The French Gardener(112)

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Pretty white candles on the horse chestnut trees, scattering their petals over the cottage roof like snow




David was up with Miranda and the children at 7:30 A.M. He heard the sound of footsteps on the gravel and bristled at the thought of Jean-Paul striding into the core of his family and taking it over. He peered through the window. Outside, the garden was bathed in the fresh, sparkling light of morning. Beyond, he could just see the spire of the church, nestled behind the trees. The sight assuaged his irritation. The place looked this beautiful because of Jean-Paul. David was wise enough to know that if his children preferred to spend time with the gardener it was his own fault.

“We’re going to have a picnic at the castle,” he announced over breakfast. Storm and Rafael wriggled on the bench excitedly. Gus looked at his father mistrustfully.

“What’s there to do at the castle?” he asked, testing him.

“Explore,” said David, pouring coffee into his cup. Gus screwed up his nose. “It’s a ruin. There might even be ghosts.”

“Really!” gasped Storm.

“Don’t be silly. Ghosts don’t exist,” said Gus.

“We’ll see,” added their father. “Mummy, put a chilled bottle of wine in the bag, will you.”

“Good idea,” she replied, trying not to show her surprise. This is what family life is supposed to be like, she thought contentedly, laying rashers of bacon on the grill.

“Did I hear someone say ‘chilled bottle of wine?’” Blythe entered the room in a red cashmere sweater and tight black jeans tucked into leather boots. Her face was immaculately made up and her hair washed and shiny, falling in thick waves down her back. Miranda looked at her enviously. She had barely had time to moisturize her face. Blythe pulled out the chair beside David and sat down, enveloping him in tuberose. “Morning, my love,” she said to her son. She didn’t look at David, but she could feel his eyes on her. She basked in his attention like a cat in sunshine. She raked red nails through her hair and smiled at her son. “The country air is doing you good,” she said. “Your cheeks are pink.”

“Those boots are more suited to Knightsbridge than castle creeping,” said David, running his eyes over her appreciatively.

“Are we castle creeping?”

“We are. We’re taking a picnic.”

“That’s so quaint. I shall sit on the rug drinking chablis while you do the creeping!”



Hartington Castle was built on a natural hill overlooking the town. The central structure, now a ruin, dated back to the thirteenth century. Sadly, the castle had burned down in the late eighteenth century, killing all those inside. It had never been rebuilt. However, as a ruin it held great allure. There were walls and towers still standing, though without roofs, and a grand stone staircase leading up to a landing where the great queen would surely have set foot. Windows gave the ruins an eerie air, for they stared vacantly out from nowhere, and the wind whistled through them like spirits of the dead.

They parked the car at the bottom of the hill and walked the well-trodden path up to the castle. The children ran about excitedly, chasing each other up the grassy slope. Blythe made sure she walked ahead of David so he could get a steady view of her bottom, while Miranda walked behind, carrying the cool bag. A few families were already there, settling their rugs on the grass, nestled against the old stone walls out of the wind. An old couple walked slowly through the ruins with their dog, which scurried about like a large rat with his nose to the ground.

They found a sheltered spot beside a gnarled tree, which some claimed had once given Elizabeth I shelter. Blythe, who had carried the rugs, threw them onto the grass, then positioned herself, wrapping her coat around her to keep warm. Miranda poured them all a glass of wine and gave the children each a carton of apple juice. Gus took his father’s hand. Miranda noticed, but said nothing, not wanting to draw attention to this rare moment, in case she jinxed it. “Daddy, will you come and look around with us?” he asked. To Gus’s surprise, his father agreed. Ruined castles had always fascinated David. Miranda watched the three of them wandering among the large stones that remained embedded in the soil, touched by the tenderness of the sight.

By midday, the castle was busy. It was a hot May day, an optimistic prelude to summer. Blythe took off her coat and sweated in her cashmere. Miranda sat in her T-shirt, feeling the sun tan her skin. They both wore oversized sunglasses and spent considerable time comparing them. They opened the second bottle of wine and laughed over shared memories and London gossip. The children ate their sandwiches hungrily, having run about all morning, chasing each other up the stone steps and jumping off the landing. After lunch they discovered a few school friends and formed a pack, tearing through the ruins like wild dogs. Rafael had long forgotten his fear of Gus and followed him devotedly. David lay back and let the rays warm his face. He closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep.