Part 17 (1/2)
”You're not talking about my Frenchman, are you?” They both stared.
”I didn't know you had one, darling,” said Troy.
”I don't have him. He works for me. In his fifties, very good-looking, deep-set brown eyes, longish graying hair, devastating smile.”
”Oh my G.o.d!” Troy gasped. ”He is your Frenchman! What does he do for you?”
”He gardens.”
”Gardens?” they repeated in unison.
”Yes, he's a gardener.”
”Don't be silly,” said Henrietta. ”He's a film producer or a writer. He can't be a gardener!”
”Well, he is,” Miranda replied simply.
”How on earth did you find him?” asked Troy.
”He found me, actually. It's a long story.”
”We have all morning.”
Miranda recounted the tale during which time neither Troy nor Henrietta said a single word. ”So,” she concluded, ”he brought Storm home and we got talking. I asked him what he did and he said he gardened. I asked him if he'd do ours and he accepted without hesitation. It was very bizarre.”
”Is he married?” Henrietta asked.
”No,” Miranda replied.
”Oh, good!” she exclaimed, determined to start a new diet as soon as she'd finished her croissant.
”Is he gay?” asked Troy.
”That I don't know,” said Miranda. She flushed as she recalled her improper thoughts. ”But I doubt it. Just a hunch.”
”How do you control yourself during the week when your husband's in London?” Troy asked.
”I don't fancy him,” she lied, giving a little shrug.
”That just goes to show what a happy marriage you have,” said Henrietta, sighing with envy.
”Your husband must be mad with jealousy,” said Troy.
”Miranda's husband is very attractive, Troy.”
”But not as attractive as the Frenchman. What's his name?”
”Jean-Paul,” said Miranda.
”Oh G.o.d! How s.e.xy! Jean-Paul. Isn't it irritating that Cate was right all along?”
”What do you mean?” asked Miranda, sipping her tea.
”She insisted you found your gardener thanks to her notice board.”
”Well, she's wrong then, isn't she,” Miranda retorted.
”No,” said Henrietta slowly. ”We saw him in Cate's in October. He asked her about the house, who lived there. That's why we a.s.sumed he was a tourist.”
Miranda put down her mug and frowned. ”Did he see my notice?”
”He couldn't miss it, darling,” said Troy. ”Everyone in Hartington saw your notice.”
Miranda suddenly felt uncomfortable. ”He never said anything about it when I spoke to him.”
”You probably jumped in there before he had a chance,” suggested Henrietta.
”Yes, you're right. I think I did. I barely gave him a moment. I get like that when I'm nervous. A little too loquacious.”
Troy grinned. ”So you did fancy him?”
Miranda grinned back. ”A little, but not anymore,” she added hastily.
”What a relief!” he exclaimed. ”She's human after all!”
Miranda drove home, dispelling her doubts about Jean-Paul. There was no reason for him to mention her advert. Perhaps he hadn't considered the job until she spoke to him about it. After all, it was Storm who brought him to the house. He might not have come otherwise.
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 s.h.i.+ne s.h.i.+ne s.h.i.+ne!”
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.”