The French Gardener(140)

Miranda sat behind David with Cate and Nigel, whose coldness sat between them like a corpse. She thought of Jean-Paul and Peach: he had lost his lover but gained a daughter. Ava had said that love was all she had to give him, but that was no longer true; she had given him Peach. Miranda thought of them both in France, at Les Lucioles. He would show her the gardens he had cultivated for her mother and together they would share memories, building a bridge to span the years that separated them.

David caught her eye and smiled. She gave him her hand over the pew and he squeezed it. That squeeze said so much. Her eyes began to well. “Don’t cry now, darling. She hasn’t come in yet!” he whispered and she nodded, dabbing her face with the hanky she had had the foresight to bring with her.

At that moment the large wooden doors creaked open and Dorothy Dipwood began to play the organ. The congregation stood. Miranda leaned into the aisle to see Henrietta in the elegant ivory dress embroidered with pearls that Miranda had helped her choose at Catherine Walker. Her face was veiled, but her grin was visible beneath it. She walked on the arm of her father, his face pink with pride. Miranda’s eyes were so filled with tears that she was barely able to distinguish Gus and Storm, who stepped behind her as page and bridesmaid with Clare’s two children. Storm held a ball of purple roses hung from a ribbon and Gus held her hand, his face serious with concentration, taking care not to step on Henrietta’s train.

Henrietta watched Jeremy, who stood in the aisle to receive her, beaming as he watched his bride walk slowly towards him. He was relieved he wasn’t expected to speak because a knot of emotion had lodged itself in his throat. Henrietta’s father placed her hand in Jeremy’s and they gazed at each other for a long moment, marveling at the magic that had brought them to this point.

Miranda felt a movement beside her and turned to see Nigel take Cate’s hand. At first Cate stiffened in surprise, too proud to yield, but then the love that pervaded the church worked its magic on her, too, and she relaxed, finally letting her defenses fall. The congregation sat down and Miranda caught sight of the purple Louboutin shoes she had recently bought in London. She wiggled them, admiring the height and color and the elegant cut of the toe. Some pleasures never fade.

At the end of the service they spilled out of the church into the sunshine. The children ran around the gravestones, jumping from one to the other like silk-clad frogs. Jeremy and Henrietta climbed onto Jeremy’s red tractor and waved as they set off to Hartington House where Miranda had organized the reception in a marquee on the lawn. Mrs. Underwood was supervising the food and Mr. Underwood was valet parking with Toby, the new gardener.

David slipped his arm around her waist and pulled her against him. “She looks beautiful,” he said. “Clever you.”

“Not at all,” Miranda replied. “Her beauty is entirely her own.”

“Now you’ve shared Jean-Paul and Ava’s story with me, will you let me read your novel?”

Miranda looked at him in surprise. “How did you know I’d written a book?”

“Gus told me.”

“How did he know?”

“Children know everything.”

“I might.”

“Might?”

“Okay, I will. But I won’t ever publish it.”

“What if it’s brilliant?”

“It is brilliant, but it wouldn’t be right and besides, I don’t think I did it all by myself.” David frowned at her quizzically. “I had help,” she said enigmatically. There was no point explaining.

She raised her eyes to the sky, remembering the persistent scent of orange blossom that had filled the room whenever she had sat down to write. Since finishing the book she hadn’t smelled it. Ava’s ghost had gone.

“So what are you going to do with it?” he asked.

“Give it to Peach,” she said.

“To Peach? Why?”

“Because I know now that I wrote it for her.” She took David’s hand. “Come on, darling. We’d better gather up the page and bridesmaid, we’ve a reception to get to.”

“Gus! Storm!” David shouted. The children bounded up, their cheeks red with exertion. “Time to go home,” he said, ruffling Gus’s hair. Miranda sighed with pleasure. Home. How good that sounded.