The French Gardener (8 page)

Miranda turned the key in the lock. It was a rusty old thing, but it opened with a low squeak, like the irritable yawning of an old man disturbed in sleep. Inside, the hall was tiled with dark stone slabs, the staircase narrow with a little landing where it turned the corner. She went into the sitting room. The room was full of furniture, yet the air smelled damp. No one had lit a fire in a long time. The bookshelves were heavy with books stacked in tidy rows from floor to ceiling. She ran her hand along the top of one. It wasn’t as neglected as she had presumed. There was only a
light coating of dust. The books were a mixture of old and contemporary, from Dickens to Sebastian Faulks. To her surprise there was a shelf of French novels.

She took in the whole room. The empty stone fireplace framed by a wooden mantelpiece that was clearly very old and beautifully carved, the pale yellow striped wallpaper tarnished by years of wood smoke. She noticed it was peeling in one corner from a leak. The carpet was worn and stained and clearly needed changing and the rug had been eaten by moths. However, there wasn’t a great deal to do. The sofa was intact, the armchairs, too; the glass coffee table just needed a good wipe. She walked over to the chest of drawers, a pretty antique walnut, and opened the drawers. The house had an inhabited feel about it. If it hadn’t been so dirty she would have been happy to curl up on the sofa with one of the books. With a cheery fire and a glass of wine it would be cozier than her own more formal drawing room.

She explored the kitchen. It would need new appliances but the crockery was complete. She noticed the table laid for two and thought how odd it was that the cups and plates were still there, as if the inhabitants had been spirited away in the middle of tea. She resisted the temptation to clear them away. She’d get her rubber gloves on, hire some help, and do it all at once. The children could help her. It would be fun for them.

The floorboards creaked beneath her feet as she climbed the stairs. There were two bedrooms and a bathroom. The bathroom was very old-fashioned and needed to be completely gutted. The iron bath was stained, its enamel worn away, and the taps were tarnished. One of the bedrooms was completely empty except for a box that sat in the middle of the floor, as if it had been forgotten. Before she had a moment to look inside, a rattle from the bedroom next door
distracted her. Her heart jumped. Surely she was the only person in the cottage.

For a second she thought it might be Gus. Her irritation mounted as she stepped across the landing to the other bedroom. A mischievous squirrel startled her as it shot back out the window, carelessly left ajar by her son, no doubt. She put her hand on her chest and took a deep breath, relieved that it wasn’t an intruder or, worse, a ghost. She looked around. There was a large iron bed, made up with sheets and quilted bedspread in a pale green flowered material. Two bedside tables with tall pillar lamps, the shades stained with yellow patches. A faded trunk at the end of the bed, a cherrywood chest of drawers with a Queen Anne mirror on top, a prettily painted pine wardrobe against the wall. Pale linen curtains hung from large wooden poles, their linings torn and discolored. The carpet was dirty but intact. She wondered why the Lightlys hadn’t bothered to take all this furniture with them. Perhaps they had downscaled and hadn’t the room. She opened the window wider and looked out over the field. She could see down the river to the field of cows—Storm’s cows. Her spirits soared, stirred by the strange magic of the room and the glory of the view.

Her mind returned to the box in the spare room. She closed the window to keep the squirrel out, then went to open it. There was only one thing inside: a faded green scrapbook. It was thick with flowers and leaves pressed between its pages. On the front the title was written in large looped handwriting:
Rainbows and Roses
. Miranda knelt on the floor and flicked through it. It was a diary of poems, recollections and essays, clearly something that was not meant to have been left behind, nor seen by the eyes of a stranger. The mystery intrigued her. The writing was feminine. The paper smelled sweet, like cut grass in
early spring. She sat back against the wall and turned to the first page where four sentences stood alone, heavy with sorrow.

Hartington House
October 1979

Ava Lightly’s voice could be heard from deep within the herbaceous border. Although she was obscured by dead lupins and the large viburnum she was busily cutting back, her enthusiastic singing stirred the crisp morning air and sent the dogs into an excited frolic on the grass. Ava was dressed in purple dungarees and a short-sleeved T-shirt, her streaky blond hair roughly secured on the top of her head with a pencil. Her hands were rough from gardening, her nails short and ragged, yet her cheeks glowed with health and her pale green eyes sparkled like a spring meadow in rain. She was happiest outside, whatever the weather, and rarely felt the cold although she was a slender woman with no fat to insulate her. She was often seen with bare arms in midwinter when everyone else was wrapped up in gloves and hats and heavy coats. At thirty-seven she retained the bloom of youth, borne of an inner contentment which shone through her skin as if her heart were made of sunshine. Her face was handsome rather than pretty, her features irregular: her nose a little too long and very straight, her mouth large and sensual, out of place on such a small face. Yet, if the features weren’t beautiful in isolation, they were made so by the sensitive, cheerful expression that held them together. Her eccentric nature made her compelling. No one loved her more than
her husband, Phillip Lightly, and their three small children, Archie, Angus and Poppy.

“Hey, Shrub!” called her husband, striding across the lawn. Bernie, the fluffy Saint Bernard and Tarquin, the young Labrador, stopped rolling about on the grass and galloped up to him, crashing into his legs, almost knocking him to the ground. He patted them affectionately and shooed them away with a flick of his hand. He was fifteen years older than his wife, six feet four with a straight back and wide shoulders. His face was gentle and handsome, with a long nose, high cheekbones and a strong jawline. He spent most of the time in his study writing the definitive history of wine, or abroad, visiting vineyards. However, he wasn’t inclined to solitude as so many writers are. He enjoyed shooting parties and dinners that extended into the small hours of the morning, discussing history and politics over glasses of port and the odd cigar. He took pleasure from socializing with the people of Hartington after church on Sundays and invited the town to an annual wine and cheese party at the house in the summer. He was affable and well liked for his dry, English sense of humor which more often than not included clever puns whose meaning eluded the very audience he meant to entertain. Ava always laughed, even though she had heard them all before. With round glasses perched on an aristocratic nose, his fine bones and high forehead, Phillip Lightly cut a distinguished figure as he strode confidently towards the herbaceous border.

He waited awhile, enjoying his wife’s tuneful singing, then he called her again by the nickname he had given her in the early days of their courtship. “Shrub, darling!”

“Oh, hello there, you!” she replied, scrambling out. There were leaves caught in her hair and a smear of mud down one cheek. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

“You haven’t forgotten Jean-Paul, have you?” The surprise
on her face confirmed that she had. He smiled indulgently. Ava was famously vague, her mind absorbed by the trees and flowers of her beloved garden. “Well,” he sighed, glancing at his watch. “He’ll be at the station in half an hour.”

“Oh God! I’d completely forgotten. I’ve done nothing about the cottage.”

“He’s young, he’ll be happy in a sleeping bag,” said Phillip, folding his arms against the cold. Despite his cashmere sweater and scarf, he was shivering. “Look, I’ll pick him up, but then it’s over to you, Shrub.”

“Thank you.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. He stepped back, aware that she was covered in mud and dead leaves, but her affection won him over and he wound his arms around her, lifting her off the ground, breathing in the scent of damp grass that clung to her hair. “You’re a darling,” she laughed into his neck.

“You’re freezing,” he replied. “I’d like to wrap you in a blanket and give you a cup of hot chocolate.”

“Is that all?”

“For now, yes. Got to go and collect your apprentice.”

“Is this really a good idea?” she asked, pulling away. “You know I like to do the gardens on my own and Hector helps with the weeding and mowing when I need him. I don’t like to be hovered over. I’m a solitary creature. Hector and I really don’t need anyone else.”

“We’ve been through this before. Besides, it’s too late to go back on it now. We’re doing his father a great favor and besides, that’s what old Etonians do: we help one another out. After all he has done for me I’m keen to have the opportunity to pay him back. Thanks to Henri, doors have opened the entire length and breadth of France.”

“All right,” she conceded with a sigh. “But I don’t know what he expects…”

“You’re very gifted, Shrub. He’ll learn a lot from you. If
he’s going to inherit the château he’s got to know about running an estate.”

“Can’t he just hire people to do it for him?”

“That’s not the point. Henri wants him out of the city and in the English countryside for a while. He’s been allowed to do as he pleases in Paris.”

“So, he’s a playboy?”

“Henri doesn’t know anyone else he can ask. He’s worried Jean-Paul will drift. He wants to inspire him. Wants him to take responsibility. One day he’ll inherit the château and vineyard. It’s a big responsibility.”

“I’m surprised he does what his father tells him. He’s not a child.”

“No, but his father holds the purse strings.”

“Is that so important? Why doesn’t he run off and do his own thing?”

“Les Lucioles is not an ordinary château. It’s magnificent. Any boy worth his salt would do all he could not to lose it.”

“I see.” She felt very unenthusiastic about it all.

“Besides, it’ll be good for the boys to have a young man about the place to rag around with. I’m an old father.”

“I keep you young,” she protested.

“That’s true,” he chuckled. “But I don’t rag around much and I don’t speak French. The children could do with a little home tuition.” Ava smiled at him sheepishly. She spoke fluent French, having been sent to finishing school in Switzerland at sixteen.

“You make me feel guilty for not having spoken French to them from birth.”

“I’d never expect that of you, Shrub. I expect you to get up in the morning, the rest is a surprise!”

She smacked him playfully. “You beast!”

“You haven’t called me that for a while.” He kissed her forehead.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She kissed him back, leaving him with a wide, loving smile.

She watched him stride back across the lawn towards the house, his shoulders hunched against the cold, his gait charmingly gangly. Then her eyes fell upon a pair of pigeons perched on the gutter just beneath the sloping roof. They were fat and contented. She felt the same. How lucky she was to have everything she could possibly want: a husband who loved her, three happy children, the most beautiful house in England, and her beloved gardens. The birds sat on the roof like icing on a delicious cake.

She cast her eyes about the garden. It was only just beginning to turn. She liked it like that. The expanse of green gave her a sense of serenity. The trees were still frothy, but their leaves were curling at the corners and some were a pretty shade of yellow. Birdsong still rang out across the lawns, punctuated by the odd cough of a pheasant and the husky coo of a pigeon. She liked the sparrows that nested under the gutters in springtime and had planted evergreen shrubs near the house to encourage other birds to make their homes there, too. In midwinter she let the ivy grow up the ash and sycamore trees so that the birds that remained could find shelter from the cold and predators. She had taught the children to nurture them. Poppy used the birdbath as a paddling pool in midsummer, but in winter she put food out, slowly taming the little creatures so that some of them ate out of her hand when Bernie and Tarquin weren’t around to frighten them away.

She was still working in the border when Phillip returned an hour later with Jean-Paul. Bernie and Tarquin shot around to the front of the house, barking loudly. She climbed out and wiped the sweat from her forehead as the scrunching of wheels on gravel came to an abrupt stop. She heard the opening and closing of doors, then her husband’s voice
greeting the dogs as if they were people. She hastened through the gate nestled in the yew hedge that hid the gardens from the front of the house. Phillip was opening the boot of his old Mercedes. No sooner had he opened it than the two dogs jumped in. Jean-Paul looked on in amazement as the dogs planted muddy paws all over his leather case. Phillip made no move to extract them. He just chuckled at the familiar sight, paying no heed to Jean-Paul’s discomfort. Ava watched him from the gate. He was the handsomest young man she had ever seen.

“Hello, I’m Ava,” she said, wiping her hand on her dungarees before offering it to Jean-Paul. To her surprise he brought it to his mouth with a formal bow.

“It is a pleasure to meet you,” he said, looking her straight in the eye. His eyes were soft like brown suede, his gaze intense. She would have replied to him in French, but his English was perfect, although strongly accented, containing within it all that was romantic and sensual about his country. She felt something flutter inside her stomach.

“Did you have a pleasant flight?” she asked, suddenly aware of her disheveled appearance.

“I arrived in London a few days ago. I wanted to see a little culture before I came down here,” he replied, his eyes wandering over the house. He thrust his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders. Phillip carried his case inside.

“Why don’t you come in and have something to drink,” said Ava, following her husband in through the porch. “You’ll have to stay in the house for a week or so while I get the cottage ready for you. I’m afraid I’ve been slow in getting organized.”

“So unlike you, Ava,” Phillip added without a hint of sarcasm. “My wife is an example of efficiency. She runs this place like the captain of a ship. I’m a mere crewman, in awe of her self-discipline.” Ava rolled her eyes.

Jean-Paul was not at all what she had expected. First, he didn’t look like a gardener. He was beautifully dressed in a soft tweed jacket, blue shirt and pressed jeans. Around his neck he wore a faded cashmere scarf. His hair was thick, the color of chestnuts, and artfully arranged to look as though he hadn’t bothered. His nose was long and aquiline, his mouth asymmetrical and sensitive. His hands were clean, nails short and tidy, not the hands of a man used to digging. On his feet were brown Gucci loafers. She hoped he had gardening boots. It would be a shame to ruin those elegant shoes.

They sat on stools in the kitchen while Ava prepared lunch. She had gathered leeks and sprouts from her kitchen garden and bought trout from the fishmonger in town. She grew herbs against the garden wall in an old water trough and had made basil butter and broad bean hummus to eat with homemade rosemary bread. She adored the smell of healthy cooking and gained great satisfaction from watching her children grow strong on her own produce.

On first meeting Ava, one would never imagine she was shy. She rose to the occasion, telling witty stories, making people laugh, barely drawing breath between anecdotes, only to disappear afterward into blissful solitude in her garden, depleted after having given so much of herself. Phillip knew she entertained in order to hide her shyness and he loved her for it. It was a secret that only he was aware of. He was touched by the way she performed before collapsing once the curtain came down. He was the only man permitted backstage, a privilege he relished. Now she began to chatter away to Jean-Paul, who looked at her with an arrogant expression on his beautifully chiseled face, as if she were an eccentric relative to be tolerated. He smiled politely, but not with his eyes. He listened while she cooked, his gaze sleepy until they all moved to the table for lunch
and they fell hungrily on the feast she laid before him. Like all men, he became enlivened at the sight of a hearty meal.

“So, Jean-Paul,” she said, passing him the dish of steaming vegetables. “I hear your family has a beautiful garden in France?”

“Yes,” he replied, picking up the spoon and helping himself to carrots. “My mother loves gardens. Especially English gardens. We have a château near Bordeaux. It is very old. I admire what my mother has done with the gardens. One day I will create a beautiful garden of my own.”

“So what do you hope to learn here?”

He shrugged. “Papa says that yours is the best he has ever seen.”

“I wish I had met him. He popped in once, about eight years ago when I was away visiting my mother. I would like to have shown him around personally. I’m surprised Phillip showed him the estate beyond his wine cellar.”

“Darling, there is nothing nicer than walking around your gardens in springtime with a glass of chilled white wine,” responded Phillip with a chuckle.

“He says you have a great talent,” Jean-Paul continued. Ava was flattered in spite of the uneasy twist in her gut that predicted a terrible clash of personalities. As attractive as he was, she simply couldn’t see them working together.

“Have you left a girl behind in Paris?” Phillip asked with a grin.

Jean-Paul smirked and raised one eyebrow. “A few,” he replied.

“Oh dear,” said Ava, bristling at his arrogance. “I hope you don’t suffer from a broken heart.”

“I have never suffered in love,” he said.

“Yet. There is plenty of time for heartbreak. You’re young.”

He nodded in agreement. “My heart will break when my
mother dies. That is inevitable.” She looked at him quizzically. It was a strange comment to make for a man of his age.

“You are obviously close.”

“Of course. I am her only child. I am spoiled and indulged. My mother is an incredible woman. I admire her.”

“I hope our sons feel that way when they are your age,” she said, though she wasn’t sure whether she really did.

“You have three children, yes?”