“Yes. I’ve missed them.”
“Are you here to stay?”
“No. I’ll leave in ten days.”
She pushed out her bottom lip. “Such a short visit?”
“Yes.”
“If your mother were alive…”
“But she is not,” he retorted briskly.
“Why do you stay away? The animals miss you.” She lowered her eyes. “So do we.”
He looked at her tenderly. “Ah, Françoise, you are a sentimental woman underneath that efficient exterior.”
“And what of you, monsieur? Why don’t you find a nice young woman and settle down and have a family? This is a large château. It is not right that it is empty all year. It echoes with the voices of ghosts because it is not inhabited.”
He shook his head. “Things don’t always end up the way they were planned.”
“What plans did you have?” He caught her looking at him with a mother’s concern.
“Those I cannot speak of to anyone,” he replied grimly. “Now bring me my food, I’m ravenous. And tell Hubert I want to see him.”
Two Great Danes bounded into the drawing room, rushing up to him excitedly. He fell to his knees and embraced them both, allowing them to lick his face. “I’ve missed you, too!” he told them, gently pulling their ears and patting their backs. There had always been Great Danes at Les Lucioles. A house of that size needed big animals to fill it. He sat on the club fender, the fire warming his back, looking out through the French doors that led into the garden, now hidden beneath frost. He had hoped to return with Ava. To show her the gardens he had created for her. To live out the rest of their lives together. She had promised. He had promised, too. Promises sealed with love. He had kept his side of the bargain, but what of hers?
Françoise entered with his lunch on a tray. “Are you going to spend Christmas on your own?” she asked.
“I have no choice.”
“What a shame. A handsome young man like you.”
“Don’t pity me, woman,” he growled.
“If your mother were alive…”
“But she is not,” he repeated. “If she were alive she would spend it with me. As it is, I am alone.”
“Of all the men worthy of love it is you, monsieur. I have known you since you were a little boy. It causes me pain to see you live alone. Yes, it is all very well taking lovers, but I want more than that for you. I want a good, honest girl and a brood of healthy children.”
“I’m past that now.”
“Not if you marry a fertile young woman.”
“Françoise, you are dreaming.” He chuckled cynically. Hubert entered, cap in hand.
“Bonjour, monsieur. I am glad you have returned safely.” He bowed formally.
“I am being cross-examined, Hubert. Françoise, bring Hubert a glass of brandy. Now tell me. How are the gardens?”
Françoise retreated into the hall. She was stiff in the joints and her back ached constantly. She should have retired years ago but she remained out of loyalty to Jean-Paul’s late mother and to Jean-Paul, whom she loved as a son. She had seen him return from England twenty-six years before, a broken young man, determined to remain true to the woman he loved but could not have. Françoise had briefly known love and lost it so she had understood his pain. That kind of sorrow is healed over time; hers was now nothing more than a thin scar across her heart. But Jean-Paul had never healed. His heart was still open, raw and bleeding. Like a dog beside the dead body of his master, Jean-Paul let his love starve him slowly to death. His mother never experienced the joy of grandchildren. His father’s dreams for him were never realized. Neither knew why. But Françoise knew all the secrets, for like a shadow, she lingered in every corner of the château, invisible but omnipresent. Only she had seen the paintings stacked against the wall, the letters written and never sent, and the flowers planted in the hope that one day he would bring her back and show her how he had dedicated his life to her with as much attentiveness as if she were beside him.
She clicked her tongue and lumbered across the stone slabs towards the kitchen wing and her cozy sitting room. Some things were better forgotten. Life was short. What was the point of pining for the unattainable? Hadn’t she closed the chapter, put away the book and begun again? It wasn’t easy but it was possible. She lowered herself carefully into an armchair and picked up her needlepoint. At least he was home, for that she was grateful.
Back at Hartington House Miranda missed Jean-Paul’s presence. Her parents, with her father’s sister, Constance, arrived in a silver Land Rover packed with presents and luggage. This was their first visit. Diana Stanley-Kline had much to comment on, wafting about from room to room in ivory slacks, matching cashmere sweater, suede shoes, and pearls the size of grapes. “Oh dear,” she sniffed at her daughter’s kitchen stools. “The distressed look might be very fashionable, but you wouldn’t want to sit on one of these in your best tights.” She raised her eyebrows at the large ornamental glass vases in the hall. “What odd things to have in a house with small children!” And when Miranda told her about the gardens, how they had once been the most beautiful in Dorset, she scrunched her nose and remarked: “Well, everything’s relative.” As usual nothing could please her mother. Miranda longed for it all to be over and for everyone to go home.