XX
The wistful light of dusk turning the dovecote pink, but only for an instant like the soft outward breath of heaven
Jean-Paul returned to the Château les Lucioles for Christmas. He drove through the large iron gates, up the drive that swept in a magnificent curve around an ancient cedar tree and parked the car on the gravel in front of the impressive façade. The pale blue shutters were open, the windowsills covered with a thin sprinkling of frost. He gazed up at the tall roof where small dormer windows peeped out sleepily and towering chimneys stretched into the crisp blue sky. Françoise unlocked the door with much rattling of keys, complaining bitterly of the cold even before she saw him. “Monsieur, come inside quickly before you catch your death. Gerard has lit fires in the hall and drawing room. Are you hungry? Armandine has left a daube in the oven and there is a fresh loaf of bread. She was not sure whether or not you would have eaten. She will come back tonight to cook your dinner. Don’t waste time outside. Come come, it is cold.” The housekeeper beckoned him inside, closing the door behind him with a loud clank. “These big houses are hard to keep warm,” she muttered, shuffling into the hall.
“Is Hubert here?” he asked, thinking only of the garden.
“Yes. Why don’t you eat first, see him later? He is outside.”
“Has there been much frost?”
“Only in the last week. It has suddenly got very cold after a mild autumn.”
He glanced about the hall, at the blazing fire in the grate, the shiny flagstone floor and faded Persian rugs, and sighed with pleasure. It was good to be home. He took off his coat, handing it to Françoise. “I will see him now in the drawing room,” he said. “You can bring the daube in on a tray. I’ll eat in there.”
“Shall I let the dogs in?” she asked. “They have been restless all morning. They knew you were coming home.”
“Yes. I’ve missed them.”
“Are you here to stay?”
“No. I’ll leave in ten days.”
She pushed out her bottom lip. “Such a short visit?”
“Yes.”
“If your mother were alive…”
“But she is not,” he retorted briskly.
“Why do you stay away? The animals miss you.” She lowered her eyes. “So do we.”
He looked at her tenderly. “Ah, Françoise, you are a sentimental woman underneath that efficient exterior.”
“And what of you, monsieur? Why don’t you find a nice young woman and settle down and have a family? This is a large château. It is not right that it is empty all year. It echoes with the voices of ghosts because it is not inhabited.”
He shook his head. “Things don’t always end up the way they were planned.”
“What plans did you have?” He caught her looking at him with a mother’s concern.
“Those I cannot speak of to anyone,” he replied grimly. “Now bring me my food, I’m ravenous. And tell Hubert I want to see him.”
Two Great Danes bounded into the drawing room, rushing up to him excitedly. He fell to his knees and embraced them both, allowing them to lick his face. “I’ve missed you, too!” he told them, gently pulling their ears and patting their backs. There had always been Great Danes at Les Lucioles. A house of that size needed big animals to fill it. He sat on the club fender, the fire warming his back, looking out through the French doors that led into the garden, now hidden beneath frost. He had hoped to return with Ava. To show her the gardens he had created for her. To live out the rest of their lives together. She had promised. He had promised, too. Promises sealed with love. He had kept his side of the bargain, but what of hers?
Françoise entered with his lunch on a tray. “Are you going to spend Christmas on your own?” she asked.
“I have no choice.”
“What a shame. A handsome young man like you.”
“Don’t pity me, woman,” he growled.
“If your mother were alive…”
“But she is not,” he repeated. “If she were alive she would spend it with me. As it is, I am alone.”
“Of all the men worthy of love it is you, monsieur. I have known you since you were a little boy. It causes me pain to see you live alone. Yes, it is all very well taking lovers, but I want more than that for you. I want a good, honest girl and a brood of healthy children.”
“I’m past that now.”
“Not if you marry a fertile young woman.”
“Françoise, you are dreaming.” He chuckled cynically. Hubert entered, cap in hand.
“Bonjour, monsieur. I am glad you have returned safely.” He bowed formally.
“I am being cross-examined, Hubert. Françoise, bring Hubert a glass of brandy. Now tell me. How are the gardens?”
Françoise retreated into the hall. She was stiff in the joints and her back ached constantly. She should have retired years ago but she remained out of loyalty to Jean-Paul’s late mother and to Jean-Paul, whom she loved as a son. She had seen him return from England twenty-six years before, a broken young man, determined to remain true to the woman he loved but could not have. Françoise had briefly known love and lost it so she had understood his pain. That kind of sorrow is healed over time; hers was now nothing more than a thin scar across her heart. But Jean-Paul had never healed. His heart was still open, raw and bleeding. Like a dog beside the dead body of his master, Jean-Paul let his love starve him slowly to death. His mother never experienced the joy of grandchildren. His father’s dreams for him were never realized. Neither knew why. But Françoise knew all the secrets, for like a shadow, she lingered in every corner of the château, invisible but omnipresent. Only she had seen the paintings stacked against the wall, the letters written and never sent, and the flowers planted in the hope that one day he would bring her back and show her how he had dedicated his life to her with as much attentiveness as if she were beside him.
She clicked her tongue and lumbered across the stone slabs towards the kitchen wing and her cozy sitting room. Some things were better forgotten. Life was short. What was the point of pining for the unattainable? Hadn’t she closed the chapter, put away the book and begun again? It wasn’t easy but it was possible. She lowered herself carefully into an armchair and picked up her needlepoint. At least he was home, for that she was grateful.
Back at Hartington House Miranda missed Jean-Paul’s presence. Her parents, with her father’s sister, Constance, arrived in a silver Land Rover packed with presents and luggage. This was their first visit. Diana Stanley-Kline had much to comment on, wafting about from room to room in ivory slacks, matching cashmere sweater, suede shoes, and pearls the size of grapes. “Oh dear,” she sniffed at her daughter’s kitchen stools. “The distressed look might be very fashionable, but you wouldn’t want to sit on one of these in your best tights.” She raised her eyebrows at the large ornamental glass vases in the hall. “What odd things to have in a house with small children!” And when Miranda told her about the gardens, how they had once been the most beautiful in Dorset, she scrunched her nose and remarked: “Well, everything’s relative.” As usual nothing could please her mother. Miranda longed for it all to be over and for everyone to go home.
Constance had the annoying habit of interrupting. She’d ask a question but not listen to the answer, preferring to give her opinion instead, cutting one off midsentence. After a while Miranda gave up trying and sat back and listened with half an ear, making the right noises in the right places to suggest that she was paying attention. David liked her father, Robert. They sat smoking cigars, discussing politics. They shared the same opinions, both right wing and equally pompous.
The children played outside in their boots and coats, their laughter rising into the damp air. But Gus seemed lost without Jean-Paul. He tried to get his father to play with them, but David was busy with their grandfather. The child lingered on the stone bridge, gazing forlornly at the cottage that was empty and cold. Storm returned inside to play Hama beads on the kitchen table while Mrs. Underwood cooked l
unch. Gus was left alone to wander about in search of entertainment. Without Jean-Paul to keep him busy he reverted to what he knew best: tormenting small, defenseless creatures.
He found his target along the thyme walk. It was a large spider with black hairy legs and a round, juicy body. Having been prodded with a stick it was cowering under a leaf, but Gus could see it clearly. It waited, frozen with fear. But in spite of its experience of birds and snakes, the spider couldn’t have imagined the nature of this predator.
Gus rolled onto his stomach where the paving stones were still damp from drizzle fallen in the night. It was no longer raining but the sky was darkened by clouds and the wind was edged with ice. Slowly, so as not to frighten the spider away, Gus moved his hand. The spider remained motionless, hoping perhaps that the predator might not see it if it didn’t move. But Gus was an expert when it came to spiders. He wasn’t afraid of them, like his sister and her friends. With a swiftness that came from years of practice, Gus thrust his fingers forward and grabbed the creature by one long, fragile leg. “Gotcha!” he whispered triumphantly. The spider tried in vain to escape. Gus pulled it out into the light and very slowly, while still holding one leg, plucked another off the body. He couldn’t hear the spider wail or see the look of pain in its eyes. Perhaps it felt no pain at all. It didn’t matter. One by one he pulled the legs off until all that remained was the soft round body which he left on the stone for a bird to eat. The legs lay like tiny twigs discarded by the wind.
His sense of satisfaction was short-lived. He thought of Jean-Paul and how he loved all God’s creatures, and was suddenly gripped with shame. Hastily, he squashed the little body under his foot, hoping to wipe away the deed, pretend it had never happened. He ran off into the vegetable garden, closing the door behind him, and found a warm place in one of the greenhouses. To his surprise it was full of pots. Each pot was packed tightly with earth, lined up in neat rows. There were about fifty in all and Gus swept his eyes over them in awe. He knew instinctively that Jean-Paul had planted something special in each that would grow in the spring. He sensed them hibernating beneath the soil. So this is garden magic, he thought excitedly, wishing that Jean-Paul were there to explain it to him. He spotted a beetle lying on its back on the concrete floor, legs wiggling frantically as it tried to right itself. Gently, so as not to hurt it, Gus flipped it over with a leaf and watched it scurry beneath a terra-cotta pot. His spirits rose on account of his good deed.
Miranda showed her mother and Constance around the garden. She found it easier to handle her mother’s barbed comments out there where Jean-Paul had sown his magic. She felt close to him, as if his presence warmed the air around her and filled her spirit with serenity. Constance rattled on enthusiastically, while Diana sniffed her contempt. “Goodness, do you really need such a large property? Terribly hard to maintain.”
“We have two gardeners,” Miranda replied grandly, smiling to herself as she thought of Jean-Paul.
“At your age I did everything myself. It’s terribly extravagant to employ so many people…”
“What nonsense, Diana,” interjected Constance. “You said so yourself, it’s a hard property to maintain. I would imagine you’d need more than two. I hope they’re good!”
“As you can see…”
“I certainly can, Miranda,” Constance interrupted again. “There’s not a weed to be seen anywhere. I do hope to see it in spring. It’ll burst into glorious flower.”
“Oh, spring will be lovely,” Diana agreed. “But by summer, everything will grow out of control and then you’ll realize you’ve taken on more than you can chew.” Miranda was relieved when Mrs. Underwood announced that lunch was ready and they returned inside.
“I must say, Miranda. You’ve done a splendid job, you really have,” said Constance when Diana was out of earshot. “You really have to be a terrible old sourpuss to find fault with it. Think nothing of it, my dear. The problem does not lie with you, but with your mother and the very ugly green monster that’s got under her skin.” The older woman winked. Miranda smiled and followed her into the cloakroom to hang up her coat.
Diana took her place at the dining room table. “Funny to have used such pale colors on the walls,” she said to her daughter. “It’s very London. I think warm colors are better suited to the countryside.”
“I don’t think…” Miranda began, but Constance dived in there before she could finish.
“It’s very pretty, Miranda. You’ve done the house beautifully, hasn’t she, Robert?”
“Yes, indeed,” her brother replied, having not considered the decoration for a moment. “Very tastefully done.”
“Gus and Storm, come and sit next to your grandmother. I see you so rarely. Miranda never brings you to stay with me. She should share you both a little more. Poor Grandma!” Miranda rolled her eyes and watched the children do as they were told, though without enthusiasm. “So pleased you’ve got a cook, Miranda. It wouldn’t be worth us coming all this way if we had to stomach your efforts.” She gave a little laugh as if it was meant in jest, but Miranda turned away, bruised. No wonder her sister had gone to live on the other side of the world.
Mrs. Underwood entered with a roast leg of lamb. The room was at once infused with the scent of rosemary and olive oil. Diana inhaled deeply but said nothing. Miranda wondered whether she’d have the nerve to criticize Mrs. Underwood. Now, that would be a skirmish she’d pay good money to see. She waited as her mother took her first bite while Mrs. Underwood went around the table with the dish of roast potatoes. Diana chewed in silence, her cheeks flushing with pleasure. Finally, she spoke.
“Very good,” she said briskly, piling another load onto her fork.
“Of course it is,” replied Mrs. Underwood, watching David help himself to four large potatoes. “It’s organic Dorset lamb. You won’t get better than this.” Diana knew better than to argue.
On Christmas Eve Gus and Storm put their stockings out for Father Christmas and went to bed without any fuss. Gus declared that he was going to lie in wait for him, while Storm argued that if he did Father Christmas wouldn’t come at all and neither of them would get any presents. Miranda tucked them up and returned to the drawing room to add a log or two to the fire and turn on the Christmas tree lights. She closed the curtains, put on a CD and sat a moment on the fender. She missed Jean-Paul. She missed his reassuring presence around the place. She wondered how he would advise she deal with her mother. He had answers for everything, like Old Father Time. Suddenly she had a longing to return to the scrapbook and for her parents and Constance to go home so that she could lie in peace on her bed and disappear into the secret life of Ava Lightly.
At that moment, David entered in a burgundy smoking jacket and matching velvet slippers. He saw his wife on the fender and smiled at her. “How are you, darling?”
“Surviving,” she replied.
“Are the stockings ready for me? I’m rather looking forward to playing Santa!”
“I hope Gus doesn’t stay awake for you. I’m afraid you’d be a big disappointment to him.”
“He’s been out all day. He’s exhausted. I don’t imagine he’ll manage to keep his eyes open for more than five minutes.”
“Mummy’s being very awkward,” she said, changing the subject.
“Only because you let her.” He popped open a bottle of champagne.
“It’s been like that all my life and I still don’t know how to handle her.”
“You’re a grown woman. Just tell her to shut up.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Since when have you been such a wilting wallflower?”
“David!”
“Well, darling. People treat you according to how you let them. All you have to do is say ‘no.’”
She frowned at him. “I can see why Blythe raves about you.”
“Does she?”
“Yes, she says you give good advice. Now I know she’s right.” He poured her a glass of champagne.
“Here’s to you, darling,” he said, kissing her cheek.
“What’s that for?” she asked.
“Just to tell you how much I appreciate you. I’ve bought you a splendid present.” Miranda smiled, thinking of Theo Fennell.
“Have you?” she asked coyly. “When are you going to give it to me?”
“I could give it to you now,” he said, kissing her again. “You smell delicious. Why don’t we sneak upstairs for ten minutes? I heard your mother running a bath, they’re going to be a while.”
“I haven’t had a bath either.”
“Good, I like you better before you go and cover yourself in oil. Come on!”
He took her hand and led her upstairs, both giggling like a couple of children afraid of being caught. Once in the bedroom he pushed her playfully onto the bed and settled himself beside her. He kissed her again. She forgot about the present as he pulled her shirt out of her jeans and ran his hand over her stomach. He undid her bra and cupped her breast, rubbing the nipple with his thumb. Then he buried his face in her neck, kissing the tender skin until she wriggled with pleasure. Aware that they could be disturbed at any moment they made love quickly. Miranda didn’t think about Jean-Paul. It had been so long since David had looked at her in that way, his eyes sleepy with lust, his mouth curled with admiration, that she remained in the moment with him.
When it was over they lay together, bound by the intimacy of their lovemaking. “You were a feast, darling!” he exclaimed. “Now I’ll give you your reward.” He got up and wandered naked into his dressing room. Miranda covered herself with the sheet and prepared herself for her gift.
“I hope you haven’t gone mad!” she said. It was impossible not to go mad in Theo Fennell.
“Don’t you think you deserve it, darling? I leave you down here all week. This is to tell you how much I appreciate and love you.” He returned holding a red box. Miranda knew immediately that it couldn’t be from Theo Fennell, whose boxes were pink and black. She felt a wave of disappointment but made an effort to dissemble. “Happy Christmas, darling.”
The French Gardener Page 21