The French Gardener Part 16

Once outside, he dropped her hand. "He's perfectly nice," he said, striding towards the bridge. "I see he's taken a s.h.i.+ne to the children."

"They've taken a s.h.i.+ne to him, too," she replied.

"He's not what I expected."

"Really? What did you expect?"

"Another Mr. Underwood."

"Oh no," Miranda laughed. "He's well educated."

"What's he doing gardening then, if he's so well educated?"

"Perhaps he loves it."

"Doesn't make much money."

"I don't think he cares about money."

"Has he left a wife back in France?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

He chuckled cynically. "He'll soon make his way through all the women in Hartington. I wouldn't trust him as far as I could throw him. He's much too good-looking."

"Oh, really, darling! He's not like that at all."

"Just because he doesn't flirt with you." She dropped her eyes to the ground and shoved her hands into her pockets. There was a sharp edge to his words which caused her pain.

"No, he doesn't."

"I should hope not. He knows his place."

When they reached the hollow tree David announced that they were all going for a walk. "I want you to show me your cows, Storm," he said, watching her crawl excitedly out through the hole in the bark. Her hair was strewn with twigs and pieces of moss and her cheeks glowed. Gus jumped down from halfway up the ladder, wis.h.i.+ng he had something to show his father.

With Storm leading the way, they retreated over the bridge and along the riverbank towards the field of cows. Jean-Paul heard their voices and went to watch them at the window. He stood awhile, enjoying the sight of the little girl skipping through the long gra.s.ses. Poppy used to walk with a dance in her step, her dark hair flying about her shoulders in the wind, pretending to be a b.u.t.terfly or a reindeer. Storm was beginning to learn the magic of the garden that Poppy had known instinctively. It was an enchanted world, ready for her to explore. He looked forward to showing her spring, when the ground would come to life and all the work they had put in would reward them with flowers. Then the magic would really begin.

Gus walked behind his father, whacking the gra.s.s with a stick, as if he carried the weight of the world on his small shoulders. There was something angry about him, simmering at his core like lava. His eyes were cold as if to protect himself from disappointment and he always looked up from under his fringe with a mixture of expectation and mistrust. Now that Jean-Paul had met both parents, it was easy to understand the boy's frustration. He knew that children needed to be listened to, needed love and time. He didn't doubt Miranda and David loved their children, but they had little time to give. He recalled the little gestures that daily demonstrated Ava's love for her children. That sort of foundation was a priceless gift for a child; a solid base camp from which to embark upon life.

He returned to his painting. With each brushstroke on the canvas he felt connected to her again.

Storm talked to the cows as if they were her friends, stroking the short hair between their eyes. "You see, they know me," she said proudly. "Jean-Paul says they have five stomachs."

"Lucky them," said David. "I wish I had five stomachs. Then I could eat five times as much of Mrs. Underwood's crumble and custard." Storm giggled. Miranda watched her happily. It had been a long time since they had all done something together. Gus sat on the riverbank and picked the gra.s.s absentmindedly. Miranda went to join him.

"Can you see any fish?" she asked.

"No."

"I need to buy you a rod. I'm sure Jean-Paul knows how to fish."

"He's going to get me a net so I can catch them." The boy's eyes lit up. "We're going to build a camp in the woods so we can watch deer. He says we'll see little ones in the spring. We might even see a badger. I'm going to make a spear so I can kill them."

"I'm sure that's not Jean-Paul's idea!"

"Can I have a penknife for Christmas?"

"I'll have to ask your father."

"Please!"

"We'll see." The thought of Gus with a penknife was rather alarming.

After lunch David didn't retreat as normal but suggested they light the bonfire in the vegetable garden. Gus informed him that it was Jean-Paul's pile of rubbish to be burned the following week. "We're going to be Red Indians again," he said, demonstrating by making a whooping noise with his hand over his mouth.

"It's my house and therefore my pile of rubbish," said David, striding off to put on his boots. Miranda realized he was jealous of Jean-Paul. That was why he had taken her hand and why he had gone for a walk with the children. Jean-Paul was a better father to the children than he was. Instead of reveling in David's jealousy, she felt ashamed of it; ashamed that her husband had to compete with the gardener to prove himself a worthy father.

That night they made love. After weeks of no contact Miranda knew she should have felt grateful, but she felt only resentment. She knew his actions were motivated by the presence of Jean-Paul. He was marking his territory like a dog p.i.s.sing on a tree. She closed her eyes and tried to put Jean-Paul out of her mind. But suddenly it was Jean-Paul's mouth kissing her and his hands caressing her and, in that delicious moment, she realized that the Frenchman excited her. With unexpected ferocity she held her husband close, wrapped her arms and legs around him and tried to focus on the familiar feel of his skin, as if afraid those disloyal thoughts would drive him further away.

The following morning they went to church. As it was their first visit, they were viewed with the same excited curiosity as new animals at the zoo. The Reverend Freda Beeley clasped David's hand enthusiastically between her own doughy ones. "It is such a pleasure to see you. I knew you would come eventually." Her voice was thick and fruity. Storm and Gus giggled at the sight of her fearsome bosom that wobbled beneath her robes as she spoke, giving her the shape of a blancmange.

As they walked down the aisle, Miranda caught the eyes of Troy and Henrietta and smiled in surprise. She had thought only old people went to church. Troy's eyes widened at the sight of her belted Dolce & Gabbana coat, leather boots and fur collar, and Henrietta waved discreetly, envying her effortless glamour and slender silhouette. David made for the front pew, fully expecting it to be on permanent hold for them, the first family of Hartington, but it was occupied by old Colonel Pike, scowling at all that was bad about the modern world, like female vicars, and Joan Halesham and her octogenarian beau, studying the prayer book through thick spectacles. Grudgingly he sat in the pew behind.

Storm and Gus would have been bored by the service had it not been for organist Dorothy Dipwood, speeding up and slowing down during the hymns without any regard for the congregation. Only the last line was sung in time with the organ. The Reverend Beeley bounced about the nave, gesticulating wildly and speaking with emphasis as if she were talking to children. David thought it amusing while Miranda, who had never liked church since being made to go so often as a child, was more entertained watching her children. Her eyes wandered about the pretty church, at the ancient stone walls and vaulted ceilings and wondered how on earth they had managed to build it all those centuries ago without the help of modern technology-anything to keep her mind off Jean-Paul. The vicar's sermon was about taking the time to enjoy the small things in an increasingly frenetic world, but neither Miranda nor David was paying attention.

On the green outside, Colonel Pike invited David to his home to show off the medals he had won in the war. Miranda found Troy and Henrietta, while the children discovered the gravestones, which they jumped on and off as if they were large stepping-stones in a river. The sun shone brightly down as the congregation lingered to chat. Miranda felt warmth on her face and the unfamiliar sense of being a part of the community. She found herself enjoying standing there with her children and husband, talking to the locals, knowing that Mrs. Underwood was cooking roast beef and Yorks.h.i.+re pudding in the kitchen at home. Things were beginning to feel right.

"Why don't you come and have a trim, darling?" suggested Troy. "Your hair's lovely and s.h.i.+ny, but a few layers would give it more body."

"Oh, I don't know. I've never had layers," she replied, doubtful that anyone other than Robert at Richard Ward could do a proper job.

"Well, come and have a cup of tea in the salon then. Just the three of us."

"I'd love to. Tomorrow morning?"

"Come as soon as the kids are at school, I haven't got an appointment until ten."

"And I don't open until ten," Henrietta added.

"I'll bring some hot croissants from Cate's, but we'll have to hide in the back. If she sees us she'll go mad."

"Wouldn't it be simpler to meet in her shop?" said Miranda.

"No!" they replied in unison.

"No," repeated Troy sourly. "I've had a little too much of Cate recently."

"Why do you carry on seeing her if you don't like her?" Miranda asked.

"Habit," Troy replied nonchalantly. "Like drinking too much alcohol-you know it's not good for you and that you're going to feel terrible afterward, but it's part of life."

David was in high spirits after their sociable morning, promising the children he'd take them to Jeremy's farm after lunch to play on the tractors. Storm had found a few friends from school and Gus had managed to join in without frightening them. Miranda had had to drag them away promising play dates after school. She was uplifted. With the clear skies and the banquet Mrs. Underwood had cooked she was sure an idyllic afternoon was to follow. Then David appeared in the hall with his bag, announcing that he was going to catch the early afternoon train to London. Miranda was disappointed. Everything had been going so well. Didn't he want to spend more time with them? What was the hurry? Weren't the important things in his life here in Hartington? She kissed him good-bye, but his kiss was hasty and he didn't hold her. These weeks apart were turning them into strangers. She knew she should trust him. She had no reason not to. But a nugget of doubt had started to worry her, like a stone in her shoe. Could he be seeing someone else?

Gus watched his father disappear up the drive in a taxi and felt a sharp stab of disappointment. He had been looking forward to playing on Mr. Fitzherbert's tractors. Once the car had gone, Storm disappeared inside with their mother. Gus picked up a stone and threw it at an unsuspecting blackbird, then headed for the woods. When he came to the dovecote he stopped. There, nestling in the long gra.s.ses was a hedgehog. He crouched down to get a better look. The hedgehog eyed him fearfully. With a finger Gus prodded its face. The hedgehog rolled into a ball. Gus grinned. It would make a good football.

"What have you found there?" came Jean-Paul's voice behind him. Gus stood up guiltily, the blood rus.h.i.+ng to his cheeks. "A hedgehog?" Jean-Paul knelt down. "Do you know why he has rolled into a ball?"

"Because he's frightened."

"That's right. Come, let's take a closer look. I think he's hurt," said Jean-Paul, sensing an opportunity to teach the child a valuable lesson. "Can you see he's trembling?" Gus nodded. "You know, the funny thing about animals is that they have a very heightened sixth sense. They know who to trust and who to be afraid of."

"They do?" said Gus, thankful that the hedgehog didn't have a voice to tell tales with.

"Watch." Jean-Paul placed his hands under the hedgehog and scooped him up. He held him gently, close to his s.h.i.+rt. It wasn't long before the animal uncurled and began sniffing Jean-Paul's skin with his wet nose. "Let's take him back to the cottage and make him a bed. I think he's unwell, don't you?"

They went back down the thyme walk. Jean-Paul began to tell Gus about animals and how to respect and care for them. He was inspired by Ava's voice echoing across the years, teaching her children the same lessons. Once they reached the cottage Jean-Paul wrapped the hedgehog in a cloth and gave him to Gus. At first Gus was alarmed, afraid that the hedgehog would bite him for having prodded his face. But Jean-Paul rea.s.sured him. "The hedgehog can read your mind. If you think loving thoughts, he will pick up on them and cease to be afraid." Sure enough the hedgehog stopped trembling and began to sniff the palms of his hands.

Gus giggled. "He wants to eat me."

"No he doesn't, he's just exploring. However, I do think he's hungry. We'll put him in this box and give him some milk."

"Will he be all right?"

"Oh yes. We'll feed him up, keep him warm, then put him back in the wild tomorrow. He's probably eaten something that's disagreed with him."

"He's got a sweet nose," said Gus, laughing again as it tickled him.

"You know that hedgehog probably has a mummy and a daddy who are missing him. He might have brothers and sisters, too. When we put him back we'll see if we can find them."

"That's a good idea."

"If someone hurt you your parents would be very upset, wouldn't they?" Gus nodded. "If you hurt this hedgehog, his parents would be upset as well, don't you think?" Gus shrugged, feeling bad. "He's not very different from you. He has just as much right as you do to be on the earth. We all live here together and we will all die here one day. You must respect G.o.d's creatures, even the smallest ants. You will do that for me, won't you?"

"Yes," said Gus, stroking the hedgehog's face with his finger. The animal seemed to be enjoying it.

Jean-Paul poured some milk into a bowl. "What's your sister up to this afternoon?"

"With Mummy. Daddy went up to London." The boy's face clouded.

"Are you disappointed?"

"He said he was going to take us to Mr. Fitzherbert's farm to play on the tractors."

"He's very busy, isn't he?"

"He's always busy. He never has time to play with us." Quite unexpectedly, Gus opened his heart to Jean-Paul. Feelings he had never put into words poured out in a jumble. "They want to send me away to boarding school-but it's not my fault-I never started it-I only bit him because he called me names-Daddy always promises to play with me-but he never does-he's always too busy-other daddys play with their children-why can't he play with me?" The little boy began to sob. Jean-Paul put his arm around him, listening to the barely comprehensible soliloquy of injustices. Finally, Gus grew quiet, his body jerking with the odd sharp intake of breath he was unable to control.

"Grown-ups are very hard to understand sometimes. It's not fair that your father promises to play with you then lets you down. But the intention is there. He wanted to play with you and meant to do so. Perhaps he was called away urgently and he's as disappointed as you are." Gus sniffed, incredulous. "You must tell them you don't want to go to boarding school."

"They won't listen. They never listen."

"Then you must ask them to listen and be strong about it. But be calm and steady and don't get cross. You have to set them a good example. They will do as you do." Gus looked unconvinced. "Do you still want to play on the tractors?" The boy's eyes lit up. "Come on then, we have time before tea."

Miranda wasn't the sort of person to snoop. There were no secrets between herself and her husband. But after the children had gone to bed, exhausted from playing on the farm, she began to go through his desk. He kept everything immaculately tidy. There were files for letters, household maintenance, invoices and insurance, but anything incriminating would surely be kept in London. If he had anything to hide, he'd hardly keep it at home. She ran a hot bath and soaked in lavender oil, closing her eyes and inhaling the steam. She cursed herself for having a suspicious mind. They just needed to spend more time together. She resolved to discuss it with him the following weekend.

That night she lit a scented candle, curled up in bed and opened the sc.r.a.pbook. There was a strange magic to it, like opening the door into a world infinitely more beautiful than the one she lived in. It absorbed her, the memories wrapping their silver threads about her heart and pulling her in. She could feel the love like the heat of the sun and the pain as if it were her own suffering. While she read, she escaped from the increasing coldness of her marriage into the warmth of someone else's secret.

Ours was a love doomed from the very beginning. It was as transient as sunset. You once said that the setting of the sun was a tragedy, filling you with melancholy as you tried unsuccessfully to hold on to it. Perhaps its transience is its beauty. Perhaps our love is made sweeter by its hopelessness. If one could halt the sunset and live in a perpetual dusk, would it retain such magic? Would our love be as tender without the expectation of loss? We will never know, because all we have is loss and the memory of the crimson and gold.

XVIII.

Pink cotton candy clouds at sunset. Spiders' webs sewn into the bushes like lace.

Jean-Paul stood on the stone bridge. It was dark and cold, the sky a deep navy studded with stars. The moon was high, not quite full, surrounded by an aureole of mist. He put his hands on the stone bal.u.s.trade and leaned over to look at the water. The light bounced off the ripples as it flowed gently down to the sea. He stared for so long that his eyes stung, but before he blinked he was sure he could see her face, reflected with the moon, gazing back at him with the same yearning.

He couldn't sleep. It was hard to find peace in the cottage that used to be theirs. Every room echoed with her presence, every sound triggered a memory, the smell of orange blossom tormented him with longing. Yet he was drawn to it, like a loose tooth that he kept probing with his tongue, taking a strange pleasure from the pain. He could leave tonight, but the thought of the empty chateau caused him more discomfort than the cottage. If he couldn't spend his future with her, then he'd have to be satisfied in the past still warm with her memory.

The following morning Miranda took great care choosing her clothes. She put on a pair of faded gray Ralph Lauren jeans, brown leather boots and a gray cashmere Ralph Lauren polo neck. Just because she lived in the middle of fields didn't mean her standards had to slip. She applied makeup and sprayed herself with perfume, filling the bathroom with the scent of lime, basil and mandarin. With a bounce in her step she went to give the children breakfast.

As she was due at Troy's at nine, she decided to take the children to school by car, leaving their bikes at the end of the drive for them to cycle home on their return. She was on the point of setting off when the telephone rang. She half expected it to be Troy canceling their coffee morning. Cancellations were as frequent in London as unforecast rain.

To her surprise, the caller was a shop a.s.sistant from Theo Fennell, the jeweler in London where Miranda had been a good customer for many years. "I'm sorry to call you so early in the morning, Mrs. Claybourne," said the girl, her voice breathy and upper cla.s.s. "But I've mislaid your husband's office number and he's keen to get an engraving done before Christmas. I wrote it on my pad, but my pad has gone missing. I'm new and I'm really embarra.s.sed to have been so silly. Theo would kill me!" Miranda's curiosity was aroused. Perhaps David was buying her something expensive for Christmas. He knew Theo's was one of her favorite shops.

"What's he doing shopping in there?" she laughed, angling for more information.

"I don't think I should say," replied the girl nervously.

"No, perhaps you shouldn't. I'll give you the number, but don't tell him you spoke to me. If it's a surprise I don't want to ruin it. He'll be terribly hurt."

"Thank you, Mrs. Claybourne." The girl sounded relieved. Miranda dictated the number and hung up. A beautiful piece of jewelry from Theo Fennell would certainly go towards making up for his long absences. How could she have doubted him?

When Miranda arrived at Troy's, Henrietta was already there, biting into a hot croissant. The salon smelled sweet, of shampoo and hair spray, and the heating was on high. She took off her navy cashmere Celine coat-it had looked so forlorn in her closet she felt it was only fair to take it out, although it was much too glamorous for Hartington-and put her sungla.s.ses in their case. Troy hissed at her to hurry to the back before Cate looked out her window. The three of them sat huddled in the little room, amongst boxes of products and a desk piled high with paperwork. The air was charged with excitement. It wasn't often that they defied Cate. "If she finds out, we're in s.h.i.+t," said Troy, handing Miranda a mug of tea.

"Then she'll never tell us when that gorgeous Frenchman comes in again," added Henrietta.

"We're all in love." Troy sighed dramatically.

"Who with?" Miranda asked.

"He's a mystery Frenchman," said Henrietta breathlessly. "He first came in October. We thought he was a tourist. Now he's back. We've spotted him across the road. He has black coffee and a croissant for breakfast. But as much as Cate asks him about himself, and you know her, she can be quite persuasive, he won't reveal anything!"