The French Gardener by Santa Montefiore Page B

brought it to his mouth with a formal bow.
    “It is a pleasure to meet you,” he said, looking her straight in the eye. His eyes were soft like brown suede, his gaze intense. She would have replied to him in French, but his English was perfect, although strongly accented, containing within it all that was romantic and sensual about his country. She felt something flutter inside her stomach.
    “Did you have a pleasant flight?” she asked, suddenly aware of her disheveled appearance.
    “I arrived in London a few days ago. I wanted to see a little culture before I came down here,” he replied, his eyes wandering over the house. He thrust his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders. Phillip carried his case inside.
    “Why don’t you come in and have something to drink,” said Ava, following her husband in through the porch. “You’ll have to stay in the house for a week or so while I get the cottage ready for you. I’m afraid I’ve been slow in getting organized.”
    “So unlike you, Ava,” Phillip added without a hint of sarcasm. “My wife is an example of efficiency. She runs this place like the captain of a ship. I’m a mere crewman, in awe of her self-discipline.” Ava rolled her eyes.
    Jean-Paul was not at all what she had expected. First, he didn’t look like a gardener. He was beautifully dressed in a soft tweed jacket, blue shirt and pressed jeans. Around his neck he wore a faded cashmere scarf. His hair was thick, the color of chestnuts, and artfully arranged to look as though he hadn’t bothered. His nose was long and aquiline, his mouth asymmetrical and sensitive. His hands were clean, nails short and tidy, not the hands of a man used to digging. On his feet were brown Gucci loafers. She hoped he had gardening boots. It would be a shame to ruin those elegant shoes.
    They sat on stools in the kitchen while Ava prepared lunch. She had gathered leeks and sprouts from her kitchen garden and bought trout from the fishmonger in town. She grew herbs against the garden wall in an old water trough and had made basil butter and broad bean hummus to eat with homemade rosemary bread. She adored the smell of healthy cooking and gained great satisfaction from watching her children grow strong on her own produce.
    On first meeting Ava, one would never imagine she was shy. She rose to the occasion, telling witty stories, making people laugh, barely drawing breath between anecdotes, only to disappear afterward into blissful solitude in her garden, depleted after having given so much of herself. Phillip knew she entertained in order to hide her shyness and he loved her for it. It was a secret that only he was aware of. He was touched by the way she performed before collapsing once the curtain came down. He was the only man permitted backstage, a privilege he relished. Now she began to chatter away to Jean-Paul, who looked at her with an arrogant expression on his beautifully chiseled face, as if she were an eccentric relative to be tolerated. He smiled politely, but not with his eyes. He listened while she cooked, his gaze sleepy until they all moved to the table for lunchand they fell hungrily on the feast she laid before him. Like all men, he became enlivened at the sight of a hearty meal.
    “So, Jean-Paul,” she said, passing him the dish of steaming vegetables. “I hear your family has a beautiful garden in France?”
    “Yes,” he replied, picking up the spoon and helping himself to carrots. “My mother loves gardens. Especially English gardens. We have a château near Bordeaux. It is very old. I admire what my mother has done with the gardens. One day I will create a beautiful garden of my own.”
    “So what do you hope to learn here?”
    He shrugged. “Papa says that yours is the best he has ever seen.”
    “I wish I had met him. He popped in once, about eight years ago when I was away visiting my mother. I would like to have shown him around personally. I’m surprised Phillip showed him the