Free The French Gardener by Santa Montefiore

tree over there.” His voice was hoarse with emotion. He pointed to a large oak that dominated the garden. “It’s hollow.”
    “What does hollow mean?”
    “No inside. It is like a shell. You can climb in it and make it into a camp.” He took a deep breath. “It’s been done before,” he added quietly. Storm’s curiosity was aroused, but Jean-Paul began to walk towards the house. “Shouldn’t we let your mother know that you are back?”
    “She’s busy,” said Storm. Jean-Paul frowned. He ran his hand through his dark hair, now graying at the temples, and looked at the little girl inquisitively. “I doubt she is too busy to notice that you have been gone. How old are you, Storm?”
    “Nearly six,” she replied proudly.
    “You are very grown up. But even grown-ups look out for each other. Let’s go and tell her you are back, just in case, eh?” His natural instinct was to hold her hand. How often he had walked those gardens holding the hands of small children, teaching them the magic and mystery of nature. But he knew it wouldn’t be appropriate with this little girl. Instead, he put his hands in his jacket pockets and continued to walk towards the front of the house.
    It was just as he remembered it: the soft gray stone walls and tiled slate roof; the tall, elegant chimneys where doves used to settle and coo; the three dormer windows with their little square panes of glass where the children had peered out and waved. The symmetrical harmony of the design and the peaceful way it melted into the surrounding trees and shrubbery as if they had all been created at the same time and grown old together.
    Jean-Paul rang the bell. Storm stood beside him, waiting for her mother to appear. She didn’t imagine she would have been worried; Mummy had been asleep. After a while, the door opened to reveal Miranda in a brown velour tracksuit, hair pulled back into a ponytail, cheeks glowing. She looked at the strange man and then at Storm and felt a sudden pang of guilt. “Are you all right, darling?” she said, crouching down to look at her daughter. She could see from Storm’s grubbyface that she had been crying. “What happened?” She directed her question at the stranger.
    “I found her down by the river. She was alone.” Miranda noticed the man’s French accent. She couldn’t fail to notice, too, how attractive he was. “My name is Jean-Paul.”
    “Please come in,” she said. “Thank you so much for bringing her home.”
    “I don’t want to trouble you,” he said, his face solemn.
    “You’re not troubling me at all. Please, I’d like to thank you.” Miranda wished she wasn’t so scruffy. It was very unlike her to be seen without makeup and she was sure her tracksuit had a stain on the thigh. She couldn’t bear to look. “I can’t imagine what she was doing down by the river. Goodness, my children are running wild. Our neighbor, Jeremy Fitzherbert, only brought Gus back from the woods a couple of days ago. They’re used to London parks and small gardens.” Jean-Paul followed Miranda down the corridor to the kitchen. He noticed at once how different the house was on the inside and felt the dramatic change in vibration, as if a cold draft ran through the hall lowering the temperature in spite of the fire in the grate. Storm skipped beside Jean-Paul. He was her new friend.
    “I thought you were watching a video,” said Miranda to Storm, taking two cups from the painted cream dresser and placing them on the black granite worktop. “Would you like tea or coffee, Jean-Paul?”
    “Coffee, please,” Jean-Paul replied, perching on a stool.
    “We saw some cows,” said Storm. “One licked my hand.” Storm held it up, grinning proudly.
    “God! How horrible. You’d better wash it at once. I hope you haven’t put your fingers in your mouth.” She shuffled Storm to the sink, turned on the tap and lifted her up. Storm grabbed the soap and put her hands under the water.
    “Her tongue is rough