Also by Santa Montefiore
Secrets of the Lighthouse The Summer House
The House by the Sea The Affair
The Italian Matchmaker The French Gardener Sea of Lost Love
The Gypsy Madonna
Last Voyage of the Valentina The Swallow and the Hummingbird The Forget-Me-Not Sonata The Butterfly Box
Meet Me Under the Ombu Tree
First published in Great Britain by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2014
A CBS COMPANY
Copyright © Santa Montefiore, 2014
This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.
No reproduction without permission.
® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc. All rights reserved.
The right of Santa Montefiore to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
Simon & Schuster UK Ltd
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Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney
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A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
HB ISBN: 978-1-47110-099-4
TPB ISBN: 978-1-47110-100-7
EBOOK ISBN: 978-1-47110-102-1
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Typeset by Hewer Text UK Ltd, Edinburgh
Printed and bound in Great Britain by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon CR0 4YY
Dedicated to:
My darling Uncle Jeremy
One of life’s great characters,
with love and gratitude
The Bee-Boy’s Song
Bees! Bees! Hark to your bees!
‘Hide from your neighbours as much as you please,
But all that has happened, to us you must tell,
Or else we will give you no honey to sell!’
A maiden in her glory,
Upon her wedding-day,
Must tell her Bees the story,
Or else they’ll fly away.
Fly away – die away –
Dwindle down and leave you!
But if you don’t deceive your Bees,
Your Bees will not deceive you.
Marriage, birth or buryin’,
News across the seas,
All you’re sad or merry in,
You must tell the Bees.
Tell ’em coming in an’ out,
Where the Fanners fan,
’Cause the Bees are just about
As curious as a man!
Don’t you wait where the trees are,
When the lightnings play,
Nor don’t you hate where Bees are,
Or else they’ll pine away.
Pine away – dwine away –
Anything to leave you!
But if you never grieve your Bees,
Your Bees’ll never grieve you.
Rudyard Kipling
Contents
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
PART TWO
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
PART THREE
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
PART ONE
Chapter 1
Tekanasset Island, Massachusetts, 1973
Of all the weathered grey-shingled buildings on Tekanasset Island, Crab Cove golf club is one of the prettiest. Built in the late nineteenth century by a couple of friends from Boston who shared the sentiment that an island without a golf course is an island deficient in the only thing that truly matters, it dominates the western coastline with an uninterrupted view of the ocean. To the right, a candy-cane red-and-white lighthouse stands on a grassy hill, used more for birdwatchers nowadays than sailors lost at sea; and to the left, yellow beaches and grassy sand dunes undulate like waves, carrying on their crests thick clusters of wild rose. A softer variety of climbing rose adorns the walls of the clubhouse, and dusty pink hydrangeas are planted in a border that runs all the way around the periphery, blossoming into a profusion of fat, flowery balls. The effect is so charming that it is impossible not to be touched by it. And rising above it all, on the grey slate roof, the American flag flutters in the salty wind that sweeps in off the sea.
Reachable only by small plane or boat, the island of Tekanasset is cut off from the rest of the country, so that while the Industrial Revolution changed the face of America, it missed Tekanasset altogether, leaving the quaint, Quaker-inspired buildings and cobbled streets as they had always been, and allowing the island to settle into a sleepy, wistful rhythm where old-fashioned values blended harmoniously with the traditional architecture.
There are no unsightly road signs or traffic lights on Tekanasset, and the shops that thrive in the town are charming boutiques selling linen, gifts, pretty toiletries and locally crafted lightship baskets and scrimshaw. It is a nostalgic, romantic place, but not unsophisticated. Famous writers, actors and musicians from all over America escape the frenetic, polluted cities to breathe the fresh sea air and find inspiration in the beauty of the landscape, while wealthy businessmen leave the financial centres of the world to summer there with their families.
Crab Cove golf club is still the heart of the island, as it was always intended to be, but now it is no longer the hub of gossip that it was in the Sixties and Seventies, when society struggled to keep up with the changing times, and the old ways clashed with the new like waves against rock. Nowadays the young people who had fought so hard for change are old and less judgemental than their parents were, and conversation around the tables at teatime is more benign. But on this particular evening in July 1973, an incident which would not even merit comment today had whipped the ladies of Crab Cove golf club into a fever of excitement. They had barely glanced at their bridge cards before the subject which had been teetering on the end of their tongues toppled off into an outburst of indignation.
‘Well, my dear, I think it’s immoral and I’m ashamed on her behalf,’ said Evelyn Durlacher in her low Boston drawl, pursing her scarlet lips in disapproval. Evelyn was the weather-vane of polite society. Everything in her environs reflected her conservative values and high moral standards. From her immaculate cashmere twinsets and auburn coiffure to her beautifully decorated home and well-mannered children, nothing escaped her attention. And with the same scrupulous application, and a habitual lack of generosity, she passed judgement on those around her. ‘In our day, if you wanted to be alone with a man you had to lose your chaperone. Now the young are out of control and no one seems to be keeping an eye.’ She tapped her red talons on the table and glanced at her cards distractedly. ‘Terrible hand. Sorry, Belle, I fear I’m going to let you down.’
Belle Bartlett studied her cards, which were no better. She took a long drag on her cigarette and sh
ook her blonde curls dolefully. ‘The youth of today,’ she lamented. ‘I wouldn’t want to be young now. It was better back in the Forties and Fifties when everyone knew where they stood. Now the lines are all blurred and we have no choice but to adapt. I think they are simply lost and we mustn’t judge them too harshly.’
‘Belle, you always try to see the good in everybody. Surely even you must concede that Trixie Valentine has let herself down,’ Evelyn insisted. ‘The fact is, she has not behaved like a lady. Ladies don’t go chasing boys around the country. They allow themselves to be chased. Really, it’s very distasteful.’
‘It’s not only distasteful, Evelyn, it’s imprudent,’ Sally Pearson agreed, giving her lustrous waves of long brown hair a self-conscious toss. ‘By throwing themselves at men they tarnish their reputations, which can never be restored.’ She waved her cigarette between two manicured fingers and smiled smugly, remembering the exemplary young woman she had been. ‘A man needs the chase and the woman needs to be a prize worth fighting for. Girls are far too easily won these days. In our day we saved ourselves for our wedding night.’ She giggled and gave a little snort. ‘And if we didn’t, we sure as hell didn’t let anyone know about it.’
‘Poor Grace, to have a daughter shame her in this way is very unfortunate,’ Belle added sympathetically. ‘Horrible to think we’re all picking at the pieces like vultures.’
‘Well, what do you expect, girls?’ interjected Blythe Westrup, patting her ebony up-do. ‘She’s British. They won the war but they lost their morals in the process. Goodness, the stories that came out of that time are shocking. Girls lost their heads . . .’
‘And everything else,’ Evelyn added dryly, arching an eyebrow.
‘Oh, Evelyn!’ Sally gasped and placed her cigarette holder between her lips to disguise her smile. She didn’t want her friends to see her taking pleasure in the scandal.
‘But do we really know she ran off with him?’ Belle asked. ‘I mean, it might just be malicious gossip. Trixie’s a character but she’s not bad. Everyone’s much too quick to criticize her. If she wasn’t so beautiful no one would even notice her.’
Evelyn glared at her fiercely, the rivalry in her eyes suddenly exposed. ‘My dear, I heard it all from Lucy this morning,’ she said firmly. ‘Believe me, my daughter knows what she’s talking about. She saw them all coming off a private boat at dawn, looking the worse for wear and very shifty. The boy is English, too, and he’s . . .’ She paused and drew her lips into a line so thin they almost disappeared. ‘He’s in a rock ’n’ roll band.’ She articulated the words with disdain as if they gave off a stench.
Belle laughed. ‘Evelyn, rock ’n’ roll is over. I believe he’s more Bob Dylan than Elvis Presley.’
‘Oh, so you know, do you?’ Evelyn asked, put out. ‘Why didn’t you say?’
‘The whole town is talking about them, Evelyn. They’re handsome young British boys, and polite, too, I believe.’ She smiled at the sour look on Evelyn’s face. ‘They’re spending the summer here at Joe Hornby’s place.’
‘Old Joe Hornby? Really, you know how eccentric he is,’ said Sally. ‘He claims to be a great friend of Mick Jagger’s, but have you ever seen him on the island?’
‘Or anyone of any importance at all? He claims to know everybody. He’s an old boaster, that’s all,’ said Blythe.
‘Those boys are writing an album, apparently, and Joe’s helping them,’ Belle continued. ‘He has a recording studio in his basement.’
‘Joe hasn’t produced anything in fifty years!’ said Sally. ‘He was a very mediocre musician in his day. Now he’s simply past it. Anyway, who’s bankrolling the project? Joe hasn’t got the money, for sure.’
Belle shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But the word is, he’s taking them on tour around the country in the fall.’ She raised her eyebrows. ‘That’ll cost a small fortune, don’t you think?’
Evelyn was determined to bring the subject back to the scandal. She glanced around the room cautiously and lowered her voice. ‘Well, according to Lucy, Trixie Valentine and her friend Suzie Redford disappeared in a boat with the band on Friday evening and didn’t come back until early this morning. Suzie told Lucy not to breathe a word to anybody. They clearly went behind their parents’ backs. I can’t say what they all got up to, but I don’t think we have to stretch our imaginations too far to get close to the truth. You know how those sort of people live. It’s disgusting!’
‘Maybe Grace thought Trixie was at Suzie’s!’ Belle suggested. ‘There must be an explanation.’
Sally cut in. ‘I dare say, but that Suzie Redford can do whatever she likes. There are no boundaries in that family.’
‘Well, I’m surprised,’ said Belle quietly. ‘Though I know Grace has a difficult time with Trixie. But I really don’t believe Trixie would have disappeared for three days without telling her mother. Besides, Freddie would never have allowed it.’
‘Freddie’s been away on business,’ said Sally gleefully. ‘While the cat’s away . . .’
‘It’s all in the nurturing,’ said Blythe. ‘Cherchez la mère,’ she added darkly.
Belle stubbed out her cigarette. ‘Isn’t the saying cherchez la femme?’
‘It amounts to the same thing, Belle,’ Blythe retorted. ‘You need look no further than the mother. Grace might be a paragon of virtue and I am the first to say she is the sweetest person alive. But she’s much too lenient. Trixie needs a firm hand and Grace is weak.’
‘Grace is indulgent because it took her years of heartache and miscarriage to conceive,’ Belle reminded them. ‘Trixie is the longed-for only child. It’s no wonder she’s a bit spoiled.’
‘Grace buries her head in her gardens and tries not to think about it, I imagine,’ said Sally. ‘With a daughter like Trixie, wouldn’t you?’
‘Oh, she’s a wonderful gardener,’ Belle added emphatically. ‘The gardens of Tekanasset were all very ordinary before she arrived from England and transformed them with her wonderful taste and expertise.’
Evelyn scowled irritably. ‘No one is questioning her talent, Belle. It’s her mothering which is open to debate. Now, come on, who dealt?’
‘I did,’ said Blythe. ‘And I’m bidding one no trump.’
At that moment the four women were struck dumb by the appearance of Grace herself, followed by a large soufflé of a woman known to everyone as Big. Evelyn closed her mouth sharply. Big was the most respected and formidable woman on the island. Not only did she own the largest and oldest home, which had once belonged to the first settler back in 1668, but she was the only daughter of the wealthy oil baron Randall Wilson Jr., who died at the age of ninety-five leaving his entire fortune to her. It was said that she had never married because she could find no man qualified to match her in either wealth or spirit. Now that she was in her seventies, marriage was never mentioned or alluded to and Big showed no sign of regret. She treated her closest friends like family and took great pleasure, as her father had done before her, in sharing her wealth through the highly esteemed Randall Wilson Charitable Trust, or simply by writing cheques when she felt so inclined.
Grace Valentine looked as out of place in the clubhouse as a shire horse in a field of thoroughbreds. Her long mouse-brown hair was streaked with grey and pinned roughly onto the back of her head with a pencil, and her taupe cotton trousers and loose-fitting shirt were in sharp contrast to the starched perfection of the four bridge players. The only thing she seemed to have in common with them was the sparkle of diamonds in the form of a surprisingly exquisite bumblebee brooch pinned to her chest. Her nails were bitten down and the skin on her hands was rough from years of gardening. She wore no make-up and her fine English skin had suffered in the Tekanasset sun and sea winds. And yet her hazel eyes were full of softness and compassion and her face retained traces of her former beauty. When Grace Valentine smiled, few could resist the sweetness of it.
‘Hello, Grace,’ said Belle as the two women passed their table. ‘Hello, Big.’
>
Grace smiled. ‘Good game?’ she asked.
‘It’s not looking good for me,’ Belle replied. ‘But I’m not very good at bridge.’
‘Oh, really, Belle Bartlett, you’re just fine,’ chided Evelyn, tossing Grace a smile and scrutinizing her for signs of shame. ‘She’s just being modest.’
‘Where would you like to sit, Grace?’ Big asked, striding past the four women without so much as a nod. They shrank into their chairs guiltily. Big seemed to have an almost psychic sense when it came to unpleasantness, and she narrowed her eyes knowingly and struck the shiny wooden floorboards with her walking stick without any concern for the noise it made.
‘Let’s sit outside, if it’s not too windy for you, Big,’ Grace replied.
Big chuckled. ‘Not at all. If there was a hurricane I’d be the last person standing.’
They walked through the double doors onto a wide veranda which overlooked the ocean. Small boats cut through the waves like swans and a pair of black dogs frolicked about the dunes while their master strolled slowly up the beach. The evening sun was low in the sky, turning the sand a pinkish hue, and an oystercatcher pecked at the remains of a fish with his bright-orange beak. Grace chose a table nearest the edge of the veranda, against the balustrade, and pulled out a wicker chair for Big. The old woman handed Grace her stick, then fell onto the cushion with a loud whoosh. A few wisps of grey hair fell away from her bun and flapped against the back of her neck like feathers. ‘There, the hen is on her nest,’ said Big with a satisfied sigh. She clicked her fingers and before Grace had even sat down she had ordered them both a cocktail. ‘You need fortification, Grace,’ she told her firmly. ‘Never mind those hyenas. They’re all so jealous of you, as well they might be: they have not an ounce of talent between them.’
‘They’re all right,’ Grace replied. ‘Believe me, I’ve encountered far worse.’
‘I’m sure you have. British women make those four look positively tame.’
Grace laughed. ‘Oh, I don’t care what people say behind my back, as long as they’re friendly to my face. The trouble with British women is they’re much too outspoken, and I do hate confrontation.’
The Beekeeper's Daughter A Novel Page 1
