The French Gardener

by Santa Montefiore

  Jean-Paul called the children and arranged to return later with a suitable vehicle to transport the timber. “It’s good to meet you,” said Jeremy. “I’d love to come and see what you’re up to sometime. Those gardens were quite something once.”

  “Any time,” Jean-Paul replied.

  “If you need help, I’ve strong hands on the farm and would be happy to lend you a few men.”

  “Are those your cows down by the river?” he asked.

  “Yes. Aberdeen Angus.”

  “Storm’s new friends.” He looked down at the little girl. “You haven’t forgotten them, have you?”

  “No,” she replied. “They have rough tongues. They’re nice.”

  “I have horses. I’ve told Miranda, but if you and the children want to ride, let me know. Whisper’s very docile.”

  “That would be fun,” Jean-Paul replied.

  “Good.” Jeremy watched them climb into Miranda’s jeep. “I hope to see more of you, then.” He waved as they drove out of the farm.

  There was something intriguing about Jean-Paul. He didn’t look like a gardener. He was too handsome for a start. He shook his head and smiled. His presence in Hartington was sure to set the cat among the pigeons.

  Winter

  XIV

  A rainbow requires both rain and sunshine

  Hartington House, 1979

  So began our project together. Darling Phillip was as thrilled as I; Henri would be pleased his son was getting involved and doors would continue to open the length and breadth of France. He returned to his study and buried himself in research. We were left to create our cottage garden. I didn’t show Phillip the painting. It was so personal, so intimate, coming from the very core of M. F. that I didn’t feel it was right to share it with anyone. He had painted it for me and I was surprised and touched that he had taken the trouble to understand what moved me. That was the first secret I had ever kept from my husband. It would be the first of many secrets, creeping into our marriage like poison ivy.

  Ava and Jean-Paul set about digging the borders in the cottage garden according to Jean-Paul’s painting. They marked out the path with sticks so that it meandered like a stream, wide enough for two people to walk together comfortably. The borders were to be edged with stones to allow the plants to spill over. Hector helped in his quiet, solemn way and Ian Fitzherbert let them use his small tractor and trailer to carry away unwanted earth. It was a sunny day, the sky a deep primary blue without a cloud to be seen anywhere. They worked in their shirtsleeves, Ava in her purple dungarees, her hair held up with a pen, Jean-Paul in low-slung jeans and shirt although the air was crisp and cold. They toiled all day, laughing and chatting like old friends.

  They ate sandwiches for lunch, eager not to delay their work unnecessarily. They sat on a rug while Hector returned to fetch his lunch box from the greenhouse. Ava had never expected to enjoy Jean-Paul’s company. She had resented his presence in her garden and been suspicious of his good looks, as if being handsome made him less profound. She had been wrong.

  “How can your father disapprove of your painting?” she asked, biting into a turkey sandwich.

  Jean-Paul shrugged. “He wants me to be a reflection of himself. I am his only son. His only child. He is a very ambitious, controlling man. I have never liked him.”

  “That’s sad. Not to like your own father.”

  “I am used to it.” He shrugged again.

  “He should be proud you paint so beautifully.”

  “He is not proud. Besides, I don’t paint well enough.” He shook his head resignedly. “I do it for myself. I will never be good enough to do it professionally.”

  “Why not?”

  He flashed her an enchanting smile and for an instant gazed at her with eyes full of affection. “Because I am realistic, Ava. I don’t live in a world of dreams. I know I am not good enough. Papa knows that, too.”

  “Just because you won’t make money doesn’t mean it’s not a worthwhile thing to do.”

  “I know that.”

  “So, what does your father expect of you?”

  “To run the vineyard. To make good wine. To uphold the family name. To inherit the château and produce a son to pass it all on as he has done.”

  “Couldn’t you just tell him to bugger off? You’re not a child.”

  Jean-Paul put down his sandwich and suddenly looked troubled. “I don’t want to hurt my mother. I am all she has.” He held her a moment with his eyes. “She has no marriage. My father has a mistress in Paris. Maman lives in Bordeaux. Les Lucioles means everything to her. It would break her heart if Papa disinherited me.”

  “I don’t understand. You’re doing what he wants because of a château?”

  “It is not just any château. It is special. Perhaps one day you will see it, then you will understand. It is as magical to me as Hartington House is to you.”

  “It must be very magical then.”

  “I agreed to come here because Maman asked me to. It is not just about the château, it is about my mother and doing what is right. She loves her home, too, and has put her heart into it. The love she should be investing in my father she invests in me and Les Lucioles.”

  “You’re in the middle of something bigger than you,” she acknowledged.

  “Yes.”

  “Some people make their lives so complicated.”

  “I don’t think they mean to.”

  “Perhaps not. I’m grateful for my simple life. It might not be spicy but it’s tranquil. I’d sacrifice a lot for tranquility.”

  “You and Phillip are lucky. You have a good marriage.”

  “I know.” She smiled tenderly. “He’s a good egg.”

  “A good egg?” Jean-Paul laughed incredulously.

  “Oh, you’ve never heard that expression?” He shook his head. “A good egg, as eggs run, but who likes runny eggs? Do you get it?” They laughed together. Hearing it with the ears of a foreigner made Ava realize what a very silly expression it was.

  That afternoon, when the children returned from school, they came to watch their mother in the garden. Phillip strode out, in a green Barbour and wellies, to take the dogs for a walk. Bernie and Tarquin rolled about on the grass in excitement, their barking biting into the damp air. “Don’t forget your parents are coming for the weekend, Shrub,” he reminded her, as he set off towards the dovecote.

  “Phillip thinks I have no memory for things other than plants,” she told Jean-Paul with a chuckle. “He thinks I inhabit another world. ‘Planet Ava’!”

  “I’d like to live on Planet Ava,” he said, taking a swig of beer.

  “I don’t think you would. It’s a lonely planet really.”

  “I like to be alone, too.”

  “Good. I won’t worry about you in the cottage then. I was about to invite all Toddy’s cousins over to meet you.”

  “There’s alone and lonely,” he said with a grin. “I like to be alone, but I don’t like to be lonely, so if they are pretty, I would be happy to meet them.” He stood up and laughed, holding out his hand to Ava. He pulled her up.

  “All right, Mr. Frenchman!” she said. “I’ll call Toddy. But if they’re pigs don’t blame me. I know the French have very high standards when it comes to women.”

  “Perhaps. But the English have something that the French don’t have.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A sense of humor.”

  She laughed. “I’m so glad it’s not all about manicures and silk underwear.”

  “But imagine the power of that combination—silk underwear and a sense of humor? A woman like that would be something, no?”

  “I can’t say I’ve given the matter much thought. Now, back to the garden, you! Save your sexy thoughts for when you’re lonely in the cottage.”

  Archie, Angus and Poppy helped load the cart with the turf that Ava and Jean-Paul cut with their spades, rolling it up like long carpets. When they grew bored of that game they searched for insects in the
newly exposed soil, squeaking in delight when they found a fat worm or centipede. Ava had taught them to love all creatures, explaining their purpose in the garden and how they lived, so that the children respected them as living beings and not as playthings to abuse. “Look, Mummy! Here’s a really juicy worm,” cried Archie, placing it carefully on a leaf and carrying it to his mother.

  “He’s delicious,” she agreed, stopping to look. “Now darling, find a nice place for him. With any luck a bird will find him later. He’ll make a feast for a hungry pigeon.” Once he had shown his siblings, Archie did as he was told and settled the worm in the mud. Angus climbed onto the tractor and made purring noises, turning the steering wheel left and right while Poppy pretended the rolls of turf were Swiss rolls on their way to the bakery. The garden rang with their laughter. It was just another day at Hartington House. For Jean-Paul it was a new and exciting world. He had no experience of a united and loving family.

  That evening Ava invited Jean-Paul to stay for dinner. They sat in the drawing room, by the fire, having bathed and changed out of their muddy clothes. The children were in bed, exhausted after so much fresh air. Phillip came downstairs in a smoking jacket and slippers, having read them The Velveteen Rabbit, and opened a bottle of wine. “Your garden’s beginning to take shape,” he said, bringing in a tray of glasses. Ava sat on the sofa, her hair tied in a loose ponytail so that wisps floated about her face and neck. She wore wide trousers under a long Moroccan housecoat and a pair of crimson sequined slippers. Her cheeks glowed from having worked in the cold all day and her eyes sparkled with happiness. It had been a perfect day.

  “We’ll plant it up next,” she said, grinning at Jean-Paul. “Our reward will come in spring. It’s going to look marvelous!” Jean-Paul lay sprawled in an armchair, his hair damp from the bath and sticking up in points.

  “I never thought digging a garden would be fun,” he admitted.

  “This is only the beginning. Digging is the boring bit,” said Ava. “The planting is the fun part. Watching the gardens grow is the icing on the cake.”

  “What are you going to plant?” Phillip asked, handing them both glasses of wine, then taking a seat himself.

  “I’ve drawn a sketch,” she said, pulling a roughly folded piece of paper from her coat pocket. “I want an explosion of color. I want it stuffed full of shrubs and plants.” She looked at Jean-Paul, knowing that he knew she was thinking of his painting. “I thought buddleia, geraniums, roses, polyanthus, campanula, lavender, delphiniums, lupins, daisies. Goodness, I haven’t held back.”

  “It sounds marvelously chaotic. Rather like you, Shrub.” Phillip chuckled in his good-natured way.

  “We’ve bitten off quite a lot more than we can chew, but I think we can do it. Jean-Paul and Hector are prepared to work like slaves.”

  “I’m a good egg!” Jean-Paul said and laughed.

  “A good egg, as eggs run,” Ava added with a grin. “We’ll send you back to France an Englishman.”

  “I raise my glass to that,” added Phillip.

  “Mummy.” Poppy was standing in the doorway in her white nightie, holding her marrow in a blanket. “He can’t sleep,” she said, hugging it close.

  “Oh dear,” said Phillip, playing along. “Have you tried rocking him a little?”

  “Yes,” she said earnestly. “But he keeps waking up. He keeps waking me up.”

  “Come here,” said Ava gently, opening her arms. “I think you need a cuddle, darling. It’s not fun being kept awake by that naughty Monty, is it?” Poppy shook her head. She never doubted she’d be received with love, whatever the time of night.

  “I’m very tired,” she said, shuffling over to her mother. Ava pulled the little girl onto her lap and wrapped her arms around her, kissing her temple. “Daddy, if I love Monty like the little boy loved the velveteen rabbit, will he become real?”

  “Ah,” said Phillip with a frown. “I’m not sure the nursery magic extends to vegetables. That’s a question for the vegetable fairy.”

  “I so want him to be real,” she sighed.

  “If you want him to be real, darling, he will be. He’ll be whatever you want him to be. You just have to use your imagination,” said Ava.

  “But I want everyone else to see that he’s real.”

  “We do,” Jean-Paul interjected, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees. “To me, he’s been real since I was introduced to him.” Poppy hid her smile behind the blanket, disguising her delight by pretending to be sleepy.

  “You see,” said Ava, kissing her again.

  “I think you should take him back to bed,” said Phillip. “He’ll only be grumpy in the morning if he doesn’t get his sleep.” Ava lifted Poppy off her lap and led her out of the drawing room. The child caught Jean-Paul’s eye and smiled shyly.

  The rest of the week was taken up with planting all the flowers and shrubs. They followed Ava’s plan, placing each pot in its place on top of the soil, before planting it. Jean-Paul listened as she explained her reasons for positioning them as she did, patiently teaching him the names and preferred conditions of each. At the end of the day the children watered them with small watering cans of their own. By the end of the week they had finished planting. As if by magic gray clouds gathered above them and it began to rain. The children ran about with their mouths open, catching the drops on protruding tongues, while Ava and Jean-Paul laughed in astonishment at their good fortune. Hector drove the tractor back to Ian Fitzherbert’s farm, shaking his head at the family’s eccentricity.

  Ava asked Toddy to bring her cousins for lunch on Sunday to meet Jean-Paul. Toddy was delighted, guaranteeing two, if not three, twentyish girls for him to choose from. “They’re jolly pretty,” she assured her. “Especially Lizzie. God, if I were only ten years younger I’d throw myself at Jean-Paul.” Ava’s parents, Donald and Verity, arrived on Friday night with Heinz, a small red sausage dog whose sharp yap and short scurrying legs terrified Bernie almost as much as Mr. Frisby.

  Verity was similar to her daughter—a handsome woman with kind green eyes and strong bone structure who never felt the cold, but her strident nature had been mercifully diluted in Ava. With gray hair swept up into a beehive, her head looked out of proportion with her short body, but not even her daughter had the courage to tell her the look was outdated and unbecoming. Her husband had ceased to notice long ago; it was her personality that demanded attention and no one could ignore that. She spoke her mind, as old people do, and knew best, as grandmothers do. But she loved her grandchildren, always bringing presents and telling them stories which she’d invent as she went along, holding them in her thrall with colorful descriptions and eccentric characters which included their own toys magically brought to life.

  “Did you know that Daisy Hopeton has left her husband and four children to run off with a South African who owns a vineyard in Constantia?” said Verity over dinner. Ava’s appalled reaction was very satisfactory. “I know,” continued Verity, shaking her beehive. “It’s ghastly. Poor Michael doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going. Having to bring up those four children on his own. Why, Oliver’s only Archie’s age.”

  “That’s terrible,” gasped Ava, who had been a childhood friend of Daisy’s. “How can a woman leave four children?”

  “Quite,” Phillip agreed. “It’s disgraceful.”

  “Disgraceful,” Donald repeated. He’d listened to nothing else all the way from Hampshire and was now bored of the subject. Verity was fired up with the story and had been on the telephone spreading it around to all her friends.

  “From the horse’s mother’s mouth,” Verity confirmed when Phillip asked how she’d heard. “As you can imagine, she’s beside herself. One doesn’t expect one’s own child to let one down in such a public way. For a South African! She’s run off to the other side of the world. Why she didn’t take her children with her, I can’t imagine. What sort of woman leaves her children? It’s unthinkable!”

  “She must have bee
n dreadfully unhappy,” said Ava, trying to find something nice to say.

  “Nonsense, darling! You bite the bullet and get on with it. One can’t expect to be happy all the time. That’s the trouble with your generation, you didn’t live through the war. You expect to be happy, as if it’s a right. It’s not a right. It’s a bonus. The cherry on the cake. Daisy’s a mother and she owes it to those children to bring them up. They’re going to have to live with the knowledge that they were abandoned. Imagine what a terrible scar. Those poor darlings. My heart bleeds for them. Bleeds for them,” she repeated with emphasis. “Darling, this soup is frightfully good. What is it?”

  “Parsnip and ginger. I’m so glad you like it,” said Ava, still reeling from the scandal.

  “Perhaps if you’d remained friends with Daisy, she wouldn’t have got into this mess,” continued Verity. “You’d have been a good example to her. Such a pity!” Donald looked at Phillip and rolled his eyes.

  The following day Ava showed her mother around the garden. Jean-Paul appeared for work even though it was Saturday. “I want to water those plants,” he explained. “And the children want to build a bonfire.”

  “I’m Ava’s mother,” said Verity. It didn’t occur to her to shake his hand; after all, he was just the gardener. So when Jean-Paul took hers and raised it to his lips, murmuring “Enchanté,” Verity didn’t know whether to be shocked or flattered.

  “They’re keeping you busy,” she said, trying not to look flustered.

  “I am not an idle man. I like to be busy.”

  “Well, there’s no shortage of things to do in this garden, is there?”

  “Where are the children?” Ava asked.

  “They are in the hollow tree. They are playing pirates.” He ran a hand through his hair, leaving it sticking up in thick, glossy tufts.

  “Have they got my Heinz?”