The French Gardener(126)
“Oh, there were plenty of stupid men before you and there’ll be plenty of stupid men after you. You’re not unique.”
“Look at you, Mac,” said David admiringly, draining his glass. “You and Lottie are so strong. Really strong. You’re not like me. You’ve always been self-confident. Happy in your skin. Ever since your school days when you shone on the rugby pitches. I envy you. You’d never be so foolish.”
Mac shrugged again. “Everyone makes mistakes. She’ll forgive you. Look, here comes my lovely wife.”
Lottie descended the stairs with the contented smile of a mother whose child is asleep at last. “Would you like another whisky?” she asked David, looking at him sympathetically. She had heard the whole conversation from Alexander’s room above.
“You’re close to Miranda, Lottie. Can you talk to her? Persuade her to see me at least.” Lottie didn’t know whether to play ignorant, or admit that she had listened through the wall. She looked to Mac, who nodded encouragement.
“I couldn’t help hearing,” she said, taking his glass to refill. “I’ll call Miranda.”
David looked relieved. “Thank you, Lottie. You’re an angel.”
“I can’t promise anything.”
“I know. But seeing as she won’t speak to me at all, you’re the only way I can get a message to her.”
“And what do you want me to say?”
“That I love her. I’m sorry. I want her back.” He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees and rubbed his eyes. “I miss her and I miss the kids. I’m in Hell.”
Mac smiled confidently. Lottie would know exactly what to say.
Down at Hartington House, Miranda sat at her desk typing furiously on her laptop. Absorbed by her novel, she was able to block out the horror of her own relationship. Drawing heavily on Ava Lightly’s scrapbook, Jean-Paul, and her own misery, she found the words spilled out so fast her fingers were barely able to keep up. She had written one hundred and ten thousand words and to her surprise it was lyrical and passionate, intelligent and gripping. In spite of the collapse of her marriage, she felt optimistic that at least something good would come out of her unhappiness. Notwithstanding her distraction, she was aware once again of the softly pervading scent of orange blossom.
Miranda took consolation in Jean-Paul. He listened as she cried in his sitting room, recounting how she and David had met, courted and married. He encouraged her to dwell on the things she loved about him. The good times they had enjoyed. The reasons they had married in the first place. She agreed that the cracks were already there in London; the distance imposed upon them after they moved to the country had only deepened them. In London she had been so busy with her own life she had barely noticed. Suddenly, at Hartington, they had all settled in without him; she had grown accustomed to being on her own, and a coolness had swept in through those cracks like a silky breeze. She longed to tell Jean-Paul that she had fallen in love with him, but she was ashamed. He was so dignified, she dared not cause him embarrassment.
Miranda wrote obsessively. She wrote at night once the children were in bed, until the early hours of the morning when the sound of waking birds and the watery light of dawn tumbled into her study to remind her of the time. She wrote until her eyes stung and her eyelids grew heavy. During the day she was able to work because the children were out with Jean-Paul. To them, nothing had changed. They seemed to accept that their father was unable to come down due to work. Gus looked up at her with dark, suspicious eyes, but she was able to convince him that in spite of their argument, Mummy and Daddy were friends again. Jean-Paul took them riding on Jeremy’s horses, up onto the hill from where they could see the sea. He gazed on the horizon remembering that enchanted day when it had rained and he and Ava had sought shelter beneath the trees.
Jean-Paul was proud of the gardens. With the help of Mr. Underwood and Miranda, he had brought them back to their former glory. There were still spaces to plant things and some shrubs would take a few seasons to grow to their full promise, but they had recaptured some of the magic. The place no longer felt soulless. He walked up the path that snaked through the cottage garden towards the dovecote and felt Ava there among the roses and lilies. Sometimes, when he sat on the bench that surrounded the mountain ash, he thought he could smell the sweet scent of orange blossom. He could close his eyes and feel her sitting beside him, congratulating him on the garden, admiring the flowers as she had admired his painting when he had first designed it. Those times were bittersweet. He would blink back tears and wonder whether he had wasted his life waiting for her, when he could have moved on, married someone else and had children. He would watch Gus and Storm playing in the garden as Archie, Angus and Poppy had done twenty-six years before, and yearn for what he had never had.