The Beekeeper's Daughter

by Santa Montefiore

  She had long since finished the lavender bag for Rufus, but she didn’t know how to get it to him. It sat on her dressing table with her hairbrushes and perfume, inducing memories and longings she’d have been better off discarding. But as the weeks went by she found herself delving with increasing regularity into the drawer to read the letter he had written after her father’s death and the card that had come with the flowers on her wedding day. Silently, she sent words to the Lord for his safety, too, and in the same ardent prayers she asked for forgiveness for her wild and foolish heart.

  And then one day in late summer Rufus came home.

  • • •

  Grace was pushing her bike back through the woods after a long day in the gardens at the Hall. The air was humid and little midges hovered in clouds, caught in the spotlight as the setting sun showered its beams through gaps in the leaves. She listened with pleasure to the rustling of animals in the undergrowth and reflected again on the nocturnal breathing that Rufus had claimed to detect when darkness sharpened one’s sense of hearing. Just as she thought of him, he appeared before her, having walked down a narrow path adjacent to hers.

  He caught her off guard, and the surprise was so sudden and so immense that it whipped away her inhibitions. “Rufus!” she cried happily. “You’re home!”

  Her enthusiasm pleased him. He smiled broadly and took off his hat. “I’m home,” he replied. “And it’s jolly nice to be here.”

  She ran her eyes up and down his captain’s uniform. He looked more striking than ever, and she felt the adrenaline course through her veins. “Are you on leave?”

  “I’ve been reassigned to General Doncaster’s headquarters at Bovington,” he replied.

  “That’s wonderful,” she exclaimed.

  “Just a brief visit. I’ll be off again soon. To Africa.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes betrayed her disappointment, and he smiled affectionately, as if he saw plainly her burning love for him and was moved by it.

  “But I’m here now,” he said quietly.

  “When did you get back?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “You look well.”

  “I feel well enough, although the food is dismal. I miss Mrs. Emerson’s steak and kidney pie. It’s an adventure out there but it’s going to be a long, hard slog, I’m afraid.”

  “Don’t say that,” she groaned. “I don’t think I can bear it.”

  “Then let’s not talk about the war. Isn’t it lovely here?” He sighed with relish, sweeping his eyes over the ferns and bramble bushes as if seeing it all for the first time. “Put down your bike, Grace. I want to show you something.”

  She hesitated a moment, suddenly aware that she was alone with him and fearful of how it might look, were they to be seen. “I’ll only be a minute,” he said, and his face was so endearing that she let her bicycle fall onto the grass and followed him back up the path he had just come down, which led farther into the wood.

  The bracken was waist high and the path so narrow they had to walk in single file. He strode up an incline, taking her to a part of the woods she knew well, having accompanied Mr. Swift from time to time to help him with the pheasants. But then he turned off the path and started to wade through the undergrowth. She followed without speaking until the trees opened into a small clearing. At one end of the clearing was a child’s wooden playhouse. “Papa built this for me when I was a boy,” he told her. “I thought it was marvelous.”

  “How clever of him.”

  “He loves building things. Of course, he’d have been happier if it had been a boat.” He chuckled softly, hunching his shoulders. “But come and see what I just discovered.” He took her hand, and the feeling of his skin against hers caused her cheeks to burn. She knew she should take her hand away, but it felt so comfortable in his that she left it there, trying to persuade herself that he was simply being friendly.

  He turned and put a finger across his lips. Her curiosity was aroused and she forgot about her hand. Gently, he pushed open the door with his foot and signaled for her to look inside. She stepped forward, finally letting go of his hand. There in the top corner of the little house was a bird’s nest full of little furry chicks, their yellow beaks opening in anticipation of food. She remained there a moment, watching them, and all her fear of being alone with Rufus dissolved in the touching scene before her.

  “It’s extraordinary to see a full nest of chicks in late summer!” she whispered, withdrawing. “How lucky we are to get so close. But how does the mother bird fly in?”

  “Through the window. She doesn’t need much room. I came up to see the house, to step into my childhood for a moment. To rest among my memories. Life is rather too serious now for my taste.” He smiled sadly and Grace noticed something dark in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. “I came to escape and then I heard you humming down on the track.”

  “I was humming?”

  “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 f
orehead. “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, savoring 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 his 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 the 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 they’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 The Scarlet Letter on the sly after Josephine had lent it to her, but she never imagined those sorts of racy things 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. There’s life in the old dog yet,” he chortled.

  “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 st
ood 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.”