The Beekeeper's Daughter A Novel

by Santa Montefiore

  Grace felt a sense of dread building in her chest. She thought of the impending war and his part in it. She wanted to tell him to be careful, but she wasn’t his wife. She had no right to tell him anything at all. ‘Thank you for driving me home,’ she said instead.

  ‘No, thank you for removing the bees. We shall all sleep better tonight knowing that Georgie is happy.’ He smiled wistfully and climbed out of the motor car. He helped her carry the basket to the hives. ‘I’d like to watch you do this, but I fear I shall be late for dinner.’

  ‘Perhaps you can tell your mother and Lady Georgina that if they are at all worried about looking after animals, I’d be very happy to help.’

  ‘I will tell them,’ he said firmly. ‘That should put an end to their quarrelling.’

  He gazed at her for a long moment. Only the darkness filled the gap between them, and it was thrilling and mysterious. Grace forgot to breathe. The weight of his stare was almost unbearable. ‘Goodnight, Little Bee,’ he said at last.

  ‘Goodnight, Rufus.’

  Suddenly he was gone, and the garden seemed to shrink and cool until it was quiet and empty again. She took a deep breath and fought the longing that now crept over her with its sharp and ever-tightening grip. She was married. It was wrong to think of Rufus in this way; it was even worse to love him. But once she had emptied the bees into the hive and replaced the lid she stood very still and tried to hear the whispering breath of the garden at night.

  Chapter 19

  The bees took to their new home as Grace had hoped they would. She sat watching them, remembering her evening with Rufus, replaying their conversation over and over until she could hear the deep timbre of his voice as if he were sitting right beside her. She envisaged the endearing way he hunched his shoulders when he chuckled, a sheepish expression softening his finely chiselled face, and found a surprising vulnerability there that she hadn’t noticed before. That moment by the ladder, when they had laughed together at his concern, had somehow brought him down to her level. He was no longer the lofty aristocrat on a pedestal, but a man who, for reasons she couldn’t understand, cared about her.

  In the evenings, while Freddie was at the pub with his father and friends, she began to make Rufus a blue silk lavender bag to help him sleep at night. She would have liked to embroider an R on the front, but she feared Freddie might find it. So she sewed a picture of a bee instead. She justified her project by telling herself that it was merely a way of thanking him for the very generous flowers he had sent her on her wedding day. There was no reason to feel guilty. She wasn’t betraying Freddie; she was simply making a gift for a friend.

  After the headiness of that evening Grace settled once more into married life and tried to focus on her husband and her duty as a wife. She took up Mr Heath’s offer of gardening lessons, but every time she arrived at the Hall Rufus’s motor car was absent. She couldn’t help hoping he would appear around the corner as he had that evening with the bee swarm, but he never did. Instead, she occasionally saw Lady Georgina on the terrace with her mother-in-law, Lady Penselwood, and well-dressed women in pale sun hats who had come to stay. Their laughter resounded across the lawn as Johnson and the other servants brought them drinks and delicious-looking things to eat. Grace was invisible to those ladies as she trailed Mr Heath in a pair of brown dungarees with her hair tied up in a scarf. But once, when she happened to be helping him in the herbaceous border near the house, she looked up to see Lady Georgina staring at her, a cigarette smoking in its ebony holder a few inches from her crimson lips, a frown creasing the delicate white skin between her eyebrows. Grace dropped her eyes into the alchemilla mollis but she could feel the woman’s gaze upon her back as if it were burning through her clothes. She wondered feverishly whether Lady Georgina had minded her husband driving her back with the bees, or had she perhaps overheard them talking as she scaled the ladder? As her mind swirled with possibilities she wasn’t listening to a word Mr Heath was telling her. Eventually the old man turned to her and smiled. ‘What’s playing on your mind, Grace, because you’re miles away?’

  June slipped into July and Freddie’s days stretched into long evenings in the fields as he brought in the wheat and barley, returning late covered with dust and smelling of sweat. He was never too tired to ask her about her day and to listen to her stories as she served him supper in the kitchen. Sometimes, when it was very warm, they took their plates outside and ate in the garden, and Freddie would take her hand and reminisce. He loved more than anything to remember the first time he had kissed her down by the river.

  The light grew mellow and Grace wondered whether this would be the last summer of life as she knew it. War was now certain. Freddie had joined the Dorset Yeomanry; Mrs Emerson told her that Rufus had followed in his father’s footsteps and joined a tank regiment with the Blues & Royals. The men were no longer playing soldiers, they really were soldiers, and many would sacrifice their lives in a war which was only too real. She tried not to think about it, but when she went to check on the hives and all she could hear was the gentle knocking of a woodpecker, the light tweeting of finches and blue tits and the melodious song of the blackbird, her heart was filled with sadness for all that might be lost. From the serene beauty of her garden she looked to a horizon of darkness and death with a terrible dread. War was approaching, and like a mighty cyclone it would sweep away everything she loved.

  On 3rd September Britain declared war on Germany. Grace huddled around the wireless with Freddie, May, Michael, Josephine and the locals in the Fox and Goose. It was better to hear it all together in the pub where they could seek comfort and support from each other. Grace ran her eyes over the rosy faces and feverish eyes of the young men, who were whipped into a state of patriotic fever and indignation at the audacity of Adolf Hitler. But she didn’t see adventure and excitement as they did. All she could see was certain death and the misery of those, like her, who’d be left behind. She looked over to May and saw that she was crying.

  When Grace said goodbye to Freddie she held him tightly, hoping that her fierce embrace would somehow make up for the lavender bag and her affection for Rufus. She closed her eyes and felt the tears squeezing through her eyelashes and onto his jacket, and silently asked God to forgive her and to preserve her darling Freddie, whose love she didn’t deserve. Freddie kissed her passionately, but his eyes gleamed with excitement and her weeping only made him more determined to prove himself on the battlefield and return to her a hero – a hero who would think nothing of a bee sting.

  With all the young men gone, old Mr Heath and Mr Swift were the only men left to manage the gardens and Mr Garner had been robbed of his farmworkers. It was up to Grace and the other women of Walbridge to take over, lest the place fall apart. The Marchioness of Penselwood, now without her husband and son to make all the decisions, rose to the occasion with the unflappable stoicism for which her class were famous, and galvanized the women as if she were a colonel rousing her troops. She summoned them all on the lawn, where Mrs Emerson served tea and cakes beneath the tree as she had done at Rufus and Lady Georgina’s engagement party the previous summer, and encouraged them to rally together, for the war had to be fought on all fronts.

  It was a warm September day, but a cool breeze swept over the grass to remind them that summer, and their carefree lives, were now over. Lady Penselwood was still a desirable woman in her early fifties with high cheekbones and a full, bow-shaped mouth. Her soft hair and pretty brown eyes did not disguise the strength in her jaw and chin, and if anyone doubted her ability, as a woman, to run the estate, her determined and businesslike demeanour were enough to convince them of her intention, at least. She stood tall and elegant in a light tweed skirt and jacket, a cream-coloured silk blouse buttoned at the neck and a pair of sensible brown lace-up shoes. She wore a simple brown hat with a striking fan of pheasant feathers pinned to one side. She looked dignified and dependable. She inspired them all with the belief that they were capable of anything, even beating bac
k the Germans should they dare to set foot in Walbridge. So Grace swallowed her tears and decided to focus on Freddie’s return. Surely the war would be over soon and everything would return to the way it was.

  Christmas came and went and Grace anxiously awaited Freddie’s letters. They didn’t tell her much about life at war. They were full of reminiscences: about the lake, the farm, the woods in springtime and, above all, his love for her. The only insight he gave her was when he mentioned that her letters prevented him from ‘descending into loneliness and homesickness’, and that he kept them close to his heart to read over and over. He dreamed of simple things, he wrote, and cherished their life together ever more fiercely.

  Grace missed him. But she didn’t have time to be lonely. She was part of a large and cheerful gang of women – the Women’s Land Army, the government called them – who worked on the farm and in the vegetable gardens, increasing food production for the war effort. Women from London came down to help, and among them was a high-spirited girl from Bow called Ruby, who lodged with Grace. Initially Grace hadn’t wanted anyone to occupy her father’s old room, but Lady Penselwood had spoken to her personally and persuaded her that it was unhealthy to keep a shrine. ‘We’re at war now, dear, this is no time to be sentimental,’ she had said, and Grace had seen Rufus in her rich brown eyes and chiselled features and relented at once.

  Ruby was a good-time girl of nineteen, looking for adventure. With blonde curls, doll-blue eyes and porcelain skin she would have looked like Goldilocks were it not for her lips, which she painted scarlet, even for working in the fields, and the cigarette permanently stuck into the corner of her mouth like a barrow boy. Grace warmed to her immediately, especially as Ruby knew nothing about the countryside and roared with laughter every time she pulled out a weed to find a carrot or a radish on the end. They sat up late, listening to the wireless and gossiping – there was plenty of gossip to feed off at the Hall.

  Walbridge Hall was suddenly full of children, sent down to safety from London in their Fair Isle knits and lace-up shoes. Grace, whose primary job was assisting Mr Heath in the vegetable gardens, carried the produce in crates to the kitchens, where Mrs Emerson would make her a cup of tea and chat a while. Mrs Emerson whispered to Grace that Lady Penselwood had always longed for more children, so she had deliberately taken three sets of siblings, bringing the number of evacuee children up to seven. ‘Goodness, this house is big enough for twice that,’ she told Grace with a sniff. She sipped her tea then continued in a low voice. ‘Lady Melville was so horrified by the sudden invasion of little ’uns, she locked herself in her bedroom for two whole days. I don’t think she likes children. Fancy that, eh? Not liking children. The trouble is, she’s spoilt. Lady Penselwood, on the other hand, is quite ready to roll up her sleeves and get down to work with the rest of us. You know she came and helped with the children’s tea yesterday? Imagine that! She sat with them and they were all laughing and chatting like one big, happy family. She’s come into her own now. This war has given her a new lease of life. She’s bought those cows for milk. She’s asked Mr Garner to show her how to milk them. Imagine that, eh? The Marchioness of Penselwood milking a cow. That would never have happened before the war. As for Lady Melville, she won’t go near the animals. She says they give her itchy eyes. She won’t even collect the eggs. We have enough to make omelettes for the entire county. Lady Penselwood has taken up riding again and goes off with Mr Swift. It’s a good way to see the land and check on things. I do admire her. I’m not so admiring of Lady Melville, though I suppose she’s doing her bit knitting socks for the WI.’

  Freddie came home on leave in the spring in his belted brown uniform and cap. He didn’t want to talk about the war. He wanted to make love to his wife, drink with his friends and family at the Fox and Goose and inspect the farm with Mr Garner. Grace was overjoyed to see him. The months on the Western Front had darkened his skin and taken the fat off his bones, but he was still the same Freddie, with his raffish charm and gentle teasing. He smoked a great deal and, together with Ruby, filled the kitchen with fog in minutes. Grace cooked him large meals from her mother’s cookery book. Rationing affected country folk less than city folk, thanks to the vegetables and dairy products supplied by the Hall, and she used the honey she collected from the hives in place of sugar, so Freddie ate well. He devoured enormous quantities, and when he returned to his regiment at the end of his leave his face had filled out and the rosy colour was restored to his cheeks.

  Grace had relished having her husband at home. Once he left she was engulfed by a deep loneliness that neither May nor Ruby could fill. Part of her longed for a child so that she’d have someone to love and look after, but the idea of bringing a baby into such a frightening and uncertain world terrified her, so it was with mixed feelings that a month after Freddie had left she discovered that she was not pregnant. She threw herself into her beekeeping and the vegetable gardens at the Hall, and wrote Freddie long letters on airmail paper in her smallest handwriting, and prayed for him before she went to bed.

  She had long since finished the lavender bag for Rufus, but she didn’t know how to get it to him. It sat on her dressing table with her hairbrushes and perfume, inducing memories and longings she’d have been better off discarding. But as the weeks went by she found herself delving with increasing regularity into the drawer to read the letter he had written after her father’s death and the card that had come with the flowers on her wedding day. Silently, she sent words to the Lord for his safety, too, and in the same ardent prayers she asked for forgiveness for her wild and foolish heart.

  And then one day in late summer Rufus came home.

  Grace was pushing her bike back through the woods after a long day in the gardens at the Hall. The air was humid and little midges hovered in clouds, caught in the spotlight as the setting sun showered its beams through gaps in the leaves. She listened with pleasure to the rustling of animals in the undergrowth and reflected again on the nocturnal breathing that Rufus had claimed to detect when darkness sharpened one’s sense of hearing. Just as she thought of him, he appeared before her, having walked down a narrow path adjacent to hers.

  He caught her off guard and the surprise was so sudden and so immense that it whipped away her inhibitions. ‘Rufus!’ she cried happily. ‘You’re home!’

  Her enthusiasm pleased him. He smiled broadly and took off his hat. ‘I’m home,’ he replied. ‘And it’s jolly nice to be here.’

  She ran her eyes up and down his captain’s uniform. He looked more striking than ever and she felt the adrenalin course through her veins. ‘Are you on leave?’

  ‘I’ve been reassigned to General Doncaster’s headquarters at Bovington,’ he replied.

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ she exclaimed.

  ‘Just a brief visit. I’ll be off again soon. To Africa.”

  ‘Oh.’ Her eyes betrayed her disappointment and he smiled affectionately, as if he saw plainly her burning love for him and was moved by it.

  ‘But I’m here now,’ he said quietly.

  ‘When did you get back?’

  ‘This afternoon.’

  ‘You look well.’

  ‘I feel well enough, although the food is dismal. I miss Mrs Emerson’s steak and kidney pie. It’s an adventure out there but it’s going to be a long, hard slog, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ she groaned. ‘I don’t think I can bear it.’

  ‘Then let’s not talk about the war. Isn’t it lovely here?’ He sighed with relish, sweeping his eyes over the ferns and bramble bushes as if seeing it all for the first time. ‘Put down your bike, Grace. I want to show you something.’

  She hesitated a moment, suddenly aware that she was alone with him and fearful of how it might look, were they to be seen. ‘I’ll only be a minute,’ he said, and his face was so endearing that she let her bicycle fall onto the grass and followed him back up the path he had just come down, which led further into the wood.

  The bracken was
waist high and the path so narrow they had to walk in single file. He strode up an incline, taking her to a part of the woods she knew well, having accompanied Mr Swift from time to time to help him with the pheasants. But then he turned off the path and started to wade through the undergrowth. She followed without speaking until the trees opened into a small clearing. At one end of the clearing was a child’s wooden playhouse. ‘Papa built this for me when I was a boy,’ he told her. ‘I thought it was marvellous.’

  ‘How clever of him.’

  ‘He loves building things. Of course, he’d have been happier if it had been a boat.’ He chuckled softly, hunching his shoulders. ‘But come and see what I just discovered.’ He took her hand, and the feeling of his skin against hers caused her cheeks to burn. She knew she should take her hand away, but it felt so comfortable in his that she left it there, trying to persuade herself that he was simply being friendly.

  He turned and put a finger across his lips. Her curiosity was aroused and she forgot about her hand. Gently, he pushed open the door with his foot and signalled for her to look inside. She stepped forward, finally letting go of his hand. There in the top corner of the little house was a bird’s nest full of little furry chicks, their yellow beaks opening in anticipation of food. She remained there a moment, watching them, and all her fear of being alone with Rufus dissolved in the touching scene before her.

  ‘It’s extraordinary to see a full nest of chicks in late summer!’ she whispered, withdrawing. ‘How lucky we are to get so close. But how does the mother bird fly in?’

  ‘Through the window. She doesn’t need much room. I came up to see the house, to step into my childhood for a moment. To rest among my memories. Life is rather too serious now for my taste.’ He smiled sadly and Grace noticed something dark in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. ‘I came to escape and then I heard you humming down on the track.’

  ‘I was humming?’