked back to the stool where I’d been enjoying my dinner.

“Chateau de Kertanuan, je peux vous aider?”

“English?” If the question was rude, the voice that asked it was rich, mellow, and deep.

“Yes.”

“Is Frederique Farmer in?”

Frederique. I’d never identified that name with me. Any other ‘ique’-ending name would have been better: Monique or even Angelique. My father had his own nickname for me, but he was dead, so I hadn’t heard it in years. Hadn’t been that person in years.

“Speaking.”

“Hey. This is Robert Cranwell. Did you receive my letter?”

“Yes. Just this morning.” As often as I refuse to make reservations, I have never learned to lie. Some faded memory of childhood Sunday school classes made the guilt unbearable.

“Great. So how about it?”

“Six months is a very long time. I can’t make that sort of commitment.” I stabbed at my pasta with a fork.

“Sure. I understand. What about four months? All I really need to do is get the feel of the place and do some research. You know: walk where Alix walked. That sort of thing. If after two months you hate me, I can always move to a different place in town.”

The smile that curled my lips couldn’t be stopped from coloring my reply. “Mr. Cranwell, there is no town. Alix’s chateau might have been the center of life in her time, but there’s nothing left now for at least twenty miles.”

“Oh.”

“Sorry to disappoint you. Good luck.” I was ready to hang up the phone.

“Wait. Please. I need to write this book. I can explain it when I get there, but this is important. How long can you put me up? Whatever you say, that’s how long I’ll stay. Even if it’s just a week.”

My eyebrows were making exclamation points. Cranwell had to be worth millions. He was a moneymaking machine. His novels had been made into movies by the dozens. I even had a few on my bookshelf. But the life of a fifteenth-century French girl wasn’t his genre.

“Please.”