She closed her book with a sigh. Her father raised his eyes over his glasses. ‘You all right, Gracey?’
‘Yes, Dad. I think I’ll go upstairs now. I’m rather sleepy.’
‘Too much sun. That’s what it does to you, dries up all your energy.’
She bent over him and kissed his cheek. ‘Night, Dad.’
‘God bless,’ he replied, patting her gently. ‘Sweet dreams.’
A little later she knelt by her bed and prayed. She prayed for her father and for her mother who was in God’s keeping. She prayed for Freddie, Auntie May and Uncle Michael; for Freddie’s sister, Josephine, even though she didn’t like her very much, and she prayed for Rufus. Her prayer for Rufus went on and on. It was more like a confession than a prayer.
When she climbed into bed she lay on her side, staring into the black-and-white photograph of her parents that she kept in a frame on her bedside table. Her mother had a long face, like hers, and deep-set hazel eyes, although one couldn’t tell the colour from the photograph. They just looked dark. She had a kind face. The sort of face one could trust to keep secrets. Grace was sure that, were she alive, she would listen to her daughter with understanding and indulgence, and Grace would tell her everything. She would sit on Grace’s bed and stroke her cheek and gaze at her lovingly. She might laugh at the absurdity of Grace’s infatuation, but she wouldn’t make her feel ashamed. She wouldn’t belittle it. Of course, nothing would ever come of a crush such as this. But there was no harm in admiring him. It made Grace happy to think that he was in the world. Happier still that he knew she was in it, too.
So Grace whispered the contents of her heart to the one person she could trust to understand.
Chapter 6
The following morning Grace was in the garden picking vegetables for lunch when the black Bentley rumbled onto the grass in front of the cottage. She stood up and wiped her hands on her apron. Her heart began to thump hard against her ribcage. Like a fist, it was, and her stomach felt as if it were full of bees. She put her hand up to shield her eyes from the sun. To her surprise she saw the chauffeur climb out and walk towards her. ‘Miss Grace,’ he said. His tone was officious.
‘That’s me,’ she replied.
‘I’ve been sent by the Dowager Lady Penselwood. She requests your presence most urgently.’
Grace felt sick. She envisaged all sorts of terrible things that might have happened as a consequence of the bee sting. Perhaps the old lady’s hand had swollen so badly that she was now in greater pain. She wished her father could come with her, but he was working in the gardens up at the Hall and there wasn’t time to find him. Why couldn’t someone have summoned him instead? After all, he was already there?
‘Does she want me to come now?’ It was a silly question, for clearly the lady demanded her presence immediately.
‘Most urgently, were her words, Miss Grace.’
Grace hurried into the house to change out of her slacks into a frock, wash her hands and pin up her hair. As hard as she scrubbed she couldn’t shift the mud from beneath her nails. She wished she had a mother or a grandmother to go in her place. More than ever in her life she wished she wasn’t the woman of the house. When she emerged the chauffeur was holding the back door open for her. He looked solemn under his cap. For a fleeting moment she felt uplifted by the thought of Rufus and what he’d have to say about the chauffeur. She was sure he’d find his seriousness amusing.
The motor car purred like a big cat. Grace watched the countryside whizz past, but she was much too nervous to take pleasure in the birds diving in and out of the hedgerows. At last they turned into the entrance of Walbridge Hall and passed smoothly through the grand iron gates. On either side, set high upon stone pedestals, were two statues of a lion and dragon, their faces frozen into mighty roars. Her fear mounted as the car swept up the gentle curve of the drive and the magnificent house came into view. It was even more splendid close up, with its many glass windows twinkling in the sunshine, and tall gables rising into imposing chimneys. Her throat went dry at the thought of having to walk inside on her own and she wished more than ever that she was up on the hill, at the foot of the woods, watching from afar.
The motor car drew up and the chauffeur switched off the engine. Without a word he climbed out onto the gravel and opened her door. She stepped out unsteadily and waited to be told what to do, fidgeting nervously with her bitten-down fingernails. She glanced at a couple of gardeners in brown overalls clipping the yew hedge. One of them paused his cutting to watch her. She hoped she might see her father, but he didn’t appear.
She didn’t need to wait long. They were obviously expecting her. The great door of the house opened slowly like a terrifying mouth about to swallow her in one gulp. She stifled her fear, expecting a butler, as formidable as the chauffeur, to summon her inside. To her great relief Rufus appeared, grinning in his usual cheerful way, and ran down the steps two at a time towards her. ‘Hello, Grace. I hope we haven’t taken you away from something important,’ he said, his dark eyes sparkling at her.
She wanted to cry with happiness, for surely if something dreadful had happened Rufus wouldn’t be smiling at her so joyfully. ‘I was picking vegetables,’ she replied, then wished she had lied and said something more interesting.
‘Then you must be thirsty. Johnson,’ he shouted up to the waiting butler. ‘Please bring Miss Grace some juice. We’ll be in the garden room.’
Rufus looked casual in a sleeveless Fair Isle pullover of pale rusts and browns, his blue shirt rolled up at the sleeves to reveal muscular forearms and an elegant gold watch with a leather strap. A gold signet ring glinted on his little finger as he put his hand on her back to lead her up the steps into the hall. It was a vast room with a fireplace so large that Grace’s entire bed would have fitted inside it. The hall table was ablaze with the most stunning arrangement of lilies, and Persian rugs covered the flagstone floor, threadbare from centuries of footsteps. A dark wooden staircase swept up to an arresting portrait of an ancestor in a suit of armour before dividing into two and joining a gallery on opposite sides of the hall. ‘That’s great-great-great grandfather Aldrich,’ said Rufus, nodding towards the portrait. ‘And a fine figure of a man he was, too. Aldrich means “king”, but still, I’d rather be named after a pauper than be called Aldrich. Poor Papa: of all the family names to choose, his parents chose the most ridiculous!’
Grace laughed, but she couldn’t think of anything clever to say. ‘I like his armour,’ she replied, feeling foolish.
‘So do I. It’s hanging in the games room. I used to dress up in it as a boy, but I’m much too tall for it now. Funny how small people were in those days. Much smaller than one imagines.’
‘He doesn’t look small at all.’
‘Not there. Perhaps the painter was keen to curry favour and painted him looking bigger than he actually was.’
Grace was now feeling much more comfortable. In fact, she was almost dizzy with happiness, being shown around the house by Rufus. It was as impressive inside as it was outside. He showed her the other portraits hanging around the hall. They all had funny names like Winthrop and Morven, except the one that was called Rufus. ‘I’m named after him,’ said Rufus, screwing up his nose. ‘I’m not sure why, considering he’s the least handsome of the lot.’
‘I think Rufus is a nice name. You could have been called Broderick.’
He chuckled. ‘That would have been a terrible fate. Come on, I don’t suppose we can keep Grandmama waiting much longer.’
Grace felt afraid again. She took a sharp intake of breath and must have paled, for Rufus grinned at her kindly. He leaned down and whispered in her ear. ‘Don’t worry, Grace, deep down she’s as soft as a pussycat. She’s in a good mood this morning, so she’s positively purring.’ He directed her down a long corridor. They passed a room on the right which immediately caught Grace’s attention. It was a square room with bookshelves either side of a marble fireplace, but instead of books, row upon row
of model boats were placed beneath glass covers. There were hundreds. ‘My father’s study,’ said Rufus, pausing a moment at the open door. ‘Papa is mad about boats. It must have been a bore to inherit a house in the middle of the countryside when all he wants to do is sail. Have you ever sailed, Grace?’
‘No, I think I’d be a little nervous of the sea,’ she replied.
‘Rubbish, you’d love it. Papa taught me how to sail as a little boy. There’s something magical about the ocean.’ She swept her eyes over the paintings which adorned the other walls. They were all of seaside scenes: sailing boats on blue seas, azure skies with soaring white seagulls, busy harbours, sand dunes and swathes of pink roses.
Reluctantly, she pulled herself away and followed Rufus further down the corridor into a large conservatory at the end, which looked over the glorious gardens of Walbridge Hall. There, seated in regal splendour on a wicker garden chair, with a small fluffy dog on her lap, was the Dowager Marchioness. When she saw Grace her wizened old face was transformed by an unexpectedly warm smile.
‘Ah, come over here, my dear, and let me thank you.’ She held out her hand. Grace stepped forward and took it shyly, bobbing into a curtsy, because she felt the Dowager Marchioness demanded more than a polite nod of the head. ‘Look!’ The old lady waved her hand. It was no longer bent into a claw. ‘Barely any pain this morning. The swelling is down. You’re a good little doctor, aren’t you?’
‘I’m happy it’s better, m’lady,’ Grace replied, surprised that the bee venom had worked so effectively.
‘Speak up, child. I can’t hear if you whisper.’
‘I’m happy it’s better,’ she repeated, louder this time.
‘So am I,’ said the Dowager Marchioness.
‘Thank you, Johnson,’ said Rufus, taking a glass of juice off the tray. The butler departed with a little bow. ‘For you, Grace. Strawberry and raspberry juice. It’s rather good. I had some for breakfast.’
‘The fruit is from the garden,’ said Lady Penselwood. ‘We have a splendid vegetable garden, but you know that of course, being Arthur Hamblin’s daughter. Gardening used to be my hobby before arthritis set in and stopped me enjoying myself. Perhaps those bees will save my hands and I can be useful again.’ She raised her eyebrows at Grace. Grace swallowed her juice. It was the most delicious thing she had ever tasted. She felt she should say something, but wasn’t sure what.
Rufus cut in, defusing any awkwardness. ‘Grandmama so enjoyed being stung, she’d like to do it again.’
‘Oh, really, Rufus. You are a ridiculous boy. A person doesn’t enjoy being stung, ever. One simply endures the pain for the rewards to come. It’s like life, Rufus. One endures it for the promise of paradise and the joys of Heaven.’
‘I wouldn’t say life is to be endured, Grandmama,’ he retorted, sitting down opposite her. ‘I’d argue that it offers a lot of pleasure.’
‘I dare say, for a young, pleasure-seeking boy such as yourself. When you are old, Rufus, and look back over your life, you will see a bumpy road of pleasure and pain. The past will be strewn with misfortune and mishaps, not to mention the terrible losses of people dear to you. You will have to endure their loss . . .’
‘Like yours, Grandmama,’ he interrupted, his mouth curling mischievously. ‘I shall be very sorry when it’s your time to go.’ Grace feared he had gone one step too far, but his grandmother smiled, clearly finding amusement in his bluntness.
‘I dare say you will. I hope you enjoy a long life, dear boy, but to outlive the people you love is not necessarily something to be celebrated. One endures but one never recovers. Miss Hamblin, I remember when your dear mama died. You were too young to know her, which is a great shame. She was a sweet girl.’ Grace’s cheeks flushed as pink as her juice. The Dowager Marchioness acknowledged Grace’s tragedy with a grunt. ‘Who brought you up?’
‘My father.’
‘On his own?’ Lady Penselwood narrowed her eyes and gave a disapproving sniff.
‘Yes, m’lady.’
‘Good gracious. I commend him. Not an easy task, bringing up a child on one’s own, especially for a man. Men are useless in the nursery.’
‘He was helped. Auntie May helped,’ Grace interjected, hoping Lady Penselwood might approve of that.
She did. ‘Family. You see, one simply can’t exist without family.’ Grace didn’t feel like telling her that Auntie May was a distant relative and not really family at all. She called her Auntie because she had been as close to her mother as a sister. ‘Grandparents?’
‘Yes, m’lady. My grandmother helped when I was little.’
This pleased Lady Penselwood enormously. ‘Grandmothers, there’s no substituting them. Now Rufus here has always taken great trouble with me.’
‘Trouble being the operative word, Grandmama. You’ve always been trouble.’
She chuckled. ‘When one is a grandmother, one is entitled to say exactly what one thinks. I endured years of keeping my thoughts to myself. Now that I am old and there is no one in the family above me, I have the right to speak my mind.’
‘And you most certainly do,’ he added wryly.
‘Now, I would like to endure another sting. On the other hand. What do you say, Miss Hamblin?’
Grace was too young and unimportant to speak her mind, so she had no choice but to agree to the unfortunate killing of yet another precious bee. ‘Would you like me to find one in your garden?’ she volunteered dutifully.
‘That’s a splendid idea. Rufus, show her the lavender. There are always plenty of bees on that.’
‘As I’m a pleasure-seeking man, Grandmama, it will give me nothing but pleasure to show Grace the garden.’ He stood up. ‘Come on then, Grace. Let’s go outside and enjoy the sunshine.’
‘Take Amber, here,’ said his grandmother, gently pushing the dog off her knee. ‘She’s been inside all morning. It’s about time she did her business.’ Reluctantly, the white Maltese followed Rufus and Grace into the garden, where it soon disappeared into a bush.
‘So you see, two miracles in one day,’ said Rufus, putting on a pair of sunglasses.
‘What’s the other one?’ Grace asked.
‘Mama and Papa have gone up to London. They’re going to the theatre tonight.’ When Grace didn’t reply he added, ‘I didn’t want them to know about Grandmama’s sting, you see. They’d think I was brutal.’
‘Your grandmother doesn’t think you brutal at all.’
‘She doesn’t, no. But Mama is a different kettle of fish. She’d think it was all a lot of hocus-pocus and there’d be a great deal of tutting and rolling her eyes and “Really, Rufus, can’t you think of something better to do with your time?” She finds her mother-in-law tiresome and demanding, which of course she is. Even though she thinks the old girl is about to pop off at any moment, and is rather wishing she’d exit sooner rather than later, she’d find the idea of a bee sting on purpose barbaric and do her best to stop her. There’d be the most almighty row and I’d be in the middle of it, as usual, trying to keep them apart. It’s bad enough that they live in the same house. Two devilishly strong women standing their ground; it’s hopeless. That’s why Mama disappears to London as much as possible. Grandmama likes to stay here, rattling around in this big old house all on her own.’
‘And you? Do you like rattling around in it, too?’
‘I don’t rattle much. I fill it with friends. Much less rattling that way.’ Grace laughed at his turn of phrase. ‘Now, this is the vegetable garden.’
He pushed a wooden gate cut into an old, weathered stone wall. It opened into a vast garden in the middle of which was an orchard of various fruit trees, planted equi-distantly. The borders were immaculate. From the air, Grace thought, it would look like a kaleidoscope of harmonious shapes, one side the mirror image of the other. She counted three gardeners working away among the vegetables, weeding and picking, but none was her father. She wondered what he’d make of her being shown around by Rufus Melville. At the far end
there stood two enormous palaces made out of glass. Grace longed to go in and have a look, but was too shy to ask. She’d have to ask her father about them later.
‘Now, where is the lavender?’ Rufus asked.
‘Over there.’ Grace pointed to the wall. One entire side was taken up by a thick strip of it.
‘Gracious! What does she do with all this lavender?’
‘Maybe she makes lavender bags,’ Grace suggested.
‘What are they?’
Pleased she knew something he didn’t, she enlightened him. ‘Then you put them with your clothes to make them smell nice, or hang them from the bedpost to help you sleep.’
‘Just what I need. I have terrible trouble sleeping. I’m too excitable, that’s the trouble. Counting sheep doesn’t work because they all start bickering about who’s going to jump over the fence first. I don’t think it works for anybody. It’s a silly myth.’
‘Lavender works.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t think it would work for me, sweet Grace. I’m a lost cause.’
They walked over to the bushes. ‘Look at all those bees,’ he exclaimed. ‘Big, fat, clumsy ones and small, lean, agile ones. They’re very busy, aren’t they?’
‘It’s the honey bee we need for your grandmother.’
‘How are we going to get it to her?’
‘That’s easy. I’m sure one of your gardeners has a flowerpot we could use. I don’t want to frighten the bee by carrying it in my hands.’
The Beekeeper's Daughter A Novel Page 7
