The Beekeeper's Daughter

by Santa Montefiore

“Pour us tea, Jasper. Do try a biscuit, Trixie, they’re awfully good. The thing is, my dear, the war changed us all. I thrived.” Her brown eyes sparkled as she remembered her past. “It was an exciting time. I rallied the women, and we all mucked in. Well, nearly all of us.” She gave her grandson a disapproving look, and Trixie guessed she was referring to his mother, Lady Georgina. “We opened our doors to children from London and we had a very jolly time. Your mother was a wonder in the gardens. She and Mr. Heath worked tirelessly. She was brilliant with the animals, brilliant with the bees, brilliant in the gardens. She was a great enthusiast, and I was extremely fond of her. Then Freddie saved Rufus’s life and we were all so terribly grateful.”

  “Did you suggest they move to Tekanasset?” Trixie asked, sipping her tea.

  “Well, it’s a funny story.” She sat back in her chair and sighed. “A peculiar story, I think. Pass me a biscuit, will you, Jasper?”

  Lady Penselwood took a bite and her whole face confirmed her satisfaction. “Well, we all wanted to thank Freddie for what he had done. The war was over and Rufus was alive, thanks to him. Poor Freddie had lost his eye, we were all desperately sorry for that but eternally grateful to him for his act of courage. But he would hear none of it. He came up to the house. I remember it well. Myself, Aldrich, and Rufus in the library. Freddie looked desperate, as if he were coming to be punished, not rewarded. Aldrich gave him a whiskey, which calmed him down a bit, but he was frightfully nervous. Then I saw a look pass between Freddie and Rufus and I understood. Freddie resented Rufus. Well, I was not surprised, given that he had lost his eye. I suppose he rather regretted his impulsiveness. But one often acts instinctively, without giving it much thought, and I think Freddie felt a certain deference towards Rufus and our family. Anyway, Aldrich told Freddie how much we were in his debt, and that we would relish the opportunity to show our gratitude. Then he came out with it. This extraordinary request to leave the country. To go as far away from England as possible. We were stunned. I mean, Freddie and Grace had lived in Walbridge all their lives. They were part of the fabric of the community, not to mention that Mr. Garner had high hopes for Freddie taking over when he retired. So, Aldrich suggested Tekanasset, bearing in mind that Randall was such a dear friend and would think nothing of helping him find a job and a house. It all turned out very well. Randall was a man who got things done. We bought the house within a few weeks and Randall had organized a job for Freddie at the cranberry farm. We were terribly sad to see them go, but it was what Freddie wanted. We never saw them again.”

  “It’s sad that they never came back, not even to visit,” said Trixie quietly.

  “It was a long way in those days. It still is,” said Lady Penselwood, putting down her teacup. “And I think they didn’t want to remember the past.”

  Lady Penselwood looked deeply into Trixie’s eyes. Her expression darkened and her brown eyes brimmed with sorrow. “The war changed Rufus, too,” she said softly. “Or rather, the end of the war changed him.” She gave the word end a heavy emphasis, and Trixie realized that she didn’t just mean the war, but the era. “You see, we lived in an unrealistic time. Everything was so intense, so immediate. We all thought we’d die in the morning. Life had to be grabbed and savored for its frail and fleeting sweetness. But at the end, when it was over, we had to return to our lives, and in a funny way normality was dreary by comparison. The excitement was gone. The surreal quality that enabled us to live dangerously was gone, too. People had indulged in affairs. They had loved fiercely because they realized that life was short and they wanted to cling to it. Rufus suffered terribly.” She tilted her head and smiled sadly at Trixie. “I hope your mother found happiness on Tekanasset.”

  “She did, thank you. Although—” Trixie hesitated, holding Lady Penselwood’s stare in her own. “I think she left something precious behind. Something she could never get back.”

  At that moment Lady Penselwood was inspired by an idea. Her face grew alive again and her brown eyes twinkled with intent. “Jasper, be a dear and go upstairs. In the right-hand drawer of my dressing table is a blue velvet bag. Bring it, will you?” Jasper disappeared into the hall and up the stairs. “There’s something I want you to give to your mother. It’s a silly trifle. But it will mean something to her. When are you leaving?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “How lovely to have met you, Trixie. Tell me, how is your mother?”

  “She’s not well, I’m afraid. She has cancer.”

  “What poor luck.”

  “It is, but she doesn’t want any fuss. She’s determined to carry on as if she’s well.”

  “I will pray for her recovery.”

  “Thank you, Lady Penselwood.”

  Jasper appeared with the velvet bag. Trixie was curious. He handed it to his grandmother. The old lady looked at it fondly, as if it had a special sentimental value and it cost her to part with it. “Give this to Grace with my love,” she said, holding it out.

  Trixie took it. “May I open it?” she asked.

  “You may,” Lady Penselwood replied. Trixie put her hand inside and pulled out a lavender bag. It was worn, like a much-­beloved child’s toy. On the front was a large, embroidered bee.

  Chapter 26

  Trixie and Jasper wandered around the churchyard, searching the gravestones for the name Arthur Henry Hamblin. A brisk wind tossed brown and yellow leaves across the grass, sweeping them up against the headstones and the bright flowers recently left in remembrance of the deceased. Trixie didn’t like to think too much about the bodies lying beneath the ground. She preferred the more spiritual idea of souls released from their earthly bodies to wander at peace. She recalled the feeling of having been directed to her mother’s garden shed by an invisible but perceptible presence, and wondered now in the clear light of day whether she had simply imagined it. Was it possible to cheat death and live on, or were human beings conditioned to believe because the alternative was simply too horrible to contemplate?

  She shivered in the cold and thrust her hands into her coat pockets. Jasper was walking up and down the rows of graves, reading out the very old ones whose engraved letters had worn away over time. “This one was born in 1556,” he said. “Incredible.”

  “Where are your relations buried?”

  “There’s a family crypt beneath the church.”

  “Spooky,” she said with another shiver.

  “I can’t say I go down there very often.”

  “Is there a space for you?”

  “I suppose there is, but I don’t really want to think about it.”

  “Apparently your grandmother is planning her funeral,” she said.

  “I know. She’s loving it. It’s keeping her very busy and entertained, and irritating my mother, of course, which I suppose is her main objective.”

  “Ah, here it is,” Trixie announced, crouching down to read the headstone. “Arthur Henry Hamblin. 1889–1938. He was only forty-eight when he died. That’s so young,” she said, wiping away the long grass so that she could read more. “ ‘In memory of a loving father and dear friend. May he rest in peace in God’s keeping.’ ”

  “He’s buried next to his wife,” said Jasper, looking at the headstone beside Arthur’s.

  “Mom never knew her mother. Her father was all she had. It must have been a terrible loss when he died. She was left on her own.” Trixie did a quick calculation. “You know, she was only eighteen or nineteen. She married Dad at that age. Thank goodness she had him.” She wondered whether Grace had married him because she was afraid of being on her own again. That was just before the war. Just before her letters to Rufus. Her affair began around that time, too.

  “I’ve been thinking, Trixie. Dad was a grumpy sod. He worked much too hard, spent hours outside on the estate and in the gardens on his own, as if he wanted to lose himself. He was embittered, his humor sarcastic, caustic even, when he was in
company. He could be cruel and intolerant. He was quick to anger, and as children we were afraid of him. I ask myself whether ending the affair with Grace killed something inside him that could never be revived. Grandma says he was a carefree and witty young man. The person she describes is nothing like the father I knew.” He looked at her and frowned. “Am I just like him? Have I become a grumpy, intolerant man because I, too, lost the woman I love? Am I simply repeating the pattern? Lottie complains that I’m scathing and unbearable, but I wasn’t always like that. Has my nature been altered by disappointment?” He searched Trixie’s face for the answer, but she said nothing. She just looked at him with compassion, her eyes sad and inquiring. “Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  “Where shall we go?”

  “I want to be alone with you. I can’t bear to be this close and not able to touch you.”

  She noticed a couple on the street below, casting a glance in their direction. “All right. Let’s go somewhere. Anywhere but here.”

  They drove down the winding lanes to the coast. But this time he parked the car at sea level and led her along a grassy path to an old boathouse, snuggled like a nesting partridge among overgrown shrubbery and sheltered by trees. A pier jutted out over the water, and a fishing boat was tethered to a bollard, looking forlorn in its desolation. “This was my grandfather’s. He was obsessed with boats. I used to take it out with the children, but in the last few years I’ve neglected it.”

  “The first time we made love was in Joe Hornby’s boathouse,” she said.

  He pulled her into his arms and smiled wistfully. “How appropriate, then, that we find ourselves here. Alone at last.” He kissed her urgently, and although she knew this was wrong, her conscience was clear because it felt so right. There was nothing new about their intimacy. They had made love many times before. They were simply continuing from where they had left off, seventeen years before, on the quay in Tekanasset. They were just older, he a little grayer, she a little plumper, and their battered hearts hungrier for the years they had spent hankering after the lost half of themselves.

  They made love in the belly of the boat, beneath picnic rugs for warmth. In their fevered actions they relived the past, rediscovering each other, delighting in the familiar taste and feel of their bodies, each determined to find the people they had once been in the eyes of the other.

  • • •

  Trixie lay back against the blankets smoking, as Jasper played his guitar and sang the song he had written for her on the beach in Tekanasset. She watched him through the smoke, her eyes lazy and full of affection, her head dizzy, drunk on love. She smiled, a small, satisfied smile, as he sang. His voice was grittier now that he was older. It possessed a raw quality owing to not having practiced. She was moved by his lack of polish. As a young man he had been glossy, insouciant, golden; now his face was lined, the crow’s-feet deep and wide, the gray in his stubble and hair betraying his age as well as his unhappiness. Her heart buckled, and she wanted time to stand still so that she didn’t ever have to leave. She felt needed, and his need pulled at her, somewhere deep in the pit of her pain.

  “I feel myself when I’m with you,” he said, strumming softly. “I know you see me as I was. In your eyes I’m talented. I’m a free spirit. I’m unconventional . . .” He grinned bashfully. “I’m a little wild.” He laughed at himself.

  “You still are all those things, Jasper. We don’t really change, not deep down. I suppose layers have built up around you, but underneath you’re no different.”

  “Then with you I can peel back the layers. It feels so good. I feel alive again.” He raised his eyes to the ceiling and sighed heavily. “I’ve felt trapped, Trixie. It’s been suffocating. I know now how my father felt.” He turned his gaze to her and his eyes darkened. “I don’t want to die young like he did.”

  “Do you think he died of a broken heart?”

  He shrugged. “It’s a romantic thought, isn’t it? Is it possible to die of such a thing?”

  “Is Mom’s cancer a physical manifestation of her emotional pain? I think it’s perfectly possible.”

  “I need you, Trixie.”

  “I need you, too.”

  They lay entwined as the sun began to sink in the sky, sig­naling the end of the day. “The sand is running out of the hourglass,” he said at length, holding her tightly. Outside the clouds were thickening and turning a deep purple. The wind began to whistle about the side of the boat, causing it to rock gently on the water.

  “I feel like we’re in Tekanasset.”

  “I wish we were.”

  “Those days were fun, weren’t they? Kind of ideal.”

  “I knew I had it good, but I never realized how good. That summer has grown out of all proportion in my mind. It stands alone and dazzling. The beaches, the music, the sunshine, the girl.” He squeezed her. “Especially the girl. I never expected to live the life I’m living. I thought I’d be singing to stadiums full of people.” He chuckled bitterly. “You’ve reminded me of what it felt like to be Jasper Duncliffe.”

  “You might not be Jasper Duncliffe anymore, but you must play your guitar and compose music, if only to keep in touch with him. Music is part of who you are. You stop playing and you cut yourself off from your core.”

  “It feels good to play again,” he agreed. “And what of you, darling Trixie? Are you yourself?”

  “I’m doing what I’ve always wanted to do. I’m happy at the magazine. I love fashion. I’m good at writing about it. I’ve made a name for myself in the industry. I earn well. I have lots of friends. I feel I’m myself.”

  He kissed her temple. “I want you to say you’re incomplete without me.”

  She laughed again at his self-indulgence. “You know I’m incomplete without you.”

  “Then stay.”

  • • •

  They remained in the boat until late. Their stomachs began to growl with hunger. Reluctantly, they made their way back down the path to the car. There was a tear in the cloud where the stars twinkled through, and the light of the moon shone down to illuminate their way. All was silent except for the water lapping against the rocks. Jasper took her hand, and they stopped to gaze out over the ebony sea. With the cold wind blowing against their faces and raking icy fingers through their hair, they searched for their future in the black, empty horizon and found nothing.

  “What time do you leave tomorrow?” he asked.

  “Early. Please don’t come to say good-bye. I’ve said good-bye to you once before and I’ve never gotten over it,” she said.

  “I have to see you again.”

  She turned to him sadly. “You’re married, Jasper. You have a family. We cannot build our happiness on the unhappiness of those around you. I’m not going to allow it. I’d rather spend the rest of my life pining for you than regretting the devastation our relationship would cause.”

  “You’re much too wise, Trixie. I wish you were as selfish as me.”

  She laughed and let go of his hand. “You’re not as selfish as you think. You’ve asked me to stay. You haven’t asked me to marry you, and you haven’t suggested you’ll leave your family. You know as well as I do that you’re too honorable to do that. So, take me back to the hotel and leave me to treasure today as it is—beautiful, sad, and perfect.”

  He drove her back to the inn and kissed her one final time. “If I want to write to you, where shall I send my letters?”

  “Jasper—”

  “Letters, that’s all. Please, let me keep in touch. I can’t shut you out of my life. If you never open them, I’ll never know. You don’t have to write back.”

  She swallowed but the tears broke through her resistance and spilled down her cheeks. “Tekanasset.”

  “Sunset Slip.”

  “You know it.”

  “Trixie—”

  “Don’t . . . please.”

>   “I love you.”

  She gripped him hard and pressed her lips to his, leaving salt and sorrow there. “And I love you. I always will.”

  She didn’t watch him drive away, but slipped into the inn, head down, afraid of bumping into Maeve or Robert. It didn’t matter that she hadn’t eaten since Lady Penselwood’s biscuits. She didn’t think she could get any food past her throat anyway. She ran a hot bath and submerged herself beneath the water, wishing the world would be a different place when she came up to breathe.

  • • •

  The following morning the taxi arrived to take her to the station. It was early. The dawn light shone weakly through the dark, streaking the eastern sky with pale yellow, like broken egg yolk. Rain fell softly onto the pavement as she jumped a puddle to the waiting car. Maeve had made her a cup of coffee and toast, but it was too early for Robert, so Trixie left a message, knowing that he might perhaps have been disappointed that she hadn’t taken up his offer of a tour the previous afternoon. “You have a safe flight back to New York,” said Maeve. “If you ever want to come back, you know where you’ll receive the warmest welcome.” But she didn’t think she ever would come back. As it did for her mother, Walbridge now held painful memories.

  When she arrived at Heathrow, she found herself searching the faces for Jasper. She was sure he’d followed her. She hoped he had. But the faces were those of strangers, and it wasn’t until she was on the plane that she realized her life was not like a movie; he wasn’t coming with her.

  She sat sobbing in her seat, gazing forlornly out of the window at the glistening tarmac and gray skies. A stewardess with a kind face and red lipstick took pity on her and upgraded her to Business Class, but the bigger seat and superior menu did little to lift her spirits. She thought of Jasper, reliving the afternoon in the boat as if it were a tape she could rewind and replay at will. She doubted she had done the right thing. She began to wish she had agreed to stay. Right now, as the plane soared over the Atlantic, she ceased to care about her life in New York and would happily have given up everything just to spend another day with Jasper.