The French Gardener (18 page)

“Why don’t you come and have a trim, darling?” suggested Troy. “Your hair’s lovely and shiny, but a few layers would give it more body.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve never had layers,” she replied, doubtful that anyone other than Robert at Richard Ward could do a proper job.

“Well, come and have a cup of tea in the salon then. Just the three of us.”

“I’d love to. Tomorrow morning?”

“Come as soon as the kids are at school, I haven’t got an appointment until ten.”

“And I don’t open until ten,” Henrietta added.

“I’ll bring some hot croissants from Cate’s, but we’ll have to hide in the back. If she sees us she’ll go mad.”

“Wouldn’t it be simpler to meet in her shop?” said Miranda.

“No!” they replied in unison.

“No,” repeated Troy sourly. “I’ve had a little too much of Cate recently.”

“Why do you carry on seeing her if you don’t like her?” Miranda asked.

“Habit,” Troy replied nonchalantly. “Like drinking too much alcohol—you know it’s not good for you and that you’re going to feel terrible afterward, but it’s part of life.”

David was in high spirits after their sociable morning, promising the children he’d take them to Jeremy’s farm after lunch to play on the tractors. Storm had found a few friends from school and Gus had managed to join in without frightening them. Miranda had had to drag them away promising play dates after school. She was uplifted. With the clear skies and the banquet Mrs. Underwood had cooked she was sure an idyllic afternoon was to follow. Then David appeared in the hall with his bag, announcing that he was going to catch the early afternoon train to London. Miranda was disappointed. Everything had been going so well. Didn’t he want to spend more time with them? What was the hurry? Weren’t the important things in his life here in Hartington? She kissed him good-bye, but his kiss was hasty and he didn’t hold her. These weeks apart were turning them into strangers. She knew she should trust him. She had no reason not to. But a nugget of doubt had started to worry her, like a stone in her shoe. Could he be seeing someone else?

Gus watched his father disappear up the drive in a taxi and felt a sharp stab of disappointment. He had been looking forward to playing on Mr. Fitzherbert’s tractors. Once the car had gone, Storm disappeared inside with their mother. Gus picked up a stone and threw it at an unsuspecting blackbird, then headed for the woods. When he came to the dovecote he stopped. There, nestling in the long grasses was a hedgehog. He crouched down to get a better look. The
hedgehog eyed him fearfully. With a finger Gus prodded its face. The hedgehog rolled into a ball. Gus grinned. It would make a good football.

“What have you found there?” came Jean-Paul’s voice behind him. Gus stood up guiltily, the blood rushing to his cheeks. “A hedgehog?” Jean-Paul knelt down. “Do you know why he has rolled into a ball?”

“Because he’s frightened.”

“That’s right. Come, let’s take a closer look. I think he’s hurt,” said Jean-Paul, sensing an opportunity to teach the child a valuable lesson. “Can you see he’s trembling?” Gus nodded. “You know, the funny thing about animals is that they have a very heightened sixth sense. They know who to trust and who to be afraid of.”

“They do?” said Gus, thankful that the hedgehog didn’t have a voice to tell tales with.

“Watch.” Jean-Paul placed his hands under the hedgehog and scooped him up. He held him gently, close to his shirt. It wasn’t long before the animal uncurled and began sniffing Jean-Paul’s skin with his wet nose. “Let’s take him back to the cottage and make him a bed. I think he’s unwell, don’t you?”

They went back down the thyme walk. Jean-Paul began to tell Gus about animals and how to respect and care for them. He was inspired by Ava’s voice echoing across the years, teaching her children the same lessons. Once they reached the cottage Jean-Paul wrapped the hedgehog in a cloth and gave him to Gus. At first Gus was alarmed, afraid that the hedgehog would bite him for having prodded his face. But Jean-Paul reassured him. “The hedgehog can read your mind. If you think loving thoughts, he will pick up on them and cease to be afraid.” Sure enough the hedgehog stopped trembling and began to sniff the palms of his hands.

Gus giggled. “He wants to eat me.”

“No he doesn’t, he’s just exploring. However, I do think
he’s hungry. We’ll put him in this box and give him some milk.”

“Will he be all right?”

“Oh yes. We’ll feed him up, keep him warm, then put him back in the wild tomorrow. He’s probably eaten something that’s disagreed with him.”

“He’s got a sweet nose,” said Gus, laughing again as it tickled him.

“You know that hedgehog probably has a mummy and a daddy who are missing him. He might have brothers and sisters, too. When we put him back we’ll see if we can find them.”

“That’s a good idea.”

“If someone hurt you your parents would be very upset, wouldn’t they?” Gus nodded. “If you hurt this hedgehog, his parents would be upset as well, don’t you think?” Gus shrugged, feeling bad. “He’s not very different from you. He has just as much right as you do to be on the earth. We all live here together and we will all die here one day. You must respect God’s creatures, even the smallest ants. You will do that for me, won’t you?”

“Yes,” said Gus, stroking the hedgehog’s face with his finger. The animal seemed to be enjoying it.

Jean-Paul poured some milk into a bowl. “What’s your sister up to this afternoon?”

“With Mummy. Daddy went up to London.” The boy’s face clouded.

“Are you disappointed?”

“He said he was going to take us to Mr. Fitzherbert’s farm to play on the tractors.”

“He’s very busy, isn’t he?”

“He’s always busy. He never has time to play with us.” Quite unexpectedly, Gus opened his heart to Jean-Paul. Feelings he had never put into words poured out in a jumble.
“They want to send me away to boarding school—but it’s not my fault—I never started it—I only bit him because he called me names—Daddy always promises to play with me—but he never does—he’s always too busy—other daddys play with their children—why can’t he play with me?” The little boy began to sob. Jean-Paul put his arm around him, listening to the barely comprehensible soliloquy of injustices. Finally, Gus grew quiet, his body jerking with the odd sharp intake of breath he was unable to control.

“Grown-ups are very hard to understand sometimes. It’s not fair that your father promises to play with you then lets you down. But the intention is there. He wanted to play with you and meant to do so. Perhaps he was called away urgently and he’s as disappointed as you are.” Gus sniffed, incredulous. “You must tell them you don’t want to go to boarding school.”

“They won’t listen. They never listen.”

“Then you must ask them to listen and be strong about it. But be calm and steady and don’t get cross. You have to set them a good example. They will do as you do.” Gus looked unconvinced. “Do you still want to play on the tractors?” The boy’s eyes lit up. “Come on then, we have time before tea.”

Miranda wasn’t the sort of person to snoop. There were no secrets between herself and her husband. But after the children had gone to bed, exhausted from playing on the farm, she began to go through his desk. He kept everything immaculately tidy. There were files for letters, household maintenance, invoices and insurance, but anything incriminating would surely be kept in London. If he had anything to hide, he’d hardly keep it at home. She ran a hot bath and soaked in lavender oil, closing her eyes and inhaling the steam. She cursed herself for having a suspicious mind. They just needed to spend more time together. She resolved to discuss it with him the following weekend.

That night she lit a scented candle, curled up in bed and opened the scrapbook. There was a strange magic to it, like opening the door into a world infinitely more beautiful than the one she lived in. It absorbed her, the memories wrapping their silver threads about her heart and pulling her in. She could feel the love like the heat of the sun and the pain as if it were her own suffering. While she read, she escaped from the increasing coldness of her marriage into the warmth of someone else’s secret.

Jean-Paul stood on the stone bridge. It was dark and cold, the sky a deep navy studded with stars. The moon was high, not quite full, surrounded by an aureole of mist. He put his hands on the stone balustrade and leaned over to look at the water. The light bounced off the ripples as it flowed gently down to the sea. He stared for so long that his eyes stung, but before he blinked he was sure he could see her face, reflected with the moon, gazing back at him with the same yearning.

He couldn’t sleep. It was hard to find peace in the cottage that used to be theirs. Every room echoed with her presence, every sound triggered a memory, the smell of orange blossom tormented him with longing. Yet he was drawn to it, like a loose tooth that he kept probing with his tongue, taking a strange pleasure from the pain. He could leave tonight, but the thought of the empty château caused him more discomfort than the cottage. If he couldn’t spend his future with her, then he’d have to be satisfied in the past still warm with her memory.

The following morning Miranda took great care choosing her clothes. She put on a pair of faded gray Ralph Lauren jeans, brown leather boots and a gray cashmere Ralph Lauren polo neck. Just because she lived in the middle of fields didn’t mean her standards had to slip. She applied makeup and
sprayed herself with perfume, filling the bathroom with the scent of lime, basil and mandarin. With a bounce in her step she went to give the children breakfast.

As she was due at Troy’s at nine, she decided to take the children to school by car, leaving their bikes at the end of the drive for them to cycle home on their return. She was on the point of setting off when the telephone rang. She half expected it to be Troy canceling their coffee morning. Cancellations were as frequent in London as unforecast rain.

To her surprise, the caller was a shop assistant from Theo Fennell, the jeweler in London where Miranda had been a good customer for many years. “I’m sorry to call you so early in the morning, Mrs. Claybourne,” said the girl, her voice breathy and upper class. “But I’ve mislaid your husband’s office number and he’s keen to get an engraving done before Christmas. I wrote it on my pad, but my pad has gone missing. I’m new and I’m really embarrassed to have been so silly. Theo would kill me!” Miranda’s curiosity was aroused. Perhaps David was buying her something expensive for Christmas. He knew Theo’s was one of her favorite shops.

“What’s he doing shopping in there?” she laughed, angling for more information.

“I don’t think I should say,” replied the girl nervously.

“No, perhaps you shouldn’t. I’ll give you the number, but don’t tell him you spoke to me. If it’s a surprise I don’t want to ruin it. He’ll be terribly hurt.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Claybourne.” The girl sounded relieved. Miranda dictated the number and hung up. A beautiful piece of jewelry from Theo Fennell would certainly go towards making up for his long absences. How could she have doubted him?

When Miranda arrived at Troy’s, Henrietta was already there, biting into a hot croissant. The salon smelled sweet, of shampoo and hair spray, and the heating was on high. She took off her
navy cashmere Celine coat—it had looked so forlorn in her closet she felt it was only fair to take it out, although it was much too glamorous for Hartington—and put her sunglasses in their case. Troy hissed at her to hurry to the back before Cate looked out her window. The three of them sat huddled in the little room, amongst boxes of products and a desk piled high with paperwork. The air was charged with excitement. It wasn’t often that they defied Cate. “If she finds out, we’re in shit,” said Troy, handing Miranda a mug of tea.

“Then she’ll never tell us when that gorgeous Frenchman comes in again,” added Henrietta.

“We’re all in love.” Troy sighed dramatically.

“Who with?” Miranda asked.

“He’s a mystery Frenchman,” said Henrietta breathlessly. “He first came in October. We thought he was a tourist. Now he’s back. We’ve spotted him across the road. He has black coffee and a croissant for breakfast. But as much as Cate asks him about himself, and you know her, she can be quite persuasive, he won’t reveal anything!”

“You’re not talking about
my
Frenchman, are you?” They both stared.

“I didn’t know you had one, darling,” said Troy.

“I don’t
have
him. He works for me. In his fifties, very good-looking, deep-set brown eyes, longish graying hair, devastating smile.”

“Oh my GOD!” Troy gasped. “He
is
your Frenchman! What does he do for you?”

“He gardens.”

“Gardens?” they repeated in unison.

“Yes, he’s a gardener.”

“Don’t be silly,” said Henrietta. “He’s a film producer or a writer. He can’t be a gardener!”

“Well, he is,” Miranda replied simply.

“How on earth did you find him?” asked Troy.

“He found me, actually. It’s a long story.”

“We have all morning.”

Miranda recounted the tale during which time neither Troy nor Henrietta said a single word. “So,” she concluded, “he brought Storm home and we got talking. I asked him what he did and he said he gardened. I asked him if he’d do ours and he accepted without hesitation. It was very bizarre.”

“Is he married?” Henrietta asked.

“No,” Miranda replied.

“Oh, good!” she exclaimed, determined to start a new diet as soon as she’d finished her croissant.

“Is he gay?” asked Troy.

“That I don’t know,” said Miranda. She flushed as she recalled her improper thoughts. “But I doubt it. Just a hunch.”

“How do you control yourself during the week when your husband’s in London?” Troy asked.

“I don’t fancy him,” she lied, giving a little shrug.

“That just goes to show what a happy marriage you have,” said Henrietta, sighing with envy.

“Your husband must be mad with jealousy,” said Troy.

“Miranda’s husband is very attractive, Troy.”

“But not as attractive as the Frenchman. What’s his name?”

“Jean-Paul,” said Miranda.

“Oh God! How sexy! Jean-Paul. Isn’t it irritating that Cate was right all along?”

“What do you mean?” asked Miranda, sipping her tea.

“She insisted you found your gardener thanks to her notice board.”

“Well, she’s wrong then, isn’t she,” Miranda retorted.

“No,” said Henrietta slowly. “We saw him in Cate’s in October. He asked her about the house, who lived there. That’s why we assumed he was a tourist.”

Miranda put down her mug and frowned. “Did he see my notice?”

“He couldn’t miss it, darling,” said Troy. “Everyone in Hartington saw your notice.”

Miranda suddenly felt uncomfortable. “He never said anything about it when I spoke to him.”

“You probably jumped in there before he had a chance,” suggested Henrietta.

“Yes, you’re right. I think I did. I barely gave him a moment. I get like that when I’m nervous. A little too loquacious.”

Troy grinned. “So you did fancy him?”

Miranda grinned back. “A little, but not anymore,” she added hastily.

“What a relief!” he exclaimed. “She’s human after all!”

Miranda drove home, dispelling her doubts about Jean-Paul. There was no reason for him to mention her advert. Perhaps he hadn’t considered the job until she spoke to him about it. After all, it was Storm who brought him to the house. He might not have come otherwise.

When she got home Fatima was in the kitchen clearing up breakfast. “Good morning, Mrs. Claybourne,” she exclaimed when she saw Miranda. “Leave it all to me,” she added in her singsong voice, bustling about the room with the energy of a woman half her age. “You go and work, I will make your house shine shine shine!”

Miranda sat in her office trying to write an article for the
Telegraph
magazine, reining in her mind every time it wandered off. She thought of Jean-Paul in the garden, the children, who really needed some new winter clothes, and her growing desire to quit these soulless articles and write a proper novel. It would soon be Christmas and she hadn’t begun to buy presents. They had decided to spend Christmas in their new home as a family, inviting Miranda’s parents and her spinster aunt. Her sister had married and gone to live in Australia, which wasn’t a great surprise to Miranda, who rather envied her for
having put such a great distance between herself and their mother. She was dreading the whole event.

Just as she was typing the end of the first paragraph, Mr. Underwood entered with an armful of logs, which he dropped into the basket beside the fireplace. Miranda looked up and smiled, then made the mistake of asking how he was. “Well, Mrs. C., ma’am, seeing as you ask, I’ve had a tickle in my throat for some time now, just a tickle, as if there’s a little ant in there. I know there isn’t, but it feels like an ant. Or a spider with lots of wiggling little legs. Trouble is, it makes me cough. I went to the doctor and he couldn’t find anything wrong with it. Still bothers me.” He coughed to make his point.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Miranda, sorrier to have asked him in the first place.

“Mrs. Underwood says I should have spoonfuls of honey. Trouble is, I don’t much care for honey. It’s too sweet and I’m a savory man. I like salty things, like bacon.” He stood a moment watching her, as if he expected her to continue the conversation.

“Well, I’d better get back to work,” she said, hoping he’d take the hint.

“Oh, yes, don’t let me bother you. Don’t want to stop the creative flow. I spoke to J-P early this morning, he’s up with the lark, been up an hour already before I arrived at eight. We’re going to rip out the cottage garden. Rip it out, all of it, and start again.”

Miranda was horrified. She immediately thought of Ava and the garden she had created with M. F. She couldn’t allow Jean-Paul to rip it out. “What, all of it?” she asked, incredulous.

“Aye, Mrs. C., ma’am. Rip it out, all out, every bit of it.” His eyes blazed at the prospect. “Then we’ll burn all the weeds. Build a big fire and burn the lot.”

“I must go and talk to him. There must be something we can save.”

“Oh, no. It’s all dead or rotting.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” she replied, though, with her inexperience she wasn’t qualified to judge anything. As she reached the door she heard her computer ping with another e-mail. Damn it, she thought, then, with a triumphant smile, she ignored it and walked into the hall.

She found Jean-Paul sitting on the blue bench that circled the mountain ash in the middle of the cottage garden. He was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, rubbing his chin, deep in thought. Her heart stumbled when she saw him looking so sad. “Good morning,” she said, not wanting to startle him. He turned and looked at her, his brown eyes so intense she blushed.

“I was miles away,” he said, sitting up with a heavy sigh.

“Anywhere nice?” she asked brightly.

“Oh yes,” he replied. “The past is sweet.” He said it with such longing that her curiosity was aroused and yet, there was something about him that made it impossible for her to inquire further. She sat beside him on the bench.

“Mr. Underwood tells me that you want to rip out this garden.”

“No. Not everything. Some things we can save, some things need to be replanted. We are late, it is already December. But the weather is unusually mild, and with a little magic…”

Miranda bit her lip. “I know you asked me to leave you to it. That I could trust you,” she began carefully. “I’m sure I can. The thing is, Mrs. Lightly really loved this garden. In fact, it was very special to her. I don’t think it would be right to change it.”

Jean-Paul looked at her suspiciously. “How do you know about Mrs. Lightly?”

“Oh, I’ve been told. She was very popular here. Everyone knows about her gardens. Apparently, this garden was very dear to her.” She longed to share the scrapbook with someone,
but she was too deeply involved now to betray the woman who had made it.

“Listen, Miranda. I understand that you do not want to ruin what your predecessor created. I don’t want to ruin it either. In spite of the weeds I can see what was there. I will endeavor to recreate it exactly as it once was.”

Miranda was relieved. “You will?” He nodded. “Oh, thank you so much. I couldn’t bear her to come back one day and see that we had spoiled it.”

“You think she will come back?”

“You never know, do you?”

“No.” He shook his head wistfully. “You never do.”

So Jean-Paul and Mr. Underwood began the task of recreating the cottage garden. How different it was from the week Jean-Paul had originally planted it with Ava, Hector and her children. They had chattered and laughed together in the sunshine, the dogs frolicking about on the lawn, the pigeons cooing from the rooftops. It was during those days that she had slowly stolen his heart, little by little, so that he barely noticed until it was too late.

Miranda gave up on her article. She didn’t feel in the least bit inspired. She found it hard to concentrate, her eyes wandering outside to the gardens, her mind drifting to the children and to Jean-Paul. She felt restless at her desk, irritated by the e-mails offering her more work and dissatisfied with her own writing that no longer came easily. Instead of battling with her piece, she lay on her bed and opened the scrapbook. She picked up the painting of the cottage garden and leaned back against the pillows to study it carefully. It was painted with confident strokes and vibrant colors. She would have loved to show it to Jean-Paul so that he could copy it, but there was no point wishing. She would never show it to him or anybody. One day, if she were to meet Mrs. Lightly, she would return it to her.