"You're not in love with him, are you?"

"No, and that would make two of us," said Miranda, grinning knowingly at her friend. "You're not in love with Jean-Paul either, are you?" Henrietta shook her head. "Who then? There's someone, I can tell by the look on your face." Miranda needed to hear of someone else's happiness like a ray of light through the darkness that now enveloped her.

"I want to hear your story first," said Henrietta.

"I'll only tell you, if you tell me who you're in love with."

"Jeremy Fitzherbert. There, now I've said it."

Miranda was surprised. She sat back in her chair and stared at Henrietta, suddenly seeing her in a completely different light. "Jeremy Fitzherbert. I'd never have put you two together. But now you mention it, I can't believe I never did. How far has it gone?"

"Oh, not very far," she mumbled, lowering her eyes and turning the color of the pepper she had foolishly consumed. "We haven't even kissed. Maybe he doesn't want to."

"Don't be silly. If you're not kissing, what are you doing?"

"We've spent some time together. He comes into my shop."

"He must have a shop of his own by now," said Miranda.

"He's sweet."

"He's handsome. I remember the first time I met him, I noticed his eyes. They're very blue."

"Yes, they are, aren't they?"

"Well, get on with it. Why don't you make the first move?"

"Oh, I couldn't."

"Then you have to give him more encouragement."

"I'm sure he knows."

"Then why isn't he making a move?"

"Because he's shy."

"No, he isn't. He's not sure you feel the same way."

"Perhaps he just wants to be my friend."

Miranda nearly choked on her wine. "No man is going to go to all that trouble for friendship-unless he's gay."

"Like Troy," said Henrietta, her smile turning wistful. "So, what's your secret?"

Miranda drained her gla.s.s and poured another. "I'll begin at the very beginning..."

"That's always a good place," giggled Henrietta, feeling deliciously light-headed.

"...with a sc.r.a.pbook I found in the little cottage on the estate..."

Henrietta listened while Miranda told her of Ava Lightly, her affair with a mystery man she called M. F. and the gardens they had planted together. "The man Ava referred to as M. F. is Jean-Paul."

"Oh my G.o.d!" Henrietta gasped. "Are you sure?"

"Mr. Frenchman-I thought it was a coincidence when he just happened to saunter into my home and offer his services as gardener. You know, now I think about it, when I asked him what he did, he said 'I garden.' He never said he was a gardener. 'I garden, why not?' It's only now, with hindsight, that it sounds odd. He owns a beautiful vineyard in France. No wonder he never asked about money. He's a rich man. Only love could make a man of his means and status work as a lowly gardener and live in a little cottage! He said he'd bring the gardens back to life and he has. But he can't bring Ava back to life. She's dead."

Henrietta paled. "Dead?"

"I rang her up and spoke to her daughter."

"Have you told Jean-Paul?"

"Not yet. I'm too frightened."

"You have to tell him! You have to give him the sc.r.a.pbook. It's his by right."

"At least he'll know how much she loved him."

"You have to tell him that you found the cottage as a shrine to their love. The table laid for two, the teapot and cups. The house kept as if they had just gone out for a walk and never returned. It's the most romantic story I've ever heard."

"But there's more, Etta."

"You have to tell me. I can't stand it!"

"Peach, the daughter I spoke to, is his."

"You're sure?"

"I'm certain. She writes it clearly in the book. After Jean-Paul returned to France, Ava realized she was pregnant. She writes that Phillip thought the baby looked just like her, but she saw Jean-Paul's smile. She called her Peach, which is what Jean-Paul called her-ma peche." Miranda began to cry. "Do you know what she said? She said that every smile her daughter gave her was a gift."

The two women sat at the table, tears streaming down their cheeks. The waiter came to take the trolley away, took one look at them, apologized and withdrew like a scalded penguin.

"What must we look like?" said Henrietta, laughing through her tears.

"There's only one thing that doesn't add up. If Ava knew she was dying and wanted him to have the sc.r.a.pbook, why didn't she just send it?"

Henrietta looked as perplexed as Miranda. "Maybe she only wanted him to have it if he kept his side of the bargain. She couldn't send it out of the blue, just in case he had married and forgotten about her. It had been over twenty years. But if he came back for her, as he promised he would, then he'd find it. He'd deserve it. Do you see?"

"You know, that's possible. I'm amazed you can think clearly with the amount of wine you've drunk."

"It's made me more lucid." Henrietta laughed. "Do you think he'll be hurt that Ava never told him about Peach?"

"Yes, but the M. F. of the book would understand. She couldn't tell him. Can you imagine the complications? The only way she could protect her family was to keep it secret."

"Do you think Phillip ever wondered?"

"I don't know. I doubt it. She never thought that he suspected."

"It's the stuff of a novel."

"I know," said Miranda.

"You could write it," Henrietta suggested.

"I could, but would that be fair?" She didn't dare tell Henrietta that she'd already written it. It suddenly felt wrong, like walking over Ava's grave.

"Artistic license. You could base it on truth, but make it your own."

Miranda leaned forward. "You know, I think Ava would want me to write it." She remembered the smell of orange blossom that filled the room whenever she sat down to work. "Don't ask me how, but I think she would."

The following day Miranda and Henrietta hit the shops. They went to Harvey Nichols, wandered up Sloane Street, then headed to Selfridges after lunch at Le Caprice. The celebrated Pandora awaited them with flutes of champagne and her own confident sense of style. Miranda sat in a comfortable chair in the private room while Pandora pulled dresses and coats, trousers and jackets off the rail she had prepared earlier. Henrietta did as she was told and tried everything on. "I know a lot of these are shapes you've never imagined you'd wear," said Pandora, her perfect teeth pearly white against her summer tan. "But Miranda said she wanted you to have a complete makeover-a Trinny and Susannah makeover." Pandora held up a bra and laughed. "The secret of their success is the bra! Now it's going to be the secret of your success."

The bags were too big and too numerous to carry back to the hotel themselves, so Pandora arranged for them to be delivered that evening. Henrietta was overwhelmed by Miranda's generosity. "This is giving me more pleasure than it's giving you," said Miranda, slipping her hand through Henrietta's arm. "I used to live for shopping, now I don't care for it as much. I'm looking forward to my ma.s.sage though."

"I'm feeling confident today," said Henrietta, taking a breath, feeling renewed. "I'll have one, too."

When Miranda and Henrietta returned to Hartington House, David had already left. Miranda felt a twinge of disappointment. She had enjoyed her weekend away with Henrietta. It had been good to put some distance between herself and her home, given her time to a.s.sess what was important. But she would like to have seen him. In spite of his wickedness, she missed him. Home didn't feel complete without him. Before she could dwell on his departure she was distracted by Jeremy and the children walking up the wild garden with Charlie on a lead. Henrietta swept her hand through her new highlights and waved. Jeremy lifted his hat and waved back. The children ran ahead, into their mother's arms.

"Did you buy me a present?" asked Storm.

"Charlie's our pet!" said Gus. "He eats out of our hands and everything. He loves mints!"

She turned to see Mrs. Underwood standing in the doorway. "Henrietta, I'd better go and catch up with Mrs. Underwood. I've so enjoyed myself. Thank you for making it such fun." The two women embraced.

"No, thank you for everything. I'm a changed woman." Henrietta laughed, swinging her car keys on her finger. "I certainly look like one!"

"You look great! Now, go get him!"

Henrietta flushed with excitement. "And you do what's right."

"I will. I'll do it now, while Mrs. Underwood is still here to look after the children."

She watched Henrietta walk through the garden gate with Jeremy to return Charlie to his field, then went to talk to Mrs. Underwood. "How's it all been?" she asked. Mrs. Underwood folded her arms.

"They've had a lovely time together. Mr. Claybourne's had more fun, I think, than he's had in years. He loves those children. They'll tell you about it, I'm sure. I know it's none of my business, but for what it's worth, Miranda, I'll give you some advice. The Christian thing to do is forgive. Men do silly things that mean nothing. He needs his wrist slapped, but he's a good man and a good father. Right, now I've said it." She pursed her lips.

"Thank you, Mrs. Underwood. I appreciate your thoughts," Miranda replied humbly. "I've got a favor to ask you. I need to see Jean-Paul this evening. It's quite important. Would you mind staying with the children? I won't be long."

Mrs. Underwood raised her eyebrows. "If it's that important, I can't decline. Tell you what, I need to get Mr. Underwood his tea. I'll nip back now, while you give the children their bath, then come back to babysit. Is that all right?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Underwood. That would be brilliant."

Jeremy looked Henrietta up and down appreciatively. "You're radiant," he said.

"Thank you," she replied, blushing. "I've had a wonderful time."

"It shows."

His eyes lingered on her face longer than normal. She looked away. They walked up the lawn towards the field. The sun was setting, flooding the sky with golden syrup. Dew was already forming on the gra.s.s and the birds twittered in the trees as they settled down to roost. The breeze was warm and sweet. She cast her eyes around the gardens, sensing the magic that Ava and Jean-Paul had created there, and was suddenly filled with wistfulness. Those gardens had been watered with their tears.

"Jeremy," she said suddenly, her face blanching as she realized the strength of her feelings for him, and the need to confess them. He stopped walking and looked down at her. "There's something I want to say to you."

"Yes?" His expression grew serious.

"Well, I've been wanting to tell you for some time..." She swallowed hard, the doubts suddenly returning to choke her. She shuffled her feet. "Do you have a shop in your home to rival mine?" she stammered, feeling foolish. He grinned. She felt her confidence return. "You see, if you have then I have no choice but to join the two together and make one big shop because I can't take the compet.i.tion. This is a small town."

Jeremy took off his hat and put his hand on her shoulder. "I've been worrying about it, too," he said. "You're so clever to come up with a solution." Henrietta forgot to breathe. Jeremy leaned down and kissed her. Astonished, she wound her arms around his middle and let him draw her to him. When she realized that she had forgotten to breathe, she took a gulp of air, then laughed.

"I think you should move in with me as quickly as possible in order to capitalize on our union," he said. "There are, however, legal matters to consider."

She frowned at him, uncomprehending. "Legal matters?"

"Marriage, Henrietta. If you knew how long I've waited to find you, you'd understand why I don't want to waste any more time. I love you. I can say that now. I love you and want to share my life with you. I can offer you a couple of soppy dogs and a rambling farmhouse, a herd of milking cows and a big red tractor. Please say yes, or I don't know what I'm going to do with all that soap!"

x.x.xVII.

Nothing remains the same. Everything moves on in the end. Even us. Death is nothing more than another change.

Miranda found Jean-Paul in the kitchen making himself dinner. "That looks good," she said, watching him prepare a poussin with onions and tomatoes.

"Next time I will make it for two." He looked at her curiously. Then his eyes fell on the sc.r.a.pbook. His face grew suddenly serious as if he could smell Ava's ashes within its pages.

"We need to talk," she said huskily, unsure of how to begin. "May I sit down?"

"Of course." He watched as she placed the book on the table.

"What is this?" he asked. But he knew. He recognized the writing immediately.

"I think this was intended for you," she explained. "It was here when we bought the house. This cottage had been kept as a shrine. This table was still laid for two, as if the people taking tea had just got up and walked out. I confess I have read the book. It broke my heart. I now realize that you are the man Ava Lightly loved but couldn't have. You are her impossible love, the man she called M. F."

"Mr. Frenchman," he said, his voice barely audible.

"I've only just worked it out. Now I'm ashamed that I took it and read it and that I erased her memory in renovating this cottage. I think she meant you to see it as it was, as if you had never left. I think she wanted you to see that she had never forgotten you or given up." He picked up the book and ran his hand over the cover, as if the paper was the soft skin of her face. Miranda couldn't bear to look. She gazed out the window instead; it was getting dark. "I telephoned her house, but she wasn't there." She fought through the lump in her throat. "She died a couple of years ago." The words came out in a whisper. She watched him sink into a chair. Miranda got up. She needed to leave the cottage as quickly as possible. It wasn't right that she was there, invading their love. "I'm so sorry," she gasped. "I'm sorry I am the one to tell you." With tears running down her face, she hurried through the door, closing it behind her.

She stood on the stone bridge, her heart pounding against her rib cage. She had wanted to tell him about Peach. But it wasn't her place. He would read the sc.r.a.pbook and find out for himself. It was bad enough that she had been the person to tell him Ava had died. Nothing in the world was as important as love. She rushed up the path towards the house, desperate to hold her children against her and breathe in a love that was warm and living.

The telephone was ringing as she stumbled through the door. She ran into her study to answer it, but it rang off just before she could reach it. "d.a.m.n!" she swore.

Mrs. Underwood appeared at the door. "I've left your supper on the Aga," she said.