Part 19 (1/2)

”I'm past that now.”

”Not if you marry a fertile young woman.”

”Francoise, 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. Francoise, bring Hubert a gla.s.s of brandy. Now tell me. How are the gardens?”

Francoise 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. Francoise 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 Francoise knew all the secrets, for like a shadow, she lingered in every corner of the chateau, 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 fas.h.i.+onable, but you wouldn't want to sit on one of these in your best tights.” She raised her eyebrows at the large ornamental gla.s.s 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.

Constance had the annoying habit of interrupting. She'd ask a question but not listen to the answer, preferring to give her opinion instead, cutting one off midsentence. After a while Miranda gave up trying and sat back and listened with half an ear, making the right noises in the right places to suggest that she was paying attention. David liked her father, Robert. They sat smoking cigars, discussing politics. They shared the same opinions, both right wing and equally pompous.

The children played outside in their boots and coats, their laughter rising into the damp air. But Gus seemed lost without Jean-Paul. He tried to get his father to play with them, but David was busy with their grandfather. The child lingered on the stone bridge, gazing forlornly at the cottage that was empty and cold. Storm returned inside to play Hama beads on the kitchen table while Mrs. Underwood cooked lunch. Gus was left alone to wander about in search of entertainment. Without Jean-Paul to keep him busy he reverted to what he knew best: tormenting small, defenseless creatures.

He found his target along the thyme walk. It was a large spider with black hairy legs and a round, juicy body. Having been prodded with a stick it was cowering under a leaf, but Gus could see it clearly. It waited, frozen with fear. But in spite of its experience of birds and snakes, the spider couldn't have imagined the nature of this predator.

Gus rolled onto his stomach where the paving stones were still damp from drizzle fallen in the night. It was no longer raining but the sky was darkened by clouds and the wind was edged with ice. Slowly, so as not to frighten the spider away, Gus moved his hand. The spider remained motionless, hoping perhaps that the predator might not see it if it didn't move. But Gus was an expert when it came to spiders. He wasn't afraid of them, like his sister and her friends. With a swiftness that came from years of practice, Gus thrust his fingers forward and grabbed the creature by one long, fragile leg. ”Gotcha!” he whispered triumphantly. The spider tried in vain to escape. Gus pulled it out into the light and very slowly, while still holding one leg, plucked another off the body. He couldn't hear the spider wail or see the look of pain in its eyes. Perhaps it felt no pain at all. It didn't matter. One by one he pulled the legs off until all that remained was the soft round body which he left on the stone for a bird to eat. The legs lay like tiny twigs discarded by the wind.

His sense of satisfaction was short-lived. He thought of Jean-Paul and how he loved all G.o.d's creatures, and was suddenly gripped with shame. Hastily, he squashed the little body under his foot, hoping to wipe away the deed, pretend it had never happened. He ran off into the vegetable garden, closing the door behind him, and found a warm place in one of the greenhouses. To his surprise it was full of pots. Each pot was packed tightly with earth, lined up in neat rows. There were about fifty in all and Gus swept his eyes over them in awe. He knew instinctively that Jean-Paul had planted something special in each that would grow in the spring. He sensed them hibernating beneath the soil. So this is garden magic, he thought excitedly, wis.h.i.+ng that Jean-Paul were there to explain it to him. He spotted a beetle lying on its back on the concrete floor, legs wiggling frantically as it tried to right itself. Gently, so as not to hurt it, Gus flipped it over with a leaf and watched it scurry beneath a terra-cotta pot. His spirits rose on account of his good deed.

Miranda showed her mother and Constance around the garden. She found it easier to handle her mother's barbed comments out there where Jean-Paul had sown his magic. She felt close to him, as if his presence warmed the air around her and filled her spirit with serenity. Constance rattled on enthusiastically, while Diana sniffed her contempt. ”Goodness, do you really need such a large property? Terribly hard to maintain.”

”We have two gardeners,” Miranda replied grandly, smiling to herself as she thought of Jean-Paul.

”At your age I did everything myself. It's terribly extravagant to employ so many people...”

”What nonsense, Diana,” interjected Constance. ”You said so yourself, it's a hard property to maintain. I would imagine you'd need more than two. I hope they're good!”

”As you can see...”

”I certainly can, Miranda,” Constance interrupted again. ”There's not a weed to be seen anywhere. I do hope to see it in spring. It'll burst into glorious flower.”

”Oh, spring will be lovely,” Diana agreed. ”But by summer, everything will grow out of control and then you'll realize you've taken on more than you can chew.” Miranda was relieved when Mrs. Underwood announced that lunch was ready and they returned inside.

”I must say, Miranda. You've done a splendid job, you really have,” said Constance when Diana was out of earshot. ”You really have to be a terrible old sourpuss to find fault with it. Think nothing of it, my dear. The problem does not lie with you, but with your mother and the very ugly green monster that's got under her skin.” The older woman winked. Miranda smiled and followed her into the cloakroom to hang up her coat.

Diana took her place at the dining room table. ”Funny to have used such pale colors on the walls,” she said to her daughter. ”It's very London. I think warm colors are better suited to the countryside.”

”I don't think...” Miranda began, but Constance dived in there before she could finish.

”It's very pretty, Miranda. You've done the house beautifully, hasn't she, Robert?”

”Yes, indeed,” her brother replied, having not considered the decoration for a moment. ”Very tastefully done.”

”Gus and Storm, come and sit next to your grandmother. I see you so rarely. Miranda never brings you to stay with me. She should share you both a little more. Poor Grandma!” Miranda rolled her eyes and watched the children do as they were told, though without enthusiasm. ”So pleased you've got a cook, Miranda. It wouldn't be worth us coming all this way if we had to stomach your efforts.” She gave a little laugh as if it was meant in jest, but Miranda turned away, bruised. No wonder her sister had gone to live on the other side of the world.

Mrs. Underwood entered with a roast leg of lamb. The room was at once infused with the scent of rosemary and olive oil. Diana inhaled deeply but said nothing. Miranda wondered whether she'd have the nerve to criticize Mrs. Underwood. Now, that would be a skirmish she'd pay good money to see. She waited as her mother took her first bite while Mrs. Underwood went around the table with the dish of roast potatoes. Diana chewed in silence, her cheeks flus.h.i.+ng with pleasure. Finally, she spoke.

”Very good,” she said briskly, piling another load onto her fork.

”Of course it is,” replied Mrs. Underwood, watching David help himself to four large potatoes. ”It's organic Dorset lamb. You won't get better than this.” Diana knew better than to argue.

On Christmas Eve Gus and Storm put their stockings out for Father Christmas and went to bed without any fuss. Gus declared that he was going to lie in wait for him, while Storm argued that if he did Father Christmas wouldn't come at all and neither of them would get any presents. Miranda tucked them up and returned to the drawing room to add a log or two to the fire and turn on the Christmas tree lights. She closed the curtains, put on a CD and sat a moment on the fender. She missed Jean-Paul. She missed his rea.s.suring presence around the place. She wondered how he would advise she deal with her mother. He had answers for everything, like Old Father Time. Suddenly she had a longing to return to the sc.r.a.pbook and for her parents and Constance to go home so that she could lie in peace on her bed and disappear into the secret life of Ava Lightly.

At that moment, David entered in a burgundy smoking jacket and matching velvet slippers. He saw his wife on the fender and smiled at her. ”How are you, darling?”

”Surviving,” she replied.

”Are the stockings ready for me? I'm rather looking forward to playing Santa!”

”I hope Gus doesn't stay awake for you. I'm afraid you'd be a big disappointment to him.”

”He's been out all day. He's exhausted. I don't imagine he'll manage to keep his eyes open for more than five minutes.”

”Mummy's being very awkward,” she said, changing the subject.

”Only because you let her.” He popped open a bottle of champagne.

”It's been like that all my life and I still don't know how to handle her.”

”You're a grown woman. Just tell her to shut up.”

”Easier said than done.”

”Since when have you been such a wilting wallflower?”

”David!”

”Well, darling. People treat you according to how you let them. All you have to do is say 'no.'”

She frowned at him. ”I can see why Blythe raves about you.”

”Does she?”

”Yes, she says you give good advice. Now I know she's right.” He poured her a gla.s.s of champagne.

”Here's to you, darling,” he said, kissing her cheek.

”What's that for?” she asked.