The French Gardener Page 7

  Miranda was astonished at the coincidence. “You’re a gardener?”

  He gave a wry smile. “Yes, why not?” He shrugged in the way Frenchmen do, lifting his shoulders and raising the palms of his hands to the sky. “I garden.”

  “I’m sorry, it’s just that I’ve been frantically looking for someone to do our garden. Everyone keeps telling me that the previous owners were brilliant gardeners and that this was the most beautiful garden in the country. I’m now feeling guilty that I’m letting it go. As if it’s a great crime or something.”

  He stared into his coffee cup. “Did you know the people who lived here before you?”

  Miranda shook her head. “No. Old people, I think. Lightly or something. They moved away.”

  “I see.”

  “You’re not…I mean…you wouldn’t consider…”

  “I will bring this garden back to life,” he said.

  Miranda looked pleased. “My husband will think I’m mad. I don’t even know you.”

  She couldn’t have known why he suddenly offered himself. That it wasn’t a wondrous coincidence but a promise made over two decades before.

  “Trust me, I am more than qualified. This is no ordinary garden.”

  “We have a cottage just over the river. It’s in need of repair. It wouldn’t take long. We’d be happy for you to live there rent free.”

  He turned to Storm. “Gus’s secret house, no?”

  “It’s very dirty,” Storm piped up. “It’s all dusty. I’ve looked inside.”

  “We’d clean it out, of course. It’s a charming place. I bet it’s an idyll in the summertime.”

  “It will do,” he replied. He stood up and walked over to the window. “It would be a shame to let it go,” he said gravely. “After all the work that has gone into it.” After all the love that has gone into it.

  He drained his cup. “I must go,” he said. “I have some things to sort out in France. I will return at the end of the month and I will give you a year.”

  “That gives us enough time to prepare your cottage.”

  “You never told me your name,” he said, walking into the corridor.

  “Miranda Claybourne.”

  “I ask of you one thing, Mrs. Claybourne.” His gaze was so intense she felt her stomach lurch.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “That you take my advice without question. I promise, you will be more than satisfied.”

  “Of course,” she replied, blushing again. His charisma was alarming.

  “You don’t trust me now, but you will.” He turned to Storm, who was following them into the hall. “There is magic in the garden,” he said, crouching to her level.

  “Magic?” she gasped, eyes wide with excitement.

  His voice was a whisper. “Magic, and I am the only one who knows how to use it.”

  “Can I help you?” she whispered back.

  “I cannot do it without you.” He grinned at her. Miranda caught her breath at the sight of his smile. It transformed his entire face, giving it an air of mischief. “You will see what happens to the garden when we look after it. The more love we put into it, the more love it gives back.”

  “Mummy, Mummy, I want to help find the magic!”

  Miranda laughed. “I’d like to find the magic, too,” she said, shaking his hand. He took hers and raised it to his lips. Her stomach flipped over like a pancake. She watched him disappear into the darkness. That was the oddest job interview she had ever conducted. They hadn’t even discussed his wages. She bit her lip, feeling excited but uneasy; she hadn’t found him, he had found her.

  With a light step she returned to the kitchen to make the children’s tea.

  “He’s nice,” said Storm, jumping after her with excitement.

  “Yes, he is,” Miranda replied, picking up his empty coffee cup. “He’s very nice. Although, God knows how I’m going to break this to your father. I know nothing about him. I have no references. He could be…” She shook her head. “No, I’ve got good gut instinct. He’s honest. After all, he brought you home, didn’t he?”

  “I was frightened of the cows,” said Storm.

  “Were you, darling? Is that why you had been crying?”

  “He taught me how to put my hand out.”

  “Where did you find him?”

  “By the river.”

  “What was he doing there?” Miranda loaded their cups into the dishwasher.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “Gus wouldn’t play with me.”

  “You mustn’t run off on your own.”

  “When will I see Jean-Paul again?”

  “Well, he’s going to be our gardener. We have to clean out the little cottage.” Miranda frowned at her daughter. “Why did he say it was Gus’s secret house?”

  “Because Gus says it’s his.”

  “Ah, so that’s where he’s been running off to.”

  “He won’t play with me.”

  “That’s because you’re smaller than him and you’re a girl. Little boys don’t like playing with girls.”

  “He doesn’t play with boys either.”

  “He should.”

  “No one likes him.”

  Miranda pulled out a loaf of bread. “You can have sandwiches for tea,” she said, ignoring Storm’s comment. Miranda didn’t like to think of Gus being unpopular. Not only because it hurt her, but because it highlighted the fact that her son had a problem. A problem she was too frightened to deal with.

  At that moment Gus burst in. He was relieved to see his sister alive.

  “Mummy’s going to clean out the cottage,” said Storm triumphantly.

  “What cottage?” said Gus, making furious eyes at his sister.

  “Your cottage,” Storm replied.

  “The little cottage by the river,” his mother added. “We have to clean it out for the new gardener.”

  “He’s my friend,” said Storm.

  “What gardener?” Gus asked, feeling cornered. Everyone knew but him.

  “A nice Frenchman is going to do the garden for us and he’s going to live in the cottage.”

  “But it’s my secret place!” Gus protested.

  “You’ll have to find another,” said Miranda. Storm smirked at her brother, thinking of the hollow tree. That was her secret place and she wasn’t going to share it with Gus.

  That evening Miranda called David on his mobile phone to explain about Jean-Paul. To her surprise he accepted the news without question. He was short with her and distracted, which was just as well; had she told him any other time, he might have taken more interest.

  David turned to his mistress with a sigh. “That was Miranda,” he said, tossing his mobile on the bed. “She’s found a gardener.”

  Blythe ran her fingers across his chest. “Lady Chatterley,” she giggled. “Beware!”

  “I don’t think my wife has it in her.”

  “Oh, I think there’s a little of Lady Chatterley in all of us.”

  “She’s too much of a snob,” he said.

  “Have you seen him?”

  “I doubt he’s competition. He’s a gardener, for Christ’s sake!”

  “She might like a bit of rough.”

  “Miranda?”

  “I’m joking.” She kissed him. “Oh Romeo, I’ve really got you going, haven’t I?”

  “And now I will punish you!”

  He climbed on top of her and spread her legs with his knees. He had enjoyed his wife after lunch and now he was enjoying his mistress. The thing about sex was that the more he had the more he wanted. He pressed his mouth against hers and parted her lips, sliding his tongue inside to silence her. She lay like a starfish, open for him to take as he pleased. Her own husband had never been so masterful. Aroused by the thought of the two women in his life, both beautiful, both his, David entered her for the second time with triumph. He was the king of his world.

  VI

  Our cottage
in summer when the sweet scent of honeysuckle is carried up on the breeze

  Cate’s Cake Shop was busy for a Monday morning. Colonel Pike sat in the corner by the window reading The Times, a cup of coffee steaming on the table beside a hot buttered crumpet. Every now and then his mustache would twitch at something he found offensive and he’d mutter under his breath. The Reverend Freda Beeley was enjoying tea with a couple of her choir members, Jack Tinton and Malcolm Shawditch, discussing their plans for Christmas and the carol concert to raise money to repair the church spire. Two elderly ladies sat gossiping about their friend Joan Halesham who had left her husband of sixty-two years for her old school sweetheart. “Sixty-two years!” exclaimed Dorothy Dipwood. “What’s the point of exchanging one old codger for another? After eighty they’re all the same, aren’t they? Especially when one’s as blind as Joan.” William van den Bos, an avid collector of Napoleona who owned the bookshop, was at the table nearest the cakes, tucking into a large slice of lemon drizzle and talking to a man who had telephoned claiming to own Napoleon’s chamber pot. “I’m extremely interested in the chamber pot,” said William, dapper in a three-piece tweed suit, complete with gold dress-watch and monocle. “But I must be sure it’s the real thing. I’ve been offered three penises by three different collectors in the last month. One simply can’t be too careful.”

  Henrietta hadn’t yet opened her gift shop and was sitting with Troy, whose first appointment of the day had been canceled. “She always does this to me,” he complained. “And she asked me to come in half an hour early. Bitch!” But what interested them more than anything else was the attractive Frenchman who had sat alone in the shop the day before. “He barely uttered a word,” said Cate, perching tidily at Henrietta and Troy’s table. “But what he did say was delivered in such a sexy French accent I almost forgot I was married and declared myself available and ready to elope at a moment’s notice.”

  “It was only by chance that I saw him popping in here. I was on my way to lunch when I realized I had forgotten to feed Cindy. If I hadn’t gone back for the cat I would have missed him.” Troy sighed melodramatically. “Is that luck or is it fate? You don’t see many men as attractive as him in Hartington. We’re hardly the Riviera, are we? I was positively drooling!”

  “What was he like?” Henrietta asked.

  “Gorgeous,” said Cate.

  “Gay?” asked Troy hopefully.

  “Single?” laughed Henrietta.

  “Frenchmen like skinny women,” said Cate, screwing up her freckled nose in mock sympathy. Henrietta took another bite of brioche. “Definitely not gay. Sorry, you two.”

  “Did he have that smug married look?” Troy interjected icily. Cate ignored the jibe. Troy always stuck up for Henrietta.

  “No. He looked single, actually,” she replied, lifting her chin. “But he didn’t smile. He looked serious and sad. I treated him to coffee. His face brightened a little after that. You know my coffee! He was clearly a tourist. He asked about Hartington House. Wanted to know who lived there. I think he thought the gardens were open to the public. He seemed very disappointed when I told him the gardens were all overgrown and a posh new family from London had moved in. I felt sorry for him.”

  “Did you tell him to go and see the castle?” Troy lowered his voice and leaned into the table conspiratorially. “Seeing Jack and Mary Tinton in fancy dress would have cheered him up. They’re a hoot!”

  “What do you mean, fancy dress?” Henrietta glanced over at Jack Tinton. He looked like any other fifty-year-old in jeans and corduroy jacket.

  “They’ve just taken it upon themselves to dress up as Elizabethan characters and walk about the place for tourists. They charge a pound to have their photograph taken. Can you imagine paying a pound to be photographed with those two clots! The castle pays them five pounds an hour. They rake it in. If you want a laugh, go up there on a weekend and watch them prance around in long skirts and breeches. It’s better than pantomime.”

  “Better than the castle, too,” said Cate drily. “Why anyone wants to pay good money to wander around a pile of old stones is beyond me. Go to Hampton Court or the Tower of London, now that’s proper history. Not an old ruin that claims to have had Elizabeth the First as a visitor.”

  “Bah!” exclaimed the colonel from the corner. He folded his paper and stood up crossly. “Nothing good about the world these days.” The vicar and her two companions stopped talking and looked up at him in surprise. “Dirty hospitals, congestion, underpaid, overworked, ill-educated, foulmouthed, thugs, graffiti, gang warfare, exposed midriffs, skinny models, obesity, poverty, terrorism, war, murder, abduction, rape.” He snorted in fury. “I tell you, nothing good about the world. Bloody lucky my number’s nearly up. Can’t be doing with it all.” He moved stiffly across the room. Only the two old ladies continued chatting as if he wasn’t in the room. He threw some change on the counter and shuffled out, replaced by a gust of damp wind.

  “Ah, so that’s why he hangs around after church,” said the Reverend Beeley, chuckling good-naturedly. “At his age, it’s hardly worth going home.”

  Cate put the change in the till and returned to her chair, smoothing down her white apron.

  “I wonder if he’ll come back,” sighed Henrietta. There were precious few attractive single men in Hartington.

  “He’s in every morning. Takes the same table and grumbles about the same things. Negative people are so trying!” Cate complained, clamping her small mouth in displeasure.

  “No, I mean the Frenchman. Do you think he’ll be back?” said Henrietta.

  “Who can say? Just passing through, I should imagine. He was delicious, though. His eyes were the softest brown I’ve ever seen. He gave me quite a look when he left.” Cate always had to bring the conversation around to herself. “You know that lazy, bedroom look.”

  “How old was he?”

  “Early fifties,” said Cate. “He might come back.” She nodded knowingly. “A man like that appreciates good coffee.”

  They all turned as the door opened, letting in another gust of cold air. “Told you,” said Cate triumphantly. “They always come back.” She stood up and greeted Miranda as if she were an old friend. “What can I get you?”

  “A coffee with hot milk on the side, please,” said Miranda. She turned to the notice board and ripped off the piece of paper advertising the two job vacancies.

  “Found someone, have you?” said Cate.

  “Yes,” replied Miranda cagily. “As a matter of fact, I have.”

  “A cook and a gardener? That’s quick,” said Troy.

  “Not in this town. Everyone passes through my cake shop.”

  Miranda didn’t have the heart to tell her that neither Mrs. Underwood nor Jean-Paul had seen her notice board.

  She greeted Troy and Henrietta with a polite smile—she didn’t want to encourage them—and went to sit by the window beside the Reverend Beeley’s table. No sooner had her bottom touched the wood than the vicar leaned over, heaving her large bosom across the gap between their chairs. A pair of spectacles on a beaded chain swung over the ledge like a helpless mountaineer. “Hello,” she said in a fruity voice. “I’m Rev. Beeley, your vicar. I gather you’re new in town.”

  “Yes.” Miranda realized that she had been stupid to think there was such a thing as a quiet coffee in Cate’s Cake Shop.

  “As the vicar of Hartington I’d like to welcome you. I’d be delighted to welcome you to church, too, if you feel the desire to attend our services. You should have received the parish magazine. It lists all our services and special events. I do hope you’ll come.”

  “Thank you,” Miranda replied, pulling a tight smile and wondering if she could claim to be Jewish. Admitting she was agnostic wouldn’t be good enough for the zealous Rev. Beeley.

  “It is a pleasure. The Lightlys were very devout. They attended every Sunday. The church really came to life when Mrs. Lightly arranged the flowers. She had a magic touch. Her gardens were the most b
eautiful…”

  “So I’ve been told,” Miranda interjected briskly. She was fed up hearing about the Lightlys’ beautiful gardens. If it weren’t for the miraculous arrival of Jean-Paul she would shout at them all to shut up. In fact, she felt quite smug, as if she were guarding a delicious secret. “If they had the most beautiful gardens in England, why did they move?”

  “I suppose they didn’t want to rattle about in a big house. The children had grown up and moved away, except the youngest who inherited her mother’s green thumb. Then, what with Phillip’s illness…” The vicar broke off with a sigh and shook her head mournfully.

  “Phillip?”

  “Mr. Lightly. He’s much older than his wife. He suffered a stroke.” She hissed the phrase as if it were a heavily guarded secret. “She looks after him herself. She’s a good woman.”

  “Where did they move to?”

  “I don’t know. They left quietly. They didn’t want a fuss.” The vicar inhaled, lowering her lids over bulging brown eyes. “A most respectable couple. An example to us all.”

  Cate brought Miranda her coffee. “I met your husband on Saturday,” she said, watching Miranda pour hot milk into the cup.

  “He enjoyed your coffee.”

  “Of course. He was very friendly, talking to everyone in here, making lots of new friends. He’s very charming.” Miranda half-expected her to finish with the words: not like you. Cate hovered a moment, waiting for Miranda to continue the conversation, then moved away with a little sniff. Miranda didn’t mind if she was offended: she didn’t want everyone knowing her business.

  She turned her thoughts to her children, hoping Gus was behaving himself at school. Storm had been in a bright mood that morning, chattering away about the magic in the garden that Jean-Paul was going to show her. Miranda had found her in her playhouse talking to her cushions, telling them all about a special friend she had found by the river. Miranda was surprised he had made such a big impression. Storm talked of nothing else but Jean-Paul, the magic, some sort of tree and returning to see the cows. “They know me now,” she had told her mother. “They’ll recognize me when I go back. Jean-Paul said so.” Miranda recalled the kind expression in Jean-Paul’s eyes, the deep crows’-feet that cut into his brown skin. The way his smile had illuminated his face like a beautiful dawn. He didn’t look like a gardener. Mr. Underwood looked like a gardener, but Jean-Paul looked like a film star.