The French Gardener (30 page)

“Are you sure?”

“I’ve only got The Haggis coming in at nine and she always cancels.” He snorted dismissively. “If you’re going to meet the glorious Pandora, you must know what suits you. She needs to be briefed. Go on, open it!”

Five miles away, Jeremy Fitzherbert lay in his large wooden bed over which a week’s worth of clothes lay draped. He never put anything away, leaving it all for his housekeeper who came once a week to wash and iron. He barely noticed the chaos until she had tidied it all away, at which point he
resolved to keep it neat, only to slip back into his old habits the day after she had gone. He slept with the curtains open, and a window ajar. He liked the smell of the countryside and the sound of birds in the early morning, and he relished the pale, liquid light of dawn. He listened to the wind sweeping through the leaves causing them to rustle gently. It was a clear night. Small twinkling stars shone through the darkness and a crescent moon hung low in the sky. He sighed, thinking of Henrietta and his abortive trip to her shop. He replayed the moment they had met and smiled at the recollection of her extricating herself from the hollow tree. Her face had flushed with embarrassment, but her pretty eyes had sparkled and her smile was so endearing he had wanted to kiss her right there. He liked full-bodied women. To Jeremy a full-bodied woman was a woman who ate enthusiastically from the tree of life.

He hadn’t intended to go to the town hall party the following night. The older he got the more solitary he became. But there was a chance Henrietta might be there. He didn’t want to miss her. As he drifted to sleep he considered his life. It was time he shared it with someone. There was only so much solace one could get from Mr. Ben and Wolfgang.

David was up with Miranda and the children at 7:30
A.M.
He heard the sound of footsteps on the gravel and bristled at the thought of Jean-Paul striding into the core of his family and taking it over. He peered through the window. Outside, the garden was bathed in the fresh, sparkling light of morning. Beyond, he could just see the spire of the church, nestled behind the trees. The sight assuaged his irritation. The place looked this beautiful because of Jean-Paul. David was wise enough to know that if his children preferred to spend time with the gardener it was his own fault.

“We’re going to have a picnic at the castle,” he announced over breakfast. Storm and Rafael wriggled on the bench excitedly. Gus looked at his father mistrustfully.

“What’s there to do at the castle?” he asked, testing him.

“Explore,” said David, pouring coffee into his cup. Gus screwed up his nose. “It’s a ruin. There might even be ghosts.”

“Really!” gasped Storm.

“Don’t be silly. Ghosts don’t exist,” said Gus.

“We’ll see,” added their father. “Mummy, put a chilled bottle of wine in the bag, will you.”

“Good idea,” she replied, trying not to show her surprise.
This is what family life is supposed to be like
, she thought contentedly, laying rashers of bacon on the grill.

“Did I hear someone say ‘chilled bottle of wine?’” Blythe entered the room in a red cashmere sweater and tight black jeans tucked into leather boots. Her face was immaculately made up and her hair washed and shiny, falling in thick waves down her back. Miranda looked at her enviously. She had barely had time to moisturize her face. Blythe pulled out the chair beside David and sat down, enveloping him in tuberose. “Morning, my love,” she said to her son. She didn’t look at David, but she could feel his eyes on her. She basked in his attention like a cat in sunshine. She raked red nails through her hair and smiled at her son. “The country air is doing you good,” she said. “Your cheeks are pink.”

“Those boots are more suited to Knightsbridge than castle creeping,” said David, running his eyes over her appreciatively.

“Are we castle creeping?”

“We are. We’re taking a picnic.”

“That’s so quaint. I shall sit on the rug drinking chablis while you do the creeping!”

Hartington Castle was built on a natural hill overlooking the town. The central structure, now a ruin, dated back to the thirteenth century. Sadly, the castle had burned down in the late eighteenth century, killing all those inside. It had never been rebuilt. However, as a ruin it held great allure. There were walls and towers still standing, though without roofs, and a grand stone staircase leading up to a landing where the great queen would surely have set foot. Windows gave the ruins an eerie air, for they stared vacantly out from nowhere, and the wind whistled through them like spirits of the dead.

They parked the car at the bottom of the hill and walked the well-trodden path up to the castle. The children ran about excitedly, chasing each other up the grassy slope. Blythe
made sure she walked ahead of David so he could get a steady view of her bottom, while Miranda walked behind, carrying the cool bag. A few families were already there, settling their rugs on the grass, nestled against the old stone walls out of the wind. An old couple walked slowly through the ruins with their dog, which scurried about like a large rat with his nose to the ground.

They found a sheltered spot beside a gnarled tree, which some claimed had once given Elizabeth I shelter. Blythe, who had carried the rugs, threw them onto the grass, then positioned herself, wrapping her coat around her to keep warm. Miranda poured them all a glass of wine and gave the children each a carton of apple juice. Gus took his father’s hand. Miranda noticed, but said nothing, not wanting to draw attention to this rare moment, in case she jinxed it. “Daddy, will you come and look around with us?” he asked. To Gus’s surprise, his father agreed. Ruined castles had always fascinated David. Miranda watched the three of them wandering among the large stones that remained embedded in the soil, touched by the tenderness of the sight.

By midday, the castle was busy. It was a hot May day, an optimistic prelude to summer. Blythe took off her coat and sweated in her cashmere. Miranda sat in her T-shirt, feeling the sun tan her skin. They both wore oversized sunglasses and spent considerable time comparing them. They opened the second bottle of wine and laughed over shared memories and London gossip. The children ate their sandwiches hungrily, having run about all morning, chasing each other up the stone steps and jumping off the landing. After lunch they discovered a few school friends and formed a pack, tearing through the ruins like wild dogs. Rafael had long forgotten his fear of Gus and followed him devotedly. David lay back and let the rays warm his face. He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.

Blythe watched him while he slept. She wondered when they were going to find a moment to be alone. Here he was playing the happy family man. Where did she fit in? He had hardly paid her any attention since she arrived. She shuffled uncomfortably in her cashmere and felt her face burning in the sunshine. It was even hot in the shade. By contrast, Miranda looked serene and cool in her white T-shirt. She wore no makeup to sweat under and her hair was tied up in a ponytail. Blythe envied her. She might look glamorous but her jeans were too tight, her boots too hot and her foundation was melting like wax.

Miranda saw a couple of people in Elizabethan fancy dress and remembered Troy pointing to Jack and Mary Tinton in Cate’s Cake Shop and mentioning that they dressed up at weekends to parade about the castle. The sight was hilarious and she wished Etta and Troy were there to laugh with. Such local trivia was something Blythe wouldn’t understand. “I’ve got to get the children,” she told Blythe, standing up. “They have to see those two dressed up. Do you want to come?”

Blythe declined. “I’m already too hot,” she said.

“Take off your boots.”

“I think I will. Sadly, I’ve got nothing on beneath my sweater except my bra.”

“David’s asleep.”

“He might wake up.”

“I doubt it. He’s drunk too much. We’ll have to carry him home!” Miranda chuckled and wandered off to find the children.

Blythe waited until she was out of sight then reached across and stroked David’s cheek. He stirred a little, but slept on. She ran her finger across his lips, then, in an act of extreme rashness, bent down and kissed him. He opened his eyes, saw it was Blythe and sat up, casting a quick glance around him to check that they weren’t being watched. “Are you
insane?” he snapped, wiping off her lipstick with the back of his hand.

“I couldn’t resist,” she replied smoothly. “You looked so adorable asleep.”

“Don’t be stupid. Most of these people are probably Miranda’s friends. Do you want to get caught?”

“I want to be alone with you.”

“Not here.”

“Then where?”

“Look, this is madness.”

“Okay, so not here. Can I see you in London? We’ve had fun, haven’t we?”

“Yes,” he conceded grudgingly. “But, Blythe…” He looked at her, and was suddenly gripped with fear. If he finished the affair now she could be dangerous in her fury. He had to be careful.

“I don’t expect to be the second Mrs. Claybourne. Though I wouldn’t pass on the house and your kids are very sweet.” She laughed and delved inside her bag for her cigarettes and lighter. She pulled out the packet, tapped it with her finger to release a cigarette, and placed it between her lips. Sheltering it from the breeze she flicked her lighter and inhaled. It was a well-practiced ritual that had once caused David’s loins to stir with desire. Blythe had beautiful lips. She exhaled, shaking her head so that her hair fell across her cheeks like shiny curtains, and fixed him with her steady green eyes. “I just want to fuck you,” she said simply. “You’re a good fuck, David. Is that so wrong?”

Miranda was no longer suspicious that David was having an affair, least of all with Blythe. She felt ashamed for having imagined it. It had been the best weekend they had had together since moving in. David had played with the children. The happy look on Gus’s face was better than any present from Theo Fennell. They were a family again.

That night they decided to skip the party at the town hall and have dinner at home. The children ragged around until late, then David read them
Peter and the Wolf,
putting on voices that made them laugh. He had trouble settling them because they were overexcited, jumping on the beds, hiding under their duvets then running from room to room when his back was turned. Miranda left him to it, enjoying a glass of wine with Blythe at the kitchen table. She had lit a couple of candles and made an effort to make the room look pretty with a clean tablecloth and matching napkins. She had enjoyed a long bath, chatting to David about the day, sharing stories about the children, laughing at Blythe’s imprudent choice of clothes.

At dinner, her mood was buoyant and optimistic, until Blythe did something that caught her attention. It was a minor gesture; if she hadn’t already harbored a grain of doubt she would not have dwelt on it. As it was, it caused her throat to constrict and her happiness to evaporate. When she was at the Aga, pulling out the fish pie, something made her turn her eyes to the table. With a feeling of foreboding, she saw Blythe reach out and take David’s wineglass. She put it to her lips, quite naturally, and took a sip. She was so nonchalant, as if she barely noticed what she was doing. Miranda doubted she would have been so forward had
she
been at the table. She froze in horror, reeling from the intimacy of the gesture. David listened to Blythe’s story as if it was the most normal thing in the world for her to drink from his glass, then picked it up and took a sip himself. When Miranda returned to the table she noticed that Blythe’s own glass was full.

This time she did not dismiss it. When David held her hand across the table and complimented her cooking, she smiled at him, masking the fear that had punctured her heart. Had Blythe’s gesture been an isolated one, she wouldn’t have
given it so much weight. But it was one of many small things that, added together, made an uncomfortably heavy package.

Jeremy arrived late at the town hall. The party was well under way by the time he entered in a pair of brown trousers and blue open-necked shirt. He had bathed and shaved, shut the dogs in the kitchen and driven into town with the intention of arriving on time. However, half a mile out of town the car began to wobble, then limp and finally grind to a halt on the side of the road. He swore and hit the steering wheel in fury, but there was nothing he could do. The tire was flat. Instead of dropping to his knees in the mud and changing it, he left it there and proceeded to walk instead. He was damned if he was going to ruin his chances with Henrietta by turning up covered in mud and sweat.

Henrietta arrived, in a pair of wide black trousers and a long ivory jacket with sharp shoulders and nipped-in waist. She had read
What Not to Wear
and gone shopping in Blandford with Troy. They had chosen the outfit together. “Monochrome is very in, darling,” Troy had said, helping her slip into the jacket. “It’s a size fourteen.” Henrietta was thrilled. She had always believed she was a sixteen. She scanned the room for Troy, longing to show her new look off. But before she had time to step into the room, she was grabbed by Cate, demanding to know why she hadn’t dropped in for her coffee recently. “I’ve been so busy,” she lied.

“Rubbish!” Cate snapped. “You’re never busy in that shop of yours. What have you done? You’ve done something.” She narrowed her eyes and studied her from top to toe. “Have you lost weight?”

Henrietta smiled secretively. “I don’t think so.”

“Yes, you have. It’s a good start,” she said. “Well done.” She made the words sound like a rebuke.

“Have you seen Troy?”

“No.” Cate looked sour. “I don’t see much of him either. It’s a conspiracy.”

“It really isn’t, Cate.”

“If you’re worried about getting fat, you don’t have to gorge yourself on cakes. Why don’t you just come in for a black coffee?”

“I will,” she conceded weakly, wishing Troy were there to support her.

“That’s a new jacket. It’s nice. Better not get it dirty.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Wouldn’t want to eat chocolate cake in that.” Henrietta felt uncomfortable. Cate always made her feel inadequate.

She gazed around the room, longing to be rescued. The vicar was talking to Colonel Pike, her voice rising with indignation. He had clearly said something to offend her. Mary and Jack Tinton were back in contemporary clothes, drinking glasses of warm wine, smiling smugly at the amount of money they had made hassling tourists to take their photographs for a fiver. Mrs. Underwood was in her best floral dress, her lips painted scarlet, her large feet squeezed into a pair of white shoes a size too small for her, talking to Derek Heath and his wife Lesley. Nick and Steve were surrounded by a group of excitable girls, all vying for their attention. Both young men were blond and handsome, prizes yet to be won. Nick raised his eyes at Mrs. Underwood and nudged his brother. With her mouth agape and her formidable eyes fixed on their father, she was an astonishing sight for such a sensible woman. They knew their father was too self-effacing to notice. Mr. Underwood was deep in conversation with their uncle Arthur, sharing his views on edible mushrooms. Even Henrietta’s sister, Clare, was busy talking to William van den Bos. Henrietta felt very conspicuous.

Then a voice came from behind—like a rope to a stricken vessel just as she was about to sink. She turned to see Jeremy’s
long, handsome face smiling diffidently at her. His pink cheeks accentuated the blue of his eyes and the indecent length of his feathery blond eyelashes. She wondered why she hadn’t noticed them before.

“Jeremy.” She greeted him as if he were her oldest, dearest friend. “It’s so nice to see you.”

She was more beautiful than he remembered. “You look well,” he said, wincing at the inadequate words.