The French Gardener by Santa Montefiore Page A

he did say was delivered in such a sexy French accent I almost forgot I was married and declared myself available and ready to elope at a moment’s notice.”
    “It was only by chance that I saw him popping in here. I was on my way to lunch when I realized I had forgotten to feed Cindy. If I hadn’t gone back for the cat I would have missed him.” Troy sighed melodramatically. “Is that luck or is it fate? You don’t see many men as attractive as him in Hartington. We’re hardly the Riviera, are we? I was positively drooling!”
    “What was he like?” Henrietta asked.
    “Gorgeous,” said Cate.
    “Gay?” asked Troy hopefully.
    “Single?” laughed Henrietta.
    “Frenchmen like skinny women,” said Cate, screwing up her freckled nose in mock sympathy. Henrietta took another bite of brioche. “Definitely not gay. Sorry, you two.”
    “Did he have that smug married look?” Troy interjected icily. Cate ignored the jibe. Troy always stuck up for Henrietta.
    “No. He looked single, actually,” she replied, lifting her chin. “But he didn’t smile. He looked serious and sad. I treated him to coffee. His face brightened a little after that. You know my coffee! He was clearly a tourist. He asked about Hartington House. Wanted to know who lived there. I think he thought the gardens were open to the public. Heseemed very disappointed when I told him the gardens were all overgrown and a posh new family from London had moved in. I felt sorry for him.”
    “Did you tell him to go and see the castle?” Troy lowered his voice and leaned into the table conspiratorially. “Seeing Jack and Mary Tinton in fancy dress would have cheered him up. They’re a hoot!”
    “What do you mean, fancy dress?” Henrietta glanced over at Jack Tinton. He looked like any other fifty-year-old in jeans and corduroy jacket.
    “They’ve just taken it upon themselves to dress up as Elizabethan characters and walk about the place for tourists. They charge a pound to have their photograph taken. Can you imagine paying a pound to be photographed with those two clots! The castle pays them five pounds an hour. They rake it in. If you want a laugh, go up there on a weekend and watch them prance around in long skirts and breeches. It’s better than pantomime.”
    “Better than the castle, too,” said Cate drily. “Why anyone wants to pay good money to wander around a pile of old stones is beyond me. Go to Hampton Court or the Tower of London, now that’s proper history. Not an old ruin that claims to have had Elizabeth the First as a visitor.”
    “Bah!” exclaimed the colonel from the corner. He folded his paper and stood up crossly. “Nothing good about the world these days.” The vicar and her two companions stopped talking and looked up at him in surprise. “Dirty hospitals, congestion, underpaid, overworked, ill-educated, foulmouthed, thugs, graffiti, gang warfare, exposed midriffs, skinny models, obesity, poverty, terrorism, war, murder, abduction, rape.” He snorted in fury. “I tell you, nothing good about the world. Bloody lucky my number’s nearly up. Can’t be doing with it all.” He moved stiffly across the room. Only the two old ladies continued chatting as if he wasn’t in the room. He threwsome change on the counter and shuffled out, replaced by a gust of damp wind.
    “Ah, so that’s why he hangs around after church,” said the Reverend Beeley, chuckling good-naturedly. “At his age, it’s hardly worth going home.”
    Cate put the change in the till and returned to her chair, smoothing down her white apron.
    “I wonder if he’ll come back,” sighed Henrietta. There were precious few attractive single men in Hartington.
    “He’s in every morning. Takes the same table and grumbles about the same things. Negative people are so trying!” Cate complained, clamping her small mouth in displeasure.
    “No, I mean the Frenchman. Do you think he’ll be back?” said Henrietta.
    “Who can say? Just passing