The French Gardener by Santa Montefiore Page A

Paris.”
    “So, he’s a playboy?”
    “Henri doesn’t know anyone else he can ask. He’s worried Jean-Paul will drift. He wants to inspire him. Wants him to take responsibility. One day he’ll inherit the château and vineyard. It’s a big responsibility.”
    “I’m surprised he does what his father tells him. He’s not a child.”
    “No, but his father holds the purse strings.”
    “Is that so important? Why doesn’t he run off and do his own thing?”
    “Les Lucioles is not an ordinary château. It’s magnificent. Any boy worth his salt would do all he could not to lose it.”
    “I see.” She felt very unenthusiastic about it all.
    “Besides, it’ll be good for the boys to have a young man about the place to rag around with. I’m an old father.”
    “I keep you young,” she protested.
    “That’s true,” he chuckled. “But I don’t rag around much and I don’t speak French. The children could do with a little home tuition.” Ava smiled at him sheepishly. She spoke fluent French, having been sent to finishing school in Switzerland at sixteen.
    “You make me feel guilty for not having spoken French to them from birth.”
    “I’d never expect that of you, Shrub. I expect you to get up in the morning, the rest is a surprise!”
    She smacked him playfully. “You beast!”
    “You haven’t called me that for a while.” He kissed her forehead.
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She kissed him back, leaving him with a wide, loving smile.
    She watched him stride back across the lawn towards the house, his shoulders hunched against the cold, his gait charmingly gangly. Then her eyes fell upon a pair of pigeons perched on the gutter just beneath the sloping roof. They were fat and contented. She felt the same. How lucky she was to have everything she could possibly want: a husband who loved her, three happy children, the most beautiful house in England, and her beloved gardens. The birds sat on the roof like icing on a delicious cake.
    She cast her eyes about the garden. It was only just beginning to turn. She liked it like that. The expanse of green gave her a sense of serenity. The trees were still frothy, but their leaves were curling at the corners and some were a pretty shade of yellow. Birdsong still rang out across the lawns, punctuated by the odd cough of a pheasant and the husky coo of a pigeon. She liked the sparrows that nested under the gutters in springtime and had planted evergreen shrubs near the house to encourage other birds to make their homes there, too. In midwinter she let the ivy grow up the ash and sycamore trees so that the birds that remained could find shelter from the cold and predators. She had taught the children to nurture them. Poppy used the birdbath as a paddling pool in midsummer, but in winter she put food out, slowly taming the little creatures so that some of them ate out of her hand when Bernie and Tarquin weren’t around to frighten them away.
    She was still working in the border when Phillip returned an hour later with Jean-Paul. Bernie and Tarquin shot around to the front of the house, barking loudly. She climbed out and wiped the sweat from her forehead as the scrunching of wheels on gravel came to an abrupt stop. She heard the opening and closing of doors, then her husband’s voicegreeting the dogs as if they were people. She hastened through the gate nestled in the yew hedge that hid the gardens from the front of the house. Phillip was opening the boot of his old Mercedes. No sooner had he opened it than the two dogs jumped in. Jean-Paul looked on in amazement as the dogs planted muddy paws all over his leather case. Phillip made no move to extract them. He just chuckled at the familiar sight, paying no heed to Jean-Paul’s discomfort. Ava watched him from the gate. He was the handsomest young man she had ever seen.
    “Hello, I’m Ava,” she said, wiping her hand on her dungarees before offering it to Jean-Paul. To her surprise he