The French Gardener

by Santa Montefiore

  Henrietta adored children. Gus and Storm sensed it immediately and began to show off. Not since Jean-Paul had they had such an attentive audience. She listened to them, laughed at their jokes and let them show her their bedrooms and toys. She admired Storm’s pink playhouse, cuddled her cushions and gushed about the fairy dresses hanging in her closet. Gus showed her the tree house, scaling the ladder like a squirrel. “Jean-Paul made it for us,” he told her. “I can see for miles. J-P!” he shouted.

  “J-P?” repeated Henrietta with a laugh.

  “That’s his nickname. He’s J-P, I’m Gus-the-Strong and Storm is Bright-Sky.”

  “I like it,” she enthused.

  He shouted again. “He’s probably in the cottage garden. He’s always in there.” Henrietta longed for Jean-Paul to appear, but he didn’t. Gus scampered down the ladder and disappeared inside the hollow tree.

  At eleven she took them hot chocolate and digestive biscuits in their tree house. She went down on all fours, not caring that her knees were in the mud, chasing them around the tree, pretending to be Captain Hook. Then she thrust her head into the aperture and shouted, “Ooh-aah, me hearties!”, her large behind sticking out like a mushroom. That is how Jeremy Fitzherbert’s dogs found her. They sniffed her bottom with excitement as she struggled to extract herself. When she emerged, her hair was a mess, her face flushed and her blue eyes were glittering like dewy corn-flowers. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything,” said Jeremy, grinning at the sight of her.

  “Oh God, I’m so sorry,” she gushed, pushing herself up. “I’m a pirate.”

  “You make a very good pirate,” he replied, looking her up and down. She tried to smoothe her hair.

  “More like Pooh-Bear stuck in Rabbit’s front door, I think. You got the wrong end, I’m afraid.”

  “Nothing wrong with that end. It looked perfect to me.”

  “Have we met?” she asked, puzzled.

  “Indeed. You’re Henrietta Moon, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” She frowned.

  “I’m Jeremy Fitzherbert. I own the neighboring farm.”

  “Of course we’ve met,” she replied, as everything clicked into place.

  “I’ve been into your shop. You sell those large jars of candy sticks. They’re my favorites.”

  “Mine, too,” she exclaimed, feeling bad at not having remembered him. “The butterscotch ones especially.”

  “Exactly. Once I start I can’t stop.”

  “Unfortunately that’s my problem, too.”

  “You look very well on it.”

  She stared at him, not knowing what to say. She wasn’t used to compliments. She didn’t imagine for a minute that he meant it. There passed a moment of awkwardness while Henrietta struggled to move her tongue and Jeremy found himself swallowed into her aquamarine eyes. He wanted to tell her how beautiful they were, but immediately felt embarrassed. She had probably heard it a hundred times before.

  “Bonjour, Jeremy,” came a voice. They both turned to see Jean-Paul striding up the path towards them, his jovial greeting breaking the silence. Henrietta caught her breath at the sight of his smile and felt her stomach lurch like it used to do as a child on fairground rides. “Bonjour, madame,” he said to her. He took her hand and raised it to his lips, bowing formally. Henrietta didn’t know where to look. She felt the prickly heat of embarrassment rise up her neck to her throat, spreading across her skin in a mottled rash. No one had ever kissed her hand before. It must be a French thing, she thought, struggling to recover.

  “I’ve brought you the small tractor and trailer you wanted,” said Jeremy. It appeared that neither had noticed her sudden wilting. Storm and Gus wriggled out of the hole in the tree to run about with the dogs.

  “Thank you,” said Jean-Paul. “That will be a big help.” They talked about the gardens, the farm and the weather, unusually warm for that time of year, while Henrietta listened, too shy to utter a single word. Finally, Jean-Paul turned to her. “I gather you are looking after Gus-the-Strong and Bright-Sky today,” he said, his eyes deep and twinkling.

  “Yes,” she croaked.

  “How do you like my house?”

  “It’s terrific, it really is.”

  “I see you completed the ladder,” said Jeremy, patting the wood. “Good solid oak, that.” Henrietta envied the ease with which he spoke to Jean-Paul. “Have you been up?” he asked her.

  “No,” she replied. “As you saw, I had difficulty getting out. I’m sure I’d suffer worse coming down!”

  “Not at all. Come on!” Jeremy stood on the first rung of the ladder. “Feels solid,” he said.

  “It should be. I made it to take the weight of an elephant,” said Jean-Paul.

  “Then it should hold me,” Henrietta laughed nervously, praying that it wouldn’t collapse beneath her weight. She regretted every croissant she had ever eaten. Jeremy climbed up first, then he encouraged Henrietta to follow. She placed her feet tentatively on the first rung, then the second, waiting for the crack as the wood snapped in two.

  “Don’t be afraid,” said Jean-Paul behind her. “The ladder is solid, I promise. Are you frightened of heights?” She couldn’t tell him she was frightened of her own size.

  “A little,” she lied. She looked up to see Jeremy holding his hand out for her. When she reached the top she took it gratefully and stepped onto the platform on which the house was built. She took a deep breath and looked around. Gus was right, the view was stunning.

  “How beautiful the church spire looks rising above the trees,” she said.

  “If it weren’t for the trees we’d see my farm,” said Jeremy.

  “I’d like to see your farm,” Henrietta replied, remembering picnics as a child watching the combines.

  “You can come over any time,” he said softly, wondering why he had never noticed her before. She was delicious, like a toffee apple. He glanced down at her left hand and saw she didn’t wear a ring.

  Henrietta noticed Jean-Paul didn’t join them. He stood on the grass below, talking to the children who were roaring with laughter. They clearly adored him. Jeremy watched her watching Jean-Paul and felt a jolt of disappointment. Not that it surprised him; how could a man like him compete with Jean-Paul?

  He left them at the tree and returned to his farm. There was a leak in the corridor outside his bathroom that needed mending. He changed into his blue coveralls, placed his tweed cap firmly on his head and went to collect the ladders from the vegetable garden where they lay against the side of the greenhouse. Mr. Ben and Wolfgang trotted along beside him. Life with Jeremy was always an adventure. The house dated back to the sixteenth century and was in constant need of repair, which Jeremy took upon himself to carry out. He was practical and innovative, though most would say eccentric. Replacing cracked roof tiles was a dangerous procedure requiring two ladders and a great deal of daring. The job took his mind off Henrietta Moon and the way she had blushed when Jean-Paul had kissed her hand. The Frenchman had charm, there was no doubt about that. If he started kissing hands everyone would fall about laughing. But Jean-Paul with his thick accent and deep-set brown eyes could carry off any outdated ritual of chivalry and everyone would think him the most romantic man to set foot in Hartington. Jeremy didn’t stand a chance. He unhooked the cracked tile and tried to think of something else.

  Henrietta managed to overcome her shyness in the company of Jean-Paul. The children took her off to the cottage garden to help with the planting. Mr. Underwood was there with his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, cap on his head, eyes bright with enthusiasm. He enjoyed having the children around. They reminded him of his own boys who used to sit on the tractor as he ploughed old Fitzherbert’s fields. Now they were grown up, driving tractors with their own sons. If there was one thing he knew about children, it was that they liked to be included. Storm and Gus dug the holes and, together with Jean-Paul, placed the bulbs inside with great care as if they were hibernating animals. The weather was uncharacteristically mil
d so the earth was still soft and warm. Henrietta got into the spirit of it, too. She listened to Jean-Paul teaching the children about plants, patiently answering their questions. Then, every now and then he’d let out a roar of laughter at something one of them said and they’d all laugh together in blissful abandonment. It occurred to Henrietta that perhaps Jean-Paul was more comfortable with children than with adults and she wanted to ask him why he had never had any of his own.

  Miranda had arrived in London early, hitting Peter Jones as it opened at 9:30. She inhaled the smell of carbon monoxide and felt a shiver of happiness. She was back where she belonged. The traffic rumbled, horns hooted, sirens screamed, people shouted, the pavements were crowded with jostling bodies. No one looked anyone in the eye, everyone went about their own business anonymously. She noticed no one smiled. But she did, from ear to ear.

  She spent all morning buying presents. She went to Daisy & Tom for the children, where laughing toddlers rode the carousel and upstairs sat enthralled by the Peter and the Wolf puppet show. She bought David a couple of sweaters from Yves Saint Laurent on Sloane Street and a pair of shoes from Tod’s. Finally, inside the temple that was Harvey Nichols, she wandered about slowly, relishing the familiar smell of perfume, gazing at the counters laden with boxed gifts and glittering pots of creams promising eternal youth. It was her wonderland. She bought some Trish McEvoy makeup in celebration of her return.

  By lunchtime she had ticked almost everything off her list, except for the children’s stocking fillers, the majority of which she’d buy in Hartington. She made her way to the fifth floor to meet Blythe and Anoushka for lunch. Catching herself in the mirror as she stood on the escalator, she was satisfied that although she lived in the countryside, she still retained her urban glamour. In jeans tucked into leather boots, a gold, fur-trimmed Prada ski jacket and Anya Hindmarch handbag, she felt confident that her girlfriends would be impressed.

  She found them already sitting at the table, heads close together, gossiping. “Hello, girls,” she said, standing before them. They sprang apart, clocking the jacket and bag almost before they greeted her.

  “Darling, you look gorgeous,” said Blythe, her green cat’s eyes sliding silkily up and down Miranda’s body in appreciation. “No one can say the country isn’t doing you good!”

  “Thank you,” she replied, sitting down. She kissed them both, almost tasting their perfume on her lips.

  “Oh, it’s so good to see you,” said Anoushka in her Anglo-American drawl. “Where are the boots from?” She tossed her wavy blond hair, aware of the man at the next-door table appraising her.

  “Tod’s,” she replied.

  “This season?” Anoushka’s voice had an edge to it.

  “Yes.”

  “They look great. I wonder if they’ve got any left. You don’t mind if I just call them quickly, do you?” She pulled out her mobile telephone and pressed the numbers with blood-red fingernails.

  “So,” said Blythe. “How’s it all going down there?”

  “It’s taken a while, but I’m beginning to settle in now. You’ll have to come and stay after Christmas.”

  “I’d love to, when I’m back. We’re off to Mauritius for ten days. I’ve rented the private villa at the Saint Géran. The bastard has made me so miserable I have no qualms about spending his money. You know he’s dragging the whole thing on and on and on. I bet he won’t give me a divorce for the full two years. Even if it costs him more in the long run, he just wants to drag it out to torment me.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s such a mess. I wish he’d give you a divorce and bugger off, then you can both get on with your lives. David tells me he’s been giving you advice.”

  “David,” she repeated, smiling tenderly. “Your husband has been a real support. I don’t know what I’d have done without him. With you tucked away in the country I had no one to turn to. Then in he rides like a knight in shining armor. He’s so patient and thoughtful.”

  “Oh good,” Miranda replied, wishing he was as patient and thoughtful with her.

  “He’s given me invaluable advice. Thanks to him I’m going to fleece the bastard. He’s going to wish he had treated me better. David is my secret weapon.”

  “Isn’t he begging you to come home?”

  “Only because he doesn’t want to part with fifteen million.”

  “I can’t say I blame him. That’s not exactly pocket money.”

  “I deserve it for having put up with his infidelities for the last ten years. I might embark on some infidelity myself.”

  “Have you found someone?”

  “Maybe.” She looked coy.

  “You have!” Miranda exclaimed. “Do I know him?”

  “No,” said Blythe quickly. “No one knows him. It’s not big love, but it is big sex. He’s delicious in the sack. Makes me hit the ceiling every time.”

  “Is he married?”

  Blythe pulled a face.

  “Oh, Blythe!” Miranda exclaimed. “Be careful. Remember how it feels. Don’t put some poor wife through the hell you went through.”

  “It won’t last,” she said dismissively. “It’s only a bit of fun. I promise you, no one will get hurt. It’s not like I’m his mistress.”

  “Then what are you?”

  “A friend who fucks,” she replied with a self-satisfied smile. “Let’s order some champagne. We’re celebrating your return to the big smoke.” She called over the waiter with a brisk click of her fingers. Anoushka came off the phone having succeeded in reserving a pair of boots in a size seven.

  “Such a relief,” she exclaimed. “I’d have died had they not had them. Now, let’s fill you in on the gossip,” she said. “There’s so much, I barely know where to start.”

  Miranda listened while they recounted the scandals and misadventures that had kept London gossips busy in her absence. They drank champagne, picked at grilled fish with salad and hadn’t a nice word to say about anyone. Miranda felt oddly remote, as if a pane of glass separated her from the two of them. Once she had had news to contribute; now she had nothing to add. She would have liked to share Ava Lightly’s scrapbook and Jean-Paul, but Hartington was a world away from Knightsbridge. Small town news wouldn’t interest these big town girls.

  There were plenty of affairs and divorces going on in London to keep those two vultures happy, pecking with relish at the exposed flesh of the hurt and vulnerable. Miranda sat back and listened with a mixture of intrigue and disgust. Having been away for a few months she was able to observe them with an objectivity she hadn’t had before. As the lunch progressed, her two friends became somewhat grotesque. Their collagen-enhanced lips grew swollen with champagne, their botoxed foreheads took on an alien quality, robbing them of humanity. The more they rummaged about the lives of London’s broken, the less compassionate they became. Miranda left to resume her Christmas shopping with a sour taste in her mouth. Suddenly London didn’t hold so great an appeal. The traffic was too loud, the pavements too crowded, the people unfriendly, even the smell of perfume on the ground floor of Harvey Nichols had become unbearable. She longed to return to the peace of Hartington.

  When she reached home, Miranda was a little surprised to see that Henrietta had put the children to bed and was sitting in the kitchen having supper with Jean-Paul. “I hope you don’t mind,” said Henrietta. “We’ve been in the garden all day planting things. The children are done in; they fell asleep the moment Jean-Paul finished telling them the story of the velveteen rabbit. We thought we’d celebrate the end of a hard day’s work.”

  “I’m delighted,” Miranda replied, drawing up a chair. “I can’t thank you enough for looking after them for me.”

  “You look exhausted,” said Jean-Paul. “Let me pour you a glass of wine. There was a time when I thought the city was the only place to live. Then I discovered how shallow and empty it was. Like icing on a rotten cake. Underneath it was all bad.”

  “God, that’s just how I feel. I was so excited to get up there,
walking those pavements again, but by the end of the day all I wanted was to come home.”

  “I’ve never liked the city,” said Henrietta. “Much too unfriendly. Here in Hartington there’s a sense of community. I like belonging.”

  “So, have you finished my little garden?” Miranda asked, already feeling better for their company.

  Jean-Paul’s smile poured warm honey over the sour taste that had been with her since lunch. “We have completed the planting. With a little magic, it will flower in spring.”

  “Why do you always say magic, Jean-Paul?” Miranda asked. “Do you mean nature?”

  “Magic is love, Miranda. If you love someone they grow in beauty and confidence. They flower before your eyes. A woman who isn’t beautiful becomes beautiful in the warmth of love. The garden is the same. With love it will grow better and brighter and more abundant. There is no secret to love or magic, just the limitations of our own courage and self-belief.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Love requires effort, exertion and will. True love begins with loving ourselves. Love is not purely a feeling but an act of will. The man in a bar who neglects his family will tell you with tears in his eyes that he loves his wife and children. Love is as love does. A very exceptional woman taught me that a long time ago.”

  Henrietta and Miranda sat in silence. The more he spoke, the less they knew him and the deeper the pool of his experience and wisdom seemed. Both recognized the terrible sadness in his eyes but neither had the courage to ask him its cause. Henrietta dreamed of being loved by him; Miranda knew loving him was only a dream. Both hearts reached out to the man who would only ever love one woman. The woman he was slowly bringing to life in the tender planting of their garden.