The French Gardener Part 19

"I'm past that now."

"Not if you marry a fertile young woman."

"Francoise, 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. Francoise, bring Hubert a gla.s.s of brandy. Now tell me. How are the gardens?"

Francoise 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. Francoise 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 Francoise knew all the secrets, for like a shadow, she lingered in every corner of the chateau, 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 fas.h.i.+onable, but you wouldn't want to sit on one of these in your best tights." She raised her eyebrows at the large ornamental gla.s.s 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 G.o.d'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, wis.h.i.+ng 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 flus.h.i.+ng 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 rea.s.suring 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 sc.r.a.pbook 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.

At that moment, David entered in a burgundy smoking jacket and matching velvet slippers. He saw his wife on the fender and smiled at her. "How are you, darling?"

"Surviving," she replied.

"Are the stockings ready for me? I'm rather looking forward to playing Santa!"

"I hope Gus doesn't stay awake for you. I'm afraid you'd be a big disappointment to him."

"He's been out all day. He's exhausted. I don't imagine he'll manage to keep his eyes open for more than five minutes."

"Mummy's being very awkward," she said, changing the subject.

"Only because you let her." He popped open a bottle of champagne.

"It's been like that all my life and I still don't know how to handle her."

"You're a grown woman. Just tell her to shut up."

"Easier said than done."

"Since when have you been such a wilting wallflower?"

"David!"

"Well, darling. People treat you according to how you let them. All you have to do is say 'no.'"

She frowned at him. "I can see why Blythe raves about you."

"Does she?"

"Yes, she says you give good advice. Now I know she's right." He poured her a gla.s.s of champagne.

"Here's to you, darling," he said, kissing her cheek.

"What's that for?" she asked.

"Just to tell you how much I appreciate you. I've bought you a splendid present." Miranda smiled, thinking of Theo Fennell.

"Have you?" she asked coyly. "When are you going to give it to me?"

"I could give it to you now," he said, kissing her again. "You smell delicious. Why don't we sneak upstairs for ten minutes? I heard your mother running a bath, they're going to be a while."

"I haven't had a bath either."

"Good, I like you better before you go and cover yourself in oil. Come on!"

He took her hand and led her upstairs, both giggling like a couple of children afraid of being caught. Once in the bedroom he pushed her playfully onto the bed and settled himself beside her. He kissed her again. She forgot about the present as he pulled her s.h.i.+rt out of her jeans and ran his hand over her stomach. He undid her bra and cupped her breast, rubbing the nipple with his thumb. Then he buried his face in her neck, kissing the tender skin until she wriggled with pleasure. Aware that they could be disturbed at any moment they made love quickly. Miranda didn't think about Jean-Paul. It had been so long since David had looked at her in that way, his eyes sleepy with l.u.s.t, his mouth curled with admiration, that she remained in the moment with him.

When it was over they lay together, bound by the intimacy of their lovemaking. "You were a feast, darling!" he exclaimed. "Now I'll give you your reward." He got up and wandered naked into his dressing room. Miranda covered herself with the sheet and prepared herself for her gift.

"I hope you haven't gone mad!" she said. It was impossible not to go mad in Theo Fennell.

"Don't you think you deserve it, darling? I leave you down here all week. This is to tell you how much I appreciate and love you." He returned holding a red box. Miranda knew immediately that it couldn't be from Theo Fennell, whose boxes were pink and black. She felt a wave of disappointment but made an effort to dissemble. "Happy Christmas, darling."

"Thank you." She hesitated a moment before opening it. "What have you gone and bought me?"

"Go on," he encouraged, smiling in antic.i.p.ation. Inside the box was a diamond heart pendant. If she hadn't had the call from Theo Fennell she would have been thrilled with it. What woman could be unhappy with diamonds? But all she could think of was the piece of jewelry David had had engraved. If it wasn't for her, who was it for?

Spring.

XXI.

The happy sight of p.u.s.s.y willow. The first glimpse of a daffodil shooting through the soil.

Hartington House, 1980.

The change of season brought on a change in me, a blossoming, like an unexpected flower bursting through snow. Outwardly, I continued as if nothing had been said, but inwardly I could not forget M. F.'s declaration of love. Suddenly, something I had never considered lingered at the forefront of my mind, like a carrot before a donkey who had always been content with gra.s.s. I should have sent him home and avoided the terrible anguish and pain that was to strike us both in the heart. But how could I have predicted what was to come when at the time I truly felt nothing but affection? As winter thawed I found myself thinking more and more about him. Moments when my mind was normally empty were filled with his laughter and that wide, infectious smile, so handsome my stomach flipped at the merest thought of it. The nights grew increasingly tormented, the days charged with electricity that continued to build between us like humidity in summer before a storm. Perhaps if Phillip had been at home more, it might not have happened. But he was away so much. I was lonely. His absences allowed me and M. F. to grow close. And I, starved of company, allowed it to happen. I fought with the guilt.

My moods swung from joy to despair, when I would sit alone on the bench in our cottage garden and ponder the hopelessness of this forbidden love. Every time I indulged those impossible dreams the faces of my children rose up before me, cutting them down before they could take root. I loved M. F., but I loved my children more.

Phillip continued in his merry way, disappearing to France and Spain for weeks on end, even traveling as far as Argentina and Chile in search of new wine. He was oblivious of the growing kernel in my heart. At first I pretended I had not seen it, then I concealed it, but as it grew I was unable to ignore it, that feisty seed of love that M. F. had planted that day in the woods.

Ava was plagued with confusion. How could she love two men at the same time? Her love for Phillip had not diminished, not even an inch, and yet, she found herself growing more and more attached to Jean-Paul. She had presumed affairs happened when there was already discord in the marriage. Yet, there was no discord in her marriage. Not even boredom. There was no reason why she should be attracted to Jean-Paul when everything in her life was as it should be.

At first she tried to distance herself from him. She sent him to the far corners of the garden, but even though he wasn't physically present he was constantly on her mind. Then she dismissed her feelings as sisterly fondness. After all, they had worked closely together in the garden now for six months-it was natural that she should feel like his big sister. But as winter thawed and the snowdrops and daffodils began to raise their heads, she could deny it no longer. Her feelings were s.e.xual and they weren't going away.

She had witnessed a transformation in Jean-Paul. He had arrived in autumn an arrogant, insouciant young man. Little by little the garden had changed him. She would not have imagined the part she had played in that change. That he had watched her with her plants and animals, with her children and her husband, and when she was alone with him. Ava had no knowledge of her own intrinsic magic. Whether it was Ava or the garden, Jean-Paul had undergone a definite change for the better. He had become more sensitive, more understanding. The root of that change, of course, was love. The more love he felt in his heart, the better a human being he became.

One day in March Jean-Paul suggested they drive to the beach for the morning. "We can have lunch in a pub. I'd like to see a little more of Dorset." He put his hands out and shrugged. "It's drizzling. There is little we can do in drizzle." His grin of entreaty made it impossible for her to refuse.

"That's a good idea," she replied, trying to mask her anxiety. It was all very well being alone with him in her garden, but somehow the idea of spending the day together on the beach felt improper. "I'll tell Phillip. Perhaps he'd like to come." Jean-Paul's face fell at the suggestion. "He's probably too busy, but I know he'd appreciate being asked," she added hastily, making off towards the house.

Phillip sat in his study in a worn leather armchair, the dogs lying on the rug beside the fire, cla.s.sical music resounding from the tape recorder in the cupboard. He was so deeply engrossed in a book that he did not hear his wife enter. "Darling," she said, drawing near. He raised his eyes, startled a moment, then smiled at the sight of her. "Sorry to interrupt."

"You never interrupt, Shrub," he replied, putting the book on his knee.

"Jean-Paul has suggested we go for a walk on the beach. It's a miserable day. We'd have lunch in the pub. He wants to see more of the countryside. Why don't you join us? It'll be fun."

"As much as the thought of strolling in drizzle with my wife appeals to me, I will decline," he replied and Ava was horrified that she felt such relief. In an effort to a.s.suage her guilt she managed to look suitably disappointed, planting a lingering kiss on his cheek. "You're very transparent, Shrub," he said with a chuckle.

"Transparent?" she repeated, blus.h.i.+ng.

"Yes." He scrutinized her face. "You think you'll be bored with Jean-Paul on your own, don't you?"

"No."

"I know you, Shrub. I can read you like a book. You're my number one bestseller." He laughed. "I'm afraid you'll have to go alone. I'm sure you'll survive."

"You're a beast!" she exclaimed. "You leave him to me all the time. You owe me for this. You know that, don't you?"

"Whatever you want is yours," he replied.

"I'll hold you to that."

He pulled her down and kissed her on her forehead. "I hope you do," he said. With a bounce in her step she left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

Jean-Paul and Ava drove down the narrow winding lanes towards the coast. Ava felt unusually nervous, like a teenager on her first date. Jean-Paul looked relaxed, clearly enjoying her company and the sight of the newly budding countryside. The windscreen wipers swept the rain off the gla.s.s with the regularity of a ticking clock. Ava sensed more keenly than ever the swift pa.s.sing of time. At the end of the summer he would return to France, having picked her up and dropped her like a tornado. They would both recover from their infatuation. She would reflect on what might have been, certain that as a married woman she had had no choice but to refuse him.

She parked the car in a lay-by and led him down a snake path to a secluded beach. "No one comes here," she told him. "It's stony. But I love the roughness of it and the sound of pebbles under my feet." It was drizzling steadily, but she was dry under the cowboy hat Toddy had bought her in Texas some years before, a poncho she had acquired in Chile as a teenager, jeans and gumboots. Her hair was stuffed into the hat, escaping in a few curly tendrils down her neck. She had never considered herself good-looking, but the way Jean-Paul looked at her told her she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

On the beach, Jean-Paul walked beside her. He wasn't towering like Phillip, but next to Ava, who was a little over five feet six, he walked tall. The sea was benign, sliding smoothly up the stones, polis.h.i.+ng them with surf before withdrawing in a flirtatious dance. The wind tasted of salt, bl.u.s.tering one moment, dropping the next, reflecting the awkward exchange between Ava and Jean-Paul. He wanted so much to hold her in his arms, to release the words locked inside his heart and tell her how deeply he loved her. He thrust his hands into his pockets and walked, commenting inanely on the flight of a seagull or the remains of a crab washed up on the beach, anything that came to mind to prevent him from spilling his soul. She in turn burned with the desire to be held by him, if only for a moment, a forbidden second on which she could feed during those interminable nights when she longed for him. She was reminded of the tragedy of sunset and without warning, she began to cry.

Jean-Paul stopped and held her shoulders, anxiously searching her face. "I'm sorry," she whispered.

"For what?" he asked and his voice was so soft that it made her cry all the more.

She shook her head. "It's no use, Jean-Paul."

"I don't understand."

"It's like a sunset. Something so beautiful I want to hold on to it. But then it's gone."

"Ava..."

"Or a rainbow," she sobbed. "Loved from a distance, but impossible..."

He didn't wait for her to finish, but pulled her into his arms and kissed her ardently. She didn't have the strength to resist. She let him hold her and closed her eyes, relinquis.h.i.+ng control. His kiss was urgent yet gentle and she wound her arms around his neck, letting him take her, willing the moment to last. But like all beautiful things the end was but a breath away and the antic.i.p.ation of it made the kiss even sweeter. The high was followed by a terrible low, like falling off the arc of a magnificent rainbow into gray clouds. She thought of her children and Phillip and was flooded with guilt. She pulled away.

"I can't," she gasped, touching her lips still warm from his kiss. He stared at her in mortification, as if she had just pulled the earth away from under his feet. "Don't look at me like that. I can't bear it." She placed her fingers on his cheek, cold from the wind and wet from the drizzle. "We shouldn't have come. In the garden everything is as it should be. We each have our place. Out here, there are no boundaries to keep us apart."