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 complications 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?”