The French Gardener (37 page)

The two women sat at the table, tears streaming down their cheeks. The waiter came to take the trolley away, took one look at them, apologized and withdrew like a scalded penguin.

“What must we look like?” said Henrietta, laughing through her tears.

“There’s only one thing that doesn’t add up. If Ava knew she was dying and wanted him to have the scrapbook, why didn’t she just send it?”

Henrietta looked as perplexed as Miranda. “Maybe she only wanted him to have it if he kept his side of the bargain. She couldn’t send it out of the blue, just in case he had married and forgotten about her. It had been over twenty years. But if he came back for her, as he promised he would, then he’d find it. He’d deserve it. Do you see?”

“You know, that’s possible. I’m amazed you can think clearly with the amount of wine you’ve drunk.”

“It’s made me more lucid.” Henrietta laughed. “Do you think he’ll be hurt that Ava never told him about Peach?”

“Yes, but the M. F. of the book would understand. She
couldn’t tell him. Can you imagine the complications? The only way she could protect her family was to keep it secret.”

“Do you think Phillip ever wondered?”

“I don’t know. I doubt it. She never thought that he suspected.”

“It’s the stuff of a novel.”

“I know,” said Miranda.

“You could write it,” Henrietta suggested.

“I could, but would that be fair?” She didn’t dare tell Henrietta that she’d already written it. It suddenly felt wrong, like walking over Ava’s grave.

“Artistic license. You could base it on truth, but make it your own.”

Miranda leaned forward. “You know, I think Ava would want me to write it.” She remembered the smell of orange blossom that filled the room whenever she sat down to work. “Don’t ask me how, but I think she would.”

The following day Miranda and Henrietta hit the shops. They went to Harvey Nichols, wandered up Sloane Street, then headed to Selfridges after lunch at Le Caprice. The celebrated Pandora awaited them with flutes of champagne and her own confident sense of style. Miranda sat in a comfortable chair in the private room while Pandora pulled dresses and coats, trousers and jackets off the rail she had prepared earlier. Henrietta did as she was told and tried everything on. “I know a lot of these are shapes you’ve never imagined you’d wear,” said Pandora, her perfect teeth pearly white against her summer tan. “But Miranda said she wanted you to have a complete makeover—a Trinny and Susannah makeover.” Pandora held up a bra and laughed. “The secret of their success is the bra! Now it’s going to be the secret of
your
success.”

The bags were too big and too numerous to carry back to the hotel themselves, so Pandora arranged for them to be
delivered that evening. Henrietta was overwhelmed by Miranda’s generosity. “This is giving me more pleasure than it’s giving you,” said Miranda, slipping her hand through Henrietta’s arm. “I used to live for shopping, now I don’t care for it as much. I’m looking forward to my massage though.”

“I’m feeling confident today,” said Henrietta, taking a breath, feeling renewed. “I’ll have one, too.”

When Miranda and Henrietta returned to Hartington House, David had already left. Miranda felt a twinge of disappointment. She had enjoyed her weekend away with Henrietta. It had been good to put some distance between herself and her home, given her time to assess what was important. But she would like to have seen him. In spite of his wickedness, she missed him. Home didn’t feel complete without him. Before she could dwell on his departure she was distracted by Jeremy and the children walking up the wild garden with Charlie on a lead. Henrietta swept her hand through her new highlights and waved. Jeremy lifted his hat and waved back. The children ran ahead, into their mother’s arms.

“Did you buy me a present?” asked Storm.

“Charlie’s our pet!” said Gus. “He eats out of our hands and everything. He loves mints!”

She turned to see Mrs. Underwood standing in the doorway. “Henrietta, I’d better go and catch up with Mrs. Underwood. I’ve so enjoyed myself. Thank you for making it such fun.” The two women embraced.

“No, thank
you
for everything. I’m a changed woman.” Henrietta laughed, swinging her car keys on her finger. “I certainly look like one!”

“You look great! Now, go get him!”

Henrietta flushed with excitement. “And you do what’s right.”

“I will. I’ll do it now, while Mrs. Underwood is still here to look after the children.”

She watched Henrietta walk through the garden gate with Jeremy to return Charlie to his field, then went to talk to Mrs. Underwood. “How’s it all been?” she asked. Mrs. Underwood folded her arms.

“They’ve had a lovely time together. Mr. Claybourne’s had more fun, I think, than he’s had in years. He loves those children. They’ll tell you about it, I’m sure. I know it’s none of my business, but for what it’s worth, Miranda, I’ll give you some advice. The Christian thing to do is forgive. Men do silly things that mean nothing. He needs his wrist slapped, but he’s a good man and a good father. Right, now I’ve said it.” She pursed her lips.

“Thank you, Mrs. Underwood. I appreciate your thoughts,” Miranda replied humbly. “I’ve got a favor to ask you. I need to see Jean-Paul this evening. It’s quite important. Would you mind staying with the children? I won’t be long.”

Mrs. Underwood raised her eyebrows. “If it’s that important, I can’t decline. Tell you what, I need to get Mr. Underwood his tea. I’ll nip back now, while you give the children their bath, then come back to babysit. Is that all right?”

“Thank you, Mrs. Underwood. That would be brilliant.”

Jeremy looked Henrietta up and down appreciatively. “You’re radiant,” he said.

“Thank you,” she replied, blushing. “I’ve had a wonderful time.”

“It shows.”

His eyes lingered on her face longer than normal. She looked away. They walked up the lawn towards the field. The sun was setting, flooding the sky with golden syrup. Dew was already forming on the grass and the birds twittered in the trees as they settled down to roost. The breeze
was warm and sweet. She cast her eyes around the gardens, sensing the magic that Ava and Jean-Paul had created there, and was suddenly filled with wistfulness. Those gardens had been watered with their tears.

“Jeremy,” she said suddenly, her face blanching as she realized the strength of her feelings for him, and the need to confess them. He stopped walking and looked down at her. “There’s something I want to say to you.”

“Yes?” His expression grew serious.

“Well, I’ve been wanting to tell you for some time…” She swallowed hard, the doubts suddenly returning to choke her. She shuffled her feet. “Do you have a shop in your home to rival mine?” she stammered, feeling foolish. He grinned. She felt her confidence return. “You see, if you have then I have no choice but to join the two together and make one big shop because I can’t take the competition. This is a small town.”

Jeremy took off his hat and put his hand on her shoulder. “I’ve been worrying about it, too,” he said. “You’re so clever to come up with a solution.” Henrietta forgot to breathe. Jeremy leaned down and kissed her. Astonished, she wound her arms around his middle and let him draw her to him. When she realized that she had forgotten to breathe, she took a gulp of air, then laughed.

“I think you should move in with me as quickly as possible in order to capitalize on our union,” he said. “There are, however, legal matters to consider.”

She frowned at him, uncomprehending. “Legal matters?”

“Marriage, Henrietta. If you knew how long I’ve waited to find you, you’d understand why I don’t want to waste any more time. I love you. I can say that now. I love you and want to share my life with you. I can offer you a couple of soppy dogs and a rambling farmhouse, a herd of milking cows and a big red tractor. Please say yes, or I don’t know what I’m going to do with all that soap!”

Miranda found Jean-Paul in the kitchen making himself dinner. “That looks good,” she said, watching him prepare a poussin with onions and tomatoes.

“Next time I will make it for two.” He looked at her curiously. Then his eyes fell on the scrapbook. His face grew suddenly serious as if he could smell Ava’s ashes within its pages.

“We need to talk,” she said huskily, unsure of how to begin. “May I sit down?”

“Of course.” He watched as she placed the book on the table.

“What is this?” he asked. But he knew. He recognized the writing immediately.

“I think this was intended for you,” she explained. “It was here when we bought the house. This cottage had been kept as a shrine. This table was still laid for two, as if the people taking tea had just got up and walked out. I confess I have read the book. It broke my heart. I now realize that you are the man Ava Lightly loved but couldn’t have. You are her impossible love, the man she called M. F.”

“Mr. Frenchman,” he said, his voice barely audible.

“I’ve only just worked it out. Now I’m ashamed that I took
it and read it and that I erased her memory in renovating this cottage. I think she meant you to see it as it was, as if you had never left. I think she wanted you to see that she had never forgotten you or given up.” He picked up the book and ran his hand over the cover, as if the paper was the soft skin of her face. Miranda couldn’t bear to look. She gazed out the window instead; it was getting dark. “I telephoned her house, but she wasn’t there.” She fought through the lump in her throat. “She died a couple of years ago.” The words came out in a whisper. She watched him sink into a chair. Miranda got up. She needed to leave the cottage as quickly as possible. It wasn’t right that she was there, invading their love. “I’m so sorry,” she gasped. “I’m sorry I am the one to tell you.” With tears running down her face, she hurried through the door, closing it behind her.

She stood on the stone bridge, her heart pounding against her rib cage. She had wanted to tell him about Peach. But it wasn’t her place. He would read the scrapbook and find out for himself. It was bad enough that she had been the person to tell him Ava had died. Nothing in the world was as important as love. She rushed up the path towards the house, desperate to hold her children against her and breathe in a love that was warm and living.

The telephone was ringing as she stumbled through the door. She ran into her study to answer it, but it rang off just before she could reach it. “Damn!” she swore.

Mrs. Underwood appeared at the door. “I’ve left your supper on the Aga,” she said.

“Did you get the phone?” Miranda asked.

“No. I don’t like to answer your private line. Besides, there’s an answering machine, isn’t there?” Miranda nodded and pressed 1571. There was no message. “Are you all right, Miranda?” Mrs. Underwood looked concerned.

“I’m fine. I hoped it would be David.”

Mrs. Underwood nodded knowingly. “You can always telephone
him
.”

“Yes.” She sounded distracted. “You’re sweet to have cooked for them this weekend. I can’t thank you enough.”

“They ate like kings. David needs fattening up, though. He’s got very thin recently. Works too hard I should imagine.”

“Yes.” Miranda felt exhausted and drained. She could barely muster the energy to talk to Mrs. Underwood. “I think I’ll eat and go straight to bed,” she said.

“I’ll be going then,” said Mrs. Underwood, untying her apron.

“Thanks again, Mrs. Underwood. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Better than you think, I’m sure.” She smiled sympathetically and left Miranda alone.

After Mrs. Underwood had left, Miranda ran upstairs to kiss the children. They slept contentedly in their cozy rooms, their heads snuggled into their pillows. She inhaled the sleepy scent of them, nuzzling her nose into their hair, and silently thanked God for the gift of children and the blessing of love.

She ate in her bedroom after wallowing in a hot, pine-scented bath. Mrs. Underwood had made her a delicious vegetable soup with butternut squash and sweet potato. She lay in bed watching television, finding a repeat episode of
Seinfeld
that she had seen before. She needed to forget the scrapbook and Jean-Paul and turn her mind to neutral. She finished her soup, watched the end of
Seinfeld
then switched off the light to go to sleep. The telephone rang.

“I love you, Miranda.” It was David. Miranda felt a surge of relief.

“I love you, too,” she replied huskily. David was taken aback. He had expected a greater battle.

“You do? I don’t deserve it.”

“Let’s start again,” she said. “Forget what’s done and begin again from here.”

“I’ll never forgive myself for hurting you.”

“But I can forgive you and I will. I want to move on.”

“I realize now that only you and the children matter. Nothing should put our family at risk. It’s all we have.”

“We have to spend more time together, David.”

“Well, I’ve been thinking…I’m going to quit the City.”

“You are?” Miranda was astonished. She sat up, suddenly wide awake. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t know. Write the life cycle of the flea? The City is a money-spinner, but it’s no life. I’ve done my bit. I’ve worked hard. It’s time to reap my reward, by that I mean you, Gus and Storm. I’ve had time to think these past few weeks. We should take a long family holiday. I don’t want to send the children to boarding school. I want them at home where I can enjoy them. What’s the point of having them if all we do is send them away?”

“You
have
done a lot of thinking.” Miranda was impressed. “Gus’ll be pleased.”

“He was. I told him. We had a man to man, you know.”

“Did you?” Miranda felt her stomach fizz. David sounded like the old David she had fallen in love with.

“We understand each other now.”

“Come home, darling. I’ve missed you.”

He sighed heavily. There was a long pause as he gathered himself together. “Those are the sweetest words I’ve ever heard.”

The following morning, Miranda awoke with a strange knot in her stomach. She looked out the window. The sky was gray, the clouds thick and heavy, a melancholy light hanging over the gardens. There was no breeze. Something was missing. Something was wrong. Hurriedly she dressed, pulling on a pair of jeans and a cotton sweater. The children were in the
kitchen helping themselves to cereal, cheerily making plans for the day. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she shouted, as she ran through the hall. Gus frowned at his sister, who shrugged in resignation. Their parents were very odd.

Miranda sprinted across the gravel and through the wildflower meadow. It was just beginning to drizzle, light feathery drops that fell softly on her face. To her relief Jean-Paul hadn’t left, but was standing on the bridge, gazing into the water. When he saw her, he didn’t smile, but looked at her with weary red eyes, his skin gray.

“Are you all right?” she asked, standing beside him, catching her breath.

“I have read the book,” he told her.

“The whole book?” Miranda was amazed. It had taken her months.

“I haven’t slept.” He shook his head and ran a rough hand through his long hair. Miranda noticed the silver stubble on his face. “I had to finish it. I think I always knew in my heart that she was dead. That is why I didn’t look for her. I was afraid.”

“What are you going to do?” She dreaded his answer, but she knew it before he spoke.

“Return to France.”

“What about Peach?” she asked softly.

He shrugged. “I don’t know.” He seemed confused. “Ava always put her children first. I must do the same.”

“You mean, you won’t contact her?”

“I cannot. She may not know.”

“But you’re her father. You said yourself, ‘a part of you and a part of me.’” For the first time since she had met Jean-Paul, he seemed unsure of himself.

They both became aware of someone standing on the riverbank. She approached, dressed in pale blue dungarees,
white T-shirt, her long curly hair the color of summer hay. Jean-Paul caught his breath. “Ava,” he gasped. “It can’t be.” The young woman smiled and waved tentatively.

“Jean-Paul,” muttered Miranda, marveling at how beautifully his smile translated a woman’s face. “That’s Peach.”

She reached them and her smile dissolved into diffidence. “Jean-Paul,” she said. “You don’t know me but…”

“I know you,” he said. “I recognize your mother in you.”

“And you in me, too,” she said with an embarrassed laugh.

“You have your mother’s directness,” he observed, running his eyes over her features, impatient to take her all in.

She turned to Miranda. “You must be Miranda.”

“Yes. You don’t know how good it is to see you.” They embraced as if they were old friends.

“I tried to telephone you over the weekend, but no one answered. I hope it’s okay that I just turned up.” She gazed around. “Nothing’s changed. It looks wonderful.”

“Come inside,” Jean-Paul suggested. “It’s about to pour.”

“I think I’d better get back to my children,” said Miranda, backing away.

“You’re welcome to join us,” Jean-Paul said. Miranda noticed the color had returned to his face. He looked handsome again, the irresistible twinkle in his eyes restored.

“I’d love to, because I’m curious. But I think it’s right that I leave you together. You’ve got a lot to catch up on. Maybe, when you’re done, I can show you the gardens. It’s all credit to Jean-Paul, but they’re stunning.”

“Yes, please,” said Peach. “I’d love that. My mother would be so happy to see them resurrected. It was her life’s work. I want to thank you, Miranda.”

“Whatever for?”

“For making this possible.”

Miranda felt her spirits leap. “Did I?”

“Of course, I never thought I’d find Mr. Frenchman. Thanks to you, I have.” She looked at Jean-Paul and grinned. He struggled to find the words. She was so like her mother. So direct, so open; it wasn’t as if she were meeting a stranger, but as if she had known him all her life. “Don’t be alarmed,” she said, sensing his astonishment. “I’ve had some time to get used to this.”

Miranda walked up the garden to the house. Around her the gardens radiated their magic and inside she felt complete. She belonged. She looked forward to playing with the children. Perhaps they’d go to the old castle and have a picnic. Maybe she’d invite a few of their friends for tea. She reached the house. Storm and Gus tumbled out onto the porch as a taxi drew up on the gravel. She turned to see David stepping out with a suitcase. He wasn’t in his suit, but in jeans and a green shirt, looking thin but handsome. Miranda smiled back, but she had to wait her turn for he opened his arms and the children flew in. They belonged there, too, she thought contentedly; at last.

Inside the cottage, Jean-Paul put the kettle on. The two of them sat at the kitchen table as Ava and Jean-Paul had done twenty-six years before. But this time it was not to say good-bye but to begin a whole new life together. “There is so much I have to tell you,” said Peach, her green eyes glittering with emotion. “I don’t know where to begin.”

“Tell me about your mother. How did she die?”

“Let’s go back a bit further, or I’ll lose track. Darling Daddy—Phillip—had a stroke about four years ago and for a while we all continued to live here in spite of his slow recovery. Mummy looked after him like a nurse. She refused to seek help. You know what she’s like. It was a full-time job, but he deteriorated. The stairs were a big problem. Everyone
told her we had to move. Of course, she was torn between what she knew was right for Phillip, and what was right for her. She loved this place and the gardens, and I know now that the reason for her determination to hold on to them was because of you. She must have hoped that one day you’d come back and get her. We were all grown up. Poppy lives in London, is married with children of her own; Archie married a Chilean and lives in Valparaiso. Angus is a bit of a bohemian. He hasn’t married. He’s a successful historian. You wouldn’t believe it.”

“And you?”

“I’ve never flown the nest. I’m a gardener.” She grinned proudly.

“I am not surprised,” he mused, shaking his head at the miracle of her. Her fingernails were short and ragged, the palms of her hands rough like bark. He was sure she smelled of damp grass and hay. “Go on with your story,” he said, anxious to hear more.

“Well, she stayed on here long after she should have gone. Finally, she was left no choice. She discovered a lump in her stomach. It turned out to be malignant. We moved to Cornwall because Mummy had always loved the sea. She put the house on the market at such an exorbitant price so no one would buy it. It caused her such pain to let it go. Maybe she hoped it wouldn’t sell and she could one day move back. While Daddy recovered, Mummy got worse. It all happened very quickly. She didn’t have much time. Now I’ve read the scrapbook, I think the tumor was a manifestation of the heartbreak she suffered after you left. Her grief was so deep it was unspeakable. She kept it secret all those years. She never told me and I was closer to her than the others, being the youngest.” She hesitated, then added shyly: “And being yours.” They looked at each other as the rain rattled against the window
panes, and realized that in spite of the fact that they were strangers, the reality of their shared blood and their mutual love for Ava gave them an immediate sense of unity.

“When did she die?” he asked.

“In spring. May the fifth.”

“I so hoped to see her again.”

“We buried her in a little church overlooking the sea. She should have been buried here, but she said she didn’t want that. I think she felt it inappropriate. Tactless, perhaps, considering Daddy.”

“She always put her family first.”

“She did. But she left me the scrapbook, not in her will, but in a letter of wishes. She had hidden it in the house, beneath a loose floorboard.”

“So it was you who put the book in the cottage?”

“Yes. I read it all. I understood why she never told me about you. What good would have come of it? I love Phillip as my father, and he will always be my father. Think how lucky I am to have two.”