The French Gardener Read Online Free Page B

never expect a woman like Miranda Claybourne to remember her. “You’ve been into my shop.”
    “Oh, yes,” Miranda replied, recalling the hurried purchaseof a scented candle and some notepaper. “Of course we have.”
    Henrietta lowered her eyes; she’d never seen anyone more glamorous in her life.
    “So?” Cate persisted. “How’s it going?”
    “Great,” Miranda replied, reluctant to talk about herself. There wasn’t much positive to say and she didn’t want to offend them.
    “What sort of help do you require?” Henrietta asked. Miranda noticed what beautiful skin she had, like smooth toffee. She must have been in her late thirties and yet she hadn’t a single line. She wanted to ask what products she used on her face, but didn’t want to strike up a friendship. Miranda took a sip of coffee. It was delicious; she needn’t have lamented the absence of a Caffè Nero after all.
    “Well, I need someone to cook and clean, and a gardener. The garden’s a mess.”
    “You know that garden used to be a showpiece,” said Henrietta.
    “Really? You could have fooled me.”
    “Oh yes,” agreed Cate. “The Lightlys created the most beautiful gardens. I can’t imagine that you’re very into gardens, being a Londoner.”
    “Ava Lightly was very green-thumbed,” Henrietta added hastily, worried Cate might have caused offense. She had a rather unpleasant manner when confronted by strangers, like a wary animal marking her territory with a mixture of sweetness and spite. “But she left a couple of years ago. It doesn’t take long for a garden to grow wild if it’s not taken care of.”
    “Well, I’m not at all green-thumbed,” said Miranda, glancing at her prettily polished nails and inwardly grimacing at the thought of having to manicure them herself. “It depresses me to look out onto a mess.” Henrietta’s mouthwatered as Miranda bit into the cake. “Do you make these yourself?”
    Cate nodded and protruded her lips so that her chin disappeared completely. “You won’t find better coffee or cake anywhere in Dorset. I hope you’ll become a regular. Once you’ve bitten there’s no going back.”
    “I can see why,” said Miranda, wondering how such a scrawny woman was capable of making such rich and succulent cakes without eating them herself.
    “I’ll ask around as well,” Henrietta offered helpfully. “I get a wide variety of people coming into my shop. Hartington attracts people from all around and you never know.” She smiled and Miranda found herself warming to her. She had the sweet, self-deprecating smile of a woman unaware of her prettiness.
    The door opened again, letting in a cold gust of wind. “Look at you!” cried a man with a wide grin and a smooth, handsome face. “Keeping her all to yourself? Etta, you’re a shocker! Cate, your secrecy doesn’t surprise me at all. From you I expect the worst.”
    “This is Troy,” said Henrietta, her face opening into a beaming smile. “He’s opposite if you need your hair done. Not that you do, of course, it’s perfect.”
    He turned to Miranda, hands on the waist of his low-cut jeans. “You’ve been here how long and you haven’t even bothered to say hello? We’re all terribly hurt, you know.” He pouted. Miranda’s spirits rose at the sight of Troy’s infectious grin. “Cate, love of my life, I need a cake. It’s bloody cold out there and I’ve got old Mrs. Rattle-Bag coming in for her blue rinse at twelve.”
    “You’re so rude, Troy,” Henrietta gasped with a giggle. “She’s not called that at all, and Troy’s really Peter,” she added to Miranda.
    “May I?” said Troy, not waiting for a response. “Make that a coffee, too!” He settled his clear hazel eyes on Miranda and appraised her shamelessly. “You’re the most glamorous thing to set foot in Hartington in years. The last time I saw such glamour was in the woods above Hartington, a fox, if I recall, wearing a stunning coat all her own. I can see the