The French Gardener(70)

When she got home Fatima was in the kitchen clearing up breakfast. “Good morning, Mrs. Claybourne,” she exclaimed when she saw Miranda. “Leave it all to me,” she added in her singsong voice, bustling about the room with the energy of a woman half her age. “You go and work, I will make your house shine shine shine!”

Miranda sat in her office trying to write an article for the Telegraph magazine, reining in her mind every time it wandered off. She thought of Jean-Paul in the garden, the children, who really needed some new winter clothes, and her growing desire to quit these soulless articles and write a proper novel. It would soon be Christmas and she hadn’t begun to buy presents. They had decided to spend Christmas in their new home as a family, inviting Miranda’s parents and her spinster aunt. Her sister had married and gone to live in Australia, which wasn’t a great surprise to Miranda, who rather envied her for having put such a great distance between herself and their mother. She was dreading the whole event.

Just as she was typing the end of the first paragraph, Mr. Underwood entered with an armful of logs, which he dropped into the basket beside the fireplace. Miranda looked up and smiled, then made the mistake of asking how he was. “Well, Mrs. C., ma’am, seeing as you ask, I’ve had a tickle in my throat for some time now, just a tickle, as if there’s a little ant in there. I know there isn’t, but it feels like an ant. Or a spider with lots of wiggling little legs. Trouble is, it makes me cough. I went to the doctor and he couldn’t find anything wrong with it. Still bothers me.” He coughed to make his point.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” said Miranda, sorrier to have asked him in the first place.

“Mrs. Underwood says I should have spoonfuls of honey. Trouble is, I don’t much care for honey. It’s too sweet and I’m a savory man. I like salty things, like bacon.” He stood a moment watching her, as if he expected her to continue the conversation.

“Well, I’d better get back to work,” she said, hoping he’d take the hint.

“Oh, yes, don’t let me bother you. Don’t want to stop the creative flow. I spoke to J-P early this morning, he’s up with the lark, been up an hour already before I arrived at eight. We’re going to rip out the cottage garden. Rip it out, all of it, and start again.”

Miranda was horrified. She immediately thought of Ava and the garden she had created with M. F. She couldn’t allow Jean-Paul to rip it out. “What, all of it?” she asked, incredulous.

“Aye, Mrs. C., ma’am. Rip it out, all out, every bit of it.” His eyes blazed at the prospect. “Then we’ll burn all the weeds. Build a big fire and burn the lot.”

“I must go and talk to him. There must be something we can save.”

“Oh, no. It’s all dead or rotting.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” she replied, though, with her inexperience she wasn’t qualified to judge anything. As she reached the door she heard her computer ping with another e-mail. Damn it, she thought, then, with a triumphant smile, she ignored it and walked into the hall.

She found Jean-Paul sitting on the blue bench that circled the mountain ash in the middle of the cottage garden. He was leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, rubbing his chin, deep in thought. Her heart stumbled when she saw him looking so sad. “Good morning,” she said, not wanting to startle him. He turned and looked at her, his brown eyes so intense she blushed.

“I was miles away,” he said, sitting up with a heavy sigh.

“Anywhere nice?” she asked brightly.

“Oh yes,” he replied. “The past is sweet.” He said it with such longing that her curiosity was aroused and yet, there was something about him that made it impossible for her to inquire further. She sat beside him on the bench.

“Mr. Underwood tells me that you want to rip out this garden.”

“No. Not everything. Some things we can save, some things need to be replanted. We are late, it is already December. But the weather is unusually mild, and with a little magic…”

Miranda bit her lip. “I know you asked me to leave you to it. That I could trust you,” she began carefully. “I’m sure I can. The thing is, Mrs. Lightly really loved this garden. In fact, it was very special to her. I don’t think it would be right to change it.”

Jean-Paul looked at her suspiciously. “How do you know about Mrs. Lightly?”

“Oh, I’ve been told. She was very popular here. Everyone knows about her gardens. Apparently, this garden was very dear to her.” She longed to share the scrapbook with someone, but she was too deeply involved now to betray the woman who had made it.