The French Gardener (9 page)

“Two boys and a girl. You’ll meet them later today when they come home from school.”

“It must be nice to have siblings.”

“I think they enjoy it. They fight a fair bit. No one really likes to share.”

“That is true. I have never had to.”

“Your English is perfect. Where did you learn to speak it so well?” Ava asked.

“I grew up with an English nanny.”

“An English nanny?” Ava repeated. “Good gracious. Was she a tyrant?”

“What was she called?” asked Phillip.

Jean-Paul gave the most enchanting smile. “Nanny,” he replied and laughed heartily.

“Nanny?” she repeated, disarmed by his sudden, unexpected humor.

“I never knew her real name. She was just Nanny.” He looked bashful. “She left when I was twenty-one!”

Later, while Jean-Paul was unpacking in his attic bedroom, Ava confronted her husband in his study. “It’s never going to work,” she protested. “You can tell he’s never done a day’s labor in his life. He might dream of creating an English garden of his own, but I bet he’s never got down on all fours in the mud. What on earth is his father thinking, sending him here? If he was eighteen and fresh out of school I would
understand. But he must be in his late twenties. Doesn’t he have a mind of his own? What am I going to do with him for a year? He’s going to be bored stiff in Hartington. I can’t imagine him picking up girls in the Duck and Dapple. It’s hardly buzzing. He should be in London with other young people, not with me and the children. God, it’s a disaster!”

Phillip put his hand on her shoulder and smiled. “Don’t worry, Shrub, it’ll work out. A bit of hard labor will do him good. You’ll have an extra pair of hands and you can create all those wonderful gardens you’ve been longing to make but couldn’t do on your own. The wildflower meadow and orchard, the cottage garden you keep going on about. Put him to work. Plant it all up. Create your dream.”

“He’s more suited to a yacht in St. Tropez than to a lawn mower here in Hartington.”

“Give him a chance.”

“I can’t see him in the cottage.”

“He’ll be fine. Stop worrying.”

“He’s just not what I expected.”

“What did you expect?”

She turned away and walked over to the window. Gray clouds were gathering. “I don’t know.” She sighed. “Someone less smooth. With rough hands and dirty fingernails like mine. In boots and grubby trousers. Not a dapper city swinger in cashmere and Gucci loafers, for God’s sake.” She shook her head at the absurdity of it. “He’ll last a week!”

Phillip chuckled. “I think you’ll inject him with enthusiasm and he’ll stay forever.”

“I hope to God he doesn’t. I don’t think
I’ll
last more than a week!”

Ava picked the children up at 3:30. She parked her yellow car on the green and stepped out of it just as it was beginning to drizzle. Toddy Finton was there with her ferret,
Mr. Frisby, sitting obediently on her shoulder. She had twin boys in the same class as Angus. “Hi, Ava,” she said, her cheeks pink from having spent the morning hacking across the countryside on her chestnut mare.

“Hi, Toddy. How’s Mr. Frisby?” She stroked him under the chin and he lifted his head sleepily.

“A bit dozy. It’s the weather.”

“It makes Tarquin snuggle up in front of the Aga. Bernie just lies outside, enjoying the cold. Like me, I suppose.”

“Can I send the boys over to you this weekend? They tell me they’ve built a camp in a hollow tree.”

Ava smiled. “The oak, the perfect place for a camp. I’m going to grow a wildflower meadow there. Cowslips, violets, dandelions, red and white campion. I’ve got someone to help me. A young man from France.”

Toddy raised her eyebrows. “Is he gorgeous?”

“Yes, but much too young and arrogant for my taste. Actually, I think he’ll be bored and go home. Still, I’ll use him while he’s here.”

“You always wanted another pair of hands.”

“Not a pair of smooth, manicured, never-done-a-day’s-work hands.”

“I love the idea of a wild garden. It’ll be pretty in spring and lovely to look out over from your bedroom window.”

“That’s the idea.”

Toddy pulled Mr. Frisby down from her shoulder and cradled him like a baby. She had wanted more children but Mr. Frisby was the baby she couldn’t have. She stroked his tummy lovingly and kissed his little nose. “Why don’t you bring them over tomorrow?” Ava suggested, then narrowed her eyes, scheming. “In fact, you could do me a favor.”

“What’s that then?”

“Take Jean-Paul out for a ride.”

“Is he any good?”

“I’m sure. He looks the sort of man who makes it his business to be good at everything.”

“I see.”

“Then I can get into the cottage. I’d completely forgotten he was coming. It’s a total mess. You can all come to lunch. I’d be rather relieved to have your company, actually. I don’t know what to talk to Jean-Paul about and Phillip isn’t much help. I don’t think Jean-Paul gets his sense of humor!”

“He’s not the only one,” said Toddy, with a grin.

“Well, I’m lost for words.”

“You?” Toddy feigned astonishment.

“Don’t joke, Toddy. For once, I’m dumb and I feel like a clumsy old clot.”

“You are funny! I’d love to come and check him out. He might do for one of my cousins, they’re all in their early twenties and very pretty.”

“Good. That’ll be a diversion. He considers himself something of a stud, I think.”

“That’s the French for you.”

She recalled the way he bent over to kiss her hand, looking up as he bowed, fixing her with those soft brown eyes. “Yes, they can be quite charming, can’t they,” she added drily. “Charming but arrogant. Mark my words; he’ll be gone in a week!”

Archie, Angus and Poppy stared at the stranger, mute with shyness. Archie was eight, tall like his father with his mother’s straight nose and green eyes. Angus was six, with the build of a little rugby player. He had dark hair and pale blue eyes, a wide, infectious smile and creamy, freckled skin. Both boys were handsome in their mother’s unconventional way. Those features, so off-kilter on her face, suited their boyish faces perfectly. Poppy was only four, but strong in both personality and opinion. She always said exactly what she thought. With long dark hair, blue eyes, fine features and her father’s classical face, she was the beauty her mother was not. Yet, she was very much her mother’s little girl, adoring fauna and flora and never feeling the cold. It could be said that she had inherited the best of both parents.

“Jean-Paul is going to be living with us for a while. He’s going to help me design the most beautiful gardens in England,” Ava explained, feeling a fraud. She didn’t believe him capable of designing so much as a cabbage patch. Archie stared at his feet. Angus stifled a giggle. Finally Poppy spoke.

“You speak funny,” she said, screwing up her nose.

“I’m from France,” he replied.

“Are you going to play with us?” she asked.

Jean-Paul shrugged. “I don’t know. What do you like to
play?” The boys looked at their sister in alarm. The last thing they wanted was a grown-up crashing in on their games.

“I like planting vegetables.”

“I like planting vegetables, too,” he agreed.

“I have a marrow this big!” she exclaimed, holding her hands apart. “He’s called Monty and he’s in bed with a cold.” Jean-Paul looked quizzically at Ava.

“I’m afraid he’s avoided the saucepan by becoming a friend. He gets taken out in the carriage and to show-and-tell on Fridays, if he’s good.” Jean-Paul’s face melted into a wide smile that infected the children. Poppy ran out to fetch Monty and the boys grinned up at him, their shyness evaporating in the warmth of the Frenchman’s charm. Ava was intrigued by how easily he was able to switch it on and off, one moment arrogant, the next charming and friendly.

Poppy returned with a very large dark green marrow. Ava decided it wouldn’t be appropriate to repeat the quip her husband had made on learning that his daughter took it to bed: “That’s setting her up for an awful disappointment when she’s older.” Jean-Paul took Monty and weighed him in his hands.

“He’s very heavy for a baby,” he said to Poppy.

“He’s not a baby,” she replied stridently. “He’s a marrow!”

“But of course. A baby marrow.” Jean-Paul looked a little alarmed. Poppy took the marrow back and cuddled it.

“He’s shy. You frightened him,” she accused.

“Shall we show Jean-Paul around the garden?” Ava suggested hastily. “You can show him your hollow tree,” she said to the boys. Angus looked delighted, Archie less so. He wasn’t sure he wanted a grown-up, a
strange
grown-up, coming to their secret camp.

“Come on, Angus,” he said to his brother, tearing off before the adults had a chance to follow.

“They have much spirit,” said Jean-Paul, folding his arms.

“Why don’t you put on some boots and a coat? It’s been rather wet lately.” Jean-Paul returned with a pair of leather boots and sheepskin coat. “You don’t expect to garden in those, do you?” she asked.

“Of course.”

“But they’ll be ruined.”

He shrugged and pulled a face as if he didn’t care. “I can buy a new pair.”

“Gracious no! Go into the cloakroom and see if there’s a pair that fits you. No point wasting good boots when you don’t have to. As for the sheepskin, that’s beautiful, too. Don’t you have a scruffier coat?”

“No.”

Ava sighed and bit her tongue. She didn’t think her husband would thank her if Jean-Paul left before he had even stayed the night. She took a deep breath, gathered her patience and told him that they would go into town and buy him boots at least. “Tell me one thing, Jean-Paul,” she began, knowing that now probably wasn’t the best time to ask him, but unable to wait. “How much gardening have you done?”

He shook his head and grinned. She felt her annoyance fizzle away, disarmed once again by his improbable smile. “None.”

“None at all?” She was aghast.

“I have watched my mother in the garden all my life. But I have little practical experience.”

“Do you
want
to learn?”

“Of course. The gardens at Les Lucioles are also my inheritance.”

“I don’t have the time for someone who doesn’t want to be here.”

“A year has four seasons. We are now in autumn. I will leave at the end of the summer taking away everything that you have taught me. I will be very rich.”

“And I get a spare pair of hands,” she said, wondering who would gain more from this unlikely partnership.

“I hope so,” he replied, his face breaking into a smile again. “I hope to leave you with something special, too.”

They walked out to the terrace. Made of York stone and cobbles and surrounded by vast urns of plants and clumps of alchemilla mollis, it extended up a stone path planted with thyme and lined with balls of yew, now as ragged as dogs’ coats that have been allowed to grow wild. The stones were dark and damp from dew, the grass glistening in the orangey-pink light of late afternoon. At the end of the thyme walk, beyond the old dovecote where a family of pigeons now resided, they could see a field of cows. In the woods beyond were beech and hazel trees, beginning to turn yellow and scatter the ground with leaves. The air was smoky from the fire Hector had lit in the hall and a chilly breeze swept in off the sea a few miles south of Hartington. Jean-Paul put his hands in his pockets and gazed around him. “It’s very beautiful,” he said in a quiet voice.

“Thank you,” Ava replied. “I like it.”

In that milky evening light it acquired a melancholy beauty. The summer was over, the foliage dying, the evenings drawing in, the air colder and damp, the sky streaked with crimson and gold, intensifying as the sun sank lower into the pale blue sky. She loved autumn more than summer because of its sadness. There was something so touching about the wistfulness of it, like old age from the ripe perspective of youth.

Poppy followed them down the thyme walk to the dovecote, chattering away to Monty as if he were a child. She skipped through the hedges in nothing more than a short skirt, Wellington boots and thin shirt, her ponytail flying out behind her as she weaved in and out. Bernie and Tarquin had heard the children’s voices from Phillip’s study and galloped out to join them, sniffing the grass and cocking their
legs against the hedge. Ava was surprised to see Jean-Paul transfixed by the dovecote. It was a round stone building painted white, with a pretty wooden roof sweeping up into a point like a Chinese hat. Old and neglected, it looked as sad as autumn. “Pigeons live there now,” she said. “We’ve never done anything to it.”

“And you mustn’t,” he said, placing his hand against the wall in a caress. “It’s enchanting just the way it is.”

“These surrounding maples will turn the most astonishing red in November. Can you see they’re just beginning?” She plucked a leaf and handed it to him. He twirled it between his fingers. They turned left and strolled past a copse of towering larches, their leaves the color of butter. There was a long wall lining the lawn where Ava had planted an herbaceous border. “I’ve been busily cutting it back,” she told him. “Putting it to bed for the winter.”

“There is much to do, eh?” he mused.

“Much to do.”

Poppy was keen to show him the vegetable garden, hidden behind a charming old wall where roses grew in summer among honeysuckle and jasmine. The door was stiff. Poppy pushed as hard as she could, but it wouldn’t budge. Jean-Paul leaned against it with his shoulder. “Is this your favorite part of the garden?” he asked her.

“Monty’s favorite, because all his friends live here.”

“I cannot wait to meet them.”

“They might have gone away. Mummy says we have to wait until next year. They come back in spring.”

“Then I will have to wait for spring. I hope Monty doesn’t get sad.”

“Oh no,” she whispered secretively. “He’s only a marrow.”

The door swung open, leading into a large square garden, divided by gravel paths and box-lined borders where an abundance of vegetables grew. The walls were heavy with the
remains of dying clematis, roses, wisteria and honeysuckle, the ground beneath them spilling over with hellebores and yellow senecio. The dogs rushed in, squeezing between Ava’s legs and the doorpost.

She didn’t know what to make of Jean-Paul. On the one hand he was arrogant and aloof. On the other he was sweet with Poppy and the dogs, and when he smiled it was as if the arrogant Jean-Paul were but a figment of the imagination. He wasn’t enthusiastic about the gardens and yet was clearly moved by the beauty of the evening light on the dovecote and the melancholy hues of autumn. He seemed as reluctant to be with them as Ava was reluctant to have him. They eyed each other nervously, clearly uneasy about the months of collaboration that stretched before them. She knew instinctively that a piece of the puzzle was missing. Henri hadn’t been honest with Phillip and she felt resentful for that. Why send a young man to Dorset who obviously didn’t want to come?

“We harvest quite a crop in here,” she said, watching her daughter skipping up the gravel path towards the patch where marrows had grown all summer. She led him under the tunnel of apple trees where ripe red fruit was strewn all over the ground. Jean-Paul bent down and picked one up, taking a large bite. “It’s sweet,” he said, bending down again to find one for her.

“The best are those already nibbled by insects,” said Ava. “They have the nose for the tastiest fruit.”

“I hope I don’t bite into a wasp!”

“You’ll know all about it if you do. Though, I don’t think there are many wasps left now. Hector is good at finding their nests and destroying them.” He handed her an apple. She bit into it, savoring the juiciness of the flesh. When Poppy skipped up he handed one to her. She licked it as if it were a lollipop.

“Yummy!” she exclaimed before bounding off again.

They left the vegetable garden and wandered through the archway in the hedge to the front of the house. In the center of the field an old oak tree stood like a galleon in the middle of a sea of grass. “This is where I want to plant a wild garden,” she said, imagining it full of color in spring. “Beyond is the river Hart and your cottage.”

“Can I see it?”

“I’d rather not show it to you until I have cleaned it. I’m ashamed.” He looked at her, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Why would you be ashamed? I am only a gardener.”

She couldn’t help but smile back at him. “You’re not a gardener yet,” she replied drily. “I’ve never seen a gardener in cashmere.”

“Don’t judge people by how they look.” He gazed over to the tree where two pink faces peeped out of the hole in the trunk. “There is the hollow tree,” he said, striding across the grass. “It’s magical!” Ava watched him go, a frown lining her brow. There was something very curious about him; she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was.

Archie and Angus disappeared inside the tree when they saw the grown-ups approaching. Poppy ran in front, shouting at the boys to let her in. “They’re coming, they’re coming!” she cried, her voice sending a couple of partridges into the sky. Poppy climbed in through the opening cut into the bark. The two boys peeped out from the darkness of the trunk. Jean-Paul patted the tree as if it were an animal. “This is a beautiful old oak,” he said.

“I love it!” Ava exclaimed. “An old friend. Imagine what this tree has seen in its lifetime.”

“It was probably here before the house.”

“For certain.”

“What would human beings have done without trees,
eh?” He stood back to take in its glorious height. “No trees, no fuel. No fuel, no smelting. So, no bronze or iron age. No wood, no ships, no travel overseas. No empires. Perhaps no civilization at all.”

“We’d still be living in caves,” said Ava with a smile.

“I think your children would be all right,” he chuckled, bending down to look in on them. They sat in the dark like three little pirates. “Is there room for me?”

“No, go away!” they shouted, squealing with pleasure. “Help! Help! It’s Captain Hook!”

Ava left the children in the tree and took Jean-Paul to the orchard. There were plum trees, apple trees, pear trees and peach trees; a banqueting hall for wasps and bees. The sun hung low in the sky like a glowing ember, glinting through the trees, casting long shadows over the grass. A pigeon sat watching them from the rooftop, its feathers gold in the soft light, and a gray squirrel scampered across the branches. The grass was already glittering with dew, the air moist and cool. They wandered through the trees in silence, listening to the whispering sounds of nature.

“I love evening and morning the best,” said Jean-Paul, his expression settled once again into solemnity. “I love the transience of it. The moment you appreciate it, it is gone.” He snapped his fingers.

“Come. Let me show you where I want to create the new garden. A special garden. A cottage garden full of roses and campanula and daisies. I want tulips and daffodils in spring. I want a magical garden full of color and scent. Somewhere I can sit in peace and quiet. An abundance of flowers.” Jean-Paul nodded as if he were qualified to advise her.

They arrived at an area of lawn enclosed on two sides by yew hedge. In the middle stood a solitary mountain ash. They stood at one end, watching the sun blinking through the branches of the yellow larches beyond, enflaming the tip of
the dovecote. It was a large space, big enough to create something dramatic. “It has a good feeling in here,” said Jean-Paul.

“Doesn’t it,” Ava agreed. “I’ve been wanting to do something with this for so long. We never go in here. The children play on the other side of the house or on the lawn by the herbaceous border. This is hidden away, like a secret.”

“It will be a secret garden.”

“I hope so. A surprise garden. Come on,” she said with a smile. “Time for tea, I think, don’t you? The children will be getting hungry now.”