Grace forgot her nervousness and took his wrist in her hand to steady him. ‘Don’t move,’ she whispered. ‘It won’t sting you, I promise. Bumblebees rarely sting, only the worker bees and queens. I’m not sure which this one is – a worker bee, I think. Certainly not a queen; you can tell those immediately as they’re bigger. Anyway, if it does sting you, it’s no bad thing. Dad lets his bees sting him on purpose.’
‘Why would he do a silly thing like that?’
‘He says bee stings cure his arthritis.’
‘Really? Is that true?’
‘I think it is. He swears by it.’
‘My grandmother has terrible arthritis. Perhaps I should bring her down to your cottage for a sting or two.’
Grace chuckled. ‘I’m not sure she’d thank you. A bee sting really hurts.’ They watched the insect crawl up his arm. Grace let go of his hand.
‘What’s your name, Miss Hamblin?’
Furious with herself for blushing, she lowered her eyes. ‘Grace.’
‘I’m Rufus. I’d forgotten how boring Reverend Dibben is. He does go on.’ Grace giggled timidly. She was quite happy talking about bees, but she didn’t know what to say about Reverend Dibben, except to agree stupidly – he was an exceedingly dull man. ‘You know, I’ve been up at Oxford for a year and it’s been a pleasure not having to listen to the old bore every Sunday. Sadly, he’s coming to lunch so I’m going to have to suffer him through three courses.’ He sighed. She glanced at him again and he beamed a wide, mischievous smile. ‘Well, Grace, you’ve been a fine teacher. Tell me, do you help your father with the hives?’
‘Yes, I do, I love everything about bees.’
He looked at her steadily and frowned. ‘So, you’ll be a beekeeper when you grow up?’
‘I hope so.’ She smiled back shyly.
‘And you’ll invent a cure for arthritis that will make you rich.’
‘I don’t think anyone would pay to be stung by a bee.’
‘Then you’ll have to find a way to bottle it.’
‘That could prove difficult.’
‘Not for a clever girl like you.’ His dark chocolate eyes twinkled warmly. ‘You’d better take back your bee or I’ll be late for lunch.’ He looked across the churchyard to where his parents were graciously extracting themselves from the crowd of townspeople. The Marchioness was wearing the most magnificent fox stole, even though it was summer. It was so intact the creature could easily have been asleep and not dead. Her husband’s face was hidden behind a thick grey beard. He resembled the King. Rufus watched them a moment, as if reluctant to join them any sooner than necessary. ‘Can’t be late for the vicar!’ he sighed.
Grace gently lifted the bee with her fingers and placed it back on her arm. Rufus stood up and unrolled his sleeve. ‘I’ll tell my grandmother about your father’s remedy for arthritis,’ he said, threading the cufflink through the hole in his cuff. ‘I think the idea is a capital one.’
‘Oh, you mustn’t!’ she protested.
‘Oh, but I must. She’s an eccentric old bat. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if she doesn’t come knocking on your door.’ He shrugged on his jacket. ‘Don’t worry, if it doesn’t work we won’t burn you at the stake for witchcraft. Bye now.’
Grace watched him saunter off. He was tall and athletic with the bearing of a young man for whom life had been generous and kind. He walked with his shoulders back and his head high, and everyone who saw him smiled with admiration, for he was indeed attractive and charismatic. Grace’s heart began to beat at a regular pace again but her hands were still damp with sweat. She felt very hot. She was flattered that he had bothered to talk to a fourteen-year-old.
Before she could dwell on it any further she was startled by Freddie, springing upon her from behind. The bee took fright and flew into the air. She rounded on him crossly. ‘Really, Freddie! You’ve scared her away!’
‘You and your silly bees,’ he retorted, sitting on the grass beside her. ‘What did he want?’ He nodded in the direction of the grown-ups, who were now beginning to disperse like homing pigeons. Rufus walked with his mother down the gravel path towards the waiting motor cars. Grace didn’t think she’d ever seen a more glamorous woman, even at the flicks.
‘He wanted the bee to walk up his arm,’ she replied.
Freddie swept his auburn hair off his forehead. His skin was damp with sweat. ‘Strange man.’
‘He was nice.’
‘You’re a soft touch for anyone who shows an interest in your bees.’ He grinned at her mischievously. ‘Fancy a swim in the river after lunch? It’s boiling!’
‘Maybe,’ she replied. ‘Depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On whether you are man enough to let a bee walk up your arm like Rufus.’
‘So he’s Rufus now, is he?’ He elbowed her playfully – and a little jealously.
‘He said his name is Rufus.’
‘He’s the Earl of Melville. Lord Melville to you and don’t you forget it.’
‘Then I’m Miss Hamblin to you, Mr Valentine, and don’t you forget it.’
Freddie laughed and stood up. ‘Find me a bee,’ he demanded, keen to show that he was as brave as Lord Melville.
‘All right. Let’s see.’ She ran her eyes over the daisies and buttercups that grew among the grass and spotted what could easily be the same fat bee which had only a moment ago walked up her arm. She bent down and picked it up as if it were as innocuous as a bird’s egg.
‘Come on, Freddie, don’t be a big girl!’ she teased. Gently, she placed the bee on Freddie’s arm. He trembled. She held his wrist as she had held Rufus’s but it didn’t excite her as Rufus’s had, for Freddie’s skin was almost as familiar as her own. Ever since her mother died and his mother May, a distant cousin and her mother’s best friend, had stepped in to help her father raise her, Freddie had been like a brother to her. In the beginning, her grandmother had come up from Cornwall to live with them, but mother and son had soon clashed and Mrs Hamblin had been unceremoniously sent home on the train. After that her aunt had attempted to fill her mother’s shoes but she had only lasted six months before she was packed off back to Cornwall, too. That was years ago. Grace couldn’t remember her grandmother or her aunt; only May and Michael Valentine and her father had been constants in her life. She couldn’t remember a moment when Freddie hadn’t been around, either.
‘How does that feel? Not scared, are you, Freddie?’ she asked.
‘No!’ he exclaimed through gritted teeth. His face had gone very red, enhancing the indigo colour of his eyes.
‘You know, without bees to pollinate our world, humans would die out in four years.’
‘Fascinating,’ he replied sarcastically.
‘And bees have been around for thirty million years. Just imagine that!’
‘Can you take it off now? It’s going to crawl into my shirt.’ Freddie began to pant in panic.
‘Am I boring you?’ She laughed. ‘Well, I suppose you’ve earned a swim in the river now.’
Just as she was about to lift it off his arm, the little bee must have sensed his fear for it lowered its abdomen and stung him. Grace paled. Not because Freddie gave out a yelp of pain, but because the sting had lodged itself in Freddie’s skin and as the bee pulled away, half of its insides were left behind. She stared at it in anguish. The insect tried to fly away, but it was too weak. It fell onto the grass where it made a pathetic attempt to crawl. Grace’s eyes filled with tears. She bent down and picked the creature up and placed it in the palm of her hand where she stared at it helplessly.
Freddie was appalled. ‘You don’t care about me! You only care about your silly bees!’ he accused, his voice rising as the pain throbbed and his skin turned pink.
‘You’re not going to die, Freddie,’ she retorted crossly. ‘You shouldn’t have let her know that you were afraid!’
‘I wasn’t afraid. Bees sting and that’s all there is to it.’ He nursed his arm and tried to hold back
the tears. ‘You and your silly game!’
She glanced at his glistening eyes and softened. ‘I’m sorry, Freddie. I didn’t think it would sting you.’
‘That’s the last time I go anywhere near a bee, do you understand?’ He grimaced. ‘It bloody hurts, Grace. I hope you’re satisfied. I heard of a man who died of a bee sting!’
Grace took a look at his arm. He had wiped the sting away, but the venom was making his arm swell. ‘Come, I’ll get you home and Auntie May can put some garlic on it.’
‘Garlic?’
‘Or baking soda.’
He looked horrified. ‘You really are a witch!’
‘They both work a treat. Come on.’
They hurried down the path into the lane. Freddie bore the pain bravely. He was determined not to cry in front of Grace. He didn’t imagine Lord Melville would have cried had he been stung.
Freddie’s house wasn’t far from the church. It was down a narrow lane near the river and the Fox and Goose Inn, where his father went every evening after work to drink beer with his friends. They found his mother, whom Grace had always called Auntie May, in the kitchen, peeling potatoes at the sink. ‘Oh dear, what have you done to yourself, Freddie?’ she asked, taking his arm and looking at it closely.
‘A bee stung him, Auntie May,’ Grace told her. ‘Do you have any garlic?’
‘Garlic?’
‘To put on the sting. It’ll make it better quicker than any fancy ointment from the chemist.’
May smiled. ‘You’re just like your father, Grace,’ she said, going to the cupboard to find some. ‘I bet it’s sore, Freddie. You’re being very brave.’ May squashed the clove on her chopping board and pressed it onto the sting. ‘Does that hurt?’ she asked softly.
‘A little,’ said Freddie.
Grace rolled her eyes. ‘I’ve never known so much fuss!’ she chided. ‘Boys are big babies.’
‘Boys fight wars, Grace. They’re courageous when it matters,’ said May quietly.
‘Not Freddie,’ Grace laughed. ‘Freddie’s a big girl!’
‘He’s only fifteen. One day he’ll be a man and think nothing of a bee sting.’ May kissed his forehead affectionately. ‘All done now.’
‘You have to come swimming with me this afternoon, Grace. You made a promise,’ said Freddie.
‘I did, and I will honour my word.’
‘Will you come by after lunch, then?’
‘As soon as Dad lets me go.’
‘I’ll make you sandwiches for tea if you like,’ May suggested, picking up a potato to peel.
‘Thank you, we’d love that, wouldn’t we, Freddie? We can eat them on the river bank. It’ll be fun.’
‘Don’t tell your sister, Freddie. I won’t be making sandwiches for her.’ May shook her ginger curls. ‘If your father knew how much I spoil you, he’d have words to say. Now off you both go. I’ve got to cook lunch. We’ve got company.’
Freddie walked Grace back to the church where she had left her bicycle. It was a short ride home if she took the shortcut along the farm tracks through the wood. ‘How’s your sting?’ she asked.
‘Better,’ he replied. ‘I suppose you were right about the garlic’
‘I’m a witch, after all,’ she laughed.
‘But I stink.’
‘You can wash it off in the river.’
‘The fish will love that!’
‘I’m sorry, Freddie,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean for the bee to hurt you.’
‘I know. It’s OK. It’s feeling better now.’
‘Still, I feel sorrier for the bee.’ She picked up her bicycle, which she had leaned against the church wall. ‘I’ll see you later,’ she said, climbing on.
Grace pedalled through the village until she came to the farm entrance of Walbridge Hall. She cycled in, past a cluster of pretty farm cottages where chickens wandered freely, pecking at the earth, and where barns were swept clean in preparation for the harvest. It was quiet, being a Sunday. She pedalled hard up the track towards the wood. The grass had grown long and was thick with clover. On her left the hedges were high and bushy with cow parsley and blackthorn. Small birds darted in and out and hares lolloped up ahead, disappearing into the undergrowth when she got too close for comfort. As she was about to cut through the wood, she felt the desire to take a look at the big house. She’d seen it lots of times before with her father, but now she had met Rufus, it took on a whole new meaning. It was no longer just very fine bricks but Rufus’s home.
She changed direction and walked her bike along the field at the foot of the wood. From there she could see Walbridge Hall nestled in the valley, protected by sturdy plane trees and surrounded by acres of gardens, lovingly managed by her father who had held the position of head gardener for over twenty years. His knowledge and skill were said to be unmatched by anyone else in Dorset. She remembered with a smile how he’d stop and admire the house and say: ‘That’s a mighty fine building, that is.’ And being a man who loved history and read a great deal, he’d tell her about it without caring that she’d heard it a dozen times already.
Arthur Hamblin was right. It was a magnificent seventeenth-century stately home built in the soft, pale-yellow stone of Dorset. With three floors, tall gables, large imposing-looking windows and chimneys set in pairs, it was undeniably grand yet not at all formidable. Perhaps it was due to the gentle colour of the stone, or the prettiness of the bay windows and gables, or the general harmony of the design, but Walbridge Hall seemed to welcome the onlooker with a silent salutation.
Grace thought of Rufus at lunch with the vicar and smiled to herself, thrilled to have been taken into his confidence. She could see a number of motor cars on the gravel in front of the house. There was a sleek black Bentley which belonged to the Marquess, with its long bonnet and exquisite leather interior. She had seen that vehicle many times, parked outside the church and motoring through the village carrying the Marchioness off to London. A little red Austin was parked beside it, which belonged to the vicar, but outshining both was a sleek racing-green Alfa Romeo. She imagined that one belonged to Rufus. It seemed to be a motor car worthy of a dashing young man like the Earl of Melville.
She remained there a long while, watching. Before, she had barely noticed the house. Her father’s fascination with the place had rather baffled her. How was it possible for someone to be so fixated on a pile of bricks and mortar, however well constructed? Gardens she could understand, because flora and fauna had always held her in wonder, but houses had never held such appeal. Walbridge Hall certainly hadn’t warranted more than a glance. But now it seemed to breathe with life. She imagined the people inside it and wondered what they were all doing. She fantasized about knocking on that great door. She couldn’t imagine what it looked like inside because she had no experience to draw on. But she knew it would be superb.
After a while her stomach began to rumble and she turned her thoughts to dinner. Her father would expect his meal on time. Reluctantly, she tore herself away from her vigil and cut through the middle of the wood, along a track where the grass was kept short because the Penselwoods liked to ride there. She loved this part of the forest with its ancient oak trees, whose gnarled and twisted branches reminded her of fairy tales she had read as a child. In spring the ground was a sea of bluebells, but now, being July, bracken and ferns had grown dense and strong – perfect cover for pheasants and rabbits.
She reached the other side of the wood and pushed her bike out into the field. From there she could see the thatched roof of the cottage she had lived in all her life. It didn’t belong to her father; it was part of the estate, but it was his for as long as he was head gardener and beekeeper. Its official name was Cottage Number 3, but because of the hives it had become known as Beekeeper’s Cottage, and Grace thought the name suited it well.
Perfect in symmetry, with white walls and a grey thatched roof, it was a harmonious little house with a great deal of charm. Two windows peeped out from beneath a fringe of tha
tch and seemed to survey the surrounding countryside with a constant look of wonder, as if the magic of those green fields and ancient woods never lost its power to enchant. A trio of chimneys made perfect perches for pigeons grown fat on the bounty of wheat and barley from the surrounding fields. They settled in up there and cooed softly until the winter fires sent them into the trees, where they cooed grudgingly instead.
Grace found her father on his knees in the garden, pulling out weeds. He never stopped. When he wasn’t working at the Hall he was toiling in his own garden or at the hives. The only thing that brought him inside was the dark, and then he’d sink into his favourite armchair with his loyal spaniel, Pepper, at his feet, light a pipe and read. For an ill-educated man Arthur Hamblin was extremely well read, with a natural intelligence and an enquiring mind. He devoured history books and biographies and reread his favourite classics in fiction so that the pages were dog-eared and the hard covers shabby. Recognizing the same curiosity in his daughter, he had set about teaching her with love and patience everything he had learned. They shared books and discussed the great mysteries of the world, but the knowledge Grace most treasured was the wisdom of bees. Father and daughter were never closer than when they were looking after the hives and pouring honey into jars to take up to the Hall.
‘Ah, Gracey,’ he said, looking up from the border. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Freddie got stung by a bee.’
Arthur chuckled, pulling out a handful of bindweed. His greying hair curled beneath his cap like old man’s beard. ‘Bet he made a fuss.’
‘Of course he did.’
‘Did you put garlic on it?’
‘Yes, although Auntie May thought I was mad to suggest it.’
‘What’s she up to, then?’
‘Cooking dinner. They have company.’
‘Oh, they do, do they? Well, what shall we have for dinner then, you and I?’ he asked, always eager for the next meal.
‘I don’t know. What do you feel like?’
He stood up and walked across the grass towards her. ‘Let’s go and see what’s in the icebox,’ he said jovially. ‘I’m sure we can cook up a feast as good as any at May’s!’
The Beekeeper's Daughter A Novel Page 5
