The French Gardener (3 page)

Gus hesitated and bit his lip. He seemed to gather himself before he was able to contemplate facing his mother. “Muum!” he shouted at last.

Miranda’s hands froze over the keys of her laptop at the sound of her son’s voice. She felt a rush of relief. She hurried into the hall to find Gus, hands in pockets, feet shuffling, face grubby with mud and tears. Her heart buckled. “Darling, I’ve been so worried. Where have you been?” She kneeled to pull him into her arms but he stiffened. He was as cold as a corpse. “You can’t just run off like that. It’s not safe.” Then she noticed Jeremy hovering at the door. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t see you,” she said, getting up.

“I’m Jeremy Fitzherbert, your neighbor.” He took off his glove to shake her hand. “We’ve waved at each other from a distance but never been properly introduced.”

“Oh yes, you’ve met my husband, David.” His hand was rough and warm. He noticed her manicured nails and the large sapphire and diamond ring on the third finger of her left hand. She smelled of lime. “I’m Miranda. Thank you for bringing him home. I’ve been out of my mind worrying about him.”

“He was in the woods,” said Jeremy. “No harm can come to him there, I assure you. Unless he gets caught in a fox trap.”

“Fox trap?” Her eyes widened.

Jeremy shrugged. “They eat my chickens. Even go for the odd sheep if they’re feeling particularly adventurous. I think Gus is far too astute to wind up in one of those.” Miranda turned to her son, but he had disappeared.

“I’m used to London parks, not the countryside. This is all rather new to me,” she said, an edge to her voice. Jeremy took in the long brown hair tied into a ponytail and the pale
blue eyes, made of the same hard crystal as her son’s. She was a beautiful woman with high, angular cheekbones and a strong jaw, though rather too thin for his taste. “Do you have a wife, Mr. Fitzherbert?”

“Jeremy, please,” he insisted with a grin. “No, I’m a poor bachelor. In fact, I’m a charity case, Miranda. Every kindhearted female I know is intent on finding me a bride, but who wants to be a farmer’s wife these days?” He smiled diffidently, his eyes twinkling with humor.

“Oh, I’m sure there’s someone out there for you. You’ve got plenty of time. No biological clock to push
you
into marriage before you’re ready.” She smiled. She didn’t want to give him the impression that she was discontented. “The reason I ask whether you have a wife is that I’m looking for a cook. Oh, and a gardener. It’s the sort of thing a woman might know. You don’t happen to know anyone, do you? Or how I might go about it? You see, I’m extremely busy; I’m a writer. I just can’t go scouring the countryside for help.”

Jeremy nodded knowingly. She’d probably had an army of Filipinos in London. “The best thing to do is post a notice in Cate’s Cake Shop in town. She’s got a large clientele. Why don’t you offer someone that cottage by the river? It’s empty, isn’t it?”

“That pile of rubble! I couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to live there. It’s a ruin.”

Jeremy laughed. “Oh, it has a certain charm. It wouldn’t take too much to resurrect it. If you offer the cottage you’re more likely to find someone to work on the estate. I don’t know of anyone locally. You’ll have to bring someone in. A cottage is a good incentive.”

“Perhaps you’re right.”

“I’ll ask around.”

“Thank you.” She looked at him standing outside in the
cold and rashly offered him a cup of coffee, regretting it even as she spoke.

“I’ve got to take a look at Charlie,” he said, declining her offer.

“Charlie?”

“The donkey. A friendly animal. He’s cowering in the corner of the field. Not like him at all. Hope the lad’s okay. Found him crying in the woods. I have a horse, Whisper, if he’d like a ride sometime. Let me know. I’m in the book.”

“Thank you,” Miranda replied, closing the door behind him. She looked at her watch. What on earth was she going to give Gus for lunch?

She found her son sitting on the banquette in the kitchen, playing with his Game Boy. When she entered he glared at her sulkily. “Now, darling,” she said, endeavoring to sound stern. “What’s all this about biting another little boy at school? How do you think you’re going to make friends if you bite them?”

“Don’t want any friends,” he replied, without taking his eyes off the game.

“Why did you bite him?”

“He started it.”

“I don’t care who started it. You can’t go around bullying people. Do you want to be kicked out and go to boarding school early?”

“No,” he replied hastily, looking up. He didn’t want to go to boarding school at all. “Are you going to make me go back to school today?”

“No,” she replied, reluctantly changing her mind. She didn’t have the heart to send him back. “I’ve got to go into town and post a notice in the cake shop. You can hang out here, if you like. I’ll put some fish cakes in the oven.”

“Can I watch
Lord of the Rings
?” Gus had discarded his sulk like a coat that was no longer necessary.

“If you promise not to bully other children.”

“I promise,” he said lightly, climbing down from the bench.

Miranda gave him a hug. “I love you,” she gushed, repeating the three words that always made up for the lack of time she gave her son. Gus didn’t reply but hurried off to the playroom. Miranda went to telephone the school to inform them that Gus had been found but wouldn’t be returning on account of a stomachache and to arrange for an older child to look out for Storm on the school bus. She would send Gus to meet her at the end of the lane. It was the least he could do.

Jeremy whistled for his dogs and walked back to the field. Charlie was still standing in the corner. “Come on, old boy,” he said, taking off his glove and pulling out the carrot. He liked to feel that velvet muzzle near to his skin. It took a few moments for the donkey to realize that Jeremy was alone. When he did he tossed his head and galloped across the field. He snorted at Jeremy and nuzzled his soft nose into his hand, taking the carrot carefully so as not to bite his master’s fingers. Jeremy rubbed the short fur between the animal’s eyes and smiled at him affectionately. “What’s the matter with you, Charlie? Why were you standing over there in the corner? It’s not like you to decline the offer of a carrot.” Jeremy set off up the field towards the woods. Charlie followed. He wanted more than anything to go with him, to the safety of Manor Farm where he used to live with Whisper. But Jeremy simply patted him again and closed the gate behind him, leaving Charlie at the mercy of the horrid little boy who chased him with a stick.

Miranda drove down the narrow, winding lane into town. Hartington was a charming, old-fashioned settlement dating back to the sixteenth century built on the river Hart. The bridge at the top of the town was said to have been constructed especially for Queen Elizabeth I so that her carriage did not get stuck in the mud as she traveled to the castle, now a ruin, that was a five-minute walk from the other side of town. The people of Hartington were proud of their heritage and there was a fete every June in celebration of its royal visitor.

The high street was barely wide enough for a car. The small shops gave the impression of leaning in like trees along hedgerows making the road look even narrower. There was Troy’s hair salon, Cate’s Cake Shop, a gift shop, antique shop, delicatessen and a bookshop. Then the street opened into a large green which boasted a pond with ducks and a cricket pitch. Along one side stood the town hall, a classical sandstone building with imposing pillars and tall green doors, and the Duck and Dapple inn with dark Tudor beams and small windows. Along the other side was Hartington Primary School where young Adam Hudson still smarted from his bite, and Mr. Marlow still fumed at the audacity of Gus Claybourne’s running off. St. Hilda’s Church and the rectory dominated the green where the Reverend Freda Beeley held services and prayer meetings and old Colonel Pike complained weekly about the fact that the vicar was a woman.

Since moving to Hartington House, Miranda had ventured into town on the odd occasion that she needed something, like a gift for her mother-in-law’s birthday or a can of baked beans. She hadn’t bothered to speak to the locals although it was plain from the way they looked at her that they all knew who she was. After all, she had moved into Hartington House, the big estate on the other side of the river. Surrounded by winding lanes and hills, the house was hidden away like a secret, detached from the town that seemed not to have moved with the times. In London, people didn’t stop to chat in the street and neighbors who had lived in the same building for years were unacquainted. Miranda recoiled at the thought of everyone knowing things about her and judging her. Of being invited to coffee mornings at the town hall or having to go to church and shake hands with people she had no desire to meet. It was bad enough that the children were at school and would start bringing their new friends home, though, judging by Gus’s recent attempts at striking up friendships she doubted he’d find anyone to invite. As she parked her jeep at the top of the street, in the car park behind the gift shop, she shuddered at the thought of having to butter up the lady who owned the cake shop. The last thing she needed was to get sucked into local life. Indeed, the word “community” made her stomach churn, conjuring up images of provincial women in headscarves sitting around cups of tea discussing fund-raising for the new church roof.
Well
, she resolved,
I’ll stick up my notice, smile sweetly and shoot off
.

Cate Sharpe was perched at a round table chatting to Henrietta Moon who owned the gift shop. Cate’s brown hair was cut into a severe bob, framing a thin, pale face with bitter chocolate eyes and a small mouth above a weak chin. “You know, Henrietta,” she said, letting her vowels slip lazily. “You shouldn’t drink hot chocolate if you’re trying to lose
weight. If I had a weight battle like you, I’d drink coffee. It gets the metabolism going.” Henrietta smiled, a defense mechanism she had adopted in childhood. She shook her head so that her long chestnut hair fell over her face, and took a deep breath.

“I’ve given up dieting,” she explained. It wasn’t true, but it was easier to pretend she didn’t care. “Life is too short.”

Cate put her hand on Henrietta’s in a motherly way, although Henrietta was thirty-eight, only seven years younger than Cate. “Look, you know I think the world of you, but if you don’t do something about it your life will be a hell of a lot shorter. You’re a pretty woman. If you lost the odd stone you’d have more chance of finding a man. I hate to say it,” she added smugly, “but men are put off by large women. That amount of flesh just isn’t attractive. I can say that to you, can’t I, because I’m your friend and you know I have your best interests at heart.” Henrietta simply nodded and gulped down a mouthful of chocolate. “Quiet today, isn’t it?” Henrietta nodded again. “Can’t be easy, though, working opposite a cake shop!” Cate laughed. Cate, who owned a cake shop and never gained an ounce. Cate, who was always impeccably dressed in little skirts with nipped-in waists and tidy cardigans, whose white apron embroidered in pretty pink with the name of the shop never carried a single stain. Cate, whom no one liked, not even her own husband. Henrietta’s eyes glazed as Cate rattled on about herself.

Henrietta’s mouth watered as she surveyed the cakes on the counter. It was so cold outside—a cake would add some insulation. However, Cate sat between her and the counter like Cerberus, destroying any hope of wicked indulgence. At that moment the door opened and in walked Miranda Claybourne. Both Cate and Henrietta recognized her immediately: the snooty Londoner who had moved into Hartington House.

“Good morning,” said Miranda, smiling graciously. She pushed her Chanel sunglasses to the top of her head and strode across the black and white tiled floor. The place was very pink. Pink walls, pink blinds, pink baskets of delicious looking cakes all neatly lined up in rows. Finding no one behind the counter she turned to the two women. “Do you know where she’s gone?”

“You mean me,” said Cate, getting up. “I’m Cate.”

“Miranda Claybourne,” Miranda replied, extending her hand. “I’ve just moved down here and need to hire some help. Jeremy Fitzherbert, our neighbor, says you’re the person to talk to. Apparently this is the heart of Hartington.” She chuckled at her own pun.

Cate was flattered. She proffered Miranda a hand limp and moist like dough.

“Well, I know everyone and this place is usually buzzing. I have a notice board over there.” She pointed to the wall by the door where a corkboard was littered with small pieces of paper. “Can I offer you a coffee?” Cate was damned if she was going to let the new arrival get away. Miranda was reluctant but there was something in Cate’s demeanor that suggested she’d take offense if Miranda declined.

“I’d love to,” she said, thinking momentarily of Gus alone at home before slipping out of her Prada coat and taking a seat at the round table. Cate brought over a pink cupcake and a cup of coffee and placed them in front of their guest. Henrietta gazed at the cake longingly.

“Gorgeous coat!” Cate said, sitting down. “Oh, this is Henrietta,” she added as an afterthought. “She owns the gift shop.”

“We have met,” said Henrietta, who would never expect a woman like Miranda Claybourne to remember her. “You’ve been into my shop.”

“Oh, yes,” Miranda replied, recalling the hurried purchase
of a scented candle and some notepaper. “Of course we have.”

Henrietta lowered her eyes; she’d never seen anyone more glamorous in her life.

“So?” Cate persisted. “How’s it going?”

“Great,” Miranda replied, reluctant to talk about herself. There wasn’t much positive to say and she didn’t want to offend them.

“What sort of help do you require?” Henrietta asked. Miranda noticed what beautiful skin she had, like smooth toffee. She must have been in her late thirties and yet she hadn’t a single line. She wanted to ask what products she used on her face, but didn’t want to strike up a friendship. Miranda took a sip of coffee. It was delicious; she needn’t have lamented the absence of a Caffè Nero after all.

“Well, I need someone to cook and clean, and a gardener. The garden’s a mess.”

“You know that garden used to be a showpiece,” said Henrietta.

“Really? You could have fooled me.”

“Oh yes,” agreed Cate. “The Lightlys created the most beautiful gardens. I can’t imagine that you’re very into gardens, being a Londoner.”

“Ava Lightly was very green-thumbed,” Henrietta added hastily, worried Cate might have caused offense. She had a rather unpleasant manner when confronted by strangers, like a wary animal marking her territory with a mixture of sweetness and spite. “But she left a couple of years ago. It doesn’t take long for a garden to grow wild if it’s not taken care of.”

“Well, I’m not at all green-thumbed,” said Miranda, glancing at her prettily polished nails and inwardly grimacing at the thought of having to manicure them herself. “It depresses me to look out onto a mess.” Henrietta’s mouth
watered as Miranda bit into the cake. “Do you make these yourself?”

Cate nodded and protruded her lips so that her chin disappeared completely. “You won’t find better coffee or cake anywhere in Dorset. I hope you’ll become a regular. Once you’ve bitten there’s no going back.”

“I can see why,” said Miranda, wondering how such a scrawny woman was capable of making such rich and succulent cakes without eating them herself.

“I’ll ask around as well,” Henrietta offered helpfully. “I get a wide variety of people coming into my shop. Hartington attracts people from all around and you never know.” She smiled and Miranda found herself warming to her. She had the sweet, self-deprecating smile of a woman unaware of her prettiness.

The door opened again, letting in a cold gust of wind. “Look at you!” cried a man with a wide grin and a smooth, handsome face. “Keeping her all to yourself? Etta, you’re a shocker! Cate, your secrecy doesn’t surprise me at all. From you I expect the worst.”

“This is Troy,” said Henrietta, her face opening into a beaming smile. “He’s opposite if you need your hair done. Not that you do, of course, it’s perfect.”

He turned to Miranda, hands on the waist of his low-cut jeans. “You’ve been here how long and you haven’t even bothered to say hello? We’re all terribly hurt, you know.” He pouted. Miranda’s spirits rose at the sight of Troy’s infectious grin. “Cate, love of my life, I need a cake. It’s bloody cold out there and I’ve got old Mrs. Rattle-Bag coming in for her blue rinse at twelve.”

“You’re so rude, Troy,” Henrietta gasped with a giggle. “She’s not called that at all, and Troy’s really Peter,” she added to Miranda.

“May I?” said Troy, not waiting for a response. “Make that a coffee, too!” He settled his clear hazel eyes on Miranda and appraised her shamelessly. “You’re the most glamorous thing to set foot in Hartington in years. The last time I saw such glamour was in the woods above Hartington, a fox, if I recall, wearing a stunning coat all her own. I can see the Prada label on yours, by the way, and I’m loving your leather boots,
so
this season.” He sniffed with admiration, drawing in the sugar-scented air through dilated nostrils, then added conspiratorially, “You’re beautiful as well. What’s your husband like?” Miranda nearly spat her coffee all over his suede jacket. “Is he gorgeous, too?”

“God, I couldn’t say. Beauty’s in the eye of the beholder,” Miranda replied, laughing in astonishment. “
I
think he’s handsome.”

“You’re posh, too. I love posh. If you have a title I’ll give you a free haircut!”

“I don’t, I’m afraid. Simple Mrs. Claybourne.”

“But Mrs. Claybourne of Hartington House. That’s terribly grand. Beautiful and grand, that’s a heady combination. Enough to turn a gay man straight!”

“She’s looking for help,” Henrietta informed him. “A cook…”

“I can cook,” he volunteered, without taking his eyes off her.

“And a gardener.”

He dropped his shoulders playfully. “There I’m no help at all. Every green thing I touch dies. It’s a good job my cat’s not green or that would be the end of her! It would be a shame to kill off what were once the most beautiful gardens in Dorset.” Henrietta noticed Cate had gone very quiet. She was making the coffee, her back turned. She threw an anxious glance at Troy, who turned his attention to the counter. “How’s my coffee, sweetheart?”

“Just coming,” Cate replied. The atmosphere had suddenly cooled, as it did according to Cate’s moods. It had been careless of them to ignore her.

Miranda, sensing the shift, glanced at her watch. “Goodness, I must get going. It’s been very nice to meet you all.”

“Likewise,” said Henrietta truthfully. “We’ll find you your gardener, don’t worry.”

“Going already?” Troy gasped. “We’ve only just met. I’ve had all of ten minutes in your company. Don’t you like my cologne?”

“I like it,” said Miranda, shaking her head in amusement. “It suits you.”

“You mean it’s sweet.”

“Yes, but nice sweet.”

“The relief is overwhelming.” He shot her a devilish smile. “Do bring Mr. Claybourne in for a trim sometime. I’d love to meet him.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively.

“I don’t know,” she replied. “I might not get him back.” She stood up and shrugged on her coat. The girls watched her enviously. It was black and fitted, with wide fur-lined lapels and shoulders sharp enough to graze the air she walked through. “Thank you for my coffee and cake,” she said to Cate. “I really haven’t tasted better. Not even in London.” Cate perked up. “May I stick this on your board?” She took a typed piece of paper out of her bag.

“I’ll make sure they all read it,” said Cate, but she needn’t have bothered; the note was so big there was no way anyone could miss it.

“Well,” gushed Troy when Miranda disappeared into the street. “She’s quite a looker. ‘Thank you for my coffee and cake,’” he said, imitating her accent. “I love it!”

“She was rather cool to start with but she warmed up. I
don’t think she knows what to make of you, Troy,” Henrietta teased.

“She’s perfectly nice but I think she’s a little stuck-up, don’t you? A typical Londoner, they always think they’re better than the rest of us,” said Cate silkily, bringing over Troy’s coffee and cake. “She’s one of those women used to lots of servants running around after her. She’s clearly lost without a housekeeper and a cook and a gardener and God knows what else. She bowled in here without any pleasantries as if this were the post office. It’s taken her, what? Two months to come and introduce herself. Too grand for Hartington. Probably thinks we’re all very provincial. She’s pretty though,” she added with a little sniff. “In a rather ordinary way.”