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 Napoléon 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 Sévérine, 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 island. I bent down to investigate and found myself nose to nose with a dog. A slobbering, pug-nosed Boxer. It was fawn-colored with a jaunty white blotch that covered its nose and curved into its muzzle. The sturdy chest was marked with a blaze of white.
“Ms. Farmer, Lucy.” Cranwell made the introduction with great aplomb.
Lucy was a dog! She licked my face with her large wet tongue, and I couldn’t help myself from grinning, but I managed to wipe it, and the slobber, off my face by the time I straightened to face Cranwell.
He was looking at me innocently, as if finding stray dogs in kitchens was a normal occurrence.
“If she barks-”
“She doesn’t bark.”
“If she tries to chew my furniture-”
“She won’t.”
“If she even starts to go-”
“She doesn’t. Not in the house.”
We stared at each other for a long moment before being distracted by Sévérine, who had climbed off her stool and was down on all fours making cooing sounds at Lucy. Dogs or babies-the French will go crazy for either. But apparently, Lucy wasn’t crazy about Sévérine. She growled and pushed herself farther beneath the island.
“Fine. She can stay.”
“She prefers beef.”
“Really.” I scowled at the beast. “I only make one meal. The rule for her is the same for you.” I fixed Cranwell with my most withering glare. “You eat what I cook, or you go hungry.” I gathered my dignity and stalked up the stairs to my room.
Sévérine’s voice floated up the stairs behind me. “You are not to worry. She is really very good cook.”
Sévérine knew enough about my routine to be able to find lunch for Cranwell in the refrigerator and warm it for him. My other two guests would be out of the chateau until the evening. For myself, I decided to skip the noon meal. I just didn’t feel hungry.
I did, however, feel like a run. I’ve never been accused of being wiry, but I’m slender. And running every other day ensured I stayed that way. I changed into a jogging top and shorts, cinched my shoes on, and galloped down the stairs and out the front door. I jogged slowly down the drive, my feet sliding slightly backward as I pushed off the gravel with every step. But as I turned right, toward the forest, onto my well-trod path, I found my stride. I ran, savoring the scent of the forest and the soil. I wound through the trees and then burst out into a meadow. Alix’s meadow. My halfway point. I’m an out-and-back runner. The meadow was at exactly 1.5 miles.
As I pushed through the grasses toward its middle, a sparrow-hawk streaked out of the forest from the opposite side. I saw its gray wings flap once. Twice. Its white and brown mottled body torpedoed toward the ground. It snapped up a mouse without even slowing its flight and rose, triumphant, into the cornflower blue sky.
Having jogged a wide loop in the middle of the meadow, I sped back toward the chateau. With a mind refreshed, I looked forward to an afternoon of working in my garden and cooking. As soon as I saw a glimpse of the drive, I increased my speed, breaking into a full sprint once I touched the gravel. At the front gate, I slowed down and did three circles around the chateau, gradually easing into a walk. On my last circle, I heard a call from above. I looked up to see Cranwell leaning out his window.
I waved and made sure I didn’t slow a step.
That was the third time the man had intruded upon my life that day.
It was a bad sign.
Without changing clothes, I went straight from my run to the garden. I was merciless with the weeds that afternoon. Just before 2:00, when I usually started working on dinner, I turned to my border of flowers to decide what to cut for the front entry. I had already taken several stalks of aster and was debating what to take next. Again, I sensed that irritating, gentle presence. I was hoping that at some point God would just give up and leave me alone. “Would you leave?”
He didn’t.
“Please?”
“Okay. Sorry to disturb you.”
I screamed, and the lavender blooms fell to the ground.
Lucy barked. Once.
“I’m sorry!” Cranwell bent to pick up the asters. “I was just trying to let you know I was here.”
Must the man surprise me every time he happened to be in my vicinity? “It’s just that sometimes…”
“I think the rudbeckias would look nice with these.” The suggestion was gently offered, so I rudely rebuffed it.
“Perovskia.” I hurriedly clipped three stems and grabbed the asters from his hands and began to speed-walk up the flagstone path.
“Don’t forget your spade,” Cranwell called from behind me.
Detouring back into the garden, I found it sunk into the earth beside a row of peas. I must really have been daydreaming to have left it like that. It didn’t occur to me until later to ask how Cranwell had seen it there, covered as it was by the leaves and tendrils of the plant.
Cranwell and Lucy sauntered to the chateau behind me and watched as I arranged the flowers in the vase. He was right. The rudbeckias really would have been the best choice.