The French Gardener (20 page)

“David,” she repeated, smiling tenderly. “Your husband has been a real support. I don’t know what I’d have done without him. With you tucked away in the country I had no one to turn to. Then in he rides like a knight in shining armor. He’s so patient and thoughtful.”

“Oh good,” Miranda replied, wishing he was as patient and thoughtful with her.

“He’s given me invaluable advice. Thanks to him I’m going to fleece the bastard. He’s going to wish he had treated me better. David is my secret weapon.”

“Isn’t he begging you to come home?”

“Only because he doesn’t want to part with fifteen million.”

“I can’t say I blame him. That’s not exactly pocket money.”

“I deserve it for having put up with his infidelities for the last ten years. I might embark on some infidelity myself.”

“Have you found someone?”

“Maybe.” She looked coy.

“You have!” Miranda exclaimed. “Do I know him?”

“No,” said Blythe quickly. “No one knows him. It’s not big love, but it is big sex. He’s delicious in the sack. Makes me hit the ceiling every time.”

“Is he married?”

Blythe pulled a face.

“Oh, Blythe!” Miranda exclaimed. “Be careful. Remember how it feels. Don’t put some poor wife through the hell you went through.”

“It won’t last,” she said dismissively. “It’s only a bit of fun. I promise you, no one will get hurt. It’s not like I’m his mistress.”

“Then what are you?”

“A friend who fucks,” she replied with a self-satisfied smile. “Let’s order some champagne. We’re celebrating your return to the big smoke.” She called over the waiter with a brisk click of her fingers. Anoushka came off the phone having succeeded in reserving a pair of boots in a size seven.

“Such a relief,” she exclaimed. “I’d have died had they not had them. Now, let’s fill you in on the gossip,” she said. “There’s so much, I barely know where to start.”

Miranda listened while they recounted the scandals and misadventures that had kept London gossips busy in her absence. They drank champagne, picked at grilled fish with salad and hadn’t a nice word to say about anyone. Miranda felt oddly remote, as if a pane of glass separated her from the two of them. Once she had had news to contribute; now she had nothing to add. She would have liked to share Ava Lightly’s scrapbook and Jean-Paul, but Hartington was a world away from Knightsbridge. Small town news wouldn’t interest these big town girls.

There were plenty of affairs and divorces going on in London to keep those two vultures happy, pecking with relish at the exposed flesh of the hurt and vulnerable. Miranda sat back and listened with a mixture of intrigue and disgust. Having been away for a few months she was able to observe them with an objectivity she hadn’t had before. As the lunch progressed, her two friends became somewhat grotesque.
Their collagen-enhanced lips grew swollen with champagne, their botoxed foreheads took on an alien quality, robbing them of humanity. The more they rummaged about the lives of London’s broken, the less compassionate they became. Miranda left to resume her Christmas shopping with a sour taste in her mouth. Suddenly London didn’t hold so great an appeal. The traffic was too loud, the pavements too crowded, the people unfriendly, even the smell of perfume on the ground floor of Harvey Nichols had become unbearable. She longed to return to the peace of Hartington.

When she reached home, Miranda was a little surprised to see that Henrietta had put the children to bed and was sitting in the kitchen having supper with Jean-Paul. “I hope you don’t mind,” said Henrietta. “We’ve been in the garden all day planting things. The children are done in; they fell asleep the moment Jean-Paul finished telling them the story of the velveteen rabbit. We thought we’d celebrate the end of a hard day’s work.”

“I’m delighted,” Miranda replied, drawing up a chair. “I can’t thank you enough for looking after them for me.”

“You look exhausted,” said Jean-Paul. “Let me pour you a glass of wine. There was a time when I thought the city was the only place to live. Then I discovered how shallow and empty it was. Like icing on a rotten cake. Underneath it was all bad.”

“God, that’s just how I feel. I was so excited to get up there, walking those pavements again, but by the end of the day all I wanted was to come home.”

“I’ve never liked the city,” said Henrietta. “Much too unfriendly. Here in Hartington there’s a sense of community. I like belonging.”

“So, have you finished my little garden?” Miranda asked, already feeling better for their company.

Jean-Paul’s smile poured warm honey over the sour taste that had been with her since lunch. “We have completed the planting. With a little magic, it will flower in spring.”

“Why do you always say magic, Jean-Paul?” Miranda asked. “Do you mean nature?”

“Magic is love, Miranda. If you love someone they grow in beauty and confidence. They flower before your eyes. A woman who isn’t beautiful becomes beautiful in the warmth of love. The garden is the same. With love it will grow better and brighter and more abundant. There is no secret to love or magic, just the limitations of our own courage and self-belief.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Love requires effort, exertion and will. True love begins with loving ourselves. Love is not purely a feeling but an act of will. The man in a bar who neglects his family will tell you with tears in his eyes that he loves his wife and children. Love is as love does. A very exceptional woman taught me that a long time ago.”

Henrietta and Miranda sat in silence. The more he spoke, the less they knew him and the deeper the pool of his experience and wisdom seemed. Both recognized the terrible sadness in his eyes but neither had the courage to ask him its cause. Henrietta dreamed of being loved by him; Miranda knew loving him was only a dream. Both hearts reached out to the man who would only ever love one woman. The woman he was slowly bringing to life in the tender planting of their garden.

Jean-Paul returned to the Château les Lucioles for Christmas. He drove through the large iron gates, up the drive that swept in a magnificent curve around an ancient cedar tree and parked the car on the gravel in front of the impressive façade. The pale blue shutters were open, the windowsills covered with a thin sprinkling of frost. He gazed up at the tall roof where small dormer windows peeped out sleepily and towering chimneys stretched into the crisp blue sky. Françoise unlocked the door with much rattling of keys, complaining bitterly of the cold even before she saw him. “
Monsieur
, come inside quickly before you catch your death. Gerard has lit fires in the hall and drawing room. Are you hungry? Armandine has left a daube in the oven and there is a fresh loaf of bread. She was not sure whether or not you would have eaten. She will come back tonight to cook your dinner. Don’t waste time outside. Come come, it is cold.” The housekeeper beckoned him inside, closing the door behind him with a loud clank. “These big houses are hard to keep warm,” she muttered, shuffling into the hall.

“Is Hubert here?” he asked, thinking only of the garden.

“Yes. Why don’t you eat first, see him later? He is outside.”

“Has there been much frost?”

“Only in the last week. It has suddenly got very cold after a mild autumn.”

He glanced about the hall, at the blazing fire in the grate, the shiny flagstone floor and faded Persian rugs, and sighed with pleasure. It was good to be home. He took off his coat, handing it to Françoise. “I will see him now in the drawing room,” he said. “You can bring the daube in on a tray. I’ll eat in there.”

“Shall I let the dogs in?” she asked. “They have been restless all morning. They knew you were coming home.”

“Yes. I’ve missed them.”

“Are you here to stay?”

“No. I’ll leave in ten days.”

She pushed out her bottom lip. “Such a short visit?”

“Yes.”

“If your mother were alive…”

“But she is not,” he retorted briskly.

“Why do you stay away? The animals miss you.” She lowered her eyes. “So do we.”

He looked at her tenderly. “Ah, Françoise, you are a sentimental woman underneath that efficient exterior.”

“And what of you,
monsieur
? Why don’t you find a nice young woman and settle down and have a family? This is a large château. It is not right that it is empty all year. It echoes with the voices of ghosts because it is not inhabited.”

He shook his head. “Things don’t always end up the way they were planned.”

“What plans did you have?” He caught her looking at him with a mother’s concern.

“Those I cannot speak of to anyone,” he replied grimly. “Now bring me my food, I’m ravenous. And tell Hubert I want to see him.”

Two Great Danes bounded into the drawing room, rushing up to him excitedly. He fell to his knees and embraced them
both, allowing them to lick his face. “I’ve missed you, too!” he told them, gently pulling their ears and patting their backs. There had always been Great Danes at Les Lucioles. A house of that size needed big animals to fill it. He sat on the club fender, the fire warming his back, looking out through the French doors that led into the garden, now hidden beneath frost. He had hoped to return with Ava. To show her the gardens he had created for her. To live out the rest of their lives together. She had promised. He had promised, too. Promises sealed with love. He had kept his side of the bargain, but what of hers?

Françoise entered with his lunch on a tray. “Are you going to spend Christmas on your own?” she asked.

“I have no choice.”

“What a shame. A handsome young man like you.”

“Don’t pity me, woman,” he growled.

“If your mother were alive…”

“But she is not,” he repeated. “If she were alive she would spend it with me. As it is, I am alone.”

“Of all the men worthy of love it is you,
monsieur
. I have known you since you were a little boy. It causes me pain to see you live alone. Yes, it is all very well taking lovers, but I want more than that for you. I want a good, honest girl and a brood of healthy children.”

“I’m past that now.”

“Not if you marry a fertile young woman.”

“Françoise, you are dreaming.” He chuckled cynically. Hubert entered, cap in hand.

“
Bonjour, monsieur
. I am glad you have returned safely.” He bowed formally.

“I am being cross-examined, Hubert. Françoise, bring Hubert a glass of brandy. Now tell me. How are the gardens?”

Françoise retreated into the hall. She was stiff in the joints and her back ached constantly. She should have retired years
ago but she remained out of loyalty to Jean-Paul’s late mother and to Jean-Paul, whom she loved as a son. She had seen him return from England twenty-six years before, a broken young man, determined to remain true to the woman he loved but could not have. Françoise had briefly known love and lost it so she had understood his pain. That kind of sorrow is healed over time; hers was now nothing more than a thin scar across her heart. But Jean-Paul had never healed. His heart was still open, raw and bleeding. Like a dog beside the dead body of his master, Jean-Paul let his love starve him slowly to death. His mother never experienced the joy of grandchildren. His father’s dreams for him were never realized. Neither knew why. But Françoise knew all the secrets, for like a shadow, she lingered in every corner of the château, invisible but omnipresent. Only she had seen the paintings stacked against the wall, the letters written and never sent, and the flowers planted in the hope that one day he would bring her back and show her how he had dedicated his life to her with as much attentiveness as if she were beside him.

She clicked her tongue and lumbered across the stone slabs towards the kitchen wing and her cozy sitting room. Some things were better forgotten. Life was short. What was the point of pining for the unattainable? Hadn’t she closed the chapter, put away the book and begun again? It wasn’t easy but it was possible. She lowered herself carefully into an armchair and picked up her needlepoint. At least he was home, for that she was grateful.

Back at Hartington House Miranda missed Jean-Paul’s presence. Her parents, with her father’s sister, Constance, arrived in a silver Land Rover packed with presents and luggage. This was their first visit. Diana Stanley-Kline had much to comment on, wafting about from room to room in ivory slacks, matching cashmere sweater, suede shoes, and pearls
the size of grapes. “Oh dear,” she sniffed at her daughter’s kitchen stools. “The distressed look might be very fashionable, but you wouldn’t want to sit on one of these in your best tights.” She raised her eyebrows at the large ornamental glass vases in the hall. “What odd things to have in a house with small children!” And when Miranda told her about the gardens, how they had once been the most beautiful in Dorset, she scrunched her nose and remarked: “Well, everything’s relative.” As usual nothing could please her mother. Miranda longed for it all to be over and for everyone to go home.

Constance had the annoying habit of interrupting. She’d ask a question but not listen to the answer, preferring to give her opinion instead, cutting one off midsentence. After a while Miranda gave up trying and sat back and listened with half an ear, making the right noises in the right places to suggest that she was paying attention. David liked her father, Robert. They sat smoking cigars, discussing politics. They shared the same opinions, both right wing and equally pompous.

The children played outside in their boots and coats, their laughter rising into the damp air. But Gus seemed lost without Jean-Paul. He tried to get his father to play with them, but David was busy with their grandfather. The child lingered on the stone bridge, gazing forlornly at the cottage that was empty and cold. Storm returned inside to play Hama beads on the kitchen table while Mrs. Underwood cooked lunch. Gus was left alone to wander about in search of entertainment. Without Jean-Paul to keep him busy he reverted to what he knew best: tormenting small, defenseless creatures.

He found his target along the thyme walk. It was a large spider with black hairy legs and a round, juicy body. Having been prodded with a stick it was cowering under a leaf, but Gus could see it clearly. It waited, frozen with fear. But in spite of its experience of birds and snakes, the spider couldn’t have imagined the nature of this predator.

Gus rolled onto his stomach where the paving stones were still damp from drizzle fallen in the night. It was no longer raining but the sky was darkened by clouds and the wind was edged with ice. Slowly, so as not to frighten the spider away, Gus moved his hand. The spider remained motionless, hoping perhaps that the predator might not see it if it didn’t move. But Gus was an expert when it came to spiders. He wasn’t afraid of them, like his sister and her friends. With a swiftness that came from years of practice, Gus thrust his fingers forward and grabbed the creature by one long, fragile leg. “Gotcha!” he whispered triumphantly. The spider tried in vain to escape. Gus pulled it out into the light and very slowly, while still holding one leg, plucked another off the body. He couldn’t hear the spider wail or see the look of pain in its eyes. Perhaps it felt no pain at all. It didn’t matter. One by one he pulled the legs off until all that remained was the soft round body which he left on the stone for a bird to eat. The legs lay like tiny twigs discarded by the wind.

His sense of satisfaction was short-lived. He thought of Jean-Paul and how he loved all God’s creatures, and was suddenly gripped with shame. Hastily, he squashed the little body under his foot, hoping to wipe away the deed, pretend it had never happened. He ran off into the vegetable garden, closing the door behind him, and found a warm place in one of the greenhouses. To his surprise it was full of pots. Each pot was packed tightly with earth, lined up in neat rows. There were about fifty in all and Gus swept his eyes over them in awe. He knew instinctively that Jean-Paul had planted something special in each that would grow in the spring. He sensed them hibernating beneath the soil.
So this is garden magic
, he thought excitedly, wishing that Jean-Paul were there to explain it to him. He spotted a beetle lying on its back on the concrete floor, legs wiggling frantically as it tried to right itself. Gently, so as not to hurt it, Gus flipped it over with
a leaf and watched it scurry beneath a terra-cotta pot. His spirits rose on account of his good deed.

Miranda showed her mother and Constance around the garden. She found it easier to handle her mother’s barbed comments out there where Jean-Paul had sown his magic. She felt close to him, as if his presence warmed the air around her and filled her spirit with serenity. Constance rattled on enthusiastically, while Diana sniffed her contempt. “Goodness, do you really need such a large property? Terribly hard to maintain.”

“We have two gardeners,” Miranda replied grandly, smiling to herself as she thought of Jean-Paul.

“At your age I did everything myself. It’s terribly extravagant to employ so many people…”

“What nonsense, Diana,” interjected Constance. “You said so yourself, it’s a hard property to maintain. I would imagine you’d need more than two. I hope they’re good!”

“As you can see…”

“I certainly can, Miranda,” Constance interrupted again. “There’s not a weed to be seen anywhere. I do hope to see it in spring. It’ll burst into glorious flower.”

“Oh, spring will be lovely,” Diana agreed. “But by summer, everything will grow out of control and then you’ll realize you’ve taken on more than you can chew.” Miranda was relieved when Mrs. Underwood announced that lunch was ready and they returned inside.

“I must say, Miranda. You’ve done a splendid job, you really have,” said Constance when Diana was out of earshot. “You really have to be a terrible old sourpuss to find fault with it. Think nothing of it, my dear. The problem does not lie with you, but with your mother and the very ugly green monster that’s got under her skin.” The older woman winked.
Miranda smiled and followed her into the cloakroom to hang up her coat.

Diana took her place at the dining room table. “Funny to have used such pale colors on the walls,” she said to her daughter. “It’s very London. I think warm colors are better suited to the countryside.”

“I don’t think…” Miranda began, but Constance dived in there before she could finish.

“It’s very pretty, Miranda. You’ve done the house beautifully, hasn’t she, Robert?”

“Yes, indeed,” her brother replied, having not considered the decoration for a moment. “Very tastefully done.”

“Gus and Storm, come and sit next to your grandmother. I see you so rarely. Miranda never brings you to stay with me. She should share you both a little more. Poor Grandma!” Miranda rolled her eyes and watched the children do as they were told, though without enthusiasm. “So pleased you’ve got a cook, Miranda. It wouldn’t be worth us coming all this way if we had to stomach your efforts.” She gave a little laugh as if it was meant in jest, but Miranda turned away, bruised. No wonder her sister had gone to live on the other side of the world.

Mrs. Underwood entered with a roast leg of lamb. The room was at once infused with the scent of rosemary and olive oil. Diana inhaled deeply but said nothing. Miranda wondered whether she’d have the nerve to criticize Mrs. Underwood. Now,
that
would be a skirmish she’d pay good money to see. She waited as her mother took her first bite while Mrs. Underwood went around the table with the dish of roast potatoes. Diana chewed in silence, her cheeks flushing with pleasure. Finally, she spoke.

“Very good,” she said briskly, piling another load onto her fork.

“Of course it is,” replied Mrs. Underwood, watching David help himself to four large potatoes. “It’s organic Dorset lamb. You won’t get better than this.” Diana knew better than to argue.

On Christmas Eve Gus and Storm put their stockings out for Father Christmas and went to bed without any fuss. Gus declared that he was going to lie in wait for him, while Storm argued that if he did Father Christmas wouldn’t come at all and neither of them would get any presents. Miranda tucked them up and returned to the drawing room to add a log or two to the fire and turn on the Christmas tree lights. She closed the curtains, put on a CD and sat a moment on the fender. She missed Jean-Paul. She missed his reassuring presence around the place. She wondered how he would advise she deal with her mother. He had answers for everything, like Old Father Time. Suddenly she had a longing to return to the scrapbook and for her parents and Constance to go home so that she could lie in peace on her bed and disappear into the secret life of Ava Lightly.