“Advice?” He looked unconvinced. “Why would you want to do that? You clearly don’t think I have anything to offer.”
“That is not true,” she protested.
“Oh come on, Ava!” he exclaimed, striding into the room and flopping onto the sofa. He put his hands behind his head and stretched out his legs. “You’ve sent me off with Hector. How do you know what I can do and what I can’t do?”
“I don’t,” she conceded. “Let’s be honest, shall we? You coming here was not my idea. It was Phillip’s. I didn’t want you. I didn’t need any help. I’m more than capable of doing it on my own.”
“Then why are you here asking my advice?”
“Because I am at a loss and perhaps you can help me. You said yourself not to judge people. I judged you. I’m hoping I was wrong.”
“How can I help you?”
“The cottage garden.”
“Ah.” He sat forward, put his elbows on his knees and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Ava felt a surge of relief. Her white flag had been accepted. “The cottage garden,” he repeated.
“Yes,” she said. “I’ve tried, but I can’t picture it.”
“As it happens, I have had some thoughts.”
“You have?” He reached over the arm of the sofa and pulled out a large ring-bound block of artists’ paper.
“I didn’t know you painted.”
“I have painted something for you,” he said.
He placed the book on her knee. She gazed at it, speechless with admiration. There, in vibrant colors and bold, confident strokes, was a picture of her cottage garden. A grassy path snaked across it, bordered on both sides by flowers and shrubs, glistening on a bright summer’s day. In the middle was the mountain ash, encircled by a pretty round bench in French gray. It was perfect. She could not have dreamed a more beautiful garden.
XI
The melancholy cry of a lone gull hovering on the wind
Hartington House, 2005
It was then that I realized M. F. wasn’t so very different from me. We were two artistic people, yearning to create something beautiful.
Miranda’s eyes stung with tears. Folded in half and stuck to the page was the picture of the cottage garden. The colors were as vibrant as the day they had been painted. She ran her fingers across the paper, over pink roses and white lilies, and imagined the dawning of love. For a moment she felt a wave of melancholy at the emptiness in her own heart. But it came and went before she allowed herself to analyze it. If she filled her days with her work and the practical chores of running the house she wouldn’t feel the ache, like stuffing a hole with cardboard. She focused all her attention on the picture. That bench was still circling the mountain ash. She wondered whether they had sat there, creating the gardens together, their affection growing with each plant they sowed. Suddenly she was gripped with enthusiasm. Perhaps Jean-Paul could resurrect that garden, breathe life back into it and she could live awhile, vicariously.
Although there were no names in the scrapbook she assumed the book belonged to the previous owner, Mrs. Lightly. Little was written about the physical aspects of M. F. Much was written about his nature: one moment smiling and joyous, the next sullen and petulant. A creative young man, swathed in frustration. She wondered why Mrs. Lightly had left the book in the cottage. As it was weighted with so much significance, it was unlikely that she would forget it. Or perhaps she felt the affair was best left in the past. Miranda could imagine the old woman chuckling at the absurdity of her girlish crush and leaving the book behind deliberately.
It wasn’t written as a love story, with a beginning, middle and end, but as a series of memories. Miranda wanted to submerge herself in them and take her time. She flicked through the pages, pausing occasionally to dwell on pressed leaves and flowers and the sentences written beside them in Mrs. Lightly’s pretty looped writing. She was aware that she was meant to be getting the cottage ready for Jean-Paul. She didn’t have the time to linger over someone else’s love affair. However, the book was compelling, like a whole world compressed into a hundred pages. The love story held such allure. She knew if she allowed herself to read on, she would lose herself completely. She closed the book reluctantly. There were things to be done in the house. Mrs. Underwood was coming at midday to discuss the details of her employment. Mr. Underwood required direction. She had to find out who the local builders were, not to mention the domestic chores she had to undertake until she found a housekeeper to do them for her. She left the cottage with the scrapbook tucked under her arm, a spring in her step.