The French Gardener(33)

Poppy followed them down the thyme walk to the dovecote, chattering away to Monty as if he were a child. She skipped through the hedges in nothing more than a short skirt, Wellington boots and thin shirt, her ponytail flying out behind her as she weaved in and out. Bernie and Tarquin had heard the children’s voices from Phillip’s study and galloped out to join them, sniffing the grass and cocking their legs against the hedge. Ava was surprised to see Jean-Paul transfixed by the dovecote. It was a round stone building painted white, with a pretty wooden roof sweeping up into a point like a Chinese hat. Old and neglected, it looked as sad as autumn. “Pigeons live there now,” she said. “We’ve never done anything to it.”

“And you mustn’t,” he said, placing his hand against the wall in a caress. “It’s enchanting just the way it is.”

“These surrounding maples will turn the most astonishing red in November. Can you see they’re just beginning?” She plucked a leaf and handed it to him. He twirled it between his fingers. They turned left and strolled past a copse of towering larches, their leaves the color of butter. There was a long wall lining the lawn where Ava had planted an herbaceous border. “I’ve been busily cutting it back,” she told him. “Putting it to bed for the winter.”

“There is much to do, eh?” he mused.

“Much to do.”

Poppy was keen to show him the vegetable garden, hidden behind a charming old wall where roses grew in summer among honeysuckle and jasmine. The door was stiff. Poppy pushed as hard as she could, but it wouldn’t budge. Jean-Paul leaned against it with his shoulder. “Is this your favorite part of the garden?” he asked her.

“Monty’s favorite, because all his friends live here.”

“I cannot wait to meet them.”

“They might have gone away. Mummy says we have to wait until next year. They come back in spring.”

“Then I will have to wait for spring. I hope Monty doesn’t get sad.”

“Oh no,” she whispered secretively. “He’s only a marrow.”

The door swung open, leading into a large square garden, divided by gravel paths and box-lined borders where an abundance of vegetables grew. The walls were heavy with the remains of dying clematis, roses, wisteria and honeysuckle, the ground beneath them spilling over with hellebores and yellow senecio. The dogs rushed in, squeezing between Ava’s legs and the doorpost.

She didn’t know what to make of Jean-Paul. On the one hand he was arrogant and aloof. On the other he was sweet with Poppy and the dogs, and when he smiled it was as if the arrogant Jean-Paul were but a figment of the imagination. He wasn’t enthusiastic about the gardens and yet was clearly moved by the beauty of the evening light on the dovecote and the melancholy hues of autumn. He seemed as reluctant to be with them as Ava was reluctant to have him. They eyed each other nervously, clearly uneasy about the months of collaboration that stretched before them. She knew instinctively that a piece of the puzzle was missing. Henri hadn’t been honest with Phillip and she felt resentful for that. Why send a young man to Dorset who obviously didn’t want to come?

“We harvest quite a crop in here,” she said, watching her daughter skipping up the gravel path towards the patch where marrows had grown all summer. She led him under the tunnel of apple trees where ripe red fruit was strewn all over the ground. Jean-Paul bent down and picked one up, taking a large bite. “It’s sweet,” he said, bending down again to find one for her.

“The best are those already nibbled by insects,” said Ava. “They have the nose for the tastiest fruit.”

“I hope I don’t bite into a wasp!”

“You’ll know all about it if you do. Though, I don’t think there are many wasps left now. Hector is good at finding their nests and destroying them.” He handed her an apple. She bit into it, savoring the juiciness of the flesh. When Poppy skipped up he handed one to her. She licked it as if it were a lollipop.

“Yummy!” she exclaimed before bounding off again.

They left the vegetable garden and wandered through the archway in the hedge to the front of the house. In the center of the field an old oak tree stood like a galleon in the middle of a sea of grass. “This is where I want to plant a wild garden,” she said, imagining it full of color in spring. “Beyond is the river Hart and your cottage.”

“Can I see it?”

“I’d rather not show it to you until I have cleaned it. I’m ashamed.” He looked at her, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Why would you be ashamed? I am only a gardener.”