“You want your son to be like you,” she said, feeling sorry for Jean-Paul, his destiny all mapped out for him like that. Even though it was a magnificent destiny, there was still so much pressure to conform. While his father was alive, there was no hope of freedom, except in England with her.
“I need my son to be as solid as me,” Henri replied. “With a good head for business. He must find a decent girl and start a family. A girl who knows her place, not a flighty girl with ambitions of her own.”
“Like Antoinette.”
“Jean-Paul needs to return to England in order to stay away from his mother. Sometimes love can be suffocating. There is nothing wrong with love, but we all need a little space. Relationships work better when the air is able to circulate between two people. Antoinette would have liked more children. It would have been easier for Jean-Paul if she had. Tant pis!”
“He will make a wonderful vigneron,” she said diplomatically.
“He has watched the machinations of the business since he was a little boy and then, bam, all of a sudden he lost interest and I lost him.”
“Don’t all children go through that stage? They rebel against their parents when they try to work life out for themselves and gain a little independence. He’ll come back to you.”
“I don’t know. I had such high expectations of him.”
“Don’t be too hard, Henri. On yourself or on him. If you give a horse a long rein he won’t run away; if you pull it in tight, he’ll bolt.”
“You are wise for someone so young.”
“It’s all the spinach I eat. Good for the brain,” she quipped.
“Then I should eat more than I do.”
Antoinette’s garden was bursting into flower. Pink roses were budding against a wall where great stone urns of white tulips sprang up with yellow senecio and violas. Box hedges were frothy and pale green, and wild yellow narcissus grew in abundance among rampaging honeysuckle and daisies. The air was sweet with the scent of spring, stirred by the merry twittering of birds as they flirted in the cedar and sycamore trees. In the middle of her carefully designed garden was an ornamental pond, the statue of a little boy, his hand outstretched, touching the wing of a bird in flight. Ava was drawn to it. She stood beneath the sculpture, admiring the way the boy’s fingers barely touched the bird so that it appeared to be totally unsupported. Jean-Paul came up behind her.
“Isn’t it incredible?” he said.
She turned and smiled at him. “It reminds me of the little boy and dolphin that stand on the Embankment in London.”
“This was commissioned for me, by my mother.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I am the little boy, the bird symbolizes freedom. As you can see, I can almost touch it.”
“You can be free at Hartington.”
“I know,” he replied, so softly she could barely hear him. She felt the breeze ruffle her hair. “I want to kiss your neck,” he added.
“Be careful.”
“I’m French, I say what I feel.”
“I ask you to take care, Mr. Frenchman. We are being watched.”
“They are not interested, ma pêche. Look, they are busy discussing the history of the cave and the great freeze of ninety-one. Papa will not cease to worry about frost until la lune rousse.” He sighed heavily. “But I couldn’t care less about frost. I want to lie with you and make love to you in the warmth of my cottage, up there under the eaves. I want to kiss you all over, slowly, carefully, savoring the taste of you inch by inch.”
“Stop,” she pleaded. “Phillip…”
“Your Phillip is enraptured by my father. Listen, they are discussing the quality of the grape.”
“There’s nothing that interests him more than that.”
“Then leave them to it. He is happy. Come.”
“We can’t,” she protested.
“I want to show you the greenhouses. They are spectacular.”
“It’s too obvious!”
“Only to you. They suspect nothing. Isn’t it natural that I should want to show you my home?” He began to walk towards the yew hedge.
Ava turned. Phillip raised his eyes, she waved, he waved back, then she was gone through the hedge and Jean-Paul had taken her hand and was leading her down a gravel path.
Once inside, he closed the door and kissed her. It was hot and humid, smelling of damp earth and freesias. She felt his excitement as he pulled her hips towards him. “We can’t…” But it was useless to protest. His mouth silenced her and his arms wound around her in a passionate embrace.
“I wish we were alone. You drive me crazy,” he gasped. “I want to take your dress off and feel your flesh. I want to lie naked with you so nothing separates us but skin and bone.”
“Darling Jean-Paul, it’s not possible here. Phillip and your father could come in at any time.”
“Curse them both!” He scowled. “I will engineer it so that we can be alone.”
“How?”
“You will see. I have a plan. Trust me.”
Ava pulled away to inspect the greenhouse. There were pots of highly scented tuberose, rows of orchids in myriad colors, and pretty nerine lilies, just opening. Jean-Paul followed her, holding her hand, turning her around every few minutes to steal another kiss. It was fortunate that when Henri entered with Phillip they were on either side of a table of rare purple orchids. “Phillip, do come and look at these,” she called to her husband. “They’re almost checked.”
Phillip strode over, admiring the plants as he passed them.
“This is quite something,” he agreed.
“Oh yes, Antoinette is a keen amateur,” said Henri.
Jean-Paul remained apart, watching Ava’s every move. “I think you should take them around the vineyard in the truck,” Jean-Paul suggested to his father. Henri enjoyed nothing more than showing off to his guests.
“We have just started spraying the crop,” he said. “Would you like to see?”
“That would be splendid,” said Phillip.
Jean-Paul waited for Ava to back out so that they could be together at last.
“I think I’ll leave you boys to it,” she said on cue. Jean-Paul threw her a secret smile.
Phillip frowned uneasily. “Why don’t we go for a walk?” he asked his wife. Jean-Paul looked at him in alarm.
“A walk?” Ava repeated.
“How far is it into town?” he asked Henri.
“A fifteen-minute walk. It’s a nice walk. There are some pretty shops you might like, Ava. Women’s shops, soaps and things.”
“I’d love to,” she replied. She wanted to explain her actions to Jean-Paul. They had to behave with caution. The last thing she wanted to do was hurt Phillip. Her desire to be alone with her lover would have to wait.
“I can show you the vines tomorrow,” said Henri. “Now, let me show you how to get to town.”
Ava was sure that Jean-Paul would sulk. She braced herself for a sullen face, but to her surprise he simply shrugged. She smiled at him gratefully and he seemed to say “It’s okay, we’ll have plenty of time.” Reluctantly, she left him in the garden by the fountain and accompanied her husband to the front of the house. “Isn’t it a beautiful place?” she said as they walked down the drive beneath the shimmering plane trees.
“Beautiful,” he agreed. “Now you can see why it matters so much to Henri that his son gain experience of running an estate.”
“Completely. But I think he’s matured so much since he came to stay with us.”
“He’s a different man.”
“That’s what I said to Henri. I want him to know that he has a very talented son. I think he’s hard on him.” Phillip nodded. “His mother overcompensates.”
“It’s good for Jean-Paul to get away from both of them.”
“Do you think someone will be saying that someday about Archie and Angus?”
“Of course not, Shrub,” he reassured her. “You and I are pretty solid parents.”
&nbs
p; “I hope so. I’d hate to think of them escaping to another country to avoid us.”
“Children go through stages. They have to spread their wings and fly. We have to let them. Jean-Paul will come back in the end and run this place as his father did. You can see how much he loves it and why.”
“I never imagined it to be so spectacular,” she agreed.
He took her hand. “So, you’re not missing the children?”
“Not yet.”
“You’re happy I brought you here?”
“Very happy.”
“And your thoughts on motherhood?”
“I’ve moved on,” she said simply.
“Good.”
“I’ve decided I don’t need another child. I don’t want to be chained to the nursery again.”
“Quite.”
“I’m just beginning to enjoy my freedom.”
They wandered around the town, a pretty cluster of reddish-brown buildings built around a square dominated by an ancient church and a town hall. In the middle was a fountain shaded by neatly clipped trees. A couple of old men in caps sat smoking pipes on a bench, and a grandmother and child threw crumbs to a flock of pigeons. There was a small market where wizened country folk sold fruit and vegetables and tall bottles of olive oil. A skinny dog played with an empty Coke can. They drank coffee in a little café that spilled onto the pavement, served by waiters in black and white. A group of men in waistcoats played draughts in the corner and a couple of salesgirls smoked and gossiped. The streets were cobbled and narrow so that people were forced to park their cars and walk. A few tourist shops sold patterned tablecloths and soaps. Ava bought some lavender bath oil for her mother and sprayed herself with orange blossom perfume. Then she bought the scent. A small indulgence, but Ava was not extravagant and she couldn’t remember the last time she had bought something for herself beside plants. “This will always remind me of France,” she said, sniffing her wrist, then she walked lightly out into the street, where Phillip was looking into the window of an antiquarian bookshop.
“Shame they’re all in French,” he said.
“Come on, don’t you have enough books?”
“Oh no, there’s always room for more.”
They returned exhilarated from the walk. Antoinette appeared in the hall from the drawing room. “You must need some refreshment,” she said. “Tea or lemonade?”
“Tea would be lovely,” Ava replied.
“Same for me,” said Phillip, following Antoinette into the drawing room where the two Great Danes lay in front of the fireplace.
“I’m going to go upstairs and put my shopping away,” she called after him.
“All right, darling,” he replied. She clutched her parcel, excited by her purchases, and ascended the stairs. As she was walking along the corridor towards her room, a door opened and a hand grabbed her, pulling her inside where it was dark and cool.
“Don’t say a word,” Jean-Paul hissed. Ava was stunned. He had closed the shutters; thin beams of light filtered through the cracks.
“You’re crazy!” she hissed back.
“Crazy for you!” he replied, pulling her onto the bed.
“What if someone…”
“They won’t. Relax, ma pêche. I said I would arrange something and I have.”
“How long have you been waiting?”
He laughed, then looked at her with an expression so serious and so tender that her stomach lurched. “For you, I would wait forever.”
XXVI
The delight of fresh herbs and vegetables grown in our own garden, sown with our own secret magic.
Hartington House, 2006
Miranda sat at her desk. The usual place, the usual music, but while her fingers hovered expectantly over the keys of her laptop, inspiration didn’t come. She had been asked by the Daily Mail Femail section to write about her experiences of moving out of London to the countryside. How the reality had turned out to be less blissful than the vision. She could have written it on autopilot a couple of months ago, but now she felt different. She could hear the children’s voices behind the wall of the vegetable garden and yearned to be with them. Country life was an adventure with Jean-Paul when they were home. He took them camping at night to watch badgers, to the river to catch fish, up to the woods to build camps and light fires, to watch the pheasants feeding and the rabbits playing. Her children, who at first had found nothing to do in the countryside except miss the city, were as much part of nature now as the animals they watched.
As for her, she had grown accustomed to leaving her hair unbrushed and wearing little makeup. There was no pressure in Hartington to look glamorous all the time. It was a relief. She didn’t mind wearing gumboots and, although she still retained a muted longing to wear the beautiful clothes that languished in her wardrobe, she had no desire to return to the frenetic social life that had driven her to exhaustion in London.
She wrote a swift e-mail to the editor suggesting the article be a positive one. The editor replied it had to be negative; they already had another journalist writing the positive now. To hell with it! They’d have to find someone else. “Right,” she sighed, standing up. “That’s the last time she’ll ask me to write for her. Another door closes!” But as she wriggled her foot into a Wellington boot she realized that she didn’t care. I should be writing a novel, not picking away at meaningless articles.
Miranda went out to the vegetable garden where Jean-Paul was planting seeds with Storm and Gus. The children were on their knees, their small hands delving into the earth. Mr. Underwood leaned on his pitchfork, having done very little all morning except stand about making obvious comments like: “I’ll be damned, there’s a caterpillar, Storm.” Or: “Well, that’ll be a worm.” Miranda didn’t mind. She was in good spirits. Jean-Paul was more uplifting than sunshine. In fact, just being near him was a bolt of excitement. He made her feel good about herself. Not that he asked her much about her life—they talked mainly about the garden—but he took an interest in what she said. He encouraged her to learn about plants, to take pleasure from the bulbs emerging from the soil and the small creatures who lived among them. He enjoyed simple things and his fascination was infectious. Miranda soon found herself on her hands and knees planting potatoes and flicking through cookbooks to find interesting things to make with them when they were ready to harvest. She took pride in herself and her home, but most of all she began to enjoy being with her children to the exclusion of everything else. They all shared their enjoyment of the garden and that was thanks to Jean-Paul.
The garden looked magnificent. The blossom was out, the lime green leaves on the trees were turning frothy, birdsong filled the honey-scented air. Fat bees buzzed about the borders where bulbs were now flowering. The wild garden was peppered with buttercups, purple camassias, cowslips and feathery dandelions. In the cottage garden a luxuriant bed of green shrubs grew up with tulips, narcissi and primulas. In the middle of it stood the mountain ash like a sailing ship in a winding river that was the grassy path. Beneath her canopy of white flowers was the circular bench where Jean-Paul sat from time to time, his brow furrowed in thought. Miranda had often seen him there, though what troubled him she was still too polite to ask.
“Mummy, look at this one!” Gus beckoned his mother to observe the worm he was waving in the air. “It’s enormous.”
“I want to keep one as a friend,” said Storm. “Can I, J-P?”
“Of course. We can put it in a jar and give it a name.”
“Why not call him Worzel the Worm,” suggested Miranda. Then, inspired by the idea, she announced that she would go get a jar.
“Clever Mummy,” said Storm, spotting another worm hiding in the soil and bending down to pull it out.
“That’s a fat one,” said Mr. Underwood, chuckling happily. “You’ve got quite a few there.”
“Bring something to drink,” Jean-Paul shouted after her. “This is thirsty work, eh!”
“Je suis faim,” said Storm.
/> “J’ai faim,” Jean-Paul corrected. “J’ai aussi soif,” he added.
“That means thirsty,” said Gus.
“Gus-the-Strong and Bright-Sky, you are learning fast!”
“That’ll be French,” said Mr. Underwood, nodding admiringly.
“Correct,” said Jean-Paul, grinning at him. “You, Mr. Underwood, are as clever as an old fox!”
While Miranda was in the kitchen, the telephone rang. It was Blythe. “Hi there, stranger.” Miranda was pleasantly surprised. She hadn’t heard from her friend since their lunch before Christmas.
“How are you?” Miranda asked.
“Fine. I have to go to court next Monday for the settlement.”
“Don’t let him get off lightly. Remember what David advised.”
“How is he? I haven’t seen him for a while.” She sounded down.
“Truth is, Blythe, I don’t see much of him either. He’s working really hard. Comes down late on Friday night and leaves early Sunday afternoon.”
“You should take a lover,” said Blythe brightly. “That’s what I’d do if I were stuck in the middle of the countryside. Happens all the time, I should imagine.”
“Don’t tempt me,” she replied, thinking of Jean-Paul.
“I just want the whole thing over and done with, then I can move on with my life.”
“Why don’t you come down for the weekend?” Miranda suggested. “David would love to see you. The gardens look beautiful and I’d like to show off the house.”
“You’re settling in then?”
“Yes. Right now, there’s no place I’d rather be. I wake up every morning to the sound of a hundred birds in the trees and the scent of flowers wafting in through my window. It’s heaven. Do come, I’d love to see you.”
“I thought you were a city girl.”
“I was, I’ve just got out of step with the rhythm of London. I prefer the slower pace down here.”
The French Gardener Page 26
