They finished tea and Miranda felt it wasn't fair to linger longer than necessary. "I'm sure you want to unpack and settle in," she said, standing up. "We'll see you tomorrow."

"I will a.s.sess the garden and let you know what is needed. Then we have work to do, no?" He spoke to the children.

"Our tree house," said Storm happily. Gus said nothing. His head was buzzing with conflicting thoughts. He followed his mother outside where a bright moon turned the river silver, yearning to give in to excitement but too afraid. The number of times his hopes had been reduced to disappointment were too many to count.

Jean-Paul stood in the doorway, watching them go, remembering the sight of Ava on the bridge watching the rainbow. Alone, in France, he'd search for the pink in every rainbow, as if she were a pot of gold at the foot, but he had never found it. Years had pa.s.sed, rainbows had come and gone, pink had always eluded him. He wondered whether it really did exist, hidden there between green and blue, or whether it was a colorful figment of Ava's lively imagination.

Where is she now? He was too afraid to inquire. He didn't think he would have the will to go on if she had stopped loving him. There were many possibilities too horrendous to contemplate. He wasn't ready for those. Time might have dulled her memory of him, the years stolen the intensity of feeling she once had. He had come back for her, but she had gone. Perhaps that was a sign. If she still loved him she would have waited. She would have kept their garden alive, not let it shrivel and die in the hands of strangers. There was no use searching for her, she obviously didn't want to be found. She would only repeat what she had said to him in that kitchen twenty-six years ago and he never wanted to hear those words again.

He returned to the sitting room and began to move slowly about picking up ornaments, turning them over in his hands. To the uninitiated those objects meant nothing at all; to Jean-Paul they were small tokens of love that Ava had given to him over the year he had lived there. A little enamel box in the shape of a bouquet of flowers, a china frog, a heart box containing a dried rosebud, a set of eight wooden apples, a crystal tree. He had left them there hoping she would change her mind; she never did and so they remained. He was surprised and heartened to find them there, along with all his books neatly arranged in the bookshelves. He hoped she might have kept them to remember him by, but with a sinking heart, he realized that she had left them behind with her memories, to die like the flowers in her gardens.

XIII.

The morning light through the leaves of the chestnut trees.

When Jean-Paul awoke it took him a moment to orientate himself. He opened his eyes to the familiar sight of the bedroom ceiling and heard the twittering birds in the chestnut trees outside, heralding the dawn. He could see the sky through the gap in the curtains, slowly turning a pale shade of gray. He lay there with nothing but a memory. A memory so strong he could smell the scent of damp gra.s.s in her hair, feel the softness of her skin, run his fingers down the smoothness of her face, hold her slim body against his and kiss her lips. Then the memory faded, turning cold beside him. Their cottage remained but her love no longer warmed it.

Why had he come? What did he hope to achieve? Surely it would be better to return to his chateau? He sat up and rubbed his eyes. How could he return now, without her? His whole life had been gradually moving towards this point. He had dreamed it, planned it, fantasized about it. He hadn't considered what came after. He got up and walked into the bathroom. His reflection stared back at him unhappily, his eyes raw, the shadows dark beneath them. He looked old. Oh G.o.d, if nothing comes after, I can't go on. I can't live in nothing.

He dressed, made himself a cup of strong coffee and left the cottage. He was eager to get outside, to look around the garden, to find her there beneath the rotting foliage and make her flower again. It was a crisp morning. His breath rose on the air like smoke. The scent of damp earth was sweet on the breeze and those squirrels, intrepid and mischievous, watched him walk over the bridge then made a dash for his bedroom window, only to find he had outwitted them and closed it.

He stood a moment in the middle of the field that had once been Ava's wildflower garden. The oak tree dominated it like a small fortress. He would build the children their house and they would play in it as Archie, Angus and Poppy had done. He crouched down and ran his hands through the wet weeds that grew in abundance. He'd have to start again. Mow it all down and replant it so that in March it would dazzle with crocuses, cowslips, daffodils and b.u.t.tercups. Ava had loved to see the summer flowers when she opened her bedroom curtains in the morning. He looked towards the house. It was bewildering to witness it belonging to another family, strangers using the rooms that had once been Ava's and Phillip's. Miranda had redecorated. She had even ripped out the kitchen and replaced it. The house was far more splendid than when it had belonged to Ava and yet it had no soul. It was a beautiful show house; but it didn't live.

He strode across the gravel to the archway in the hedge. There was now a smart black gate, its hinges oiled to perfection. The walled vegetable garden was, as he expected, neglected and overrun with weeds. The old brick wall was intact, but the borders were heaped high with dead flowers and bushes, the climbing roses falling away from the wall and drooping sadly. The box that lined the vegetable patches was in need of a dramatic haircut. It wouldn't take long to tidy it all up and replant. They'd have vegetables in spring. He was heartened to see the apple trees, the ground beneath them scattered with decaying fruit. He bent down and searched for one that was edible, then took a bite. The taste made him smile with grat.i.tude that some things never change.

He wandered along the stone pathways that led through the vegetable patches. He was uplifted to see the arched frame that straddled the path still in one piece though no sweet peas had flourished there that summer. He'd grow runner beans there with Ava's favorite pink and white sweet peas and the children would help pick them as Poppy had loved to do. He found Hector's old toolbox in one of the greenhouses, Ava's gardening gloves and instruments beneath a table strewn with empty pots and seed packets. It would be a challenge to sort the place out, but he knew he could do it. He'd do it for her.

The herbaceous border was as overgrown and ignored as the rest of the grounds but he found a wheelbarrow full of dead branches at the far end, indicating that someone had already started weeding. He didn't imagine that was Miranda. She had the hands of a woman who had never done a day's digging-as clean and manicured as his had once been. He looked down at his fingernails, short and ragged, his palms rough and lined like the bark of a tree. No one would ever imagine the smooth, insouciant man he had once been. He had shed that skin in this very garden. Finally, he came to the dovecote. How often he had used it in his paintings. In the pink light of dusk, the pale liquid light of morning and in the silvery light of a full moon.

Ava had been surprised to see that he painted. She hadn't imagined him to be artistic. She had written him off as a shallow, spoiled young man who drifted aimlessly through life without a care in the world. But he had been far from aimless; his longings were bullied into hiding by his controlling father. At Hartington he had been able to set them free. To paint without guilt. To create and be admired for it. You gave me so much, Ava.

It wasn't long before the children found him. Gus was prepared for disappointment, his face long and sullen, his fringe hiding the spark of hope in his eyes lest it serve only to humiliate him. Storm ran ahead enthusiastically, too young to have been crushed by her parents' lack of interest. Jean-Paul greeted them with a smile, their presence in the garden banishing his sorrow like sunshine breaking through cloud. "I am glad you are up," he said, putting his hands on his hips. "I thought I would have to start without you. Are you ready? We have lots of work to do." He led them off to the greenhouse where they picked up the tools Jean-Paul selected, then proceeded towards the hollow tree.

"It's completely hollow," Storm cried, poking her head out at Gus. Her brother forgot his resentment and climbed in, as enthralled as she was.

"It's a real den," he said, gazing around at the husk of bark that formed a perfect playhouse. "We should find something to put on the ground. Something soft," he said.

"Like hay," she volunteered.

"Yes, like hay. Jean-Paul!" Gus shouted, sticking his head out. "Where can we find hay to line the floor?"

"You won't find hay at this time of year. But wood shavings will do and I know just the place. We need wood for the tree house and a ladder. Come with me!"

They pulled their supplies in a cart across the field to the tree. Jean-Paul left the children in their den while he returned for the ladder, where Ava had always kept it in one of the greenhouses. When he got back, Miranda had emerged from her study and was watching the children while they excitedly told her about their project. She had never seen them so animated. Not even Lord of the Rings had put so wide a smile on her son's face. When she saw Jean-Paul, she thrust her hands into her coat pockets and grinned. He smelled her lime scent on the breeze. She would be good-looking if she didn't have the pinched look of a woman starved of affection. "I see you've been busy," she said, hugging her sheepskin around her. His eyes were drawn to her feet. She followed his gaze and grinned. "You can take the girl out of London but not London out of the girl!" She laughed, knowing her open-toed Gina heels looked ridiculous in the countryside.

"If they are going to help me in the garden, I have to bribe them with a house. From here they will be able to see the church spire of Hartington. I've looked around the garden. There is much to do. Who has been weeding in the border?"

"Oh, that's Mr. Underwood. I've just hired him. He's helping out. You know, clearing up the leaves." She didn't quite know what he did. "He'll be here somewhere."

"He can help me then. I need more than one pair of hands. It is a big job. We need to get things cut back and replanted. Is there a nursery nearby?"

"Yes. A big one by the golf club. You can't miss it. It's rather good, so I'm told. Take my car."

Jean-Paul leaned the ladder against the tree and scaled it, a plank of wood and baler twine under his arm. In spite of the cold he worked in shirtsleeves and jeans. He was slim-hipped and lithe, moving from branch to branch as if trees were his natural habitat.

"Gus, pa.s.s me the hammer," he instructed, pulling a nail out of his breast pocket and placing it between his lips. Gus scrambled out of the tree. He climbed the ladder with the hammer and pa.s.sed it to Jean-Paul. "Right, come up here and hold this plank still." Gus glanced at his mother. She was looking up at him, her face suddenly serious.

Fueled by his mother's attention and Jean-Paul's confidence in him, Gus did everything he was told with eagerness. Jean-Paul didn't treat him like a little boy, but as an equal, as capable of a.s.sisting as any man. He ran up and down the ladder with tools and twine, pa.s.sed him small planks of wood and sticks. He watched the Frenchman build a platform around the branches. Once that was secure, he built the walls, leaving gaps for two windows and a door. He made a proper roof using two boards of plywood he had found in the barn, and a st.u.r.dy beam. For the door he used an old cupboard that he knew had been Poppy's; it fitted perfectly. Gus didn't mind that it was pink. Phillip had hated throwing things away, keeping the oddest a.s.sortment of objects from curtain poles to an old wood burner in a shed attached to the back of the barn. Miranda was surprised Jean-Paul had found it. She didn't even know it existed.

She looked at her watch, aware that she should have been writing, but Jean-Paul was compelling. She'd get to her computer after the children had gone to bed and then she would answer all the e-mails requesting articles and changes to the ones she had already submitted. Right now, she was enjoying watching the Frenchman entertain her children.

"We will leave the ladder here for the moment," Jean-Paul told Gus. "Until we build our own steps. For that we need the right size wood. You can come with me and choose it. There must be a timber yard here somewhere."

"Mr. Fitzherbert will know," said Gus. "He's our neighbor."

"Then we will ask him," said Jean-Paul, climbing down the ladder. Gus remained on a branch, gazing over the treetops to where the spire of St. Hilda's soared into the sky. "Look! It's Mr. Underwood," he exclaimed, waving. "Mr. Underwood. I'm in a tree!"

Mr. Underwood gazed up at the tree house. "It's a palace!" he gasped, taking off his cap in homage.

"This is Jean-Paul, the landscape gardener," said Miranda, hoping Jean-Paul would have the sense not to correct her.

"Pleased to meet you," said Mr. Underwood. "I've been doing a bit of clearing up," he informed him importantly. "There's a lot of work to be done in the garden. I'm glad there'll be the two of us." Jean-Paul looked at the elderly man and recognized his need to feel useful.

"I'm glad to be of help," he said with a smile. Mr. Underwood puffed out his chest and nodded. "We have two more helpers. Gus and Storm," he added with a wink.

Mr. Underwood nodded again, his lips curling into a grin. "They can look out for fryers up there."

"Fryers?"

"Rabbits," said Mr. Underwood. "I'll get my gun out and kill the b.u.g.g.e.rs. Put them in the pan and fry them. That's all they're good for." Jean-Paul remembered watching rabbits at dusk with Ava and her children. Poppy used to leave bowls of carrots for them, delighting when she found them empty in the morning.

Jean-Paul clicked his tongue. "We'll secure the vegetable gardens so they can't get in. I'd prefer to befriend them than make them my dinner," he said with a chuckle.

"I'd like one as a pet," said Storm.

Jean-Paul patted her head. "You'll soon be sharing your den with them," he said. "Them and the squirrels."

Miranda returned to the silence of her study with reluctance, sat at her desk and switched on her computer. After a while she was absorbed by her e-mails and finally by her article, her fingers tapping swiftly over the keys.

That afternoon Jean-Paul took Gus and Storm to buy seeds. Gus helped fill their basket and chose the vegetable seeds with Storm, taking the packets down from the stand as if they were sweets. The seeds he couldn't purchase there he'd get sent from Les Lucioles.

On the way back they stopped at Jeremy Fitzherbert's farm. Jean-Paul remembered it well. Jeremy's father, Ian, had run the farm back then. Jeremy had been in his twenties. He had helped out during the harvest, rouging and manning the dryer. Jean-Paul doubted he would remember him. They had never been introduced.

Jeremy was in the workshop with his manager, discussing the need to replace the old Ma.s.sey Ferguson tractor. When he saw the children standing in the doorway, he broke off his conversation and approached. Mr. Ben trotted up to Gus and sniffed his boots, his thick tail wagging with excitement. They smelled of Ranger. "Hi there," Jeremy exclaimed.

"My name is Jean-Paul. I'm working for Miranda Claybourne up at the house."

"Ah." Jeremy nodded. "These two helping you, are they?"

"They are. I couldn't do without them," he replied, smiling. Jeremy was warmed by the Frenchman's grin.

"What can I do for you?" he asked.

"I need timber to make a ladder for the children's tree house. I thought you might know where to buy some."

"Buy some? Good Lord. You don't need to buy it. I have a barn full of timber. We're constantly felling trees. Come, I'll show you." The two men walked through the farm followed by the children and Mr. Ben. It was exactly as Jean-Paul remembered it. The dryer was the same, scattered with wheat from the harvest. The barns were still peeling their green paint, the corrugated iron roof thick with moss and leaves. He remembered bringing the children to play on the mountains of wheat in the summer with Ava. Ian hadn't minded the mess they made, patiently sweeping the ground once they'd left. He'd have done anything for Ava Lightly.

Jeremy's barn was full of timber, logs and hay bales. "As you see, we've got more than we need."

"If you can spare some, we'd be grateful."

"You'd be doing me a favor." He looked at Jean-Paul, an unlikely figure in Hartington. "How are you finding it down there?"

"I only arrived yesterday."

"Oh," Jeremy replied, wondering what Miranda had hired him to do. "They're nice people, the Claybournes."

"Yes." Jean-Paul rubbed his chin. Suddenly he felt compelled to ask about Ava. "Did you know the previous owners?" He tried to control the tremor in his voice.

"Yes. Ava Lightly was a wonderful gardener. Do you know them?"

Jean-Paul shook his head. "I am the gardener now."

"Ah," said Jeremy, grinning sympathetically. "You're taking on quite a legacy."

"I know." He pulled a face as if the mere thought of the project defeated him. "Do you know why they moved?"

"Phillip had a stroke. I think the house became too much for them."

"Do you know where they moved to?"

"No idea, I'm afraid. They went very quiet for a few years and then were gone without any fuss or fanfare. The town would have liked to say good-bye. They were very popular around here." He hesitated a moment then added, "And devoted to each other."

Jean-Paul turned away, pretending to be looking for the children. He did not want Jeremy to see the pain those words had caused him. He gritted his teeth and tried to pull himself together, but a lump of grief had lodged itself in his throat. In an effort to dissemble he bent down to pat the dog. Mr. Ben buried his wet nose in his hand. Jeremy remained oblivious of the blow he had dealt. Jean-Paul rested his forehead against Mr. Ben's for a moment to play for time. "Beautiful animal," he said.

"Mr. Ben's rather special," Jeremy replied with a chuckle. "Wolfgang's a little long in the tooth these days. Spends most of the day asleep."

Jean-Paul called the children and arranged to return later with a suitable vehicle to transport the timber. "It's good to meet you," said Jeremy. "I'd love to come and see what you're up to sometime. Those gardens were quite something once."

"Any time," Jean-Paul replied.

"If you need help, I've strong hands on the farm and would be happy to lend you a few men."

"Are those your cows down by the river?" he asked.

"Yes. Aberdeen Angus."

"Storm's new friends." He looked down at the little girl. "You haven't forgotten them, have you?"

"No," she replied. "They have rough tongues. They're nice."

"I have horses. I've told Miranda, but if you and the children want to ride, let me know. Whisper's very docile."

"That would be fun," Jean-Paul replied.

"Good." Jeremy watched them climb into Miranda's jeep. "I hope to see more of you, then." He waved as they drove out of the farm.

There was something intriguing about Jean-Paul. He didn't look like a gardener. He was too handsome for a start. He shook his head and smiled. His presence in Hartington was sure to set the cat among the pigeons.

Winter.

XIV.

A rainbow requires both rain and sunshine.

Hartington House, 1979.

So began our project together. Darling Phillip was as thrilled as I; Henri would be pleased his son was getting involved and doors would continue to open the length and breadth of France. He returned to his study and buried himself in research. We were left to create our cottage garden. I didn't show Phillip the painting. It was so personal, so intimate, coming from the very core of M. F. that I didn't feel it was right to share it with anyone. He had painted it for me and I was surprised and touched that he had taken the trouble to understand what moved me. That was the first secret I had ever kept from my husband. It would be the first of many secrets, creeping into our marriage like poison ivy.

Ava and Jean-Paul set about digging the borders in the cottage garden according to Jean-Paul's painting. They marked out the path with sticks so that it meandered like a stream, wide enough for two people to walk together comfortably. The borders were to be edged with stones to allow the plants to spill over. Hector helped in his quiet, solemn way and Ian Fitzherbert let them use his small tractor and trailer to carry away unwanted earth. It was a sunny day, the sky a deep primary blue without a cloud to be seen anywhere. They worked in their shirtsleeves, Ava in her purple dungarees, her hair held up with a pen, Jean-Paul in low-slung jeans and shirt although the air was crisp and cold. They toiled all day, laughing and chatting like old friends.

They ate sandwiches for lunch, eager not to delay their work unnecessarily. They sat on a rug while Hector returned to fetch his lunch box from the greenhouse. Ava had never expected to enjoy Jean-Paul's company. She had resented his presence in her garden and been suspicious of his good looks, as if being handsome made him less profound. She had been wrong.

"How can your father disapprove of your painting?" she asked, biting into a turkey sandwich.

Jean-Paul shrugged. "He wants me to be a reflection of himself. I am his only son. His only child. He is a very ambitious, controlling man. I have never liked him."

"That's sad. Not to like your own father."

"I am used to it." He shrugged again.