Also by Santa Montefiore
Sea of Lost Love
The Gypsy Madonna
Last Voyage of the Valentina
Touchstone
A Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
1230 Avenue of the Americas
New York, NY 10020
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2008 by Santa Montefiore
Originally published in Great Britain in 2008 by Hodder & Stoughton
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Touchstone Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
TOUCHSTONE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
ISBN-13: 978-1-4169-8715-4
ISBN-10: 1-4169-8715-0
Visit us on the Web:
http://www.SimonandSchuster.com
To my sister-in-law, Sarah,
with love
Contents
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Autumn
I The yellow leaves of the weeping willow in autumn
II Wild winds whistling around the house at night like playful spirits
III Misty mornings that hold within them the promise of a beautiful day
IV The crab-apple tree laden with fruit
V The little stone bridge at sunset. The amber light playing upon the smooth surface of the river.
VI Our cottage in summer when the sweet scent of honeysuckle is carried up on the breeze
VII Every rainbow I see reminds me of you
VIII The cough of a pheasant, the coo of the pigeons, the crisp sunny days of October
IX The sweet smell of ripe apples. The last of the plums.
X The taste of warm wine, the smell of burning fields, the last of summer sunshine
XI The melancholy cry of a lone gull hovering on the wind
XII The pink light of sunset setting the sky aflame
XIII The morning light through the leaves of the chestnut trees
Winter
XIV A rainbow requires both rain and sunshine
XV The cold crisp mornings of winter. The scent of burning leaves. The sight of our breath rising on the air.
XVI The intrepid robin on my windowsill. Morning trips to break the water on the birdbath.
XVII The sound of roaring fires and the taste of roasted chestnuts
XVIII Pink cotton candy clouds at sunset. Spiders’ webs sewn into the bushes like lace.
XIX Those mischievous squirrels on the cottage windowsill. They feel the love inside like sunshine and want to bask in it as we do.
XX The wistful light of dusk turning the dovecote pink, but only for an instant like the soft outward breath of heaven
Spring
XXI The happy sight of pussy willow. The first glimpse of a daffodil shooting through the soil.
XXII Snowdrops peeping through frost. The first signs of spring.
XXIII First bees and insects on the flowers of the ivy on top of the wall. Lavender crocuses appearing in the grass.
XXIV Raindrops on bluebells. The eccentric sound of a cuckoo. The uplifting sight of flirtatious mallards in flight.
XXV The sweet scent of unfurling leaves. The tremor of my childlike excitement at the sight of spring.
XXVI The delight of fresh herbs and vegetables grown in our own garden, sown with our own secret magic.
XXVII Planting sweet peas, watched over by those softly cooing doves on the wall. The bliss of being alone in the early evening light.
XXVIII Purple shadows on the grass cast by the clipped yews in the evening light
XXIX The battle to keep those naughty rabbits out of the garden. We lost to Mr. Badger, but oh, what a character he was!
XXX Pretty white candles on the horse chestnut trees, scattering their petals over the cottage roof like snow
XXXI White blossom of the may trees and blackthorn in the hedgerows
Summer
XXXII The orchard filled with wild dandelions. The pale blue spikes of camassias rising above the grass like candles.
XXXIII The amber light of dusk, the smell of burning fields, the shortening days of September
XXXIV The melancholy light of summer’s end fills my soul with wistfulness
XXXV The comforting silence of midnight. I always knew heaven was up there beyond the darkness.
XXXVI The healing nature of my garden can mend the most broken of hearts
XXXVII Nothing remains the same. Everything moves on in the end. Even us. Death is nothing more than another change.
XXXVIII
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
The idea of a magical garden did not live for me until I went to see Georgia Langton in Dorset. Not only is she a gifted gardener, but one of England’s most charming eccentrics. She inspired me and fired me up with ideas so that the book was pure pleasure to write from beginning to end. I thank her profusely and assure the reader that any technical errors found in the text are entirely my own.
Once again Sue Johnson-Hill was on hand in Bordeaux to answer my questions with enthusiasm and patience. I thank her for coming to my aid a second time!
I’m extremely grateful to my father for giving me a deep understanding of life and an appreciation of nature. I could not imagine my hero without his wise example.
My mother is a fountain of knowledge, a sensitive editor and a shrewd sounding board for me to bounce ideas off. She has given me so much of her time and enthusiasm and for that I’m enormously grateful.
The book wouldn’t be suitable for publication without a thorough pruning from my UK editor, Susan Fletcher. She is a superb editor and a great connoisseur of good writing. She has the patience and attention to detail that I do not. I value her advice and thank her for taking the trouble to make sure the book is as good as it can possibly be.
My agent, Sheila Crowley, has the unique ability of making me feel like I’m her only author. She’s tireless, cheerful, yet formidable when a heavy gun is required. I thank her for being there to fight in my corner and for her encouragement when I’m tearing my hair out and getting nothing written!
I’m extremely proud to be published in the United States, and to have such an enthusiastic, energetic and professional team at Simon & Schuster. I’d like to thank them all, but especially Trish Todd, my editor, for having such confidence in my writing. Her belief in my ability means a great deal to me and gives me enormous encouragement to continue writing.
I also thank Kate Rock again, and again, for without her help I would never have got published to start with; Eleni Fostiropoulos and my fantastic team at Hodder; my fellow author, Elizabeth Buchan, for generously sharing ideas; and my old school friend, Cosima Townley, for introducing me to Miss Fitz, thus inspiring me to include a ferret of my own.
I thank my darling children, Lily and Sasha for their inspiration and their love.
My greatest debt of gratitude, as always, goes to my husband, Sebag. He’s indefatigable with thoughts and ideas, constant in his support and wise in his advice. His paw prints are all over this book!
Prologue
Hartington House
Summer 2004
It was nearly dusk when she reached the cottage, a cardboard box held tightly against her chest. The sun hung low in the sky, turning the clouds pink like tufts of cotton candy. Long shadows fell across grass already damp with dew. The air smelled sweet, of fertile soil and thriving flowers. Tiny dr
agonflies hovered in the still, humid air, their wings glinting in the light. The cottage was quaint, symmetrical, with a tall roof that dwarfed the walls below it. It might once have been a barn, or grain shed, positioned as it was in the middle of a field. The roof tiles were brown and covered in moss, the chimney leaning a little to the left. The top of the roof sagged slightly, as if it had grown tired with age. Roses tumbled over the door where the paint had already started to peel. It looked sadly neglected, forgotten at the bottom of the garden by the river, hidden in a small copse. A fat pigeon settled down for the night, cooing lazily in the gutter, and a couple of squirrels scurried up a chestnut tree and crouched in the crook of a branch to watch her with suspicious black eyes.
She stood awhile, contemplating the gentle flow of the river Hart as it ran down the valley to the sea. She remembered fishing with nets and throwing sticks into the water from the little stone bridge. Nothing had changed. Cows still mooed in the field downriver and the distant sound of a tractor rattled up the track behind the hedge. She blinked through the mist of nostalgia and put the key in the lock.
The door opened with a whine, as if in protest. She entered the hall, noticing at once the lingering scent of orange blossom. When she saw the sitting room, cluttered with photographs, trinkets and books, she assumed someone was living there. As far as she knew, the agent hadn’t yet sold the estate, which included the cottage. It had been on the market now for over ten months. “Hello,” she called out. “Is anyone there?” No reply. She frowned a little nervously and closed the front door behind her. She put the box down on the floor of the hall. The air was warm and musty, smelling of old memories and tears. Her eyes stung with tears of her own.
She went into the kitchen where the table was laid with china cups and a teapot, the chairs pulled out. The remains of a tea for two. She put her hand on the back of one of the chairs to steady herself. In all the years she had lived in the big house, she had never entered the cottage. It had always been locked and she had never been curious. Judging by the layer of dust that covered the kitchen table, no one else had been there either.
She heard a noise upstairs, like a footstep. “Hello,” she called again, suddenly afraid. “Is anyone here?”
Still no reply. She returned to the hall and picked up the box. Her attention was once more drawn upstairs. She turned to face the light that flooded the landing. It seemed not of this world. Her fear dissolved in its magnificence and a silent call came from deep inside her heart.
Tentatively, she began to climb the stairs. At the top of the landing, on the left, was an empty room. She put the box down in there, then stood back a moment not wanting to leave it. Inside the box was something of enormous value. She found it almost impossible to part with, but knew it was the right thing to do. Even if it was never found, she could rest in the certainty that she had done her very best. She didn’t like to keep secrets from her own family, but this was one that she would take to her grave.
A bedroom across the landing drew her away from the box. It smelled familiar, of cut grass and the same sweet scent of orange blossom she had noticed in the hall. She sat on the bed, in the shaft of sunlight that streamed through the thick covering of mildew that had stained the window green. It was warm upon her face, amber—the color of wistfulness. She closed her eyes, sensing the presence of someone close, and listened. Once again her eyes stung with tears. She knew if she opened them the moment would be lost.
“Don’t go,” she said in the silence of her mind. “Please don’t leave me.” Then she leaned back and waited for a response.
Autumn
I
The yellow leaves of the weeping willow in autumn
Hartington House, Dorset
October 2005
Gus crept up to his mother’s study door and put his ear to the crack. He inhaled the familiar smell of Marlboro Lites and felt his frustration mount at the sound of her husky voice speaking on the telephone. He knew she was talking to his teacher, Mr. Marlow. He assumed, correctly, that she wasn’t on his side. Gus was a problem no one wanted to take the trouble to solve. “I don’t believe it!” she exclaimed. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Marlow. It won’t happen again. It really won’t. His father will be down tonight from London. I’ll make sure he talks to him…You’re right, it’s absolutely not on to bite another child…I’ll find him and send him straight back to school.” Then her tone softened and Gus heard her chair scrape across the wooden floorboards as she stood up. “I know he can be a bit aggressive, but we only moved from London a couple of months ago. It’s been difficult for him. He’s left all his friends behind. He’s only seven. He’ll settle in. Just give him time, Mr. Marlow? Please. He’s a good boy, really.”
Gus didn’t hang around to hear more. He tiptoed back down the corridor and out the garden door onto the terrace. The lawn was a rich, wet green, sparkling in the pale morning light. He took a deep breath and watched mist rise into the air. He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and shivered. He’d left his coat at school. Swallowing his resentment, he wandered across the terrace and up the thyme walk lined with shaggy round topiary balls. His shoulders hunched, his feet kicking out in front of him, his eyes searched for some small creature upon which to vent his anger.
At the end of the thyme walk was a field full of sheep belonging to their neighbor Jeremy Fitzherbert. Among the sheep was a disheveled old donkey called Charlie. Gus enjoyed nothing more than bullying the beast, chasing him around the field with a stick until his braying grew hoarse and desperate. He climbed the fence. Sensing danger, Charlie pricked his ears. He spotted the little boy jumping down and his eyes widened with fear. He stood frozen to the ground, nostrils flaring, heart turning over like a rusty engine.
Gus felt a jolt of excitement. He forgot about biting Adam Hudson in the playground, about running out of the school gates and up the High Street, about his mother’s angry voice and his own clawing sense of isolation. He forgot about everything except the sudden rush of blood as he set off in pursuit of the donkey.
“You a scaredy cat?” he hissed as he approached the terrified animal. “Whoooa!” He lunged at him, delighting in the clumsy way the donkey stumbled back before cantering stiffly off towards the woods at the top of the field, braying in panic. What a shame he hadn’t brought the stick. It was more fun when he hit him.
Bored of that game, Gus continued into the woods, leaving Charlie trembling in the corner of the field, surrounded by sheep. The ground was soggy, strewn with twigs and brown leaves amongst which a shiny pheasant scraped the earth for food. The sun shone weakly through the leaves, illuminating the spiders’ webs that adorned the surrounding shrubbery with lace. Gus picked up a twig and began to swipe the webs, squashing the fleeing spiders under foot. The pleasure was fleeting, and he was left with the emptiness of believing, albeit subconsciously, that he was of no value to anyone.
Miranda Claybourne put down the telephone and remained at the window, staring out over the orchard. The ground was littered with apples and the last of the plums. She had sensed her son’s presence at the door, but now he had gone. Of all the days Gus had to choose to play truant, he had chosen Deadline Day. She stubbed out her cigarette, reassuring herself that a lapse in her struggle to quit was absolutely okay; three puffs hardly counted. She didn’t have time to go looking for him, and anyway, she wouldn’t know where to start, the grounds were so large and, she observed with a sinking feeling, desperately overgrown and wet. The thought of tramping about in gumboots was intolerable for a city girl used to Jimmy Choos and concrete. On top of everything she had her monthly column for Red to finish. So far, the only advantage of living in the country was not having to brush her hair and apply makeup for the school run. Gus and his five-year-old sister, Storm, cycled up the drive every morning, leaving their bikes by the gate to take the school bus that conveniently stopped for them at eight. In London she had had to get up early in order to make herself presentable to the other mums in four-by-fours and oversi
zed sunglasses who carried off a seemingly effortless glamour in Gucci, their smooth hair colored and cut to perfection at Richard Ward. In Hartington she imagined that barely anyone would have heard of Gucci or Richard Ward, which had seemed charmingly quaint on arrival, but was now simply quaint. She complained wittily in her column, which chronicled her struggle to adapt to country life, and turned her resentment into hilarity. Along with the wet, dreary weather, somehow wetter and drearier in the countryside than in London, the quaintness of Hartington was almost intolerable. There was nothing to do but laugh.
Unlike her husband, Miranda hadn’t wanted to move out of London. The very thought of being farther than a whiff of perfume from Harvey Nichols made her break into a cold sweat. Eating at the local pub rather than at the Ivy or Le Caprice was almost enough to confine her permanently to her own kitchen table. How she missed her Pilates classes in Notting Hill, lunches at the Wolseley with her girlfriends, stopping in at Ralph Lauren for a little self-indulgence before returning home. But they had had no choice. Gus had been kicked out of school for being aggressive, and moving him to a quiet country school seemed the sensible option. He had a whole year to go before they could pack him off to boarding school where the problem of Gus would be taken out of their hands. For Miranda and David Claybourne, one year of Gus’s bad behavior was an incredibly long time.
The French Gardener Page 1