The Beekeeper's Daughter

by Santa Montefiore

  Far from seeing her as the girl he had fallen in love with, he would look on her as a figure to be pitied. While he had married and had children, she had remained in the same place like a stagnant pond, wallowing in self-pity and regret. The fact was that she hadn’t moved on and he had. What was the use of seeing him again? Where would it lead? Nowhere, and that was the truth. It would be like peeling off a scab and exposing the sore, only to start the healing process all over again. She hadn’t thought of that. She hadn’t thought of anything except laying eyes on the man she loved. Now she realized how futile the whole idea was.

  Her head told her to pack her bags in the morning and take the train back to London. But her heart insisted she stay. Here she was in the town where her parents had grown up and married. Where her mother had fallen in love with the Earl of Melville and where that affair had dramatically ended, without explanation. Her mother had left England forever, brokenhearted. And what of her father? What of him?

  As she drifted off to sleep the memory of her mother howling on the swing chair floated into her mind and strengthened her resolve to do whatever she could to find out the truth. She knew it was important. Someone was tugging at her conscience, driving her on, silently insisting that it was indeed very important. Before she sank into the cool darkness of slumber, she saw in her mind’s eye the silhouette of a man, standing by the beehives. She couldn’t see him clearly and yet she recognized him. Yes, she knew him on some deep and unconscious level, and he was smiling at her with love.

  Chapter 23

  Dawn broke through the dark with an enthusiasm akin to summer. Sunshine set the trees aflame and seagulls cried mournfully as they glided over the river. Trixie opened the curtains and her heart inflated with joy as she took in the tranquil scene before her. A row of mallards floated on the surface like a convoy of little ships, and a willow wept its delicate branches into the water. Orange leaves gathered near the bank where a young dog played excitedly until its owner summoned it back with a whistle. She looked up at the pale-blue sky where wisps of white cloud wafted on a gentle breeze and sighed with pleasure. She could see now why people consider­ed England beautiful. The drizzle was gone and the sunshine had transmuted the gray into a bright golden light.

  She breakfasted downstairs in the pub, and Robert told her proudly that he had arranged for her to meet his mother here at lunchtime. “She knew your mother,” he said. “Grace was her name, wasn’t it? Not only that, but she worked for a Josephine Valentine for a while when she was in her twenties. Red Valentine, that was the name of the shop. I’ve got an exceedingly good memory.” He grinned playfully.

  Trixie was impressed. “Josephine is my father’s sister. I remember her coming out to visit with my grandparents when I was little. She wore very red lipstick and a perfume that made my head ache. But I thought her incredibly glamorous. She looked like a film star. I wonder where she is now.”

  “You can ask my mother. She loves to talk about the past. Once you get her going, there’ll be no stopping her. So, what are you going to do this morning?”

  “I’m going to go in search of the Beekeeper’s Cottage.”

  “Do you have any idea where it is?”

  “No. I was hoping you were going to enlighten me.”

  He laughed. “Maeve will know. She’s on the Parish Committee, so she’s visited every house in Walbridge.”

  Maeve stepped into the pub from the hall. “Do I hear my name being taken in vain?”

  “Trixie’s looking for the Beekeeper’s Cottage,” said Robert. “I told her you’d know where it is.”

  “And I do,” Maeve replied loftily. Then to Trixie: “I distribute the parish magazine, you see. There’s not a house in Walbridge I haven’t been to.”

  “My mother was a beekeeper,” said Trixie.

  “Oh, I love bees. Such fascinating insects,” Maeve cooed. “To think they make honey all by themselves. Such clever little things. There are still hives up there. Robin Arkwright is the beekeeper now. He’s also the gamekeeper. There’s nothing he doesn’t know about birds. I sometimes send our guests up to see him, those that are interested in birds, because he’s an encyclopedia. Ask him about the pied-billed grebe or the Balearic shearwater. Wonderful names, don’t you think?”

  “Wonderful,” Trixie humored her. “Where do I find the cottage?”

  “It’s a beautiful day to walk there. You can take the road, but it’s the long way round. I’d take the footpath that cuts through the estate. That’s the scenic route and the one I recommend to my paying guests. Here, let me draw you a map.” She began to write on the notepad beside the till. “Past the church, take the farm entrance here. Past cottages and through the gate there. You’ll see a sign that clearly marks the footpath. Apparently, they went to court to try to stop the public walking through their land, but they lost. The judge said people had a right to admire such a historic and beautiful house. Fancy that, eh? So, you have a right, too, dear. Enjoy it.”

  • • •

  Trixie set off up the narrow lane that opened into the high street. The street was wide and picturesque with sandy-colored shops and houses built haphazardly on either side, their roofs and chimneys jutting into the sky at differing heights and angles, giving the place a charming inconsistency. A few people wandered up the pavement and one or two cars motored past, but it was generally quiet.

  She reached the church. The graveyard was still, the headstones bathed in the morning sunshine. Blackbirds scavenged among the fallen leaves on the grass, and Trixie wondered whether her grandfather was buried there. She’d have a look later. At that moment the church door opened and the vicar came out with an elderly lady in a headscarf, tweed skirt, and gum boots. She was leaning on a walking stick and gesticulating vigorously with the other hand. The vicar threw his head back and laughed heartily. Trixie was intrigued to know what was amusing them so much and paused to listen. As they wandered down the path towards her their voices could be heard. The old lady’s tone was strident. She was clearly a woman accustomed to getting her way.

  “So, the doctor bound my leg up and told me to rest it for a few days. Bloody fool! When I got home, I pulled off the bandage, had a large sherry, and took Magnus for a walk. I only went to the doctor to please Georgie, who insisted. Really, people nowadays make a fuss about everything. My generation just got on with it. We didn’t have time to sit about in doctors’ waiting rooms. Lottie takes those children to the doctor every time they sniff, which is quite often. I have to keep my mouth shut; after all, I’m only their great-grandmother, what do I know?” She chortled. “So, it’s settled, then?”

  “Yes, it is, Lady Penselwood.”

  “Good.”

  “I do hope it’s not anytime soon.”

  “Que sera, sera, as the old saying goes. Forewarned is forearmed is another one. And don’t let Georgie change anything. I might be ten feet under but I won’t like it if she overrules me. Do you understand?”

  “Of course, Lady Penselwood.”

  “She has horrible taste in music, always did.” Lady Penselwood sniffed. “If only Rufus . . .” Her voice trailed off, and Trixie went pink at the mention of Rufus’s name, as if she were guilty of having the affair and not her mother. They reached the road and Lady Penselwood turned her formidable gaze on Trixie, who recoiled. “Hello,” she said. “Beautiful morning, isn’t it?”

  “It certainly is,” Trixie agreed. Lady Penselwood narrowed her eyes, probably wondering who the stranger with the American accent was, then walked on to the waiting car, leaving behind a faint smell of lilac.

  Trixie watched the car drive off. So, that was Rufus’s mother, she mused. Lady Penselwood. How confusing that there were three Lady Penselwoods. Lottie, Jasper’s wife; Georgie, who must be his mother; and this great lady, Georgie’s mother-in-law. She longed to pick up the telephone and ask her mother all about them. But she couldn’t reveal where she w
as. She would then have to admit to reading the letters. No, she had to find it all out on her own without any help from the two people who knew the most.

  She followed Maeve’s map and set off along the footpath that cut through the fields towards the woods. Sheep grazed and birds twittered, and Trixie took pleasure in the tranquillity of the countryside. It was unlike anything she had seen in America. Everything was on a smaller scale, and it all seemed so old-fashioned and charming to her foreign eye.

  She climbed a hill, stopping every now and then to catch her breath and admire the surroundings. She imagined her mother had taken this route through the farm many times. Did she ever return in her imagination? Did she miss it? At length Trixie walked along the edge of a field, recently plowed. On her left was a tall hedge that ran all the way to the woods. When she reached the end, she glimpsed, through the thinning branches, chimneys rising out of the valley below. Curiosity drew her through a gap in the hedge. When she emerged on the other side, she caught her breath. There below her, surrounded by endless gardens, was a magnificent old mansion.

  She walked along the field beneath the line of the woods, then stood and allowed her eyes to take in the beauty of the Penselwood family estate, Walbridge Hall. She had never seen a house of such splendor except on the television and in books. Hands on hips, she laughed out loud at her ignorance. So this was the house Jasper gave up his career for. This was his heritage, the estate that demanded his total commitment. The family seat that obliged its heirs to sacrifice their own personal happiness so it could survive from generation to generation, like a minotaur of brick and stone. Jasper had sacrificed her. Had Rufus sacrificed her mother?

  She stopped laughing and gazed with bitterness upon the house that had stolen her one true love. She now saw beyond its beauty to its cold and heartless core. Was Jasper happy? Did he ever think of her? Did he ever pick up his guitar and play the song he wrote for her? Did he sing at all?

  She dragged herself away, fearing that if she remained, she might see him and be unable to restrain herself. She continued along the footpath, down the hill to the bottom of the wood where a path led her through thick bracken, ferns, and gnarled old oak trees that scrutinized her loftily like ancient dukes questioning her business there. The forest rustled with creatures she couldn’t see, and she began to feel afraid.

  At last she could make out the end of the wood and a tantalizing glimpse of open fields, bathed in sunshine. As she walked into the light she saw a cottage, not too far away, partly obscured by a cluster of trees. The Beekeeper’s Cottage; she had no doubt. She made her way slowly towards it, and the knowledge that she was retracing her mother’s footsteps made her feel unexpectedly emotional. The cottage was thatched with white walls and sleepy windows. She wished she could know what those windows had seen.

  She knocked on the door and waited. No one answered. She remained there, wondering what to do. She didn’t fancy getting caught spying, but the desire to look at the hives made her reckless. She wandered round to the back. “Hello,” she called. “Is anyone at home?”

  A wooly head appeared above a shrub like a scarecrow. “Who’s asking?”

  “Oh, hello,” she replied, surprised. “Maeve said I’d find you here.”

  “You’re one of her guests, are you?”

  “Yes. She said she sends people up to talk to you about birds.”

  “Ah, you’re interested in birds, are you?” he said in a more friendly tone, stepping out of the border onto the lawn.

  “Bees, actually.”

  His face lit up. “Even better. I have lots of bees.” He brushed his hand on his trousers. “Robin Arkwright.”

  She gave it a firm shake. “Trixie Valentine.”

  “Valentine, that’s a romantic name.”

  “Thank you. My parents used to live here.”

  “Ah, that Valentine?”

  “My mother was the beekeeper during the war.”

  “Grace Valentine,” he said with a nod.

  Trixie’s heart gave a little skip. “Did you know her?”

  “No, I arrived in 1962, but Tom Garner was my mother’s brother and he used to speak very highly of Grace and Freddie.”

  “That’s nice to hear. Who was Tom Garner?”

  “He was estate manager here right into his seventies. They had to force him into retirement. As soon as he retired, he keeled over and pegged it. He employed your father, Freddie Valentine.” He scratched his graying curls and grinned. “Funny to hear that name after all these years.”

  “They moved to America.”

  “That’s right. They just disappeared from one day to the next. He was wounded in the war, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, he has only one eye.”

  Robin shook his head. “Poor devil. Uncle Tom used to refer to him as a hero.”

  “Really? Dad?”

  “That’s right. He was a hero in the war. Didn’t he tell you?”

  “He never speaks about the war.”

  “No, I don’t suppose he does. My uncle never spoke about Ypres where he lost his leg. I suppose they wanted to come back and forget all about it.”

  “Have you lived here since ’62?”

  “No, I lived with my uncle to start with. I was a young lad with no experience of gamekeeping or beekeeping, but I worked with Mr. Swift, who was the gamekeeper at the time, and old Benedict Latimer, who was the beekeeper, taught me about bees. When he retired, I took over. My uncle couldn’t find anyone who knew about beekeeping, or he didn’t have the energy to look, so I found myself in the enviable position of moving in here.”

  “It’s a very pretty cottage.”

  “My wife thought it was too small, so we built a conservatory. Apart from that, it probably hasn’t changed much since your parents lived here.”

  “I’d love to see the hives.”

  “Of course. I’ll show you.” He led her down the garden. “You do a bit of beekeeping yourself, do you?”

  “Yes, my mother has hives and I help her look after them.”

  “It’s an addictive hobby, beekeeping. Once you start you can’t stop. Fascinating creatures, aren’t they?”

  “They certainly are.”

  Robin proudly showed her a row of eight hives, standing against a hedge that ran along the bottom of the garden. “I would bet half these hives were here when your mother kept bees. Besides the odd repairs and replacements they’re the very same ones. I’ve added a few, and I’m sure Mr. Latimer added some new ones, too, but look at those three over there, they look like they’ve been here for centuries!” He chuckled. “You here visiting, then?”

  “I came to see where my parents grew up and married.”

  “Are they . . . ?”

  “No, they’re very much alive. I was in London on business and decided to take a detour.”

  “Ah, very nice. You can tell your mother that the bees are still thriving in Walbridge. She’d like to know that, I bet.”

  “She would.”

  They chatted about the bees, the recent harvest, and the trouble with pesticides and moths. Trixie wondered what her mother would make of her visit. She so wished she could share it with her. It was midmorning by the time she made her way back through the wood. She reflected on what Robin had told her about her father being a hero. He had never mentioned it and neither had her mother, which was odd, because it was the sort of thing a man should be proud of. So far her questions hadn’t been answered, only added to.

  As she wandered through the wood she heard a panting noise in the bracken. The green stalks began to part as the creature came bounding through the undergrowth towards her. At first she feared it might be a wild boar or a fox, but then a black nose, followed by large black paws and sleek black fur, tumbled onto the track in the shape of a Labrador. Relieved, she bent down to pat him. He didn’t seem as surprised to see her as she
was to see him. He wagged his tail and thrust his nose between her knees in the friendliest manner. She looked about for the owner, but the woods remained still and silent.

  After a while she realized the dog was alone. She saw a tag dangling at his neck. Ralph, The White House, Walbridge Hall. It gave a telephone number. “Well, Ralph, I’d better take you home, hadn’t I?” she said, striding off down the track. She didn’t know where the White House was, but she knew Walbridge Hall. She had no option but to go there. Perhaps it was her destiny to see Jasper again after all.

  With her stomach tying itself into knots, she walked down the hill towards the Hall with the dog at her heels. Now she had a legitimate reason to be there. Gone was the fear of making a faux pas. She’d ring the bell and ask for the White House. She envisaged Jasper at the door and the look on his face when he saw her standing there with the dog. He was going to be knocked for six, she mused. She ran her hands through her hair, smoothing it down self-consciously.

  The house was much more formidable close up. The sand-colored walls were high and austere, the windows gazing out at the world imperiously. Her heart quickened with nervousness. Just as she was about to ring the bell that hung in a thick rope to the right of the great door, a voice spoke to her from behind. “Can I help you?” She spun round, disappointed to find she was being addressed by a gardener.