The French Gardener Part 17

"You're not talking about my Frenchman, are you?" They both stared.

"I didn't know you had one, darling," said Troy.

"I don't have him. He works for me. In his fifties, very good-looking, deep-set brown eyes, longish graying hair, devastating smile."

"Oh my G.o.d!" Troy gasped. "He is your Frenchman! What does he do for you?"

"He gardens."

"Gardens?" they repeated in unison.

"Yes, he's a gardener."

"Don't be silly," said Henrietta. "He's a film producer or a writer. He can't be a gardener!"

"Well, he is," Miranda replied simply.

"How on earth did you find him?" asked Troy.

"He found me, actually. It's a long story."

"We have all morning."

Miranda recounted the tale during which time neither Troy nor Henrietta said a single word. "So," she concluded, "he brought Storm home and we got talking. I asked him what he did and he said he gardened. I asked him if he'd do ours and he accepted without hesitation. It was very bizarre."

"Is he married?" Henrietta asked.

"No," Miranda replied.

"Oh, good!" she exclaimed, determined to start a new diet as soon as she'd finished her croissant.

"Is he gay?" asked Troy.

"That I don't know," said Miranda. She flushed as she recalled her improper thoughts. "But I doubt it. Just a hunch."

"How do you control yourself during the week when your husband's in London?" Troy asked.

"I don't fancy him," she lied, giving a little shrug.

"That just goes to show what a happy marriage you have," said Henrietta, sighing with envy.

"Your husband must be mad with jealousy," said Troy.

"Miranda's husband is very attractive, Troy."

"But not as attractive as the Frenchman. What's his name?"

"Jean-Paul," said Miranda.

"Oh G.o.d! How s.e.xy! Jean-Paul. Isn't it irritating that Cate was right all along?"

"What do you mean?" asked Miranda, sipping her tea.

"She insisted you found your gardener thanks to her notice board."

"Well, she's wrong then, isn't she," Miranda retorted.

"No," said Henrietta slowly. "We saw him in Cate's in October. He asked her about the house, who lived there. That's why we a.s.sumed he was a tourist."

Miranda put down her mug and frowned. "Did he see my notice?"

"He couldn't miss it, darling," said Troy. "Everyone in Hartington saw your notice."

Miranda suddenly felt uncomfortable. "He never said anything about it when I spoke to him."

"You probably jumped in there before he had a chance," suggested Henrietta.

"Yes, you're right. I think I did. I barely gave him a moment. I get like that when I'm nervous. A little too loquacious."

Troy grinned. "So you did fancy him?"

Miranda grinned back. "A little, but not anymore," she added hastily.

"What a relief!" he exclaimed. "She's human after all!"

Miranda drove home, dispelling her doubts about Jean-Paul. There was no reason for him to mention her advert. Perhaps he hadn't considered the job until she spoke to him about it. After all, it was Storm who brought him to the house. He might not have come otherwise.

When she got home Fatima was in the kitchen clearing up breakfast. "Good morning, Mrs. Claybourne," she exclaimed when she saw Miranda. "Leave it all to me," she added in her singsong voice, bustling about the room with the energy of a woman half her age. "You go and work, I will make your house s.h.i.+ne s.h.i.+ne s.h.i.+ne!"

Miranda sat in her office trying to write an article for the Telegraph magazine, reining in her mind every time it wandered off. She thought of Jean-Paul in the garden, the children, who really needed some new winter clothes, and her growing desire to quit these soulless articles and write a proper novel. It would soon be Christmas and she hadn't begun to buy presents. They had decided to spend Christmas in their new home as a family, inviting Miranda's parents and her spinster aunt. Her sister had married and gone to live in Australia, which wasn't a great surprise to Miranda, who rather envied her for having put such a great distance between herself and their mother. She was dreading the whole event.

Just as she was typing the end of the first paragraph, Mr. Underwood entered with an armful of logs, which he dropped into the basket beside the fireplace. Miranda looked up and smiled, then made the mistake of asking how he was. "Well, Mrs. C., ma'am, seeing as you ask, I've had a tickle in my throat for some time now, just a tickle, as if there's a little ant in there. I know there isn't, but it feels like an ant. Or a spider with lots of wiggling little legs. Trouble is, it makes me cough. I went to the doctor and he couldn't find anything wrong with it. Still bothers me." He coughed to make his point.

"I'm sorry to hear that," said Miranda, sorrier to have asked him in the first place.

"Mrs. Underwood says I should have spoonfuls of honey. Trouble is, I don't much care for honey. It's too sweet and I'm a savory man. I like salty things, like bacon." He stood a moment watching her, as if he expected her to continue the conversation.

"Well, I'd better get back to work," she said, hoping he'd take the hint.

"Oh, yes, don't let me bother you. Don't want to stop the creative flow. I spoke to J-P early this morning, he's up with the lark, been up an hour already before I arrived at eight. We're going to rip out the cottage garden. Rip it out, all of it, and start again."

Miranda was horrified. She immediately thought of Ava and the garden she had created with M. F. She couldn't allow Jean-Paul to rip it out. "What, all of it?" she asked, incredulous.

"Aye, Mrs. C., ma'am. Rip it out, all out, every bit of it." His eyes blazed at the prospect. "Then we'll burn all the weeds. Build a big fire and burn the lot."

"I must go and talk to him. There must be something we can save."

"Oh, no. It's all dead or rotting."

"I'll be the judge of that," she replied, though, with her inexperience she wasn't qualified to judge anything. As she reached the door she heard her computer ping with another e-mail. d.a.m.n it, she thought, then, with a triumphant smile, she ignored it and walked into the hall.

She found Jean-Paul sitting on the blue bench that circled the mountain ash in the middle of the cottage garden. He was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, rubbing his chin, deep in thought. Her heart stumbled when she saw him looking so sad. "Good morning," she said, not wanting to startle him. He turned and looked at her, his brown eyes so intense she blushed.

"I was miles away," he said, sitting up with a heavy sigh.

"Anywhere nice?" she asked brightly.

"Oh yes," he replied. "The past is sweet." He said it with such longing that her curiosity was aroused and yet, there was something about him that made it impossible for her to inquire further. She sat beside him on the bench.

"Mr. Underwood tells me that you want to rip out this garden."

"No. Not everything. Some things we can save, some things need to be replanted. We are late, it is already December. But the weather is unusually mild, and with a little magic..."

Miranda bit her lip. "I know you asked me to leave you to it. That I could trust you," she began carefully. "I'm sure I can. The thing is, Mrs. Lightly really loved this garden. In fact, it was very special to her. I don't think it would be right to change it."

Jean-Paul looked at her suspiciously. "How do you know about Mrs. Lightly?"

"Oh, I've been told. She was very popular here. Everyone knows about her gardens. Apparently, this garden was very dear to her." She longed to share the sc.r.a.pbook with someone, but she was too deeply involved now to betray the woman who had made it.

"Listen, Miranda. I understand that you do not want to ruin what your predecessor created. I don't want to ruin it either. In spite of the weeds I can see what was there. I will endeavor to recreate it exactly as it once was."

Miranda was relieved. "You will?" He nodded. "Oh, thank you so much. I couldn't bear her to come back one day and see that we had spoiled it."

"You think she will come back?"

"You never know, do you?"

"No." He shook his head wistfully. "You never do."

So Jean-Paul and Mr. Underwood began the task of recreating the cottage garden. How different it was from the week Jean-Paul had originally planted it with Ava, Hector and her children. They had chattered and laughed together in the suns.h.i.+ne, the dogs frolicking about on the lawn, the pigeons cooing from the rooftops. It was during those days that she had slowly stolen his heart, little by little, so that he barely noticed until it was too late.

Miranda gave up on her article. She didn't feel in the least bit inspired. She found it hard to concentrate, her eyes wandering outside to the gardens, her mind drifting to the children and to Jean-Paul. She felt restless at her desk, irritated by the e-mails offering her more work and dissatisfied with her own writing that no longer came easily. Instead of battling with her piece, she lay on her bed and opened the sc.r.a.pbook. She picked up the painting of the cottage garden and leaned back against the pillows to study it carefully. It was painted with confident strokes and vibrant colors. She would have loved to show it to Jean-Paul so that he could copy it, but there was no point wis.h.i.+ng. She would never show it to him or anybody. One day, if she were to meet Mrs. Lightly, she would return it to her.

XIX.

Those mischievous squirrels on the cottage windowsill. They feel the love inside like suns.h.i.+ne and want to bask in it as we do.

The children broke up from school. Miranda had taken to driving them to school in the mornings, meeting Troy and Henrietta either in the salon or at Cate's Cake Shop after the drop-off. Slowly she began to be integrated into the community. She hadn't intended to, resisting like a barnacle clinging to a rock. It happened without her noticing. Slowly and insidiously, like enveloping fog. They began to linger after church on Sundays, chatting to the locals. David visited Colonel Pike who proudly displayed his collection of medals and invited him to breakfast in Cate's Cake Shop on Sat.u.r.day mornings. Miranda struck up the odd conversation with other mothers outside the school gates and attended the parent teacher meeting alone, as David was busy in London. She had arrived with a knot of anxiety in her stomach. But Mr. Marlow had greeted her with a friendly smile, delighted to tell her that Gus was finally settling down. He hadn't bitten anyone since October, but had yet to make friends. "He's a loner," she explained in his defense. Mr. Marlow had pulled a face. "Not a loner, Mrs. Claybourne, alone. There's a big difference. Your son would benefit enormously from having friends."

She was pleased when the term ended and Gus came home where there was no one to judge him. As far as she could see, her son was now playing contentedly with his sister in the tree house that Jean-Paul had built them. The fact was he didn't enjoy going to school and she didn't blame him. She hadn't much liked school either. Gus was happiest at home, she concluded. She watched him trail after Jean-Paul and realized that, above all, he was happiest with the gardener.

In order for Miranda to go to London to do her Christmas shopping, Henrietta agreed to look after Gus and Storm. Clare was perfectly capable of manning the shop in her absence, and Henrietta secretly longed to meet the elusive Jean-Paul, who drank his black coffee in silence every morning, reading the papers in Cate's Cake Shop.

Miranda departed on the early train, leaving Henrietta at the breakfast table with the children.

Troy had layered Henrietta's hair and given her spirits a lift. No one had noticed except Cate who had told her it made her face look rounder. "I mean that nicely," she had added. "It looks sweet." Knowing that she was more than likely to b.u.mp into Jean-Paul, she had applied mascara. She didn't feel at ease wearing makeup, but today she had felt her confidence needed a little boosting. However, she didn't feel brave enough to show her fulsome figure, hiding it beneath a large woolly sweater.

Henrietta adored children. Gus and Storm sensed it immediately and began to show off. Not since Jean-Paul had they had such an attentive audience. She listened to them, laughed at their jokes and let them show her their bedrooms and toys. She admired Storm's pink playhouse, cuddled her cus.h.i.+ons and gushed about the fairy dresses hanging in her closet. Gus showed her the tree house, scaling the ladder like a squirrel. "Jean-Paul made it for us," he told her. "I can see for miles. J-P!" he shouted.

"J-P?" repeated Henrietta with a laugh.

"That's his nickname. He's J-P, I'm Gus-the-Strong and Storm is Bright-Sky."

"I like it," she enthused.

He shouted again. "He's probably in the cottage garden. He's always in there." Henrietta longed for Jean-Paul to appear, but he didn't. Gus scampered down the ladder and disappeared inside the hollow tree.

At eleven she took them hot chocolate and digestive biscuits in their tree house. She went down on all fours, not caring that her knees were in the mud, chasing them around the tree, pretending to be Captain Hook. Then she thrust her head into the aperture and shouted, "Ooh-aah, me hearties!", her large behind sticking out like a mushroom. That is how Jeremy Fitzherbert's dogs found her. They sniffed her bottom with excitement as she struggled to extract herself. When she emerged, her hair was a mess, her face flushed and her blue eyes were glittering like dewy corn-flowers. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything," said Jeremy, grinning at the sight of her.

"Oh G.o.d, I'm so sorry," she gushed, pus.h.i.+ng herself up. "I'm a pirate."

"You make a very good pirate," he replied, looking her up and down. She tried to smoothe her hair.

"More like Pooh-Bear stuck in Rabbit's front door, I think. You got the wrong end, I'm afraid."

"Nothing wrong with that end. It looked perfect to me."

"Have we met?" she asked, puzzled.

"Indeed. You're Henrietta Moon, aren't you?"

"Yes." She frowned.

"I'm Jeremy Fitzherbert. I own the neighboring farm."

"Of course we've met," she replied, as everything clicked into place.

"I've been into your shop. You sell those large jars of candy sticks. They're my favorites."

"Mine, too," she exclaimed, feeling bad at not having remembered him. "The b.u.t.terscotch ones especially."

"Exactly. Once I start I can't stop."

"Unfortunately that's my problem, too."

"You look very well on it."

She stared at him, not knowing what to say. She wasn't used to compliments. She didn't imagine for a minute that he meant it. There pa.s.sed a moment of awkwardness while Henrietta struggled to move her tongue and Jeremy found himself swallowed into her aquamarine eyes. He wanted to tell her how beautiful they were, but immediately felt embarra.s.sed. She had probably heard it a hundred times before.

"Bonjour, Jeremy," came a voice. They both turned to see Jean-Paul striding up the path towards them, his jovial greeting breaking the silence. Henrietta caught her breath at the sight of his smile and felt her stomach lurch like it used to do as a child on fairground rides. "Bonjour, madame," he said to her. He took her hand and raised it to his lips, bowing formally. Henrietta didn't know where to look. She felt the p.r.i.c.kly heat of embarra.s.sment rise up her neck to her throat, spreading across her skin in a mottled rash. No one had ever kissed her hand before. It must be a French thing, she thought, struggling to recover.