The French Gardener(75)

When she reached home, Miranda was a little surprised to see that Henrietta had put the children to bed and was sitting in the kitchen having supper with Jean-Paul. “I hope you don’t mind,” said Henrietta. “We’ve been in the garden all day planting things. The children are done in; they fell asleep the moment Jean-Paul finished telling them the story of the velveteen rabbit. We thought we’d celebrate the end of a hard day’s work.”

“I’m delighted,” Miranda replied, drawing up a chair. “I can’t thank you enough for looking after them for me.”

“You look exhausted,” said Jean-Paul. “Let me pour you a glass of wine. There was a time when I thought the city was the only place to live. Then I discovered how shallow and empty it was. Like icing on a rotten cake. Underneath it was all bad.”

“God, that’s just how I feel. I was so excited to get up there, walking those pavements again, but by the end of the day all I wanted was to come home.”

“I’ve never liked the city,” said Henrietta. “Much too unfriendly. Here in Hartington there’s a sense of community. I like belonging.”

“So, have you finished my little garden?” Miranda asked, already feeling better for their company.

Jean-Paul’s smile poured warm honey over the sour taste that had been with her since lunch. “We have completed the planting. With a little magic, it will flower in spring.”

“Why do you always say magic, Jean-Paul?” Miranda asked. “Do you mean nature?”

“Magic is love, Miranda. If you love someone they grow in beauty and confidence. They flower before your eyes. A woman who isn’t beautiful becomes beautiful in the warmth of love. The garden is the same. With love it will grow better and brighter and more abundant. There is no secret to love or magic, just the limitations of our own courage and self-belief.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Love requires effort, exertion and will. True love begins with loving ourselves. Love is not purely a feeling but an act of will. The man in a bar who neglects his family will tell you with tears in his eyes that he loves his wife and children. Love is as love does. A very exceptional woman taught me that a long time ago.”

Henrietta and Miranda sat in silence. The more he spoke, the less they knew him and the deeper the pool of his experience and wisdom seemed. Both recognized the terrible sadness in his eyes but neither had the courage to ask him its cause. Henrietta dreamed of being loved by him; Miranda knew loving him was only a dream. Both hearts reached out to the man who would only ever love one woman. The woman he was slowly bringing to life in the tender planting of their garden.





XX



The wistful light of dusk turning the dovecote pink, but only for an instant like the soft outward breath of heaven




Jean-Paul returned to the Château les Lucioles for Christmas. He drove through the large iron gates, up the drive that swept in a magnificent curve around an ancient cedar tree and parked the car on the gravel in front of the impressive façade. The pale blue shutters were open, the windowsills covered with a thin sprinkling of frost. He gazed up at the tall roof where small dormer windows peeped out sleepily and towering chimneys stretched into the crisp blue sky. Françoise unlocked the door with much rattling of keys, complaining bitterly of the cold even before she saw him. “Monsieur, come inside quickly before you catch your death. Gerard has lit fires in the hall and drawing room. Are you hungry? Armandine has left a daube in the oven and there is a fresh loaf of bread. She was not sure whether or not you would have eaten. She will come back tonight to cook your dinner. Don’t waste time outside. Come come, it is cold.” The housekeeper beckoned him inside, closing the door behind him with a loud clank. “These big houses are hard to keep warm,” she muttered, shuffling into the hall.

“Is Hubert here?” he asked, thinking only of the garden.

“Yes. Why don’t you eat first, see him later? He is outside.”

“Has there been much frost?”

“Only in the last week. It has suddenly got very cold after a mild autumn.”

He glanced about the hall, at the blazing fire in the grate, the shiny flagstone floor and faded Persian rugs, and sighed with pleasure. It was good to be home. He took off his coat, handing it to Françoise. “I will see him now in the drawing room,” he said. “You can bring the daube in on a tray. I’ll eat in there.”

“Shall I let the dogs in?” she asked. “They have been restless all morning. They knew you were coming home.”