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“You should try the massage,” Angie says. “It might help you relax.”
I gaze out the window instead.
Rudy takes another hairpin bend, one of many head-turning mountain passes we’ve been driving along for the past twenty minutes. Suddenly, we’re coasting along an unexpectedly straight stretch of the road. On my left, a rock wall pushes into the sky. I look through the other side on my right at the picturesque Arrago valley. Gradually, the ducal château reveals itself, nestled into a mountain side.
The view takes my breath away.
Majestic despite being set so high, some of its conical roofs seem to pierce the fluffy clouds. But its base is perched on a wide flat strip surrounded by a moat and impressive ramparts with towers and flags riding the wind.
We’re high enough that I can see the gardens inside the castle walls. They look lovely even with most of the foliage gone.
Standing proudly among the terraced gardens is the main edifice of Falcon’s Nest. Its old stones, perfectly cut and perfectly fitted, give off a golden warmth from the last of the day’s sunshine. The edifice is larger than I imagined, perhaps even larger than our sovereign’s stronghold, Château des Neiges.
How many of my trailer homes would fit into Falcon’s Nest?A hundred? A thousand? What does a ninety-year-old duke, his middle-aged son and daughter-in-law, and his grandson who’s almost never there do with all that space?
If I’m being honest, I didn’t expect Falcon’s Nest to be this grand. If anything, I expected something grim and forbidding and even more fortresslike than the royal Château des Neiges with its romantic name but scary appearance. Yet, here is Falcon’s Nest, unexpectedly elegant and surprisingly regal despite its age and name. A manmade marvel, it overlooks a valley with fields, woods, and a river that feeds the moat. The accord between this architectural jewel and its environment is seamlessly perfect.
Louis has woken up from his massage.
“What do you think of the castle?” he asks matter-of-factly, almost yawning.
“It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
Oops.I didn’t mean to answer with that much honestly. But whatever, the words are out.
The ennui in Louis’s eyes suddenly gives way to a much keener emotion. I struggle to define it. If I had any illusions about how much my opinions matter to him, I’d say it was pride. But in the absence of such illusions, I’ll refrain from labeling what I just saw in his eyes. Or what I think I saw, because there’s no trace of it on his face now.
The road is now winding through the valley, along the river. The region is very pretty. I can only imagine how gorgeous it must be from spring through autumn, when the woods, fields and grasslands are bursting with color.
We begin to ascend the castle rock. After a dozen corkscrew bends, we cross the drawbridge and pass through the gate. A broad graveled avenue leads us across one courtyard to another, and then we traverse a series of impeccably kept gardens with vast lawns, geometrically trimmed hedges, walkways, and sculptured fountains.
Rudy parks the car. Someone opens our doors from the outside. I climb out, a little dizzy from all the turns. A small army of servants led by a pompously uniformed man in his early sixties is lined up outside the main entrance at the bottom of a grand staircase.
Louis greets them warmly and introduces me as his bride and their future duchess, Camille.
They smile and curtsy. But they can’t hide the incomprehension and distress this situation causes them. I can read it in the furtive looks they throw Louis.
They speak volumes. They say, “Really, my lord?Of all the young women in Mount Evor, the next Duke of Arrago’s pick had to be the Trailer Witch, sister to the Antichrist?”
“Come,” Louis says to me. “I’ll show you to our apartments so you can freshen up.”
He leads me up the steps made of a white marbly stone that glitters in the afternoon light.
We enter a vast foyer. Opposite the door, a central staircase draws the gaze upward to a landing dominated by a huge portrait of some illustrious ancestor. A duke, no doubt. From there, the staircase forks overhead, showing off the polished wood of its railings. On the ground floor to the left and right of the staircase, a bunch of well-spaced doors begs for exploration. Some of them are open, offering a peek at cozy tea salons, libraries, or billiard rooms.
Louis veers left and treks down the entryway, shepherding a small procession that consists of me, Angie and three liveried servants hoisting our bags. I suppose we’re in one of the wings now. I follow Louis up the carpeted steps of another staircase. It’s only half as wide as the central one. But I wouldn’t call it unassuming. It has an amazing wrought iron railing with balusters twisted into intricate designs.
We rush up two flights of stairs and then down a hallway until we reach the last door on the right.
Louis pushes it open. “Your bedchamber.”
I step inside.
The room is easily twice the size of my entire trailer with a high ceiling, crown moldings and fleur-de-lys wallpaper. It’s bathed in soft light filtering through antique linen curtains. A second layer of curtains, in a sumptuous blue velvet frames the big, mullioned window on the other side of the four-poster bed. In one corner there’s an ornate fireplace with a marble mantel. The furniture is charmingly baroque with curvy surfaces lacquered and gold encrusted.
The servants unfold the luggage racks. While they’re laying down my bags, I cross the parqueted floor to the window that opens above the gardens.
The pompous sixtysomething whispers in Louis’s ear. He was introduced to me as Jacques, the butler. He’s married to the housekeeper, Serafina, who’s as zippy as he is slow and magisterial.
