The Beekeeper's Daughter A Novel

by Santa Montefiore

  ‘Yes, you were.’

  ‘I never noticed.’

  ‘I thought you’d like to see the chicks. Of all the people I know, I said to myself, Grace Valentine is the only person who would truly appreciate them.’

  ‘They’re adorable,’ she replied, flattered.

  He gazed down at her, the tenderness in his eyes blatant and unashamed. ‘No, you’re adorable,’ he said softly. Grace stared at him, startled by this unexpected declaration. ‘God help me, Grace, but I love you. I can’t deny it and I can’t suppress it any longer. I love you with all my heart.’

  Afraid, Grace let out a gasp. ‘Don’t!’ she uttered, but even she heard the weakness in her voice and knew he could see that she returned his love, for it declared itself in the blushes that now set her cheeks aflame. Undeterred by her feeble protest, he bent down and pressed his lips to hers in a gentle kiss.

  He pulled away. ‘If you don’t love me back, say, and I won’t kiss you again. I promise. We can pretend this never happened.’

  Grace shook her head slowly. ‘I do love you, Rufus,’ she replied slowly. The words, said out loud, were like doves set free from their cage and she knew then that she could never take them back. She knew, too, as he pulled her into his arms to kiss her again, that she’d never want to.

  Chapter 20

  As Rufus kissed her, Grace didn’t think of Freddie. It was as if he belonged to another life, like a dream, and only this moment with Rufus was real. With his arms around her and nothing between them but the sound of their quickening hearts, they were as one. There was no difference in class or upbringing to set them apart. They were simply two people whose love for each other had grown steadily and irrevocably from the first moment they had met on the grass outside the church eight years before. Grace had imagined this moment a thousand times, and in her mind it had always felt right. Now she knew her imagination had not deceived her. They were two wandering souls who had found each other at last.

  ‘Oh, Grace,’ Rufus sighed, sweeping the stray wisps of hair off her face. ‘I’m the luckiest man in the world to be loved by you. I should have carried you off into the sunset long ago and saved you for myself.’

  ‘I loved you from the moment I put that bee on your arm. You remember?’

  He laughed. ‘My darling Grace, of course I remember. You were a young girl then. I knew you’d blossom into a beautiful woman. Look at you now, how lovely you are. I want to hear what you’ve been doing while I’ve been away. I want to hear everything. Don’t spare any details. I want to hear about the bees and the broccoli! I want to take it all with me when I return to this damned awful war.’ He took her hands. ‘Let’s not talk about that. Come, walk with me. I know every inch of these woods and I want to enjoy them with you where no one can find us. This little house here, in this delightful clearing, will be our secret place. No one will ever discover us here. While we’re here we can pretend there is no Georgie and no Freddie, just you and me.’ He kissed her forehead. ‘My Little Bee.’

  Grace worked as usual during the day and then in the evenings, as she walked home through the woods, Rufus would appear like one of King Arthur’s gallant knights to sweep her into his arms and away to the realm of fantasy. He had stored blankets in the playhouse which they would spread on the grass and lie entwined, savouring the brief time they had together. He’d play with the long strands of her hair, curling them behind her ear or twirling them through his fingers, and tell her how beautiful she was and how she had rescued him from a dull and pointless life. Grace told him about the bees and Ruby, the work she did in the vegetable garden and on the farm, and gossip divulged from the Hall. He loved to hear what Mrs Emerson had to say about them all, but she was careful not to repeat anything she was told about Lady Georgina. It was better that they didn’t discuss their spouses at all.

  Like his mother, the Marchioness, Rufus adored the young evacuees who had come to stay. Grace listened to him talking about them and felt a gentle tugging somewhere deep in her belly, for she, too, felt a growing desire to have children. How she wished she could have Rufus’s, but that was impossible. Lady Georgina would give him an heir, and God willing Grace would bear Freddie’s child, and nothing of their love would remain on earth. No one would ever know. It would remain forever hidden and one day die with them. How Grace wished that some small token could endure.

  She gave Rufus the lavender bag the evening before he left for Africa. ‘My darling, how thoughtful you are. I shall treasure it always,’ he said, pressing it to his nose and sniffing it. ‘You clever thing, you.’ Then he buried his face in her neck and kissed her there. ‘I wish you could put this smell into a little bag so I could carry a bit of you off to war.’

  She wriggled on the blanket. ‘You’re tickling me.’

  He made the growling noise of a bear. ‘And here?’ He swept his lips over her collarbone.

  She laughed uncontrollably. ‘Yes, stop!’ But she didn’t really want him to.

  He unhooked her dungarees and opened her blouse, one pearly button at a time, until her chest and the white cotton of her brassiere were exposed. Slowly and deliberately he kissed the soft skin between her breasts. She stopped laughing. He had never touched her there before. Without saying a word he slid his hand round to unclip her brassiere. She didn’t move to stop him. The air had stilled around them, the woods grown suddenly quiet, as if acknowledging the sacred nature of the moment. Now her breasts were exposed, she caught her breath. He brought his mouth to hers again and with his hand caressed the swell of her bosom until her breathing grew shallow and she let out a low moan. Then tongue replaced fingers and she lifted her chin and closed her eyes and felt the tension building in her core of her belly, like a fire raging out of control.

  She knew this was the last time she would see him for months. It could even be the last time she would see him, ever. War made the future so uncertain and the present all-important; nothing else mattered but now, because it was everything she had. Presently, with her senses heightened and her longing acute, she allowed him to undress her. He pulled off her dungarees and she wriggled out of her blouse and brassiere. Then he hooked his fingers over her knickers and slid them down her legs, tossing them into the grass. As she lay naked in the dappled light that quivered through the leaves, she allowed Rufus’s eyes to consume her. Her husband had been the only man ever to see her naked; now she lay vulnerable and bare for her lover, who wasted no time in exploring every curve and crevice with greedy delight, inducing sighs and moans the like of which had never left her throat before.

  When they had made love, Rufus delved into his jacket pocket and pulled out a packet of Camel cigarettes. He lit one and inhaled. ‘I shall take the memory of this day with me to blot out the horrors of war,’ he told her. ‘I feel closer to you now, Grace. I’ve taken you in my arms and made you mine.’

  ‘When will you come back?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’ll think of you every day.’

  ‘I like that. I like to think of you, thinking of me. And I have something for you to remember me by.’ He put his hand into another pocket and pulled out a red velvet box. ‘I was rather pleased when I found this. I bought it in London before the war and have kept it all this time. It wasn’t appropriate to give it to you then.’

  ‘Oh, Rufus, you shouldn’t have.’

  ‘Of course I shouldn’t have, but that’s never stopped one doing what one wants to, and I wanted to very much. It’s been burning a hole in my pocket.’

  She pressed the little gold knob and lifted the lid. There, glittering and sparkling, was a diamond bumblebee brooch. She gasped with pleasure. ‘Oh, it’s beautiful,’ she exclaimed admiringly. ‘It’s perfect. I don’t imagine there’s anything in the world more appropriate for me than this. It must have been very dear, Rufus. I’m quite embarrassed . . .’

  ‘How sweet you are, darling.’

  ‘Well, they’re diamonds, aren’t they?’

  ‘Of course th
ey’re diamonds. Yellow ones and white ones. You’re worth more to me than cut glass. You see, I loved you then and you didn’t know it.’

  ‘And I loved you and you didn’t know it,’ she laughed.

  ‘You must wear it always.’

  ‘Oh, I will.’

  ‘And if Freddie asks?’

  ‘I’ll make something up.’

  ‘You can say my grandmother left it to you as a thank you for helping ease her arthritis.’

  ‘That’s a very good idea. Then that’s what I shall say. He won’t question that.’

  ‘Every time I see a bee I shall buy it for you until your house is full of my tokens of love. I’ll buy you a collection so enormous that you will never forget about me.’

  ‘But I won’t want to forget about you, ever,’ she protested, feeling as light as confectioner’s sugar.

  ‘And I won’t ever forget about you. You do know that, don’t you, Grace? You do know that whatever happens, I’ll never forget my Little Bee. You will always be my one and only true love.’

  At that moment they heard voices deeper in the wood. They stared at each other in horror. ‘Get dressed,’ he whispered, tossing his cigarette into the bushes. Hastily, they scrambled into their clothes. Grace had gone white with fear. She put the red velvet box in her dungarees pocket and tied up her hair with a scarf. The voices didn’t seem to be getting any closer. Now there was soft laughter, carried on the breeze with the low murmur of a man’s voice. Rufus took her hand. ‘Come,’ he hissed. She shook her head. ‘It’s all right. I know where they are. They don’t know where we are. Trust me.’ He led her slowly towards the voices. Grace winced every time the ground crackled beneath her feet. She wanted to tell him he was being reckless. If they were discovered, what would they say? But he was holding her hand tightly, and with determined steps making his way softly through the undergrowth. At last he told her to crouch down. Together they peered through the trees.

  What they saw alarmed Grace more than the idea of getting caught. But Rufus was highly entertained. ‘Good Lord!’ he exclaimed in amusement. ‘Who’d have thought it? Mama and Mr Swift!’

  ‘Let’s go!’ Grace hissed, mortified to have caught the Marchioness of Penselwood pressed up against a tree by the gamekeeper. She’d read Lady Chatterley’s Lover on the sly after Josephine had lent it to her, but she never imagined that sort of thing could really happen, certainly not to Lady Penselwood.

  ‘You see, everyone’s at it. I bet there isn’t a faithful wife in the entire country. I don’t imagine Mama gets much excitement with Papa. Good old Mr Swift. I never knew he had it in him. Lady Penselwood’s Lover,’ he chortled, speaking Grace’s thoughts aloud.

  ‘We can’t watch them. It’s rude,’ Grace murmured, wondering whether he included Lady Georgina in his sweeping statement about unfaithful wives.

  ‘All right. Come on. Let’s get out of here.’ He stood up and walked normally back the way they’d come.

  ‘You’re making a lot of noise,’ she whispered anxiously.

  ‘Oh, they’re far too busy to notice us.’ He laughed again and shook his head. ‘Mother’s gone up in my estimation. What a girl!’

  ‘You’re not upset?’

  ‘Why would I be upset? I’d be a terrible old humbug if my mother’s infidelity upset me. Papa’s never been a very attentive husband at the best of times. He spends every free moment building boats when he should be making love to his wife. I don’t blame her at all for seeking affection elsewhere. I’m just surprised it’s Mr Swift. I suppose all the men of her class have gone off to war.’ He took Grace’s hand and brought it to his lips. ‘You have natural nobility, Grace. There are plenty of countesses who aren’t ladies. Then there’s you. A lady in everything but name and, by God, I wish it were in my power to make you one. I’d make you a countess and you’d have more poise and refinement than all the ladies of the aristocracy.’ He kissed her tenderly. ‘You’re a lady to me, Grace.’

  Suddenly the thought of parting overwhelmed her. She threw herself into his arms. ‘If only we belonged to each other,’ she said. ‘If only it were possible. But we’re doomed to live apart forever. And now you’re leaving and I might never see you again.’

  ‘Darling, you must have more faith in Old Blighty,’ he said, squeezing her hard. ‘When I come back I’m going to push you up against a tree like Mr Swift.’

  She laughed in spite of her misery. ‘You’re wicked.’

  ‘I think that’s a case of the kettle calling the pot black.’

  She looked up at him with glistening eyes. ‘Oh, I do love you, Rufus.’

  ‘I know you do, and that will sustain me through to the end of the war, when we’ll be reunited, here in our secret place, where no one but Mr Swift and Mama can find us.’ His eyes grew serious as he caressed the contours of her face. ‘Whenever you miss me, put your fingers on the brooch I gave you and that will send a telepathic message straight to my heart.’

  ‘Oh Rufus, don’t. You’ll make me cry.’

  He bent down to kiss her again. ‘If God spares me, Grace, I’ll come back and marry you. I promise you that. I’ll divorce Georgie. You’ll divorce Freddie. There’s nothing on earth that can keep us apart.’

  The following day Rufus went back to war and Grace went back to work and on the outside nothing seemed to have changed at all. But on the inside, everything had changed. Grace discovered she had a surprising ability to live two separate lives. An external life where she wrote long letters to Freddie, moaned about how much she missed him to Ruby, Josephine and May, and an internal life where her heart pined for Rufus. She discovered to her shame that she also had a surprising ability to lie.

  Rufus wrote her long letters from Africa, always addressed to Miss Bernadette Short, which was a name they’d made up in case Freddie was ever home on leave and chanced to come across one. She could always claim that Bernadette was a land girl from London who had briefly lodged with her, but had now gone. It was Rufus’s idea and a good one. He wrote the letter itself to ‘My darling little B’ and signed ‘your ever-faithful Broderick’, in reference to the name of one of his ancestors which Grace had found particularly amusing. She treasured every letter, hiding them with the two she had previously kept in her dressing-table drawer beneath a loose floorboard under the bed. Unlike Freddie who never shared his experiences, Rufus was full of his, as much as the censors permitted. He seemed to want to offload, and Grace was flattered that he should write about his feelings in such detail, sharing his failures with her as well as his successes. He was a highly intelligent and witty young man and his letters were more like short stories, the men he described becoming characters she longed to read about, and, as the war raged on, characters she mourned when they were tragically killed. He wrote philosophically and wisely but there was one line which stayed with her for days, causing her to cry into her pillow.

  The noise of war is so great it destroys all living things. Sometimes I feel that Earth herself has stopped breathing altogether, because when I sit under the stars and see nothing but my own fears, I try to hear her breathe, in and out, in and out, and hear nothing but a deathly silence and my own weak heart, beating still for my one and only true love.

  She went and sat outside in the middle of the night, wrapped in a sheepskin coat, and closed her eyes. At first she heard only the fretful throbbing in her ears, but then, as her heart rate slowed and her hearing grew more acute, she began to hear the gentle scuffling of a small animal in the hedge. She didn’t open her eyes but let her senses tune into the secret nocturnal life of her garden. She longed to hear the breathing that Rufus had spoken about, but she was reassured that war hadn’t yet robbed her garden of its life.

  Grace was pleased to discover that Mrs Emerson, the source of all gossip at the Hall, hadn’t found out about Lady Penselwood’s affair with Mr Swift. The cook didn’t treat her any differently, either, which reassured her that she suspected nothing of her own affair with Rufus. The only person Grace wen
t to great lengths to avoid was Lady Georgina. Most of the time Rufus’s wife kept herself to herself in the private part of the house. While the Marchioness strode around the farm and gardens, rallying the women, milking the cows, collecting eggs from the chickens, riding out with Mr Swift, her sulky daughter-in-law supposedly knitted socks for the WI in her little sitting room upstairs. Mrs Emerson was full of it, as were the land girls who were high on tales of grand ladies from all over the county who were donning overalls and getting their hands dirty with the common folk. But Lady Georgina had a strong character and an unbending will, according to Mrs Emerson, and not even Lady Penselwood could shame her into action.

  Then, one spring day in 1942, Lady Georgina sought out Grace in the gardens. She seemed most determined to speak with her. By now, Grace’s secret compartment beneath the floorboard in her bedroom contained not only Rufus’s letters but a growing number of small ornamental bees which he had managed to send her. Among them was a porcelain box, a cigarette case, a silver bauble and a gold pendant. He had also taken to drawing bees in his letters, which made her smile.

  ‘I need to talk to you,’ said Lady Georgina in her habitual lofty manner.

  Grace’s heart leapt into her throat. ‘Yes, m’lady?’ she replied, trying to find traces of suspicion in her features. But Lady Georgina looked at her impassively, giving nothing away.

  ‘I need to send a box of honey out to Lord Melville.’

  ‘I delivered the honey to Mrs Emerson last September. There should be plenty left in the store cupboard.’

  Lady Georgina appeared flustered. ‘I want the labels written especially,’ she said.

  Grace knew that prisoners of war, billeted at a nearby farm, hand-painted labels for the Walbridge honey jars. ‘I can organize that for you, if you like,’ she said. ‘I’ll have to harvest early this year. I could certainly fill some jars for you, but not before May.’

  ‘Aren’t the bees making honey all the time?’

  ‘Yes, but we only harvest it once or twice a year.’