The Beekeeper's Daughter

by Santa Montefiore

  But that didn’t answer the question of why Rufus had returned all Grace’s letters. If he hadn’t died in the war, what had ended the affair? She couldn’t ask her mother—she sensed her mother didn’t know anyway—or indeed her father.

  There was only one person who might be able to help her get to the bottom of it, and that was Rufus Melville’s son, Jasper. It was a long shot: after all, she hadn’t known about her mother’s affair, so there was every chance that he hadn’t a clue about his father’s, but it was worth a try.

  Chapter 22

  Trixie had never been to England. She hadn’t thought it odd before: after all, England was very far away and her parents had rarely spoken about it, but it was odd, considering that England was where they had both grown up and where they had married. If only she had taken the trouble to ask them about their lives, but she had been so engrossed in her own little dramas that she had never imagined her mother had lived a drama of her own. She hadn’t imagined her mother had suffered a broken heart, either. She had believed her incapable of understanding when Jasper had ended their relationship. How wrong she had been.

  Now that Trixie had discovered her mother’s affair, she understood why she had never been taken to England: neither parent wanted to revisit the past. Moving to America had probably been a fresh start for both of them. It had put distance between Grace and Rufus and given Grace and Freddie a chance to rebuild. Or so it looked to Trixie, staring out of the window of the plane as it slowly descended into London.

  She felt guilty sneaking to their hometown without telling them. It was snooping and intrusive. Like snooping through her mother’s old love letters, she thought uncomfortably. She wondered how much this visit had to do with Rufus Melville, and how much more it had to do with Jasper Duncliffe.

  It had been easy to arrange the trip. The London-based designer Rifat Ozbek was popular in New York, and he had granted her an interview at Claridge’s. After that she’d take the train down to Dorchester in Dorset. Her assistant had booked her into the Fox and Goose Inn in Walbridge. She’d explore from there. She didn’t know what to expect, and she hadn’t dared ask anyone in the office, even though two of the girls were British.

  From the window of the airplane her first impression of London was of a dull, gray city of toy-sized houses and tree-lined streets, whose autumn leaves broke the monotony with welcome splashes of orange and yellow. Heavy cloud hung low and persistent, as if always there, like the wet tarmac that glistened feebly in the lackluster light.

  She made her way through passport control and customs and outside to the taxi rank. Her spirits lifted at the sight of a London cab, and she enjoyed her drive into the city like a child enjoying her first ride on a merry-go-round. It didn’t seem real. She gazed out of the taxi window in wonder, taking in the big red buses; the quaint town houses; and the pretty, narrow streets, cluttered with umbrellas. She had made the mistake of telling her cabbie that she was new to London, so he took it upon himself to be her guide, pointing out all the landmarks in such a strong Cockney accent she could barely understand him.

  They passed the Natural History Museum, Harrods, the Duke of Wellington’s house at Hyde Park Corner, and, in an expensive detour, the cabbie took her past Buckingham Palace and St. James’s Palace, finally reaching Claridge’s from the south. London was thrilling. She wished she had more time to see the sights. She wished she had someone to share them with.

  Claridge’s did not disappoint. With its scarlet carpets and white moldings it was like stepping back in time to an age of grandeur and elegance. Trixie was reminded of one of her mother’s favorite television series, The Pallisers, which she had at home on video and occasionally watched. Set in the mid-nineteenth century, the series had supplied her first and lasting impression of England. Now, as she stepped through the revolving doors, she savored the familiar sounds of English accents and silver spoons on china cups with a pleasant sense of nostalgia and déjà vu.

  She gave her bag to the concierge to store and took a small case to the ladies’ room to freshen up before her meeting. It had been a long flight and she felt like a crumpled dress in need of ironing. Staring at her face in the mirror, she wondered whether Jasper would find her much changed.

  Rifat was a charming and engaging man who entertained her throughout lunch. It wasn’t until she was on the train bound for Dorset that she turned her thoughts back to her mission. She’d start at the Beekeeper’s Cottage. If Jasper lived in a big house on a grand estate, she didn’t imagine she’d have any trouble finding him. Judging by the fuss that was made over his return, she doubted he’d have gone anywhere. “His sort,” as his father liked to call them, put duty before anything else. Perhaps it was duty that had prompted Rufus to send all Grace’s letters back? Had he, like his son, sacrificed his love for tradition? Had he done it with sorrow or with cold calculation? Had both men lived to regret their decisions?

  As the train cut deep into the English countryside the suburbs melted into undulating green hills and forests. Even in the drizzle the vibrant autumn colors seemed to blaze like flames against the soggy gray sky. Town houses were replaced by farms and picture-book cottages, and cars gave way to cows and sheep grazing peacefully on rolling hills. Fields were boxed in by hedges, and from a distance those squares looked like a patchwork quilt of varying tones of green. Trixie stared out of the window, uplifted by England’s wistful beauty, wondering how often her parents had stared out onto the same scenery.

  It was dark by the time she reached Dorchester. The rain had stopped, but the air was cold and damp. It reminded her of winter on Tekanasset, when the cold penetrated right to the bone. She tucked her scarf into her coat and dragged her suitcase out to the taxi rank. A porcine man smelling of tobacco and takeout food drove her down the narrow lanes into Walbridge, asking her a dozen questions when she’d have preferred to contemplate the place in silence. Had she been in America she would have told him to be quiet, but she felt less confident in this country, where she was a stranger.

  “This here is Walbridge,” the cabbie told her in his rich country drawl as they drove over a gray stone bridge into the town. The road swept between rows of shops and houses in a gentle curve, and Trixie was reminded of Main Street on Tekanasset because Walbridge looked as if time had forgotten it, too. The houses were built in a soft, weathered yellow stone, some were even thatched, and rickety old chimneys smoked like nightwatchmen pausing on their round. One or two cottages looked as if they were inhabited by hobbits, because the front doors were so small and the windows only a few feet higher than the ground. Streetlamps shone orange onto the pavements, where leaves had collected in clusters like playthings discarded by the wind. Trixie gazed at it all in wonder. This was Jasper’s hometown. This was where she might have lived had she married him. Unbelievably, this quaint Dorset town was what her parents had left behind.

  The Fox and Goose Inn was an old-fashioned pub, painted white with black beams and a swinging sign showing a wily fox contemplating his dinner. The windows were medieval-­looking, with small diamond-shaped glass panes set deep into thick walls. She paid the cabbie, then stood a moment staring up the narrow street. The houses on either side leaned in like old people no longer able to stand straight, and she wondered whether they had been built like that or whether they had subsided over the years.

  There were two doors: one which was the entrance to the pub and another, farther left, which was painted with the letters B & B in white. The golden glow from the first one was more alluring, promising company and a stiff drink—she could hear the rumble of voices inside and smell woodsmoke in the air. But it was late and she was tired after her journey. New York seemed far away now. So she opened the second door and walked into a lobby.

  “You must be Miss Valentine?” said a comely lady from behind a desk.

  “Yes, I am,” Trixie replied.

  The lady smiled warmly. “I thought so. Let me help you w
ith your case, love. Where have you come from? You don’t sound English.” She set off up the narrow stair.

  “America.”

  “Are you here on holiday?”

  “Just for a few days.”

  “Fancy choosing Walbridge. It’s hardly a tourist destination. People come for the birds. We have lots of rare ones around the river. And the fishing, of course. We’re not far from the sea if you like that sort of thing.”

  “My parents grew up here.”

  “Did they?”

  “Yes, I’m hoping to find someone who might have known them.”

  “What are their names, dear?”

  “Freddie and Grace Valentine.” When the woman’s face failed to register recognition, Trixie added, “They left just after the war, but my father’s family remained.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t know, then. I wasn’t born here. We moved twelve years ago from Sussex to be near our daughter, who married a Walbridge man. You need to talk to some of the older people. You’ll find them in the pub.” She chuckled. “They’re the ones propping up the bar. You can’t miss ’em.”

  “Thank you, I will.”

  “You must be hungry.”

  “A little.”

  The woman unlocked a red door and showed Trixie into a small room with a double bed and a window. “The bathroom is down the corridor. I’ve taken the liberty of closing your curtains, but in the morning you’ll see the river. It’s very pretty. Come down to the pub when you’re ready and I’ll cook you something. How about a nice cottage pie to warm you up? I don’t imagine you’re used to cold weather in America.”

  Grace smiled. The woman had obviously never been there. “Thank you. I’d love the cottage pie.” She didn’t know what that was, but the word warm was promising.

  She felt much better after a long bath and a change of clothes, and went downstairs to the pub. Groups of people sat at heavy wooden tables and others on stools at the bar. They looked up when she entered. She didn’t imagine they got many newcomers in a small town like this. The room smelled strongly of smoke, from the fire that burned comfortingly in the grate and the cigarettes that smoldered in people’s fingers. Trixie slid onto a stool and lit one of her own. The bartender eyed her up appreciatively and took her order. He was a man of about forty with thinning hair and a fresh, open face. She knew it wouldn’t be long before he started chatting. He passed her a rum cocktail, and the lady, who the man referred to as Maeve, brought the cottage pie, which was both hot and tasty.

  “So, where are you from?” he asked eventually, unable to disguise the fact that he found her attractive.

  “America,” she replied, and repeated the conversation she had had with Maeve.

  He nodded, keen to be of help. “Valentine,” he mumbled, narrowing his eyes, which were a bright forget-me-not blue. “There used to be a shop on the high street called Red Valentine; it sold women’s clothes, but that was years ago, when I was a boy. I’ll ask my mother. She might know. I’m almost certain there’s no one by that name here now. I know most people who live here. This pub’s the heart of Walbridge, you see, and it’s a small town. The family probably moved away.”

  “I’ll find the oldest person in the room and ask him,” she said with a smile, glancing around the pub.

  “I’ll introduce you,” he told her enthusiastically. “The one thing old people have in common is that they all like talking about the past.” Not my parents, Trixie thought sadly. “How long are you staying?” he asked.

  “A few days.”

  “Do you know anyone here?”

  “No.”

  He grinned happily. “Well, you do now. My name’s Robert Heath, by the way.” He extended his hand.

  She shook it. “Hello, Robert. My name’s Trixie.” He frowned. “Short for Beatrix,” she added helpfully.

  “As in Potter?”

  “Or Queen.” He frowned again. “Of Holland?”

  “The only queen I know is our queen,” he said, picking up a wet glass and drying it with a cloth. “So, what are you going to do when you find someone who knew your parents?”

  “Ask a lot of questions.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Mysterious.”

  She grinned wryly. “You have no idea!”

  “Well, I hope you find the answers you’re looking for.”

  “I will,” she replied. “I’m not leaving without them.”

  She stubbed out her cigarette and lit another. “Does the name Jasper Duncliffe ring a bell?” she asked.

  Robert’s face lit up with recognition. “You mean Jasper Penselwood. They live at the Hall.”

  Her heart began to pound. “Walbridge Hall?”

  “Yes. The very same.”

  “But he was called Duncliffe, not Penselwood, right?”

  “‘Was’ being the operative word. He’s Penselwood now. The Marquess of Penselwood.”

  It was her turn to be confused. “I don’t understand. Why the change of name?”

  “English titles are very complicated,” he said, taking pleasure in her ignorance. “If my family didn’t have a history of working for aristocrats, I wouldn’t know them either. Let me explain. The Marquess of Penselwood’s son is the Earl of Melville. Lord Melville’s son is the Lord Duncliffe. Three names for one family. Absurd, really. Jasper Duncliffe used to come and drink in here with his mates when I started working behind the bar. Then he went off to America to play in a band. He used to play here, you know, before it all went belly up. He had a good voice. I thought he’d go far, we all did. But then his brother died.” Robert shook his head gravely. “It was a tragedy. He wasn’t the sort to be driving too fast. He wasn’t reckless. It was an accident. He was a nice man. I remember the funeral . . .” He paused his drying a moment and frowned. “A sad day for the whole town.”

  “What happened when Jasper returned from America?”

  He put down the glass and began to dry another. “He became Marquess of Penselwood and married Charlotte Hanbury-

  Johnson.”

  “What’s she like, his wife?”

  “Do you know Lord Penselwood?” He eyed her suspiciously, and she realized she had to admit to knowing Jasper if she was going to get any more information out of him.

  “I met him in America when he was trying to become a rock star.” She laughed wistfully. “Many years ago now. We were friends. Does he still play guitar?”

  “I doubt it. I remember him sitting where you’re sitting now, leaning over a whiskey, lamenting the fact that his parents didn’t understand him. They wanted him to go into the army.”

  “He would have hated that.”

  “That’s why he went off to America. It was a shame he had to come back. He might have become famous.”

  “Like the Beatles.”

  He smiled reflectively. “Yeah, like the Beatles. That would have been great. Free tickets to concerts.”

  “Is the Hall nearby?”

  “You can walk there. The gardens are open to the public in the summer, so there are brown signs everywhere. You can’t miss them.”

  “I don’t suppose they’re open now?”

  He shook his head. “No, they aren’t. You should have come in May or June. Those gardens are spectacular.”

  “Does he come into the pub these days?”

  “No.” He grinned. “His son comes in to buy cigarettes, though.”

  “How old is he?”

  “About fifteen. I turn a blind eye.”

  “So, what’s Jasper’s wife like?”

  He shrugged noncommittally. “She’s all right. Busy, you know, as you’d expect. She’s just like her mother-in-law, Lady Georgina. They’re joined at the hip. Both very busy.” He said busy with emphasis, and Trixie deduced that they were both rather trying. He put down the glass. “Do you fancy another drink?”
<
br />   “Why not,” she replied. “Make it weak.”

  “As you wish.” He unscrewed the cap of the Bacardi bottle and poured a fresh glass. “What did your father do?”

  “He worked on the farm.”

  “On the Walbridge estate?”

  “Yes. My mother was the beekeeper.”

  His face opened into a broad smile and he put his hands on his hips. “Well, why didn’t you say so? My grandfather was the head gardener during the war. I bet he knew your parents. What a shame he’s no longer alive. My mother might know, though. She’s worked for the family for years. She now works for old Lady Penselwood, who has a house at the other end of town. She’s in her nineties and still going strong.”

  “That’s Jasper’s grandmother, right?” she asked.

  “That’s right. There’s no love lost between her and the other women in her family. That’s why she lives at the other end of town. She’s a tough old bird. Indestructible, like a Sherman tank.”

  “Good for her, reaching such a great age.”

  “Those sort of women live forever. I bet the Queen Mother will make it to a hundred.”

  “Why’s that, do you think?”

  “Breeding. We common folk kick the bucket much younger.” He leaned across the bar and lowered his voice. “Or it’s simply because they’re too damned stubborn to give up a moment before they’re ready.”

  • • •

  As Trixie put her head on the pillow she thought about Jasper. How was she going to meet him? Could she simply turn up at the house and ring the bell? Would that be a terrible faux pas? She imagined life at the Hall would be formal, like Plantagenet Palliser’s home in the television drama, and besides, what would his wife think of her showing up without an invitation? His wife . . . She hid her face in the pillow and muffled a groan. What was she thinking? She was crazy turning up here. It had been seventeen years since she and Jasper had declared their love. Seventeen years since he had told her he couldn’t marry her. Seventeen years of drought for Trixie’s parched heart. What was she hoping would happen? That he would lament his decision and leave his wife and children for her? That was never going to happen, and as much as she missed him—and oh, how she missed him—she did not wish to tear his family apart.