The French Gardener Part 5

"What do you do?"

"I'm a journalist. A frustrated novelist, actually. I like to think that when the children go to boarding school I'll have the time to write a book."

He looked down at Storm. "Little Storm will go, too?"

"When she's eight and a half. I've got you for a while longer, haven't I, darling?" said Miranda, smiling at her daughter. But Storm only had eyes for the handsome Frenchman.

"What do you do, Jean-Paul?" She poured coffee into his cup and handed it to him.

He hesitated while he took a sip. Then he looked at her steadily and replied, "I garden."

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, blus.h.i.+ng 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, G.o.d 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 sn.o.b," he said.

"Have you seen him?"

"I doubt he's compet.i.tion. 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 s.e.x 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 b.u.t.tered 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 p.e.n.i.ses 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. b.i.t.c.h!" 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 s.e.xy 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, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g 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!"