The French Gardener by Santa Montefiore

husband, striding across the lawn. Bernie, the fluffy Saint Bernard and Tarquin, the young Labrador, stopped rolling about on the grass and galloped up to him, crashing into his legs, almost knocking him to the ground. He patted them affectionately and shooed them away with a flick of his hand. He was fifteen years older than his wife, six feet four with a straight back and wide shoulders. His face was gentle and handsome, with a long nose, high cheekbones and a strong jawline. He spent most of the time in his study writing the definitive history of wine, or abroad, visiting vineyards. However, he wasn’t inclined to solitude as so many writers are. He enjoyed shooting parties and dinners that extended into the small hours of the morning, discussing history and politics over glasses of port and the odd cigar. He took pleasure from socializing with the people of Hartington after church on Sundays and invited the town to an annual wine and cheese party at the house in the summer. He was affable and well liked for his dry, English sense of humor which more often than not included clever puns whose meaning eluded the very audience he meant to entertain. Ava always laughed, even though she had heard them all before. With round glasses perched on an aristocratic nose, his fine bones and high forehead, Phillip Lightly cut a distinguished figure as he strode confidently towards the herbaceous border.
    He waited awhile, enjoying his wife’s tuneful singing, then he called her again by the nickname he had given her in the early days of their courtship. “Shrub, darling!”
    “Oh, hello there, you!” she replied, scrambling out. There were leaves caught in her hair and a smear of mud down one cheek. She wiped her nose with the back of her hand.
    “You haven’t forgotten Jean-Paul, have you?” The surpriseon her face confirmed that she had. He smiled indulgently. Ava was famously vague, her mind absorbed by the trees and flowers of her beloved garden. “Well,” he sighed, glancing at his watch. “He’ll be at the station in half an hour.”
    “Oh God! I’d completely forgotten. I’ve done nothing about the cottage.”
    “He’s young, he’ll be happy in a sleeping bag,” said Phillip, folding his arms against the cold. Despite his cashmere sweater and scarf, he was shivering. “Look, I’ll pick him up, but then it’s over to you, Shrub.”
    “Thank you.” She wrapped her arms around his neck. He stepped back, aware that she was covered in mud and dead leaves, but her affection won him over and he wound his arms around her, lifting her off the ground, breathing in the scent of damp grass that clung to her hair. “You’re a darling,” she laughed into his neck.
    “You’re freezing,” he replied. “I’d like to wrap you in a blanket and give you a cup of hot chocolate.”
    “Is that all?”
    “For now, yes. Got to go and collect your apprentice.”
    “Is this really a good idea?” she asked, pulling away. “You know I like to do the gardens on my own and Hector helps with the weeding and mowing when I need him. I don’t like to be hovered over. I’m a solitary creature. Hector and I really don’t need anyone else.”
    “We’ve been through this before. Besides, it’s too late to go back on it now. We’re doing his father a great favor and besides, that’s what old Etonians do: we help one another out. After all he has done for me I’m keen to have the opportunity to pay him back. Thanks to Henri, doors have opened the entire length and breadth of France.”
    “All right,” she conceded with a sigh. “But I don’t know what he expects…”
    “You’re very gifted, Shrub. He’ll learn a lot from you. Ifhe’s going to inherit the château he’s got to know about running an estate.”
    “Can’t he just hire people to do it for him?”
    “That’s not the point. Henri wants him out of the city and in the English countryside for a while. He’s been allowed to do as he pleases in