The French Gardener

by Santa Montefiore

  With a racing heart she flicked through letters addressed to Monsieur de la Grandière of Château les Lucioles. Could Jean-Paul live in a château? She recalled him saying he had grown up on a vineyard. She hadn’t imagined he might own it. Her curiosity aroused, she went on looking through the papers. There were balance sheets of figures she didn’t understand, but she could understand vintages and years and the French word for wine. It didn’t take long to convince herself that Jean-Paul de la Grandière owned a vineyard in Bordeaux. That while he was her gardener, he was also a businessman. There was nothing wrong with that, she thought. He had never pretended to live in England. The fact that he hadn’t told her meant nothing. She had never asked. She had hired him as her gardener and he had done his job beautifully.

  As she left the cottage she suddenly got a whiff of orange blossom again. How strange, she thought. As far as I know there are no orange trees in the garden. She walked over the bridge, her curiosity in no way abated. Jean-Paul was not what he seemed. If he owned a vineyard and lived in a château that would account for his lack of interest in money. He clearly had more than enough. She couldn’t help but ask herself why, with a successful business in France, he would want to be a simple gardener in Hartington. What had drawn him to her corner of Dorset and why did he remain?

  Summer

  XXXII

  The orchard filled with wild dandelions. The pale blue spikes of camassias rising above the grass like candles.

  Hartington House, 1980

  Jean-Paul returned to England and into Ava’s welcome embrace. She smelled of France. Of orange blossom and grapes, freshly cut grass and hay. They lay entwined beneath the eaves of the cottage as the midday sun fell over the bed, turning her skin a golden brown. He ran his fingers over her shoulder, down the gentle descent of ribs to the soft curve of her waist and hips. Her body was slight but feminine, with undulations in all the right places. He had pulled out the pencil on top of her head and scrunched her hair in his hands so it tumbled around her face, framing it like Botticelli’s Venus. He had come to know her face better than his own. Her sensitive green eyes, her long, intelligent nose, her short upper lip and her large, sensual mouth that smiled so easily and with such charm. When they made love she looked like a girl of twenty. Her cheeks flushed pink, her eyes sparkled, her lips swelled with desire and her skin shimmered with a dewy translucence.

  He pushed her gently onto her back and kissed her stomach where the skin was scarred by the marks of pregnancy. “Your stomach is very sexy,” he said, pressing his face to it.

  Ava laughed. “You can’t find scars attractive?”

  “You don’t understand. You should wear them like badges of honor.”

  “They’re ugly.”

  “Not to me, ma pêche. They’re marks of womanhood. Motherhood. Femininity. The miracle of childbirth. They make you even more beautiful.”

  “Now I know why I love you,” she said, stroking his hair. He rested his head on her belly.

  “I would like you to carry my child,” he said. Ava’s fingers stopped a moment. “I wonder what a child of ours would look like.”

  “We’ll never know.”

  “I would like to see your belly swell with love. A part of you and a part of me.” He closed his eyes. “A son to work with me at the vineyard. A daughter to spoil and indulge as I would like to spoil and indulge you, if only I could take you back to France. I want more of you, Ava. More than you can ever give me.” He laid his head beside hers on the pillow. With his hand against her cheek, he turned her face and kissed her. “I curse the God that let you meet Phillip before me.”

  “Don’t curse, Jean-Paul. We should thank the God that brought us together, even if…”

  He put his finger across her lips. “Don’t say it. Please don’t say it. Those words are like daggers to my heart. Un arc-en-ciel,” he said softly, smiling in resignation. “Even if He has given us nothing more than a beautiful rainbow.”

  Ava could not curse the God that gave her Phillip. She couldn’t explain to Jean-Paul that she loved her husband. That there are many ways of loving someone, as many shades as there are colors in a spectrum, and that she loved them both, at the same time, in different ways. He would not understand and she hoped he would never ask her. She thanked God for giving her Archie, Angus and Poppy even though they were obstacles to her happiness with Jean-Paul. If she had a wish, it would be for another life where she was free to love him without restraint.

  She was aware that her affair jeopardized her marriage but she never imagined that Phillip would find out. They were careful and he was away so much of the time. Besides, it felt so natural working with Jean-Paul in the garden and making love to him in the grass. The two were intertwined: her love for him and her love for the garden. They had grown together and were now forever connected, like birds and berries, rabbits and radishes.

  Their love had flowered with the cottage garden, now ablaze with color and humming with bees. A froth of apple blossom quivered in the breeze beside a tumbling pink rose salvaged and cultivated into an archway over the little red gate that formed the entrance to the garden. Viburnum and lilac made a fragrant backdrop to pink foxgloves and lilies, red roses and spreading alchemilla mollis. They spent hours sitting on the bench that surrounded the mountain ash, talking about nothing, taking pleasure from being together, riding that elusive rainbow.

  The summer wore on and the vegetables they had planted with the children were grown and ready to pick. The square patches were neatly planted with rows of lettuces, Brussels sprouts, carrots, leeks, onions, cabbages, marrows and rhubarb. The children gathered raspberries and strawberries, rescuing the odd bird who managed to break into the netted enclosures. Sweet peas had begun to climb the arched frames Jean-Paul had erected for them, intertwined with peas. Ava picked them and arranged them all over the house. Every time she smelled them she thought of Jean-Paul. Never in her life had she been so happy. The ancient walls that enclosed the garden were adorned with roses, white wisteria, clematis and honeysuckle. Squirrels scampered playfully and doves sung low and sweet like gentle flutes. Bright yellow senecio billowed out from under the wall, spilling over the gravel path that divided the garden by way of a large cross. She basked in the loveliness of her garden, glorying in the magic they had sown there.

  The long summer days of June belonged to them. The children were at school, Phillip was working on his book, locked away in his study or traveling abroad. They weeded with Hector, stealing kisses in the borders and behind bushes, sneaking off to make love under the eaves of the cottage where only the squirrels were likely to invade their privacy. They shared jokes, a language they cultivated with the same creativity and verve with which they had cultivated the gardens, and a growing love for each other and the natural world that surrounded them.

  In July the children broke up from school and Jean-Paul and Ava had to take more care not to be caught. As long as they were together, they were content. The smiles they shared said more than words ever could, and the thousand times a day they brushed against each other were as electrifying as those indulgent afternoons in June when they had lain naked together and made love. Their happiness was infectious. The children played around them like bees about a honeypot. When he came home, Phillip recognized the glow of love in his wife’s cheeks and wanted her more than ever. She looked like the girl he had taken to Tuscany before Archie was born. She welcomed his advances at night, ashamed of her duplicity, knowing that her marriage was something she would never discuss with Jean-Paul.

  One afternoon, while the children played with Toddy’s at Bucksley Farm, Jean-Paul and Ava rode out onto the hills. Purple clouds gathered above them, setting the countryside below in a dusky light. The wind swept in off the sea causing the horses to spring about excitedly. They galloped over the grass, their laughter rising into the air with the distant cry of gulls. At times like this they could imagine they were alone in the world, just the two of them. They could forget the complicati
ons down in the valley. Up here they could see for miles, the rolling fields, the silver river snaking down to the sea, the misty horizon where it was already raining, glimpses of a future they could only dream of.

  Jean-Paul stopped first. His cheeks were flushed, his brown eyes sparkling happily. “We’re going to get very wet,” he said, holding out his hand for Ava to take.

  “Let’s tie the horses up under a tree. We’ll never get back before it rains,” she suggested.

  He squeezed her hand before letting it go. “I love you,” he said, smiling. “I don’t think I’ve ever loved you more.”

  “Et moi aussi, je t’aime,” she replied, smiling back.

  They rode over to a small copse where they dismounted and tied up the horses. No sooner were they under the umbrella of leaves than it started to rain. Jean-Paul held her close, leaning back against the thick trunk. “I’m grateful to the rain,” he said with a chuckle. “Today we have the perfect excuse to remain up here all afternoon.”

  “Toddy can give the children tea.”

  “And we can steal an hour or two.”

  “The garden will love this.”

  “It’s been very dry lately. Ian Fitzherbert will love it, too.”

  “Farmers are a funny lot. They’re never completely happy with the weather. It’s either too dry or too wet, too hot, too cold. I think if they were able to control it with a remote they’d still be dissatisfied.”

  “It’s the same at the vineyard. They fret about the frost. Oh la la! You wouldn’t believe the trouble they go to to keep it away.”

  “Is it possible to keep it away?”

  “Oh yes. They can light braziers to warm the air. It is not unheard of for a rich vineyard to fly helicopters low over the fields to circulate the air.”

  “That’s a great extravagance.”

  “Not if it saves the grape.”

  “You love it, don’t you?”

  “It is my home. But without you it will be soulless.”

  “Let’s not think about that now.”

  “I’m selfish, Ava. I want you for myself. Exclusively. I want to marry you, have armfuls of children to run up and down the vines as I did. Just think what we can do to the gardens of Les Lucioles. With our magic we can make it the most beautiful château in France.”

  “Your mother has already done that.”

  “We will reach even greater heights. Don’t you see what a combination we are?”

  “Yes. But I am married and I already have children to run around the gardens here. We cannot change what is past; we can only live in the moment. It’s all we have.”

  “Do you still sleep with Phillip?” His question caught her off guard.

  She stiffened. She didn’t want to lie to him, but neither did she want to hurt him. “Please don’t ask me.”

  “Don’t I have a right to know?”

  “What difference would it make?”

  “Peace of mind.”

  “It changes nothing between us.”

  “I want you to belong to me.”

  “I never will, my darling. I will always be married to Phillip.”

  “I could bear it if you were his wife in name only.”

  “Isn’t love more important than ownership? Isn’t it enough to know that I love you body and soul?”

  He kissed her forehead. “It should be.”

  “It must be. It is all I can give you.”

  At that moment the clouds parted and the sun beamed through like a torch from Heaven. They walked hand in hand into the rain to watch as a vibrant rainbow straddled the valley. The colors were glorious, from deep red to pale purple.

  “That is what we have,” said Jean-Paul.

  “And look how beautiful it is.”

  He swung her into his arms and kissed her. “I don’t want to lose you. I’m so frightened I will lose you.”

  “Don’t…”

  “Promise me that you will come to me when your children are grown up and no longer need you?”

  “I can’t promise.”

  “Yes, you can. If you love me you will be here when I come back to get you. Your children will be grown up. Phillip will be an old man. You will be free.”

  “But you will marry and have children of your own.”

  “I will never love another.”

  “You can’t put your life on hold for me. I love you, but I’m realistic enough to know that life will part us. Like that rainbow, the rain will take us.”

  “It will not take our love. I will love you forever.”

  She took his damp face in her hands and gazed at him lovingly. “You won’t want me when I’m an old woman. You will still be young and handsome.”

  “My heart will always belong to you.”

  “You’re too idealistic. Life isn’t like that.”

  “Just promise me.”

  “Okay. I promise you. When the children no longer need me. When Phillip is an old man. When I’m free, you can come back and get me.”

  He hugged her fiercely. “Now I can breathe again, because whatever happens I have something to look forward to.” Ava leaned against him, certain that one day he’d give his heart to another woman, raise his own children at Les Lucioles and forget the promise they had made.

  She stared at the rainbow, willing it to last. “Can you see pink between the green and the blue?”

  “You tease me. There is no pink there. It is next to red, no?”

  “Look harder.”

  “I’m looking as hard as I can.”

  “That is not hard enough.”

  “I don’t believe it exists.”

  “Of course it does. I can see it. My eyes don’t lie.”

  “Then you have a sense that I lack.”

  “Look, the rain has stopped.”

  “We will lose the rainbow.”

  “But we have one of our own, right here, inside us.” She pressed her hand to her heart. “It’ll last as long as we want it to.”

  In August the weather was hot and dry. The children played with Toddy’s twins and other friends from school who joined their pack and roamed the gardens like excitable dogs. Toddy noticed Ava’s radiance but didn’t imagine for a moment it was because of Jean-Paul. Ava wasn’t the sort to have an affair. Her marriage to Phillip was the strongest she knew. She watched her friend walk with a bounce in her step, a grin that remained even when her face was in repose and a bubbling laugh that came from deep inside her, like a secret underground spring. She envied Ava’s inner contentment. Her life was like a gentle summer breeze.

  Phillip congratulated himself on having taken her to France. Ever since that short break Ava had been transformed. He cursed his book, the fact that it took him away from her. Yet, the sound of her voice singing in the bushes outside, humming in the hall as she arranged flowers, playing in the garden with their children, filled him with joy. They held weekend house parties, cramming the house with friends from London: writers, historians, journalists and painters. Mrs. Marley’s eyes bulged at the names, having seen them in the papers or heard them on the radio. They stayed up late at night, the men smoking cigars and drinking port, the women chatting in the drawing room, gossiping about their husbands. They were an older crowd of Phillip’s friends, but Ava found them stimulating. Phillip knew that she sneaked off to be alone. He loved that about her—one moment vivacious, the next as solitary as a sandpiper. He never suspected that she took herself off to the little cottage to make love to Jean-Paul. He was confident of her devotion.

  At the end of August, Jean-Paul received a telephone call from his mother. It was time to come home. “Your father wants you to take over the vineyard,” she said. “He is getting older and his health is not as good as it was.”

  “Is he ill?”

  “No, but he’s tired and wants to hand it over to you. The truth is, Jean-Paul, he spends so much time in Paris…” Her voice trailed off.

  “I see.”

  “He wants you home early September. He insis
ts.”

  Jean-Paul was winded with panic. He couldn’t bear to face the end of their affair. A giant crack was splitting his heart in two. He had to tell someone. “Maman, I am in love,” he confessed. The tone of his voice told her that the situation wasn’t a happy one.

  “I am so pleased, darling. Who is she?”

  “You know her.”

  She hesitated, uncomfortable. “I do?”

  “She came to Les Lucioles. It is Ava.”

  There was a long pause while Antoinette struggled with the terrible revelation. “Not Ava Lightly, surely?”

  “Yes, maman. We are in love.”

  “But she is married, Jean-Paul.”

  “I know.” His voice wavered, but Antoinette’s gained an edge of steel.

  “Does Phillip know?”

  “No.”

  “Does anyone know?”

  “Just us.”

  “It must end,” she instructed firmly. “It must end at once!”

  “I can’t.”

  “You must. She is not available to you, Jean-Paul. She has a husband and children. Not to mention the fact that Phillip is a close friend of your father. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into. It can only bring unhappiness to everyone, including you. You must come home immediately.”

  “I thought you’d understand.”

  “Understand? Yes, I understand. I have suffered years as a consequence of your father’s continuing adultery. Let’s speak no more about it. I don’t want to hear her name mentioned ever again.”

  “But maman!”

  Her voice softened. “It is because I love you, Jean-Paul. You are my only son. I have high hopes for you; a good marriage, children, a life here at Les Lucioles. Ava Lightly is a dead end.”