The French Gardener

by Santa Montefiore

  “And you mustn’t,” he said, placing his hand against the wall in a caress. “It’s enchanting just the way it is.”

  “These surrounding maples will turn the most astonishing red in November. Can you see they’re just beginning?” She plucked a leaf and handed it to him. He twirled it between his fingers. They turned left and strolled past a copse of towering larches, their leaves the color of butter. There was a long wall lining the lawn where Ava had planted an herbaceous border. “I’ve been busily cutting it back,” she told him. “Putting it to bed for the winter.”

  “There is much to do, eh?” he mused.

  “Much to do.”

  Poppy was keen to show him the vegetable garden, hidden behind a charming old wall where roses grew in summer among honeysuckle and jasmine. The door was stiff. Poppy pushed as hard as she could, but it wouldn’t budge. Jean-Paul leaned against it with his shoulder. “Is this your favorite part of the garden?” he asked her.

  “Monty’s favorite, because all his friends live here.”

  “I cannot wait to meet them.”

  “They might have gone away. Mummy says we have to wait until next year. They come back in spring.”

  “Then I will have to wait for spring. I hope Monty doesn’t get sad.”

  “Oh no,” she whispered secretively. “He’s only a marrow.”

  The door swung open, leading into a large square garden, divided by gravel paths and box-lined borders where an abundance of vegetables grew. The walls were heavy with the remains of dying clematis, roses, wisteria and honeysuckle, the ground beneath them spilling over with hellebores and yellow senecio. The dogs rushed in, squeezing between Ava’s legs and the doorpost.

  She didn’t know what to make of Jean-Paul. On the one hand he was arrogant and aloof. On the other he was sweet with Poppy and the dogs, and when he smiled it was as if the arrogant Jean-Paul were but a figment of the imagination. He wasn’t enthusiastic about the gardens and yet was clearly moved by the beauty of the evening light on the dovecote and the melancholy hues of autumn. He seemed as reluctant to be with them as Ava was reluctant to have him. They eyed each other nervously, clearly uneasy about the months of collaboration that stretched before them. She knew instinctively that a piece of the puzzle was missing. Henri hadn’t been honest with Phillip and she felt resentful for that. Why send a young man to Dorset who obviously didn’t want to come?

  “We harvest quite a crop in here,” she said, watching her daughter skipping up the gravel path towards the patch where marrows had grown all summer. She led him under the tunnel of apple trees where ripe red fruit was strewn all over the ground. Jean-Paul bent down and picked one up, taking a large bite. “It’s sweet,” he said, bending down again to find one for her.

  “The best are those already nibbled by insects,” said Ava. “They have the nose for the tastiest fruit.”

  “I hope I don’t bite into a wasp!”

  “You’ll know all about it if you do. Though, I don’t think there are many wasps left now. Hector is good at finding their nests and destroying them.” He handed her an apple. She bit into it, savoring the juiciness of the flesh. When Poppy skipped up he handed one to her. She licked it as if it were a lollipop.

  “Yummy!” she exclaimed before bounding off again.

  They left the vegetable garden and wandered through the archway in the hedge to the front of the house. In the center of the field an old oak tree stood like a galleon in the middle of a sea of grass. “This is where I want to plant a wild garden,” she said, imagining it full of color in spring. “Beyond is the river Hart and your cottage.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “I’d rather not show it to you until I have cleaned it. I’m ashamed.” He looked at her, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

  “Why would you be ashamed? I am only a gardener.”

  She couldn’t help but smile back at him. “You’re not a gardener yet,” she replied drily. “I’ve never seen a gardener in cashmere.”

  “Don’t judge people by how they look.” He gazed over to the tree where two pink faces peeped out of the hole in the trunk. “There is the hollow tree,” he said, striding across the grass. “It’s magical!” Ava watched him go, a frown lining her brow. There was something very curious about him; she couldn’t quite put her finger on what it was.

  Archie and Angus disappeared inside the tree when they saw the grown-ups approaching. Poppy ran in front, shouting at the boys to let her in. “They’re coming, they’re coming!” she cried, her voice sending a couple of partridges into the sky. Poppy climbed in through the opening cut into the bark. The two boys peeped out from the darkness of the trunk. Jean-Paul patted the tree as if it were an animal. “This is a beautiful old oak,” he said.

  “I love it!” Ava exclaimed. “An old friend. Imagine what this tree has seen in its lifetime.”

  “It was probably here before the house.”

  “For certain.”

  “What would human beings have done without trees, eh?” He stood back to take in its glorious height. “No trees, no fuel. No fuel, no smelting. So, no bronze or iron age. No wood, no ships, no travel overseas. No empires. Perhaps no civilization at all.”

  “We’d still be living in caves,” said Ava with a smile.

  “I think your children would be all right,” he chuckled, bending down to look in on them. They sat in the dark like three little pirates. “Is there room for me?”

  “No, go away!” they shouted, squealing with pleasure. “Help! Help! It’s Captain Hook!”

  Ava left the children in the tree and took Jean-Paul to the orchard. There were plum trees, apple trees, pear trees and peach trees; a banqueting hall for wasps and bees. The sun hung low in the sky like a glowing ember, glinting through the trees, casting long shadows over the grass. A pigeon sat watching them from the rooftop, its feathers gold in the soft light, and a gray squirrel scampered across the branches. The grass was already glittering with dew, the air moist and cool. They wandered through the trees in silence, listening to the whispering sounds of nature.

  “I love evening and morning the best,” said Jean-Paul, his expression settled once again into solemnity. “I love the transience of it. The moment you appreciate it, it is gone.” He snapped his fingers.

  “Come. Let me show you where I want to create the new garden. A special garden. A cottage garden full of roses and campanula and daisies. I want tulips and daffodils in spring. I want a magical garden full of color and scent. Somewhere I can sit in peace and quiet. An abundance of flowers.” Jean-Paul nodded as if he were qualified to advise her.

  They arrived at an area of lawn enclosed on two sides by yew hedge. In the middle stood a solitary mountain ash. They stood at one end, watching the sun blinking through the branches of the yellow larches beyond, enflaming the tip of the dovecote. It was a large space, big enough to create something dramatic. “It has a good feeling in here,” said Jean-Paul.

  “Doesn’t it,” Ava agreed. “I’ve been wanting to do something with this for so long. We never go in here. The children play on the other side of the house or on the lawn by the herbaceous border. This is hidden away, like a secret.”

  “It will be a secret garden.”

  “I hope so. A surprise garden. Come on,” she said with a smile. “Time for tea, I think, don’t you? The children will be getting hungry now.”

  That night Ava lay in bed with her book, An Enchanted April. But while her eyes scanned the pages, her mind was not on the words. Phillip lay beside her, his reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He always had at least four books on the go, placed in different parts of the house so he never found himself with nothing to read.

  “Darling,” Ava began, allowing her book to rest against her knees. “I can’t make Jean-Paul out.”

  Phillip replied without taking his eyes off the page. “What is there to make out?”

  “I don’t know. Something isn’t right. It’s like the puzzle is missing one o
f its pieces.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “Well. This afternoon I showed him around the gardens. On the one hand he’s not really interested in plants. Not as a gardener should be. But on the other he’s moved by the beauty of it. He loved the silly old dovecote and the oak tree. He took real interest in them.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” He sighed, endeavoring to be patient.

  “Oh, I don’t know what makes him tick.”

  “You’ve known him a day.”

  “Go back to your book. You just don’t see it, do you?”

  “I don’t think there is anything to see. He’s not interested in plants but appreciates the beauty of the garden. I would say that is a point in the young man’s favor, wouldn’t you?”

  She lifted her book off her knee. “Don’t worry, darling. I’m trying to find a missing piece to the puzzle. Go back to your book.” He smiled and began to read again. “After all, I’m the one who’s got to work with him and find him things to do. It’s all very well paying Henri back for helping you with your research, but I’m the one with the responsibility. Henri’s done nothing for me.” She looked at him but his face was impassive. “Oh, I’ll shut up. Just remember my reservations when it all goes up in smoke and Henri closes all those doors the length and breadth of France!”

  IX

  The sweet smell of ripe apples. The last of the plums.

  The following morning Toddy kept her word and took Jean-Paul riding, leaving the twins with Archie, Angus and Poppy, playing around the hollow tree. Mr. Frisby slept in the porch, curled up in an old jersey. Phillip had gone shooting for the weekend in Gloucestershire, taking Tarquin with him. Ava was left alone with Bernie and the children, baffled that anyone would want to kill for sport.

  She took the opportunity to tidy the cottage. The last resident had been Phillip’s bachelor brother who had used it as a weekend home. He had finally married and bought a house near Sherborne and Phillip had tried to rent it out. He put in a new kitchen and gave it a fresh coat of paint, but it proved unpopular as there was no driveway. People had to park their car up at the house, walk across the field and over the bridge, which was a big inconvenience for both parties. None of the potential residents had been suitable, until now.

  Despite that, Ava had always liked the cottage. It was picturesque, nestling in isolation beneath leafy chestnut trees. Symmetrical with a big mossy roof and small windows, it was like a house in a fairy tale. To Ava it was a secret cottage, shrouded in romance and so pretty, with pink and white roses that scaled the walls and tumbled over the front door in summer. Outside, the river flowed slowly beneath the stone bridge and on to the sea.

  She made the iron bed with clean sheets and threw the bedspread into a corner to take back to the house to wash. She hoovered the carpets and polished the furniture, scrubbed the floor in the kitchen and hall. She threw open the windows to let autumn imbue the rooms with the sweet scent of damp grass. Satisfied with a job well done she stood awhile to admire it. A few logs in the grate, a boisterous fire, a good book and some classical music and it would feel just like home. She smiled with pleasure, then left with the bedspread.

  Toddy returned with Jean-Paul in time for lunch. The children had played all morning in the tree, running into the hall with muddy boots and red cheeks. Jean-Paul disappeared upstairs to change. Toddy rummaged about in the boot of her Land Rover for a pair of slippers. Mr. Frisby awoke and scampered over the gravel to take up position around her neck like a pretty white stole. She let out a bellow of laughter as he nibbled her earlobe. “Did you miss me?” she asked, nuzzling him fondly.

  Ava had roasted a couple of chickens. She stood by the Aga making gravy while the children jostled each other over the sink, fighting to wash their hands. Toddy returned and helped herself to a glass of apple juice from the fridge. Her black hair was short and spiky from having been trapped under her riding hat, her face flushed from the wind, her eyes shining from her morning with Jean-Paul. She sidled up to Ava. “He’s rather dishy!” she whispered with a smirk. “Fine figure of a man on a horse! He reminds me of a polo player I had in the Argentine before I married. He’d be fun to roll around with in the hay.”

  “Curb your excitement. The last thing his ego needs is someone like you fancying him. Though, I dare say he’s probably worked it out already.”

  “There’s no harm in a little window-shopping. I’m not intending to buy. That said, I wouldn’t mind taking him on approval.” She leaned back against the Aga to warm her bottom.

  “Why don’t you introduce him to one of your cousins?”

  “Not a bad idea. He’s going to be bored stiff in Hartington.”

  “He can always spend the weekends in London. Cruise the King’s Road, go to the Feathers Ball at the Hammersmith Palais. Isn’t that what young people do these days?”

  “He’s a bit old for the Feathers Ball, Ava!”

  “Well, Tramp then, or Annabel’s. I wouldn’t know, I don’t like London.”

  “He doesn’t look like your average gardener, does he?”

  “Do you see what I mean? He’s too neat and tidy.”

  “I never trust a man who’s neat and tidy. I once had a Spaniard who folded his clothes on the chair before making love. By the time he’d finished piling them up like a Benetton shop assistant I’d gone off the boil.”

  “You do pick them, Toddy!”

  “Jean-Paul better be a closet mess or I’ll stop fancying him!” She chuckled throatily.

  At that moment Jean-Paul appeared in the doorway. He had changed into jeans and loafers, a pale blue shirt neatly tucked in to show off a leather cowboy belt. Toddy gave Ava a look, which she chose to ignore. “Right, children, to the table, please. Lunch is up.” The children clambered onto the banquette. “Jean-Paul, help yourself to a drink. You’d better get to know your way around if you’re going to be here for a while. Drinks are in the fridge or in the larder out there,” she instructed, pointing to a door leading off the kitchen. “Glasses up there, in the cupboard. Did you have a good morning?”

  “Fantastic!” he exclaimed. “We rode up on the hill, so high we could see the sea.”

  “We galloped over Planchett’s plateau,” Toddy added, putting down her glass so she could help dish up. “Big Red went like the clappers!”

  “He’s a strong horse. I had to use all my strength to stop him running away with me.”

  “I knew you could handle him,” said Toddy. “I wasn’t worried.”

  “I was, a little,” he admitted with a grin.

  Both women wavered a moment, spoons in the air, disarmed by the allure of his smile. Hastily, Ava dug her spoon into the dish of steaming peas.

  Bernie wandered in, panting from having chased a pheasant across the lawn. His glistening chops were heavy with saliva. He went straight up to Jean-Paul and nudged him with his nose. Ava grabbed the towel which hung beside the Aga for this very purpose and hurried to mop up Bernie’s wet mouth. She expected Jean-Paul to edge away, appalled at the sight of those slimy gums threatening to end up on his jeans, but he didn’t. He bent down and swept back the dog’s ears with both hands, looking him straight in the eye. Bernie, who wasn’t used to people gazing at him so intensely, lowered his head bashfully. Jean-Paul took the towel from Ava’s hands and wiped Bernie’s chops himself, without comment. Ava didn’t risk catching Toddy’s eye. She could feel her friend staring at him from the butcher’s table, spoon in midair, clearly remembering the Argentine polo player.

  Jean-Paul handed out the plates, helped the children to ketchup and gravy and was now busy carving chicken for the three adults. The children were sitting quietly, eating their food. “Jean-Paul, you’re a natural!” gushed Toddy, taking a plate and helping herself to some slices of chicken. “If you get bored over here you can always come and help out at Bucksley Farm.”

  “This household is very English,” he replied, smiling at Ava. “If it continues like this, I think boredom will be the least of
my problems!”

  “I’ve finished the cottage,” Ava said, finally sitting down with her lunch.

  “Ah, good,” he replied.

  “I’ll take you there this afternoon. Then you’re independent. You can come and go as you wish. It’ll be your home for as long as you are here.”

  “You are very generous.”

  “Don’t thank me until you’ve seen it. It’s rather rustic, I warn you.”

  “I have no problem with rustic.”

  “That’s good.”

  “And you can come out riding with me whenever you want,” Toddy interjected slyly. Then, responding to a warning look from Ava, she added: “I have some cousins your age who live nearby. The girls are especially pretty. They’d be good company for you. If you prefer, you can ride out with them.”

  “I have a lot of choices,” he replied, taking a mouthful of chicken. “Ava is a marvelous cook!” He nodded appreciatively. “Everything you prepare is delicious. I don’t think I want to go and live in the cottage after all!”

  Ava was flattered. “You can have lunch and dinner with us whenever you like.” Though, she doubted he’d do either once he had settled into the cottage.

  After lunch they all walked through the field to the river to show Jean-Paul his new home. The children left their camp to play on the bridge, throwing twigs into the water. The air was damp, the sky gray on the horizon, bad weather was coming in off the sea. It would rain later.

  “I haven’t done anything about firewood, Jean-Paul, but the barn near the house is full of logs. Take as many as you need, there’s a cart you can fill and pull down here. If you wait until Monday, Hector will help you.”