She frowned at him, uncomprehending. “Legal matters?”
“Marriage, Henrietta. If you knew how long I’ve waited to find you, you’d understand why I don’t want to waste any more time. I love you. I can say that now. I love you and want to share my life with you. I can offer you a couple of soppy dogs and a rambling farmhouse, a herd of milking cows and a big red tractor. Please say yes, or I don’t know what I’m going to do with all that soap!”
XXXVII
Nothing remains the same. Everything moves on in the end. Even us. Death is nothing more than another change.
Miranda found Jean-Paul in the kitchen making himself dinner. “That looks good,” she said, watching him prepare a poussin with onions and tomatoes.
“Next time I will make it for two.” He looked at her curiously. Then his eyes fell on the scrapbook. His face grew suddenly serious as if he could smell Ava’s ashes within its pages.
“We need to talk,” she said huskily, unsure of how to begin. “May I sit down?”
“Of course.” He watched as she placed the book on the table.
“What is this?” he asked. But he knew. He recognized the writing immediately.
“I think this was intended for you,” she explained. “It was here when we bought the house. This cottage had been kept as a shrine. This table was still laid for two, as if the people taking tea had just got up and walked out. I confess I have read the book. It broke my heart. I now realize that you are the man Ava Lightly loved but couldn’t have. You are her impossible love, the man she called M. F.”
“Mr. Frenchman,” he said, his voice barely audible.
“I’ve only just worked it out. Now I’m ashamed that I took it and read it and that I erased her memory in renovating this cottage. I think she meant you to see it as it was, as if you had never left. I think she wanted you to see that she had never forgotten you or given up.” He picked up the book and ran his hand over the cover, as if the paper was the soft skin of her face. Miranda couldn’t bear to look. She gazed out the window instead; it was getting dark. “I telephoned her house, but she wasn’t there.” She fought through the lump in her throat. “She died a couple of years ago.” The words came out in a whisper. She watched him sink into a chair. Miranda got up. She needed to leave the cottage as quickly as possible. It wasn’t right that she was there, invading their love. “I’m so sorry,” she gasped. “I’m sorry I am the one to tell you.” With tears running down her face, she hurried through the door, closing it behind her.
She stood on the stone bridge, her heart pounding against her rib cage. She had wanted to tell him about Peach. But it wasn’t her place. He would read the scrapbook and find out for himself. It was bad enough that she had been the person to tell him Ava had died. Nothing in the world was as important as love. She rushed up the path towards the house, desperate to hold her children against her and breathe in a love that was warm and living.
The telephone was ringing as she stumbled through the door. She ran into her study to answer it, but it rang off just before she could reach it. “Damn!” she swore.
Mrs. Underwood appeared at the door. “I’ve left your supper on the Aga,” she said.
“Did you get the phone?” Miranda asked.
“No. I don’t like to answer your private line. Besides, there’s an answering machine, isn’t there?” Miranda nodded and pressed 1571. There was no message. “Are you all right, Miranda?” Mrs. Underwood looked concerned.
“I’m fine. I hoped it would be David.”
Mrs. Underwood nodded knowingly. “You can always telephone him.”
“Yes.” She sounded distracted. “You’re sweet to have cooked for them this weekend. I can’t thank you enough.”
“They ate like kings. David needs fattening up, though. He’s got very thin recently. Works too hard I should imagine.”
“Yes.” Miranda felt exhausted and drained. She could barely muster the energy to talk to Mrs. Underwood. “I think I’ll eat and go straight to bed,” she said.
“I’ll be going then,” said Mrs. Underwood, untying her apron.
“Thanks again, Mrs. Underwood. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Better than you think, I’m sure.” She smiled sympathetically and left Miranda alone.
After Mrs. Underwood had left, Miranda ran upstairs to kiss the children. They slept contentedly in their cozy rooms, their heads snuggled into their pillows. She inhaled the sleepy scent of them, nuzzling her nose into their hair, and silently thanked God for the gift of children and the blessing of love.