The Beekeeper's Daughter (32 page)

Once she’d finished reading the letters from Rufus to her mother, she picked up the other pile and tried to untie the string. Unlike Rufus’s letters, the string was tightly knotted and not of the gardening variety. The blood began to pulsate in her temples as she realized that these letters were the ones Grace had written to Rufus, which for some reason had been returned to her. From the spotless paper and unyielding knot it seemed that Grace had never opened them but simply placed them in the box for safekeeping. Now Trixie set about unpicking the tie. She wished she could just cut it.

It took her a long while, but she was determined to read the letters. Suddenly it seemed vitally important, as if her mother’s survival depended on it. At last the string loosened and she carefully unthreaded the knot and began to read. It was apparent from the very first lines that her mother loved this man. Trixie’s heart raced as she skimmed the words. They were poetic and charming and full of news as well as reminiscences about a bee swarm and the first time he had kissed her in the woods. Tears welled in her eyes. She didn’t know whether she was crying for her mother’s love or for her father’s loss.

She didn’t notice the hours passing, so engrossed was she in the large pile of her mother’s love letters. The more she read, the more astonished she became as her mother’s secret life unfolded before her. Then, one letter stood out amongst all the rest. The envelope, like all the others, was addressed to Captain Rufus Melville, but the letter inside was to Freddie. Trixie’s face flushed as she realized to her horror that if her mother had sent Freddie’s letter to Rufus, there was a good chance that she had sent Rufus’s letter to Freddie. Trixie put her hand to her mouth and gasped at the implications. Did her mother know that she had done this? Why would she read her own letters to Rufus? Of course she wouldn’t. She’d read
his
letters to
her
. What were the chances that she wasn’t aware she had made such a terrible error? And what were the chances that Freddie did?

The last letter Grace had written to Rufus was in March 1943, seven months after Rufus had stopped writing to her. In those seven months Grace’s letters had become increasingly frantic. Why had Rufus stopped writing? Why had her letters been returned? Had he died in action?

It was past four in the morning when she finally finished the last letter. She didn’t feel tired at all. Her body quivered like a horse at the starting gate, much as it had done in her cocaine days. She was fired up and full of questions that needed to be answered.

Then her mind sprang back to the time her mother had sobbed quite uncontrollably at the thought of losing her to Jasper. They had been sitting on the swing chair. She remembered it very clearly because her mother’s grief had been so acute that it had seemed out of all proportion. What if she hadn’t been crying about Trixie, but about Jasper’s father,
who was dead?
Trixie put her head in her hands and groaned. Suddenly everything shifted into sharp focus. It made sense now. Rufus must have been Jasper’s father. That’s why her parents knew he’d never marry her. They knew the family. They knew what they were like and they both knew that Grace had loved Rufus. As for the different names, there was bound to be a simple explanation. An English tradition of titles she wasn’t aware of.

But that didn’t answer the question of why Rufus had returned all Grace’s letters. If he hadn’t died in the war, what had ended the affair? She couldn’t ask her mother – she sensed her mother didn’t know anyway – or indeed her father.

There was only one person who might be able to help her get to the bottom of it and that was Rufus Melville’s son, Jasper. It was a long shot: after all, she hadn’t known about her mother’s affair, so there was every chance that he hadn’t a clue about his father’s, but it was worth a try.

Chapter 22

Trixie had never been to England. She hadn’t thought it odd before: after all, England was very far away and her parents had rarely spoken about it, but it
was
odd, considering that England was where they had both grown up and where they had married. If only she had taken the trouble to ask them about their lives, but she had been so engrossed in her own little dramas that she had never imagined her mother had lived a drama of her own. She hadn’t imagined her mother had suffered a broken heart, either. She had believed her incapable of understanding when Jasper had ended their relationship. How wrong she had been.

Now that Trixie had discovered her mother’s affair, she understood why she had never been taken to England: neither parent wanted to revisit the past. Moving to America had probably been a fresh start for both of them. It had put distance between Grace and Rufus and given Grace and Freddie a chance to rebuild. Or so it looked to Trixie, staring out of the window of the plane as it slowly descended into London.

She felt guilty sneaking to their home town without telling them. It was snooping and intrusive. Like snooping through her mother’s old love letters, she thought uncomfortably. She wondered how much this visit had to do with Rufus Melville, and how much
more
it had to do with Jasper Duncliffe.

It had been easy to arrange the trip. The London-based designer Rifat Ozbek was popular in New York, and he had granted her an interview at Claridge’s. After that she’d take the train down to Dorchester in Dorset. Her assistant had booked her into the Fox and Goose Inn in Walbridge. She’d explore from there. She didn’t know what to expect and she hadn’t dared ask anyone in the office, even though two of the girls were British.

From the window of the aeroplane her first impression of London was of a dull, grey city of toy-sized houses and tree-lined streets, whose autumn leaves broke the monotony with welcome splashes of orange and yellow. Heavy cloud hung low and persistent, as if always there, like the wet tarmac that glistened feebly in the lacklustre light.

She made her way through passport control and customs and outside to the taxi rank. Her spirits lifted at the sight of a London cab, and she enjoyed her drive into the city like a child enjoying her first ride on a merry-go-round. It didn’t seem real. She gazed out of the taxi window in wonder, taking in the big red buses, the quaint townhouses and the pretty, narrow streets, cluttered with umbrellas. She had made the mistake of telling her cabbie that she was new to London, so he took it upon himself to be her guide, pointing out all the landmarks in such a strong cockney accent she could barely understand him.

They passed the Natural History Museum, Harrods, the Duke of Wellington’s house at Hyde Park Corner and, in an expensive detour, the cabbie took her past Buckingham Palace and St James’s Palace, finally reaching Claridge’s from the south. London was thrilling. She wished she had more time to see the sights. She wished she had someone to share them with.

Claridge’s did not disappoint. With its scarlet carpets and white mouldings it was like stepping back in time to an age of grandeur and elegance. Trixie was reminded of one of her mother’s favourite television series,
The Pallisers
, which she had at home on video and occasionally watched. Set in the mid-nineteenth century, the series had supplied her first and lasting impression of England. Now, as she stepped through the revolving doors, she savoured the familiar sounds of English accents and silver spoons on china cups with a pleasant sense of nostalgia and déjà vu.

She gave her bag to the concierge to store and took a small case to the ladies’ room to freshen up before her meeting. It had been a long flight and she felt like a crumpled dress in need of ironing. Staring at her face in the mirror, she wondered whether Jasper would find her much changed.

Rifat was a charming and engaging man who entertained her throughout lunch. It wasn’t until she was on the train bound for Dorset that she turned her thoughts back to her mission. She’d start at the Beekeeper’s Cottage. If Jasper lived in a big house on a grand estate she didn’t imagine she’d have any trouble finding him. Judging by the fuss that was made over his return, she doubted he’d have gone anywhere. ‘His sort’, as his father liked to call them, put duty before anything else. Perhaps it was duty that had prompted Rufus to send all Grace’s letters back? Had he, like his son, sacrificed his love for tradition? Had he done it with sorrow or with cold calculation? Had both men lived to regret their decisions?

As the train cut deep into the English countryside the suburbs melted into undulating green hills and forests. Even in the drizzle the vibrant autumn colours seemed to blaze like flames against the soggy grey sky. Townhouses were replaced by farms and picture-book cottages, and cars gave way to cows and sheep grazing peacefully on rolling hills. Fields were boxed in by hedges, and from a distance those squares looked like a patchwork quilt of varying tones of green. Trixie stared out of the window, uplifted by England’s wistful beauty, wondering how often her parents had stared out onto the same scenery.

It was dark by the time she reached Dorchester. The rain had stopped but the air was cold and damp. It reminded her of winter on Tekanasset, when the cold penetrated right to the bone. She tucked her scarf into her coat and dragged her suitcase out to the taxi rank. A porcine man smelling of tobacco and takeaway food drove her down the narrow lanes into Walbridge, asking her a dozen questions when she’d have preferred to contemplate the place in silence. Had she been in America she would have told him to be quiet, but she felt less confident in this country where she was a stranger.

‘This here is Walbridge,’ the cabbie told her in his rich country drawl as they drove over a grey stone bridge into the town. The road swept between rows of shops and houses in a gentle curve and Trixie was reminded of Main Street on Tekanasset because Walbridge looked as if time had forgotten it too. The houses were built in a soft, weathered yellow stone, some were even thatched, and rickety old chimneys smoked like nightwatchmen pausing on their round. One or two cottages looked as if they were inhabited by hobbits because the front doors were so small and the windows only a few feet higher than the ground. Street lamps shone orange onto the pavements, where leaves had collected in clusters like playthings discarded by the wind. Trixie gazed at it all in wonder. This was Jasper’s home town. This was where
she
might have lived had she married him. Unbelievably, this quaint Dorset town was what her parents had left behind.

The Fox and Goose Inn was an old-fashioned pub, painted white with black beams and a swinging sign showing a wily fox contemplating his dinner. The windows were medieval-looking with small diamond-shaped glass panes set deep into thick walls. She paid the cabbie then stood a moment staring up the narrow street. The houses on either side leaned in like old people no longer able to stand straight, and she wondered whether they had been built like that or whether they had subsided over the years.

There were two doors: one which was the entrance to the pub and another, farther left, which was painted with the letters B & B in white. The golden glow from the first one was more alluring, promising company and a stiff drink – she could hear the rumble of voices inside and smell wood smoke in the air. But it was late and she was tired after her journey. New York seemed far away now. So she opened the second door and walked into a lobby.

‘You must be Miss Valentine?’ said a comely lady from behind a desk.

‘Yes, I am,’ Trixie replied.

The lady smiled warmly. ‘I thought so. Let me help you with your case, love. Where have you come from? You don’t sound English.’ She set off up the narrow stair.

‘America.’

‘Are you here on holiday?’

‘Just for a few days.’

‘Fancy choosing Walbridge. It’s hardly a tourist destination. People come for the birds. We have lots of rare ones around the river. And the fishing, of course. We’re not far from the sea if you like that sort of thing.’

‘My parents grew up here.’

‘Did they?’

‘Yes, I’m hoping to find someone who might have known them.’

‘What are their names, dear?’

‘Freddie and Grace Valentine.’ When the woman’s face failed to register recognition, Trixie added, ‘They left just after the war, but my father’s family remained.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t know, then. I wasn’t born here. We moved twelve years ago from Sussex to be near our daughter, who married a Walbridge man. You need to talk to some of the older people. You’ll find them in the pub.’ She chuckled. ‘They’re the ones propping up the bar. You can’t miss ’em.’

‘Thank you, I will.’

‘You must be hungry.’

‘A little.’

The woman unlocked a red door and showed Trixie into a small room with a double bed and a window. ‘The bathroom is down the corridor. I’ve taken the liberty of closing your curtains, but in the morning you’ll see the river. It’s very pretty. Come down to the pub when you’re ready and I’ll cook you something. How about a nice cottage pie to warm you up? I don’t imagine you’re used to cold weather in America.’

Grace smiled. The woman had obviously never been there. ‘Thank you. I’d love the cottage pie.’ She didn’t know what that was but the word ‘warm’ was promising.

She felt much better after a long bath and a change of clothes, and went downstairs to the pub. Groups of people sat at heavy wooden tables and others on stools at the bar. They looked up when she entered. She didn’t imagine they got many newcomers in a small town like this. The room smelt strongly of smoke, from the fire that burned comfortingly in the grate and the cigarettes that smouldered in people’s fingers. Trixie slid onto a stool and lit one of her own. The bartender eyed her up appreciatively and took her order. He was a man of about forty with thinning hair and a fresh, open face. She knew it wouldn’t be long before he started chatting. He passed her a rum cocktail and the lady, who the man referred to as Maeve, brought the cottage pie, which was both hot and tasty.

‘So, where are you from?’ he asked eventually, unable to disguise the fact that he found her attractive.