The French Gardener by Santa Montefiore Read Free Book Online

and added, while she was on the line to the Lord, that a cook and a housekeeper might follow. She opened the door to find a gnomelike man dressed in a brown jacket and trousers with a tweed cap set on an abundant crown of curly gray hair. When he saw her he hastily took off the cap and held it against his waistcoat.
    “I’m Mr. Underwood, come about the gardening job,” he said in a broad Dorset accent. Miranda didn’t extend her hand; he looked as though he wouldn’t know what to do with it.
    “Do come inside, Mr. Underwood,” she replied, stepping aside to let him pass into the hall. A gust of damp wind blew in with him. “Gosh, it is wet today,” she exclaimed, closing the door behind him. “I hate drizzle.”
    “Global warming,” he said dolefully. “One day it’s as hot as summer, the next it’s as cold as Siberia! These days you don’t know what to expect.”
    “Please come into my study, Mr. Underwood.” He followed her, casting his eyes over the flagstone floor and freshly painted cream walls. There was a large, empty fireplace where logs should have been burning and a pretty rug where one would expect a couple of sleeping dogs. When the Lightlys had owned Hartington there was always a fire in the grate and a cheery flower arrangement on the wide refectory table in the hall. The round table that now took its place looked lonely with only a lifeless sculpture positioned on top.
    “Just moved in then?” he asked. Miranda noticed he spoke deliberately and slowly, clearly a man in no hurry.
    “Yes. Do you know the house?”
    “Aye. This was once the most beautiful garden in Dorset.”
    “Really,” she said, showing him to an armchair. He noticed she hadn’t lit the fire in her study either, but it smelled of smoke, which was encouraging.
    “Mrs. Lightly was a gifted lady.”
    “So I’m told.”
    “You should light the fires in this house. I could bring logs in for you if you like.”
    “Thank you. You see, we need someone like you.” Although, as he put his stumpy finger up his nose and wiggled it about, she wasn’t quite so sure.
    “Got an itchy nose,” he explained, giving his finger another wiggle.
    “Thank you, Mr. Underwood. Now tell me, I gather you worked for Jeremy Fitzherbert?”
    He withdrew his finger and wiped it on his jacket. “I worked on the farm for over forty years. Ploughing, sowing, but what I enjoy most is gardens. Have you seen the toadstools in the woods?” His eyes shone like hematite.
    Miranda shook her head. “Toadstools?”
    “Aye. There’ll be a fair few up there. It’s a wet autumn. D’you know that the mushroom itself is only the fruit of the mushroom plant?”
    “No, I didn’t.”
    “It’s only when the plant growing in the ground becomes strong enough to produce seeds that mushrooms appear.”
    “Really?” She tried to sound interested. This wasn’t going quite as well as she had thought.
    “There are a lot of edible toadstools but most people don’t know that. They eat only mushrooms. Mrs. Underwood cooks a good toadstool soup. She knows which ones to eat and which ones not to eat.” Miranda noticed Mr. Underwood’s large belly. He was clearly well fed. She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully.
    “This is a large property, Mr. Underwood.”
    “Mrs. Lightly did it all on her own,” he said, nodding slowly with admiration.
    “Didn’t she have anyone to help her?”
    “Only Hector. It was her passion.”
    “Well, it’s been left to go wild for a year at least. There’s a lot of work to be done. I’m not sure that you’re strong enough to do it on your own.”
    He looked affronted. “Not strong enough!” he gasped, insulted. He jumped up, took off his jacket and stood, flexing his muscles in his shirtsleeves. “Look at this. Hard as rock it is. Hard as solid rock.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Underwood.”
    “You’re as old as you feel, m’lady. Inside here I’m a strapping lad.”
    “I’m sure you are, Mr. Underwood. Mrs. Underwood is