The Beekeeper's Daughter A Novel

by Santa Montefiore

  Lady Georgina smiled cheerlessly. ‘I thought one could simply pour the honey out whenever one wanted to.’

  ‘The bees wouldn’t like that very much,’ said Grace. ‘What would you like on the labels and I can organize it for you?’

  ‘I want special ones for my husband. It’ll be a gift. He’s suddenly taken a great interest in bees.’

  Grace knew she’d give herself away if she looked shifty, so she replied steadily, ‘Probably because the Dowager Lady Penselwood used bees to cure her arthritis.’

  Lady Georgina raised her eyebrows. ‘Did it work?’

  ‘It helped, I believe.’ Grace noticed Lady Georgina’s gaze settle on the bee brooch she always wore above her right breast.

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘That’s a beautiful brooch you’re wearing.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Who gave it to you?’

  Grace knew she was right to assume she hadn’t bought it for herself and her father would never have had the money to indulge in such an extravagant brooch. ‘The Dowager Lady Penselwood gave it to me as a thank you for helping ease her arthritis. It was I who ministered the bee stings.’ At least the old woman was dead and unable to refute her story.

  Lady Georgina looked surprised. ‘How generous of her. You must have made her very happy to inspire her to give you such a thoughtful and kind present.’

  ‘I wear it all the time,’ said Grace.

  ‘I hope it doesn’t fall off while you’re working. It would be a shame to lose it. I would advise you to save it for your best dresses and jackets.’

  ‘It’s firmly fastened,’ Grace replied, touching it with her fingers. She wanted to quip that nothing would cause it to fly away and almost smiled to herself because it was the sort of joke Rufus might have made.

  ‘How is your Freddie?’ Lady Georgina asked. ‘Does he write often?’

  ‘He writes as much as he can.’

  ‘Lord Melville seems to have far too much time on his hands, for I get too many letters.’ She gave a miserable little chuckle and Grace saw through her hollow boast.

  She suddenly felt sorry for her. ‘I pray for an end to this senseless war,’ she said with feeling. ‘I pray for the return of our husbands and a return to the way it was. I can’t bear living in fear of the worst, of trying to keep my mind on other things, while all the time I’m worrying that Freddie might be hurt or afraid or homesick.’ She laughed bitterly. ‘I feel so useless here, and the not-knowing could drive me mad.’

  Lady Georgina’s eyes softened and for a moment they were two women scared for their men, and the distance imposed upon them by their unequal status was suddenly abridged. ‘We’re all in this together,’ said Lady Georgina. ‘You with your Freddie, me with my Rufus, Arabella with Aldrich, and so many others, like us, feeling cut off and anxious. It’s beastly.’

  ‘So, how many jars would you like?’ Grace brought the subject back to honey. She didn’t want to get too close to Rufus’s wife. Lady Georgina’s face hardened again and Grace knew it had little to do with her and a lot to do with her own unhappiness.

  ‘Six, I think. I gather one can use honey to dress wounds.’

  ‘It has antiseptic properties,’ Grace told her.

  ‘What a wonderful thing honey is. Aren’t they clever, the bees? I envy you with your simple life.’

  ‘Is yours so very complicated?’ Grace asked.

  ‘Oh yes, you have no idea. But it’s all to do with expectation, you see, and I don’t suppose you, with your bees and your little garden, have many expectations that aren’t fulfilled.’ Grace didn’t know what she meant and frowned. ‘I want the labels to be pretty. I want a picture of bluebells to remind him of our wedding at Thenfold, and I want our initials on them. R and G, intertwined. Do you think it can be done?’

  ‘Most certainly,’ Grace replied, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. However much Rufus loved her, his life would always be intertwined with Lady Georgina’s, like the letters on the labels.

  ‘Good. Bring them to me personally, won’t you. I don’t want them getting muddled with the ones for the house. Mrs Emerson can be quite batty, you know.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘Well, I won’t keep you any longer. I’m sure you’ve got something useful to do in the garden.’ Grace watched her walk away. She wondered whether their conversation had been motivated by Lady Georgina’s suspicions, or whether she really did only want honey jars sent out to the front. If she did have suspicions, Grace hoped she had allayed them.

  Grace witnessed the devastating effects of war on those around her with a growing fear for her own fragile spirit. Mrs Emerson lost a grandson in France and Lady Penselwood lost a nephew in Africa. Alongside those two women were countless others who received letters informing them that their husbands and sons were killed, lost in action or dreadfully wounded. Walbridge mourned and the mourning dragged on for months. Grace spent evenings on her knees at her bedside, praying for Rufus and Freddie, bargaining with God, hoping that her infidelity wouldn’t inspire Him to take Rufus from her out of spite. She knew that she should promise to end the affair, but it would be a promise she couldn’t keep.

  She wrote letters to both Freddie and Rufus at the kitchen table and posted them together. Sometimes she wondered how it was possible to love two men at the same time. But there are many ways of loving and the love between siblings, parents and children, friends, spouses and lovers are all different, just as the seven shades of the rainbow are all part of the same arc of colour. It seemed natural to tell both men that she loved them, and that was the truth.

  And then in the autumn of 1942 Grace received a letter informing her that Freddie had been wounded in action in North Africa. She hadn’t even been aware that he was in Africa. It gave her a strange feeling to think that the two men she loved had been fighting in the same place. Freddie was now at a military hospital in a stable condition and would be coming home at the earliest opportunity. Grace sought comfort in Freddie’s family. None of them knew any details yet. Grace was grateful he was alive, but terrified of what his injuries might be. She knew of men who had returned without limbs, brutally disfigured, mentally damaged. She woke up in the middle of the night having dreamed that she didn’t recognize him. As she searched his bloodied, monstrous features his indigo eyes turned into Rufus’s brown ones and she cried out in horror.

  Her prayers for Rufus grew more insistent. Her anxiety mounted as weeks went by without any word from him. If he had been killed, wounded or lost in action, how would she know? While she waited for Freddie’s return, she waited, too, for news from her lover. None came. She went out of her way to bump into Lady Georgina or the Marchioness, inventing excuses to go into the house. There was nothing in the women’s demeanour to give Grace reason to believe anything terrible had happened to Rufus. She wrote to him, begging for news, expressing her anguish in ever more convoluted sentences.

  Then she wondered whether Lady Georgina had somehow discovered their affair. Feverishly, she went over their conversation in her head, trying to recall whether she had unwittingly given them away. Had Lady Georgina seen the bee brooch before he gave it to her? Had he left it lying about? Had she threatened to leave him if he ever contacted Grace again? These possibilities shuffled about in her mind like a pack of cards full of spades. He had said that nothing on earth could keep them apart, but in truth, there was a very great deal that could.

  Freddie came home after Christmas. Besides the wound on the left side of his face and his eyepatch, he still looked like Freddie. But he wasn’t the same on the inside. He was bitter, resentful and sad. It was as if his heart had been ripped out with his eye. Worst of all, he was silent.

  He glared at Grace as if she were to blame. May reassured her that it was natural to take out one’s hurt on those closest, but Grace wondered whether he could see into her soul and whether he saw Rufus there.

  She longed to ask after Rufus but there was no one to ask. Months went by and still no letter.
Presently, she stopped writing to him. It was more difficult now with Freddie at home. She never ceased believing that Rufus loved her, and when Freddie went to the pub to drown his sorrows, she opened the secret compartment beneath her bed and drowned her own sorrows in his letters. Perhaps he knew Freddie had come home and felt it was unsafe to send letters there, even if they were addressed to someone else. There was nothing she could do but wait for an end to the war and for Rufus’s return. She touched her bee brooch so often it became like a nervous tic, and Freddie, if he noticed, never asked how she had come by it.

  PART THREE

  Chapter 21

  New York, 1990

  Trixie couldn’t sleep. She felt a strange sense of dread in the pit of her stomach, as she used to at high school the night before an important exam. She looked across at the man sleeping peacefully beside her. He lay on his back, the covers carelessly swept aside, exposing his muscular torso and the glossy texture of his skin, which gleamed in the light from the street outside. His name was Leo and he was American of Italian descent. Attractive, athletic and funny, he had all the attributes most women would kill for. But Trixie didn’t love him. She hadn’t loved any of the men who had warmed her bed, and there had been many. But she was fond of him. He made her laugh and didn’t annoy her, and it was nice to have someone to share her life with. He had lasted eight months. She knew it wouldn’t be long before they parted company. Fourteen months had been the longest.

  She got up and padded into the sitting room, wrapping her velour dressing gown around her body. She sat in front of the large glass window that glittered with the eternal lights of a city she had called home for the last seventeen years. She gazed at the forest of towering buildings and felt a sharp pang in her heart for the wide-open sea and star-studded sky of her youth.

  In the beginning she had run away from her unhappiness. She thought if she lost herself in New York the pain wouldn’t find her. The drugs, alcohol and heavy partying seemed to comply, and for a while masked the dead feeling inside and fooled her into believing she was happy and fulfilled. Big had pulled strings and got her a lowly position with a fashion magazine, making tea and filing, and she had slept with as many forgettable men as she could find in an attempt to erase Jasper from her consciousness. It had been Suzie Redford who had made her see sense, flushing the drugs down the lavatory and shouting at her to get a grip before she lost her job and her future. No man was worth her self-destruction.

  Little by little her job had saved her. She loved fashion, and the girls in her department soon became firm friends. She wanted to succeed and gradually her ambition supplanted her hedonism. As long as she focused intently on something, she could avoid being dragged back into melancholy; as long as she was in New York, she could be someone else. She went home as little as possible because she didn’t want to be that broken-hearted girl any more, wrestling memories on every sand dune.

  Trixie was now thirty-six years old. Most of her friends had married and were having children, but Trixie was married to her job. She had worked hard to get to where she was. Fashion editor hadn’t happened overnight. Everyone knew how dedicated she was; no one suspected why. To the outside world she had everything: beauty, a good job, a fine-looking boyfriend, a loyal circle of friends, a spacious loft apartment in Soho and a wardrobe full of designer clothes. To the outside world she had everything; to Trixie, she lacked the one thing that really mattered.

  She was in her office when the telephone rang. She was surprised to hear her father’s voice. He rarely called her. ‘Hi, Dad. How are you?’

  He hesitated a moment and the knot in her stomach grew tighter. ‘I’ve got some bad news, I’m afraid,’ he said. ‘Your mother’s got cancer.’

  He might as well have announced her death sentence. ‘Oh my God!’ Trixie gasped, holding onto the desk as her office spun away from her. ‘How bad is it?’

  ‘It’s not great. The tumour was detected late and being in the brain, it’s inoperable. She’s had chemotherapy but the tumour hasn’t shrunk. There’s nothing more they can do.’

  ‘She’s had chemotherapy? How long has this been going on for?’

  ‘About six months.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  ‘She didn’t want me to. She didn’t want to worry you.’

  ‘Not worry me? Are you kidding?’

  ‘We thought it best.’

  ‘This is terrible. You should have told me. I should have been there. I’m coming home, right now,’ she declared firmly. ‘I’m on the next plane.’

  Trixie flew up to Boston in a state of shock and took a connecting flight to the island. As she stared into the glittering ocean below she remembered her parting words to Jasper. If you cry tears into the water of this harbour, it means you’ll come back. She had shed many tears when she had first left for New York. Now her tears were for her mother. She desperately regretted severing her ties with home. She had taken her parents for granted and the reality of their mortality hit her like a cold slap. It hadn’t ever occurred to her that the safety net they provided would not always be there. She should have spent more time with them, she told herself crossly. Sobbing quietly into her scarf, she reflected on her mother’s unconditional love, and, to her shame, realized how little she had given back. Besides being her mother, Grace was her best friend. It was inconceivable to think of life without her. She couldn’t let it happen. Whatever it took, she wasn’t going to let her mother die.

  It was autumn and a cold wind swept over the water. Her father was at the airport to pick her up. She kissed him and noticed how gaunt he had become, as if it were his body being ravaged by cancer. She bitterly regretted not having come home more often. ‘Your mother doesn’t want any fuss,’ he said. ‘You know what she’s like. The last thing she wants is everyone walking around with long faces.’

  ‘Is there nothing that can be done?’ she asked.

  ‘Only a miracle will save her now.’ He turned his eyes away. ‘So, pray for one.’

  They drove up the cobbled streets of pretty grey-shingled houses where trees had begun to shed their orange and yellow leaves like tears, and Trixie felt a rush of nostalgia for her childhood, when her heart was full of optimism. She watched the people wandering contentedly up the pavement, laughing in the soft evening sunshine, walking dogs on leads, holding the hands of small children, and she ached for what might have been. She gazed into the shop windows of the boutiques and imagined the serene, trouble-free lives of the shopkeepers. She’d spent so much time in New York she had forgotten how seductive Tekanasset was.

  Her mother was in her cluttered sitting room lying beneath a blanket on the sofa. The fire was lit and classical music resounded from the CD player. Flowers adorned every surface and their perfume saturated the air with summer, long gone. Her dog lay at her feet, snoozing peacefully. When Grace saw her daughter, she reached out happily and smiled. ‘Darling, what a lovely surprise!’ Trixie bent down and gave her mother a kiss. She didn’t look as bad as she had feared. In fact, her father looked much worse. Grace just looked older.

  ‘You should have told me . . .’

  Her mother cut her off. ‘Really, it’s not so bad.’ But the weary resignation behind her smile betrayed the gravity of her illness.

  ‘What wonderful flowers!’ Trixie exclaimed, forcing back her tears.

  Grace was happy to change the subject. ‘Aren’t they lovely? Of course, the biggest bouquet is from Big. She’s been wonderful. Everyone’s been very kind.’ She smiled mischievously at Trixie. ‘Evelyn has offered to lend me one of her cooks. Fancy that, eh? Of course I declined.’

  ‘Silly woman. I imagine she wants to be chief mourner,’ said Trixie.

  ‘Well, she certainly wants to be in the know about everything.’

  ‘So she can pass it on to everybody else.’

  Grace suddenly looked a little tired. ‘Darling, it’s lovely to see you. How well you look. How long are you staying?’

  ‘I’ve take
n a week off. I’ve brought my laptop so I can work here.’

  ‘That’s good. I need help with the bees. We must put them to bed for the winter and I don’t think I’m strong enough to do it on my own.’

  Trixie’s heart lifted at the thought of being useful. She had always loved helping her mother with the bees as a child and Grace had made an extra-small beekeeper’s suit especially. ‘I’d love to,’ she replied enthusiastically. ‘We need to watch out for wax moths and check that they have sufficient stores.’

  Grace smiled, pleased. ‘Darling, you were listening!’

  Trixie grinned sheepishly. ‘A little. I only wish I had listened more.’

  In the next few days Trixie helped her mother with the bees. In case Trixie had forgotten, Grace explained why it was important to check the hives regularly to see if the bees were storing pollen and nectar, whether the queen was healthy and laying eggs, whether the bees were crowded, or if they looked likely to swarm. She spoke in a patient, tender voice, as if she were talking about her children, and it brought a lump to Trixie’s throat to see how much it mattered to her that the bees would be taken care of in the event of her death. ‘You can’t learn about beekeeping from books, Trixie,’ said Grace. ‘You have to watch an experienced beekeeper and learn that way, like I learned from my dad. It’s all about keeping the bees happy. The way to do that is to disturb them as little as possible. You have to have a gentle touch. They’re little characters, bees, and some of the older ones are very troublesome. You have to keep them especially happy.’

  Trixie noticed that Grace was weak and tired easily. But she always smiled to mask any discomfort and her bees seemed to give her more pleasure than anything else. It was only when she took an insufferable amount of pills in the morning that Trixie realized how sick she was. Without them, she wondered whether Grace would be able to function at all.

  She observed the gentle way her father looked after her mother. He had always been cold and aloof, but now, at seventy-three, he was thawing and a warm affection was growing between them, like blossom after a hard winter. She caught him gazing at her mother with a wistful expression on his face and his eyes were full of sorrow and regret. Having wondered what it was that had drawn her two very different parents together all those years ago, she now knew the answer. Love. Nothing else mattered.