“Don’t be afraid,” said Jean-Paul behind her. “The ladder is solid, I promise. Are you frightened of heights?” She couldn’t tell him she was frightened of her own size.
“A little,” she lied. She looked up to see Jeremy holding his hand out for her. When she reached the top she took it gratefully and stepped onto the platform on which the house was built. She took a deep breath and looked around. Gus was right, the view was stunning.
“How beautiful the church spire looks rising above the trees,” she said.
“If it weren’t for the trees we’d see my farm,” said Jeremy.
“I’d like to see your farm,” Henrietta replied, remembering picnics as a child watching the combines.
“You can come over any time,” he said softly, wondering why he had never noticed her before. She was delicious, like a toffee apple. He glanced down at her left hand and saw she didn’t wear a ring.
Henrietta noticed Jean-Paul didn’t join them. He stood on the grass below, talking to the children who were roaring with laughter. They clearly adored him. Jeremy watched her watching Jean-Paul and felt a jolt of disappointment. Not that it surprised him; how could a man like him compete with Jean-Paul?
He left them at the tree and returned to his farm. There was a leak in the corridor outside his bathroom that needed mending. He changed into his blue coveralls, placed his tweed cap firmly on his head and went to collect the ladders from the vegetable garden where they lay against the side of the greenhouse. Mr. Ben and Wolfgang trotted along beside him. Life with Jeremy was always an adventure. The house dated back to the sixteenth century and was in constant need of repair, which Jeremy took upon himself to carry out. He was practical and innovative, though most would say eccentric. Replacing cracked roof tiles was a dangerous procedure requiring two ladders and a great deal of daring. The job took his mind off Henrietta Moon and the way she had blushed when Jean-Paul had kissed her hand. The Frenchman had charm, there was no doubt about that. If he started kissing hands everyone would fall about laughing. But Jean-Paul with his thick accent and deep-set brown eyes could carry off any outdated ritual of chivalry and everyone would think him the most romantic man to set foot in Hartington. Jeremy didn’t stand a chance. He unhooked the cracked tile and tried to think of something else.
Henrietta managed to overcome her shyness in the company of Jean-Paul. The children took her off to the cottage garden to help with the planting. Mr. Underwood was there with his shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows, cap on his head, eyes bright with enthusiasm. He enjoyed having the children around. They reminded him of his own boys who used to sit on the tractor as he ploughed old Fitzherbert’s fields. Now they were grown up, driving tractors with their own sons. If there was one thing he knew about children, it was that they liked to be included. Storm and Gus dug the holes and, together with Jean-Paul, placed the bulbs inside with great care as if they were hibernating animals. The weather was uncharacteristically mild so the earth was still soft and warm. Henrietta got into the spirit of it, too. She listened to Jean-Paul teaching the children about plants, patiently answering their questions. Then, every now and then he’d let out a roar of laughter at something one of them said and they’d all laugh together in blissful abandonment. It occurred to Henrietta that perhaps Jean-Paul was more comfortable with children than with adults and she wanted to ask him why he had never had any of his own.
Miranda had arrived in London early, hitting Peter Jones as it opened at 9:30. She inhaled the smell of carbon monoxide and felt a shiver of happiness. She was back where she belonged. The traffic rumbled, horns hooted, sirens screamed, people shouted, the pavements were crowded with jostling bodies. No one looked anyone in the eye, everyone went about their own business anonymously. She noticed no one smiled. But she did, from ear to ear.
She spent all morning buying presents. She went to Daisy & Tom for the children, where laughing toddlers rode the carousel and upstairs sat enthralled by the Peter and the Wolf puppet show. She bought David a couple of sweaters from Yves Saint Laurent on Sloane Street and a pair of shoes from Tod’s. Finally, inside the temple that was Harvey Nichols, she wandered about slowly, relishing the familiar smell of perfume, gazing at the counters laden with boxed gifts and glittering pots of creams promising eternal youth. It was her wonderland. She bought some Trish McEvoy makeup in celebration of her return.
By lunchtime she had ticked almost everything off her list, except for the children’s stocking fillers, the majority of which she’d buy in Hartington. She made her way to the fifth floor to meet Blythe and Anoushka for lunch. Catching herself in the mirror as she stood on the escalator, she was satisfied that although she lived in the countryside, she still retained her urban glamour. In jeans tucked into leather boots, a gold, fur-trimmed Prada ski jacket and Anya Hindmarch handbag, she felt confident that her girlfriends would be impressed.