The French Gardener (24 page)

A smile played around Phillip’s mouth, for he knew the news would please his wife. “He’s asked us to stay at the beginning of May.”

“To stay?” she repeated, incredulous.

“Yes. I thought you’d be pleased. We could take our holiday there. You’ll love Henri, he’s a real character and Antoinette, his wife, is a keen gardener like you.”

“What about Jean-Paul?”

“What about him?”

“When is he coming back?”

“I don’t know. Didn’t he tell you how long he was going to be away?”

“No,” she replied quickly, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand. “So he’ll be there?”

“I’m sure he will. I told him we’re very pleased with Jean-Paul’s work. That he’s learning a great deal. I told him he’s indispensable to us now—thought a little exaggeration wouldn’t hurt.”

“Didn’t he think it odd that he had gone home?”

“Clearly not. Why is it odd?”

“He’s been away three weeks.”

“You’re not missing him, are you, Shrub—the woman who said she wouldn’t last more than a week with him?”

She turned away, pretending to be keeping an eye on Hector. “Well, we could do with his help. There’s an awful lot to do around here.”

“So, what should I tell Henri?”

Ava lost her focus among the greenhouses, aware that she was standing at a crossroads and that her fate and perhaps the fate of her whole family depended on the choice she made now. She thought of Daisy Hopeton. How she had disapproved. But was
she
any better? Then something pulled at her. An invisible cord attached to her heart, pulling her across an unseen threshold. “Tell him yes,” she said slowly, knowing that she should have taken the other path. “Tell him we’d love to.”

“Good. I knew you’d be pleased. Don’t I always come up with the goods?” He chuckled and wandered through the gate in the wall back to the house. Ava felt the familiar tingle of excitement and the rising of her spirits out of the smog that had been her unhappiness. Suddenly she was able to see the sunshine and feel its warm rays on her face. She looked around at the budding trees and bushes and breathed in the fertile scents of flowering shrubs and new grass, allowing spring to uplift her as it always did.

She knelt down and continued to plant the marrow seeds for Poppy. Inside, her stomach was filled with bubbles. Then she felt the guilt, pricking each bubble one by one, spoiling her joy. She told herself that her desire to see Jean-Paul again was innocent. That all she wanted to do was to be in his company and convince him to return with them to Hartington. They would be dear friends. That was all.

That night Phillip made love to her. She was so overwhelmed with happiness that she received him enthusiastically, pulling him into her arms, kissing him passionately, savoring his attention, telling him how much she loved him. Masking the secret feelings she had for Jean-Paul.

“You’re back, Shrub,” he said afterward, scrunching her tousled hair in his hand. “You haven’t been yourself.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize, darling. I don’t like to see you unhappy, that’s all.”

“You’re very sweet to put up with the potato face.”

“It wasn’t a potato face, Shrub. More like a weeping willow. I want you to be a sunflower all year round.”

“So do I.”

He paused a moment. She began to plan what she would pack. “You’re not unhappy with Jean-Paul, are you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I know you and he haven’t exactly gelled. Is it going to ruin your holiday if he’s there?”

“No. Not at all.”

“He might have returned by then anyway.”

“Exactly. But I don’t mind. I like him. I really do. He’s pleasant to have around and he’s changed a lot since he arrived. It would be nice if he were there. He can show us around the château gardens himself.”

“Good. I want you to have a good rest, Shrub. We don’t have to hang around with them all day. We can venture off on our own and explore. I know you want us to spend time together.”

“That’s okay. I’m sure they’re charming.”

“Yes, but I promised you we’d have time alone. You know I always keep my promises.”

This time she wouldn’t mind if he didn’t.

They were met at Bordeaux airport by Henri’s driver. He held up a sign saying phillip lightly, welcome! He spoke no English and Ava was thrilled to speak French to him. Phillip listened with pride as she chatted easily. He had never seen her look more beautiful. Her hair was loose and falling down her back in shiny curls. Her cheeks were pink which accentuated the sparkling green of her eyes, and her face had tanned the color of warm honey. She wore glittery pink velvet slippers on her feet and a rather old-fashioned black dress printed with small pink flowers, and a short olive green cardigan. He noticed that she walked with a bounce in her step and was pleased that he had gone ahead and organized this break away from home. It was just what she needed.

Ava was as taut as a tightly strung violin. Outwardly she put on a good show of simply being excited by the holiday, but inside she was quivering with nerves. What would Jean-Paul think of her appearing at his home? What if he had chosen to spend the week in Paris in order to avoid her? Or worse, what if he interpreted this trip as an indication of her readiness to give herself to him body and soul? She stared out of the window and pondered the wisdom of her decision.

France was in the full throes of spring. The trees were all in leaf, tall white candles adorned the horse chestnuts, and
undulating fields of vines shimmered with their first leaves. Roses grew in abundance. The driver told Ava that they were planted at the ends of the rows to stop the ploughing oxen from nibbling the vines as they turned around to start the next row. To her delight she spotted a pair of swallows on the wing and a pretty brown thrush.

Finally, the car swept up a long curved drive, beneath an ancient avenue of towering trees that plunged them into shadow. At the end, the house stood bathed in sunshine. It was a majestic, neoclassical building on a grand scale. Built in pale, sand-colored stone, symmetrical, with tall windows framed by blue shutters and ornate black balconies, its beauty distracted Ava from her fears and filled her with wonder. Virginia creeper scaled the walls with honeysuckle and wisteria. As they approached, she could see the steep roof of slate tiles and charming dormer windows, each one capped by a curving pediment like a graceful eyebrow. Narrow stone chimneys reached into the sky with fanciful, cone-topped towers, decorated by a sudden spray of small birds.

The car drew up on the gravel outside the house. A pair of Great Danes charged out of the open door, their deep barks biting into the still air and echoing off the walls of the château. Ava climbed out of the car, her heart beating with anticipation. She raised her eyes to see an elegant, olive-skinned woman standing at the door. With her black hair pulled into a chignon that showed off her beautiful bone structure and deep-set brown eyes, she was obviously Antoinette, Jean-Paul’s mother.

Antoinette smiled serenely. “Welcome,” she said, stepping onto the gravel. “I hope you had a pleasant journey.”

“Splendid,” said Phillip, striding over to her. She gave him her hand and he leaned forward to kiss her. She was tall and willowy in flowing white trousers held at the waist with a brown crocodile belt. She wore a man’s striped shirt beneath
a cream waistcoat lined with black-striped ticking. Ava thought she was the chicest woman she had ever laid eyes on. “This is my wife, Ava,” Phillip added, introducing her.

“I have heard so much about you,” she said warmly. “Jean-Paul is so fond of you.” Ava shook her hand, thin and surprisingly cold to touch, and wondered how much he had told her.

“Please come inside. I hope you don’t mind the dogs, they are rather large but very friendly.”

“We adore dogs,” said Ava, trying to hide her nervousness behind a veneer of enthusiasm. “We have two of our own.”

“Of course you do. Well, you will feel quite at home then.”

They walked across the hall dominated by a sweeping stone staircase and a giant fireplace full of neatly cut logs piled one on top of the other. On the mantelpiece were ancient bottles of wine lined up on display. The floor was of big square flag-stones that shone, except along the middle where they were worn away by centuries of treading feet. Antoinette took them through to the drawing room, a grand red salon with high ceilings and long crimson curtains framing French doors that opened onto a wide terrace, surrounded by a stone balustrade. Faded tapestries of hunting scenes hung on the walls, flanked by gilded portraits of the family ancestors. Ava ran her eyes over them, seeking out any similarities with Jean-Paul. A maid entered the room and Antoinette asked her to bring a tray of drinks to the terrace. “And where is my son, Françoise?” she added. Ava’s stomach flipped and she grew anxious that she wouldn’t be able to hide her feelings.

“He is out,” she replied.

Antoinette sighed. “And Henri?” Françoise shrugged. “Well, go and find him and tell him our guests have arrived. I said they would be here by noon.”

“Yes,
madame
,” said Françoise obediently and left the room.

“Come, let us sit on the terrace. It is warm there in the sun.
Françoise will bring us some wine.” She opened the French doors wide and stepped outside. The dogs followed her, trotting off to sniff the borders and cock their legs against the balustrade. Below, the gardens stretched out to an old wall covered in climbing roses and pink bougainvillea, where ancient trees watched over the grounds and, beyond, the domed roof of a dovecote silhouetted against the sky. Ava could see at once why the château was so special to Jean-Paul and why he did what his father asked of him in order not to lose it.

“Ah, my friends, you have arrived!” exclaimed Henri, approaching the terrace from around the side of the house. His voice was loud and booming, like a trombone. “You should have sent Françoise to find me,” he added to his wife.

“I did,” she replied coolly. He embraced Phillip with the warmth of an old friend and kissed Ava’s hand as his son had done. He smiled broadly, dark eyes appraising her beneath a thick head of rich brown curls. Ava remembered Jean-Paul telling her that he had a mistress in Paris. It didn’t surprise her. He was devilishly handsome, like his son. “Where’s the wine? Françoise!” he bellowed. Françoise appeared almost at once, struggling beneath the weight of a large tray heavy with bottles and glasses as well as a jug of iced water. Henri made no move to help her. “Good! We were in danger of dying of thirst,” he said in English so that the maid couldn’t understand. He sat down and pulled out a cigar. “So, Phillip, my friend, how is the book?”

Antoinette turned to Ava. “Would you like to see the dovecote? Jean-Paul tells me you have one in your garden.”

“I would love to. Is that its dome over there?”

“Yes.”

“It’s far more magnificent than ours.”

“Jean-Paul says you have the most beautiful estate.”

“I wish he were there now. Everything is bursting into flower—and the smells, it’s never smelled more delicious.”

“Come, I need to talk with you.”

Ava followed her down the wide steps to the garden, leaving the men talking and drinking on the terrace. Once again she felt the blood rushing through her veins with panic. Had Jean-Paul told his mother that he was in love with her? Was she going to warn her off? Say he needed to marry a young woman from his own country and have a son to inherit as he would do? She began to feel nauseous and rubbed her forehead in agitation. The sun was very hot, in spite of the cool breeze, and the twittering birds were drowned by her own pulse thumping in her ears.

“May I speak with you plainly?” Antoinette asked as they walked across the lawn towards an iron gate built into the wall.

“Of course,” Ava replied.

“It’s about Jean-Paul.” Antoinette glanced across at her. “He is my only child, you know, and I love him deeply.”

“I know, he’s told me a lot about you.”

“I’m sure. The trouble is that he has a terrible relationship with his father. Henri is insensitive to his needs. Jean-Paul is a talented artist but Henri does not like him to paint. He writes beautiful poetry but Henri thinks nothing of poetry. Henri had an uncle who wasted his life painting unremarkable paintings. He does not want Jean-Paul to waste his life like him. It’s not just the painting. Jean-Paul spent months in Paris doing nothing but dating inappropriate girls, which was a good thing on one hand—Henri was afraid he was homosexual—but on the other hand it is no life for a young man who will one day inherit an estate such as this. Henri wants him to help run the vineyard here, but he was never interested, until now.”

“Now?” Ava wondered where the conversation was leading.

“He wants to stay here and learn about the vineyard, but Ava, he needs to go back with you.” Ava was unable to reply,
her throat was so tight with emotion. “I think he wants to stay for me. You see, I’m alone here most of the time. Henri lives in Paris. I’m sure he told you. He speaks about you with such affection, Ava. It makes me so happy to know that he is understood. He told me he painted a garden for you.”

“It is the most beautiful painting, Antoinette. We have planted it just as he painted it. He has such imagination and flair.”

“I know.” She smiled again and shrugged. “I understand him, of course.” She opened the iron gate, which whined on its hinges like an old dog, and led her into a wild meadow in the midst of which stood the round stone dovecote. “He is not ready to come home, Ava. I can tell he is unhappy. If he comes home now he will not be free of his father. Not for a moment. With you he is able to enjoy freedom to be himself. I couldn’t bear it if he sacrificed that for me. This is an opportunity of a lifetime and I want him to enjoy it. I will still be here in the autumn. Tell him, for me, that he has to return. I know you can persuade him. His father thinks he has come home for a break. He will never forgive Jean-Paul if he thinks he has let you down, after all your kindness. You see, he has to return with you. There is no other way. Do it, please, for me.”

“I’ll try,” Ava replied huskily.

Suddenly, from around the back of the dovecote Jean-Paul appeared. He stood with his hands in his pockets, looking up at them from behind his fringe. He watched them warily. “Jean-Paul, show Ava the dovecote. I must check on lunch.” She looked at her watch. “Goodness, it is nearly time. Don’t be long.” She turned and slipped through the gate, leaving them alone.

“Why have you come?” he demanded, his tone aggressive. He stared at her impassively, awaiting her response, expecting rejection. Ava ran a hand through her hair, feeling
awkward. It had been a terrible mistake. Then he shifted his gaze, suddenly looking as vulnerable as a boy. Her heart buckled. He looked so sad.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, slowly approaching him. “I’m miserable, too.”

His face softened. “You look radiant,” he replied, a small smile curling the corners of his lips.

“That is because I knew I was going to see you.”

“Then you have missed me, too?”

“Yes.”

He slipped his hand around the back of her neck, beneath her hair, and pulled her to him, pressing his lips to hers. She didn’t push him away. She didn’t think of her children or Phillip. She existed in the moment, riding the arc of the rainbow, although, in her heart, she knew it would never last. His mouth was soft, his kiss ardent. She parted her lips and let him in, winding her arms around his waist, feeling the muscles tense beneath his shirt as she touched him. His breathing grew heavy, his body hot and taut. He pulled her around the building so they could not be seen from the gate. Ava felt reckless. She was so far from home. She felt like a different person. Intoxicated by the feel of his body in her arms, combined with the scents of France, she forgot that her husband sat on the terrace with Henri and that lunch was a few minutes away in the dining room of the château. She dwelt in a fantasy world where only she and Jean-Paul resided. A limbo where anything was possible.

He took her hand and led her to the door of the dovecote. Inside it was warm and sweet smelling. He closed it behind him and lay down with her on the straw. She caught her breath as he moved on top of her, parting her legs with his knees. He buried his face in her neck, breathing in her familiar, forbidden scent. Her stomach swam with pleasure
as he ran his tongue over her skin. Then he was kissing her chest and unfastening the buttons on the front of her dress. He slipped his hand inside and felt the warm softness of her breast, caressing it with his thumb. Her head fell back as he took it in his mouth. She could feel his bristles against the tender flesh and the wet sensation of his tongue as he toyed with her nipple, and her body shivered with the guilty pleasure of enjoying what she had dreamed of for so long in the secret recesses of her imagination.

She let out a deep moan as he lifted her dress over her stomach and helped her wiggle out of her panties. She felt hot and wanton like a teenager, and smiled at her brazenness. When she opened her eyes she saw that he was looking at her as if she were the most beautiful girl in the world. He smiled at her appreciatively and she smiled back, parting her thighs to let him inside her. As they made love he took her hand and entwined his fingers through hers. She didn’t regret her adultery, not for a moment. If she had taken a second to reflect on Daisy Hopeton she would have realized that there wasn’t such a great difference between them, after all.

“Will you come back to Hartington?” she asked when they lay together, bathed in a pool of light dropped from a little window above them.

“Yes,” he said. “You know I would move mountains for you.”

“You don’t have to, my darling,” she replied, lovingly caressing his face. “I’m here now.”

Hastily, they tidied themselves in preparation for lunch. Ava fastened the front of her dress and smoothed it down, brushing off any telltale wisps of straw. Jean-Paul made for the door, then turned and kissed her again. She laughed and kissed him back. “You look beautiful,” he said, stroking her face with his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you in a dress.”

“I wore it for you.”

“It suits you. And your hair is down. I like it down. What happened to the pencil?”