The French Gardener

Acknowledgments

Prologue

Autumn

I
The yellow leaves of the weeping willow in autumn

II
Wild winds whistling around the house at night like playful spirits

III
Misty mornings that hold within them the promise of a beautiful day

IV
The crab-apple tree laden with fruit

V
The little stone bridge at sunset. The amber light playing upon the smooth surface of the river.

VI
Our cottage in summer when the sweet scent of honeysuckle is carried up on the breeze

VII
Every rainbow I see reminds me of you

VIII
The cough of a pheasant, the coo of the pigeons, the crisp sunny days of October

IX
The sweet smell of ripe apples. The last of the plums.

X
The taste of warm wine, the smell of burning fields, the last of summer sunshine

XI
The melancholy cry of a lone gull hovering on the wind

XII
The pink light of sunset setting the sky aflame

XIII
The morning light through the leaves of the chestnut trees

Winter

XIV
A rainbow requires both rain and sunshine

XV
The cold crisp mornings of winter. The scent of burning leaves. The sight of our breath rising on the air.

XVI
The intrepid robin on my windowsill. Morning trips to break the water on the birdbath.

XVII
The sound of roaring fires and the taste of roasted chestnuts

XVIII
Pink cotton candy clouds at sunset. Spiders’ webs sewn into the bushes like lace.

XIX
Those mischievous squirrels on the cottage windowsill. They feel the love inside like sunshine and want to bask in it as we do.

XX
The wistful light of dusk turning the dovecote pink, but only for an instant like the soft outward breath of heaven

Spring

XXI
The happy sight of pussy willow. The first glimpse of a daffodil shooting through the soil.

XXII
Snowdrops peeping through frost. The first signs of spring.

XXIII
First bees and insects on the flowers of the ivy on top of the wall. Lavender crocuses appearing in the grass.

XXIV
Raindrops on bluebells. The eccentric sound of a cuckoo. The uplifting sight of flirtatious mallards in flight.

XXV
The sweet scent of unfurling leaves. The tremor of my childlike excitement at the sight of spring.

XXVI
The delight of fresh herbs and vegetables grown in our own garden, sown with our own secret magic.

XXVII
Planting sweet peas, watched over by those softly cooing doves on the wall. The bliss of being alone in the early evening light.

XXVIII
Purple shadows on the grass cast by the clipped yews in the evening light

XXIX
The battle to keep those naughty rabbits out of the garden. We lost to Mr. Badger, but oh, what a character he was!

XXX
Pretty white candles on the horse chestnut trees, scattering their petals over the cottage roof like snow

XXXI
White blossom of the may trees and blackthorn in the hedgerows

Summer

XXXII
The orchard filled with wild dandelions. The pale blue spikes of camassias rising above the grass like candles.

XXXIII
The amber light of dusk, the smell of burning fields, the shortening days of September

XXXIV
The melancholy light of summer’s end fills my soul with wistfulness

XXXV
The comforting silence of midnight. I always knew heaven was up there beyond the darkness.

XXXVI
The healing nature of my garden can mend the most broken of hearts

XXXVII
Nothing remains the same. Everything moves on in the end. Even us. Death is nothing more than another change.

XXXVIII

Epilogue

The idea of a magical garden did not live for me until I went to see Georgia Langton in Dorset. Not only is she a gifted gardener, but one of England’s most charming eccentrics. She inspired me and fired me up with ideas so that the book was pure pleasure to write from beginning to end. I thank her profusely and assure the reader that any technical errors found in the text are entirely my own.

Once again Sue Johnson-Hill was on hand in Bordeaux to answer my questions with enthusiasm and patience. I thank her for coming to my aid a second time!

I’m extremely grateful to my father for giving me a deep understanding of life and an appreciation of nature. I could not imagine my hero without his wise example.

My mother is a fountain of knowledge, a sensitive editor and a shrewd sounding board for me to bounce ideas off. She has given me so much of her time and enthusiasm and for that I’m enormously grateful.

The book wouldn’t be suitable for publication without a thorough pruning from my UK editor, Susan Fletcher. She is a superb editor and a great connoisseur of good writing. She has the patience and attention to detail that I do not. I value her advice and thank her for taking the trouble to make sure the book is as good as it can possibly be.

My agent, Sheila Crowley, has the unique ability of making me feel like I’m her only author. She’s tireless, cheerful, yet formidable when a heavy gun is required. I thank her for
being there to fight in my corner and for her encouragement when I’m tearing my hair out and getting nothing written!

I’m extremely proud to be published in the United States, and to have such an enthusiastic, energetic and professional team at Simon & Schuster. I’d like to thank them all, but especially Trish Todd, my editor, for having such confidence in my writing. Her belief in my ability means a great deal to me and gives me enormous encouragement to continue writing.

I also thank Kate Rock again, and again, for without her help I would never have got published to start with; Eleni Fostiropoulos and my fantastic team at Hodder; my fellow author, Elizabeth Buchan, for generously sharing ideas; and my old school friend, Cosima Townley, for introducing me to Miss Fitz, thus inspiring me to include a ferret of my own.

I thank my darling children, Lily and Sasha for their inspiration and their love.

My greatest debt of gratitude, as always, goes to my husband, Sebag. He’s indefatigable with thoughts and ideas, constant in his support and wise in his advice. His paw prints are all over this book!

Hartington House
Summer 2004

It was nearly dusk when she reached the cottage, a cardboard box held tightly against her chest. The sun hung low in the sky, turning the clouds pink like tufts of cotton candy. Long shadows fell across grass already damp with dew. The air smelled sweet, of fertile soil and thriving flowers. Tiny dragonflies hovered in the still, humid air, their wings glinting in the light. The cottage was quaint, symmetrical, with a tall roof that dwarfed the walls below it. It might once have been a barn, or grain shed, positioned as it was in the middle of a field. The roof tiles were brown and covered in moss, the chimney leaning a little to the left. The top of the roof sagged slightly, as if it had grown tired with age. Roses tumbled over the door where the paint had already started to peel. It looked sadly neglected, forgotten at the bottom of the garden by the river, hidden in a small copse. A fat pigeon settled down for the night, cooing lazily in the gutter, and a couple of squirrels scurried up a chestnut tree and crouched in the crook of a branch to watch her with suspicious black eyes.

She stood awhile, contemplating the gentle flow of the river Hart as it ran down the valley to the sea. She remembered fishing with nets and throwing sticks into the water from the little stone bridge. Nothing had changed. Cows still mooed in the field downriver and the distant sound of a
tractor rattled up the track behind the hedge. She blinked through the mist of nostalgia and put the key in the lock.

The door opened with a whine, as if in protest. She entered the hall, noticing at once the lingering scent of orange blossom. When she saw the sitting room, cluttered with photographs, trinkets and books, she assumed someone was living there. As far as she knew, the agent hadn’t yet sold the estate, which included the cottage. It had been on the market now for over ten months. “Hello,” she called out. “Is anyone there?” No reply. She frowned a little nervously and closed the front door behind her. She put the box down on the floor of the hall. The air was warm and musty, smelling of old memories and tears. Her eyes stung with tears of her own.

She went into the kitchen where the table was laid with china cups and a teapot, the chairs pulled out. The remains of a tea for two. She put her hand on the back of one of the chairs to steady herself. In all the years she had lived in the big house, she had never entered the cottage. It had always been locked and she had never been curious. Judging by the layer of dust that covered the kitchen table, no one else had been there either.

She heard a noise upstairs, like a footstep. “Hello,” she called again, suddenly afraid. “Is anyone here?”

Still no reply. She returned to the hall and picked up the box. Her attention was once more drawn upstairs. She turned to face the light that flooded the landing. It seemed not of this world. Her fear dissolved in its magnificence and a silent call came from deep inside her heart.

Tentatively, she began to climb the stairs. At the top of the landing, on the left, was an empty room. She put the box down in there, then stood back a moment not wanting to leave it. Inside the box was something of enormous value. She found it almost impossible to part with, but knew it was
the right thing to do. Even if it was never found, she could rest in the certainty that she had done her very best. She didn’t like to keep secrets from her own family, but this was one that she would take to her grave.

A bedroom across the landing drew her away from the box. It smelled familiar, of cut grass and the same sweet scent of orange blossom she had noticed in the hall. She sat on the bed, in the shaft of sunlight that streamed through the thick covering of mildew that had stained the window green. It was warm upon her face, amber—the color of wistfulness. She closed her eyes, sensing the presence of someone close, and listened. Once again her eyes stung with tears. She knew if she opened them the moment would be lost.

“Don’t go,” she said in the silence of her mind. “Please don’t leave me.” Then she leaned back and waited for a response.