The French Gardener Page 9

  “Hello, I’m Ava,” she said, wiping her hand on her dungarees before offering it to Jean-Paul. To her surprise he brought it to his mouth with a formal bow.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you,” he said, looking her straight in the eye. His eyes were soft like brown suede, his gaze intense. She would have replied to him in French, but his English was perfect, although strongly accented, containing within it all that was romantic and sensual about his country. She felt something flutter inside her stomach.

  “Did you have a pleasant flight?” she asked, suddenly aware of her disheveled appearance.

  “I arrived in London a few days ago. I wanted to see a little culture before I came down here,” he replied, his eyes wandering over the house. He thrust his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders. Phillip carried his case inside.

  “Why don’t you come in and have something to drink,” said Ava, following her husband in through the porch. “You’ll have to stay in the house for a week or so while I get the cottage ready for you. I’m afraid I’ve been slow in getting organized.”

  “So unlike you, Ava,” Phillip added without a hint of sarcasm. “My wife is an example of efficiency. She runs this place like the captain of a ship. I’m a mere crewman, in awe of her self-discipline.” Ava rolled her eyes.

  Jean-Paul was not at all what she had expected. First, he didn’t look like a gardener. He was beautifully dressed in a soft tweed jacket, blue shirt and pressed jeans. Around his neck he wore a faded cashmere scarf. His hair was thick, the color of chestnuts, and artfully arranged to look as though he hadn’t bothered. His nose was long and aquiline, his mouth asymmetrical and sensitive. His hands were clean, nails short and tidy, not the hands of a man used to digging. On his feet were brown Gucci loafers. She hoped he had gardening boots. It would be a shame to ruin those elegant shoes.

  They sat on stools in the kitchen while Ava prepared lunch. She had gathered leeks and sprouts from her kitchen garden and bought trout from the fishmonger in town. She grew herbs against the garden wall in an old water trough and had made basil butter and broad bean hummus to eat with homemade rosemary bread. She adored the smell of healthy cooking and gained great satisfaction from watching her children grow strong on her own produce.

  On first meeting Ava, one would never imagine she was shy. She rose to the occasion, telling witty stories, making people laugh, barely drawing breath between anecdotes, only to disappear afterward into blissful solitude in her garden, depleted after having given so much of herself. Phillip knew she entertained in order to hide her shyness and he loved her for it. It was a secret that only he was aware of. He was touched by the way she performed before collapsing once the curtain came down. He was the only man permitted backstage, a privilege he relished. Now she began to chatter away to Jean-Paul, who looked at her with an arrogant expression on his beautifully chiseled face, as if she were an eccentric relative to be tolerated. He smiled politely, but not with his eyes. He listened while she cooked, his gaze sleepy until they all moved to the table for lunch and they fell hungrily on the feast she laid before him. Like all men, he became enlivened at the sight of a hearty meal.

  “So, Jean-Paul,” she said, passing him the dish of steaming vegetables. “I hear your family has a beautiful garden in France?”

  “Yes,” he replied, picking up the spoon and helping himself to carrots. “My mother loves gardens. Especially English gardens. We have a château near Bordeaux. It is very old. I admire what my mother has done with the gardens. One day I will create a beautiful garden of my own.”

  “So what do you hope to learn here?”

  He shrugged. “Papa says that yours is the best he has ever seen.”

  “I wish I had met him. He popped in once, about eight years ago when I was away visiting my mother. I would like to have shown him around personally. I’m surprised Phillip showed him the estate beyond his wine cellar.”

  “Darling, there is nothing nicer than walking around your gardens in springtime with a glass of chilled white wine,” responded Phillip with a chuckle.

  “He says you have a great talent,” Jean-Paul continued. Ava was flattered in spite of the uneasy twist in her gut that predicted a terrible clash of personalities. As attractive as he was, she simply couldn’t see them working together.

  “Have you left a girl behind in Paris?” Phillip asked with a grin.

  Jean-Paul smirked and raised one eyebrow. “A few,” he replied.

  “Oh dear,” said Ava, bristling at his arrogance. “I hope you don’t suffer from a broken heart.”

  “I have never suffered in love,” he said.

  “Yet. There is plenty of time for heartbreak. You’re young.”

  He nodded in agreement. “My heart will break when my mother dies. That is inevitable.” She looked at him quizzically. It was a strange comment to make for a man of his age.

  “You are obviously close.”

  “Of course. I am her only child. I am spoiled and indulged. My mother is an incredible woman. I admire her.”

  “I hope our sons feel that way when they are your age,” she said, though she wasn’t sure whether she really did.

  “You have three children, yes?”

  “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!”

  VIII

  The cough of a pheasant, the coo of the pigeons, the crisp sunny days of October

  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 n
ow 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.”