Miranda began to cry. The end of the book was more tragic than she had imagined. Ava had kept the cottage a shrine. That was why the table was still laid for two; the only way she could prove her loyalty to him was to leave the place exactly as it was. She remained married, raised her children and continued as before, yet the cottage stood as testament of her love for him.
Miranda was surprised to read that Ava had had another child as she had contemplated before the affair with Jean-Paul began. It was another tie to keep herself from leaving. Peach tied her to the nursery and restrained her from bolting.
Peach is my consolation and my joy. Every day she fills me with wonder and appreciation. I am blessed. Out of the ashes this little soul rises to dry my tears and stroke my wounded heart with her gentle gaze and enchanting smile. I thought that part of me had died the day he left, but I was wrong. It was growing inside me as bright and beautiful as the man himself. Peach came with enough love to bind together the broken pieces of my spirit and mend my shattered world. If it hadn’t been for her I would surely have shriveled like an early flower killed by frost. Peach is my everything and she doesn’t even know it. One day I’ll tell her. God give me that courage…God, give me the time…
Miranda was stunned. She reread the last paragraph through her tears and realized that Peach was Jean-Paul’s child. The child he had longed for. The child he didn’t know he had. She was overwhelmed by the gravity of the secret she now held in the palm of her hand. What am I to do? She shuddered at the prospect of telling him that she had had the scrapbook all this time. Would he curse her for removing it from the cottage? Would he understand that she couldn’t have known it was left there for him? How would he react when she told him of the table laid for two, frozen for twenty-six years, exactly as he had left it? Would he ever forgive her?
The following day Miranda telephoned Henrietta to explain the plans for the weekend. Henrietta was beside herself with excitement. She hadn’t told Miranda about Jeremy. They had spent the evening together that Saturday at the fund-raising party in the town hall. Since then he had frequently called in at her shop. Sometimes she had been with Troy, and Clare had reported his visit. “It’s him again,” she’d say with a wry smile. “Why doesn’t he just ask you out?” Henrietta didn’t know why he didn’t ask her for dinner. Perhaps he was shy. Perhaps he just wanted her friendship. She couldn’t imagine someone like Jeremy falling in love with her. Maybe he just felt sorry for her. Clare rolled her eyes. “No wonder you’re still single,” she said, not intending to be unkind. “You should have more confidence in yourself. Thanks to Susannah and Trinny you’re actually looking rather hot these days!”
After Miranda had booked the Berkeley Hotel she set about finding out where Phillip and Ava Lightly had moved to. She contemplated asking Mrs. Underwood or the vicar, but then she was struck with a better idea. She’d call on the post office under the pretext of having received a package for Mrs. Lightly. Surely, when they moved they had left a forwarding address.
The excitement of unraveling the mystery of Jean-Paul and Ava Lightly’s secret world distracted her from the ghastliness of her own marriage breakdown. Far from feeling rejected by Jean-Paul, she felt compassion. Her love for him paled beside the blaze of Ava’s. She would recover. Ava never did. Her heart bled for them both. If she could bring them together again, after all this time, he would forgive her for having kept the scrapbook.
She marched into the post office that was housed in the shop owned by Fatima’s son Jamal.
“How are you, Jamal?” she asked breezily.
“Very well, thank you.”
“Your mother’s a star.”
“I know. She’s a good worker, like me.”
“I can see that. You run this place all on your own?”
“With a little help from my wife.”
“Of course. Get the whole family working. Cheap labor!”
“Indeed.” He chuckled. “What can I do for you?”
“I’ve a favor to ask you.”
“Go on.”
Miranda tried not to look nervous. She wasn’t used to being underhand. “I have received a package for Mrs. Lightly. It has no return address on it and I don’t want to open it.”
“Of course. Would you like me to send it to her?”
“I thought I’d telephone her, actually, and ask whether she’d like to see what I’ve done to her gardens. She can pick up the package. It’s rather large, too large to post.”
“I see. Not a problem. Let me have a look for you.”
He turned and searched among a shelf of old gray files all neatly labeled alphabetically. When he found the right one, he pulled it down and opened it. Miranda’s heart thudded at the anticipation of getting closer to the woman whose love story had so fascinated her. At last he found it. “She lives in Cornwall, somewhere called Pendrift. Shall I write it down for you?”
“Yes, please.”
“There’s a telephone number, too. They were a very charming couple. We didn’t see much of Mr. Lightly after he fell ill, but Mrs. Lightly came in regularly to send letters and buy the odd thing she’d forgotten at the supermarket.”
“I look forward to meeting her,” said Miranda, taking the piece of paper.
“Oh, you’ll enjoy her, she’s very funny.”
Miranda couldn’t wait to telephone Ava. Suddenly the scrapbook was coming to life, the characters materializing before her like resurrected ghosts, the love story leaping off the page. Once at home she listened to her messages. There was one from Lottie confirming that David was coming down for the weekend to see the children. She wondered what he was going to do with them for two days and decided to book Mrs. Underwood to cook and put Jean-Paul on standby in case he slunk off to watch telly and left them on their own. Fatima was in the hall, cleaning the floor; Mr. Underwood stood in the doorway enjoying a long coffee break, telling her about the sudden plague of moles that was ruining the lawn. The sunshine lit up the terrace and thyme walk like a beautiful stage and Miranda stopped for a moment to admire it as she walked through the hall to her study.
She closed the door and sat at her desk, deliberating what she was going to say. She decided to introduce herself and invite Ava to see the gardens. The plan was to get her to Hartington where she would find Jean-Paul. She would give him the scrapbook and admit that she had taken it without knowing why it had been put there in the first place. Confidently she dialed the number. It rang for a while. Just before she hung up in disappointment, a woman’s voice came on the line. “Hello?” Miranda plunged in.
“Hello, am I speaking to Mrs. Lightly?”
There was a long pause. Miranda looked down at the piece of paper and wondered whether, in her excitement, she had dialed the wrong number. “Who’s speaking?”
“My name is Miranda Claybourne, I live at Hartington House…”
The woman’s voice softened. “I’m afraid my mother died two years ago.”
Miranda was shocked. “Ava Lightly is dead?”
“Yes.”
“And Mr. Lightly?”
“My father’s getting on a bit, but he’s well, thank you.”
“Am I speaking to Poppy?”
“No, I’m her sister, Peach.”
Miranda’s mouth went dry and she frantically tried to think of something to say. “I’m so sorry about your mother, Peach. I’ve heard so much about her, I feel I know her. She was so popular here in Hartington. When we moved all anyone could talk about were her incredible gardens.”
“They were her passion. It was very hard for her to leave.”
“Forgive me for asking, but I’ve been so curious. Why did she go?”
“Dad had a stroke and couldn’t cope with the stairs. She looked after him single-handedly. She had no choice. I think it broke her heart.”
“I’m sure it did. You see, I’ve brought the gardens back to life. I wanted to do that for her. When we moved in they had gone to seed. They needed a lot of work. I felt it was
my duty to bring them back to their former glory, for her.”
“That’s so sweet of you. She’d have loved that.”
“I didn’t do it on my own. I enlisted the help of this wonderful Frenchman called Jean-Paul de la Grandière.” As Ava expected, there was a long pause. “He seemed to know what I wanted. I rather left it to him, actually. Anyway, they’re really wonderful now. If you’re able I’d love you to see them. You can always come and stay. After all, it was your home.”
“It was my home for twenty-three years,” she said hesitantly. “I loved it, too.”
“Please come.”
“I don’t know…” Miranda heard a man’s voice in the background. “That’s my dad. I’ll tell him you called. He’ll be grateful. We all loved Hartington House.”
Miranda put down the telephone and sat back in her chair. So, Ava Lightly was dead. She felt as sad as if she had really known Ava. The disappointment was overwhelming. For almost a year she had lived Ava’s story while her own had unraveled around her. Ava had kept her going. Now there was nothing left but ashes. Her heart bled for Jean-Paul, blindly groping through those ashes, wondering why they felt so cold.
For surely he didn’t know she had died. Why had he returned to Hartington if not to find her as he had promised he would? Perhaps Ava had left the scrapbook there because she knew she was dying. She wanted him to know that she had kept her side of the bargain. Miranda sighed in confusion. It didn’t add up. Why didn’t she just send it to him? Why didn’t she telephone and tell him she was ill? Why didn’t she make an effort to see him before she died, rather than leave the scrapbook in the cottage at the mercy of the new family who would come to live there?
Miranda was sad that Ava would never see what she had done to the gardens. All that was left was the scrapbook and the awful truth she was now going to have to tell Jean-Paul. She got up and went out to the cottage garden to sit beneath the mountain ash and think. There was no reason why she had to tell him immediately. She could put it off. Wasn’t it kinder to Jean-Paul? While there was life there was hope. She’d pick her moment carefully.
XXXVI
The healing nature of my garden can mend the most broken of hearts
David arrived at Hartington House a few hours after Miranda had left for the station with Henrietta, who had parked her Fiat in their driveway to pick up on their return. Mrs. Underwood was supervising the children in the kitchen, cooking dinner for three. There was no point putting the children to bed the moment their father walked through the door, and besides, it was the weekend; they could all sleep in the following morning.
Mrs. Underwood heard the front door open. Gus and Storm jumped down from the banquette where they had been podding broad beans for tomorrow’s lunch, and rushed up the corridor to greet him. She heard squeals of “Daddy” from Storm and David’s laughter as he must have picked her up and swung her in the air. It was a happy reunion. She had heard rumors about an affair and Miranda discovering them necking in the greenhouse, but she wasn’t one to pry into other people’s business. By the sounds of things, David was as happy as a lark out there.
“How’s my boy?” he said to Gus, bending down to ruffle his hair. “You’ve grown!”
“No, I haven’t,” said Gus. “You need glasses.”
“You’re right about that. But I’ve acquired some, metaphorically speaking, and I’ve never seen you better than I do now.” Gus scrunched up his nose. His father sounded different. “Let’s go and find out when dinner is.” The three of them went back down the corridor to the kitchen where Mrs. Underwood was drying her hands on her apron.
“Good evening, Mr. Claybourne,” she said, smiling at the sight of him. She had always found Mr. Claybourne handsome. He had lost weight, she noticed. Could do with a little feeding up. “I’ve done roast chicken with potatoes,” she informed him, wishing she’d added a few more potatoes to the roasting tin.
“Smells delicious! When do you want us to eat?”
She looked at her watch strapped tightly around her fleshy wrist. “An hour. Eight-thirty-ish.”
“Good. Come on, children, let’s go outside before dinner. It’s a shame to waste such a glorious evening.” Gus looked at his sister and shrugged. He didn’t sound like Daddy at all.
They set off down the thyme walk, towards the woods. “What are we going to do, Daddy?” asked Storm.
“I don’t know. Let’s see what comes up.”
“We made a camp in the dovecote with Jean-Paul,” said Gus, running ahead to show it off. David winced at the mention of that man’s name.
“I bet you did,” he said drily, watching Storm follow her brother. He gazed around the gardens, fragrant in the soft evening light, and noticed how beautiful everything was. There was little color now, just different shades of green and white. There was something very soothing about the lack of vibrant hues and he felt the tension that had built up ever since he had been discovered with Blythe ebb slowly away like a gentle tide carrying away debris with every wave.
The children lingered by the dovecote, showing their father the fire they had built to cook on and the hole in the ground where they were going to bury their treasure. David noticed the purple shadows thrown across it, the way the white was turned to pink, and to his surprise he saw a pair of doves fly in through one of the little windows below the roof. He was injected with optimism, his spirit suddenly filled with excitement as if something magical was going to happen.
“Come on! Let’s keep going,” he said, marching on towards the field. The children ran after him. David felt a hand slip into his and expected to see Storm, skipping along beside him. To his surprise it was Gus. He smiled down at his son. Gus grinned up at him bashfully before lowering his eyes. He didn’t feel he deserved Gus’s trust. He hadn’t yet done the mileage to merit that level of confidence.
They reached the field where Jeremy Fitzherbert kept his cows and climbed over the fence. Charlie the donkey lifted his head and stopped chewing grass at the sight of the little boy. “We should have brought a carrot for Charlie,” said David. Gus felt a wave of shame. Storm put out her hand.
“Come on, Charlie,” she called, but the donkey didn’t move. He watched them warily, his body stiff in anticipation of flight. “Don’t be frightened,” she continued. “Daddy, why won’t he come? He normally does.”
“He’s not used to me,” said David. “Come on, Charlie.” David put out his hand and smiled encouragingly. Slowly they approached him. Charlie didn’t know what to expect. They seemed friendly enough. Gus withdrew his hand from his father’s and delved inside his trouser pocket for a mint. He had started a packet that afternoon. He placed one on the palm of his hand and stretched it towards him.
“Here, Charlie. I’m not going to hurt you.” He fixed the donkey with his eyes, hoping to communicate kindness and honesty. He knew the animal was afraid of him and he didn’t blame him. He had been unkind, chasing him around the field with a stick. Now he was ashamed of his actions. He had been young then, he thought, young and ignorant. Now he was more grown up he knew not to hurt living creatures, whatever their size. They all deserved respect. Jean-Paul had taught him that. “Don’t be frightened, Charlie. I’m not going to hurt you, ever again,” he added under his breath, hoping his father had not overheard.
Tentatively, the donkey stretched his neck and sniffed Gus’s hand with large, velvet nostrils. The scent was too much to resist. He extended his lips and sucked up the mint. Storm wriggled in delight. David put his hands on his hips and watched as Gus pulled out a couple more mints, giving one to his sister so she could feed him, too. Little by little Gus befriended his old target. Charlie let the boy stroke his face and rub grubby fingers across his broad nose. Storm patted his neck and pulled off matted strings of fur that hung off his back like dreadlocks. “He needs a good brush,” she said. “I’m going to ask Jeremy if we can take him out and groom him.”
“Good idea,” Gus agreed. “We can take him for walks on a rope.�
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“Yes, and feed him. He can be our pet.”
“I think he’ll like that,” said David. “He certainly liked those mints.”
Gus pressed his forehead to Charlie’s and whispered that he was sorry. Charlie seemed to understand him. He puffed and snorted and pricked his long ears. When they continued up the field to the woods, Charlie followed them right to the gate and stood staring as they disappeared into the trees. Gus felt elated. Now his past mistakes were completely erased. With renewed energy he ran off up the path that cut through the trees, hurdling fallen branches and brambles. Storm walked with her father, keeping an eye out for the fairies who lived among the leaves. David wondered why he had always been too busy for these simple pleasures. He gazed around as the light faded, singeing the tops of the trees, plunging them into shadow, and he realized that here was where he belonged. Here with his family. Whatever happened, he’d fight to save it.
Miranda and Henrietta settled into their suite at the Berkeley Hotel, a light and spacious room overlooking the busy London streets. Harvey Nichols was just a block away and Harrods a little on from that. Miranda should have felt euphoric. She could almost smell the perfume wafting in through the window. Yet she felt subdued. All she could think about was Ava Lightly and Jean-Paul and the hopelessness of it all. She had lived their love story as if it had been her own.
Henrietta was awed by the grandeur of the hotel. She rushed about the suite, marveling at the marble bathroom where little bottles of Molton Brown bath oils stood neatly beside tiny soaps and a miniature sewing kit. She held the fluffy white dressing gown against her and did a twirl as if it were an exquisite ball dress. “They’ve even provided slippers!” she squealed.
“There’s a swimming pool upstairs if you fancy a swim, and a spa. You have to have a massage.”
“I’ve never had a massage,” she confessed, blushing. “I don’t think I’d be happy to take my clothes off in front of a stranger. Besides, there’s an awful lot of me!”
The French Gardener Page 35