The Beekeeper's Daughter (33 page)

‘America,’ she replied, and repeated the conversation she had had with Maeve.

He nodded, keen to be of help. ‘Valentine,’ he mumbled, narrowing his eyes, which were a bright forget-me-not blue. ‘There used to be a shop on the high street called Red Valentine; it sold women’s clothes, but that was years ago, when I was a boy. I’ll ask my mother. She might know. I’m almost certain there’s no one by that name here now. I know most people who live here. This pub’s the heart of Walbridge, you see, and it’s a small town. The family probably moved away.’

‘I’ll find the oldest person in the room and ask him,’ she said with a smile, glancing around the pub.

‘I’ll introduce you,’ he told her enthusiastically. ‘The one thing old people have in common is that they all like talking about the past.’
Not my parents
, Trixie thought sadly. ‘How long are you staying?’ he asked.

‘A few days.’

‘Do you know anyone here?’

‘No.’

He grinned happily. ‘Well, you do now. My name’s Robert Heath, by the way.’ He extended his hand.

She shook it. ‘Hello, Robert. My name’s Trixie.’ He frowned. ‘Short for Beatrix,’ she added helpfully.

‘As in Potter?’

‘Or Queen.’ He frowned again. ‘Of Holland?’

‘The only queen I know is
our
Queen,’ he said, picking up a wet glass and drying it with a cloth. ‘So, what are you going to do when you find someone who knew your parents?’

‘Ask a lot of questions.’

He raised his eyebrows. ‘Mysterious.’

She grinned wryly. ‘You have no idea!’

‘Well, I hope you find the answers you’re looking for.’

‘I will,’ she replied. ‘I’m not leaving without them.’

She stubbed out her cigarette and lit another. ‘Does the name Jasper Duncliffe ring a bell?’ she asked.

Robert’s face lit up with recognition. ‘You mean Jasper
Penselwood.
They live at the Hall.’

Her heart began to pound. ‘Walbridge Hall?’

‘Yes. The very same.’

‘But he was called Duncliffe, not Penselwood, right?’

‘“Was” being the operative word. He’s Penselwood now. The Marquess of Penselwood.’

It was her turn to be confused. ‘I don’t understand. Why the change of name?’

‘English titles are very complicated,’ he said, taking pleasure in her ignorance. ‘If my family didn’t have a history of working for aristocrats I wouldn’t know them either. Let me explain. The Marquess of Penselwood’s son is the Earl of Melville. Lord Melville’s son is the Lord Duncliffe. Three names for one family. Absurd, really. Jasper Duncliffe used to come and drink in here with his mates when I started working behind the bar. Then he went off to America to play in a band. He used to play here, you know, before it all went belly up. He had a good voice. I thought he’d go far, we all did. But then his brother died.’ Robert shook his head gravely. ‘It was a tragedy. He wasn’t the sort to be driving too fast. He wasn’t reckless. It was an accident. He was a nice man. I remember the funeral . . .’ He paused his drying a moment and frowned. ‘A sad day for the whole town.’

‘What happened when Jasper returned from America?’

He put down the glass and began to dry another. ‘He became Marquess of Penselwood and married Charlotte Hanbury-Johnson.’

‘What’s she like, his wife?’

‘Do you know Lord Penselwood?’ He eyed her suspiciously and she realized she had to admit to knowing Jasper if she was going to get any more information out of him.

‘I met him in America when he was trying to become a rock star.’ She laughed wistfully. ‘Many years ago now. We were friends. Does he still play guitar?’

‘I doubt it. I remember him sitting where you’re sitting now, leaning over a whiskey, lamenting the fact that his parents didn’t understand him. They wanted him to go into the army.’

‘He would have hated that.’

‘That’s why he went off to America. It was a shame he had to come back. He might have become famous.’

‘Like the Beatles.’

He smiled reflectively. ‘Yeah, like the Beatles. That would have been great. Free tickets to concerts.’

‘Is the Hall nearby?’

‘You can walk there. The gardens are open to the public in the summer, so there are brown signs everywhere. You can’t miss them.’

‘I don’t suppose they’re open now?’

He shook his head. ‘No, they aren’t. You should have come in May or June. Those gardens are spectacular.’

‘Does he come into the pub these days?’

‘No.’ He grinned. ‘His son comes in to buy cigarettes, though.’

‘How old is he?’

‘About fifteen. I turn a blind eye.’

‘So, what’s Jasper’s wife like?’

He shrugged non-committally. ‘She’s all right. Busy, you know, as you’d expect. She’s just like her mother-in-law, Lady Georgina. They’re joined at the hip. Both very
busy.
’ He said ‘busy’ with emphasis and Trixie deduced that they were both rather trying. He put down the glass. ‘Do you fancy another drink?’

‘Why not,’ she replied. ‘Make it weak.’

‘As you wish.’ He unscrewed the cap of the Bacardi bottle and poured a fresh glass. ‘What did your father do?’

‘He worked on the farm.’

‘On the Walbridge estate?’

‘Yes. My mother was the beekeeper.’

His face opened into a broad smile and he put his hands on his hips. ‘Well, why didn’t you say so? My grandfather was the head gardener during the war. I bet he knew your parents. What a shame he’s no longer alive. My mother might know, though. She’s worked for the family for years. She now works for old Lady Penselwood who has a house at the other end of town. She’s in her nineties and still going strong.’

‘That’s Jasper’s grandmother, right?’ she asked.

‘That’s right. There’s no love lost between her and the other women in her family. That’s why she lives the other end of town. She’s a tough old bird. Indestructible, like a Sherman tank.’

‘Good for her, reaching such a great age.’

‘Those sort of women live forever. I bet the Queen Mother will make it to a hundred.’

‘Why’s that, do you think?’

‘Breeding. We common folk kick the bucket much younger.’ He leaned across the bar and lowered his voice. ‘Or it’s simply because they’re too damned stubborn to give up a moment before they’re ready.’

As Trixie put her head on the pillow she thought about Jasper. How was she going to meet him? Could she simply turn up at the house and ring the bell? Would that be a terrible faux pas? She imagined life at the Hall would be formal, like Plantagenet Palliser’s home in the television drama, and besides, what would his wife think of her showing up without an invitation? His wife . . . She hid her face in the pillow and muffled a groan. What was she thinking? She was crazy turning up here. It had been seventeen years since she and Jasper had declared their love. Seventeen years since he had told her he couldn’t marry her. Seventeen years of drought for Trixie’s parched heart. What was she hoping would happen? That he would lament his decision and leave his wife and children for her? That was never going to happen and as much as she missed him – and oh, how she missed him – she did not wish to tear his family apart.

Far from seeing her as the girl he had fallen in love with, he would look on her as a figure to be pitied. While he had married and had children she had remained in the same place like a stagnant pond, wallowing in self-pity and regret. The fact was that she hadn’t moved on and he had. What was the use of seeing him again? Where would it lead? Nowhere, and that was the truth. It would be like peeling off a scab and exposing the sore, only to start the healing process all over again. She hadn’t thought of that. She hadn’t thought of anything except laying eyes on the man she loved. Now she realized how futile the whole idea was.

Her head told her to pack her bags in the morning and take the train back to London. But her heart insisted she stay. Here she was in the town where her parents had grown up and married. Where her mother had fallen in love with the Earl of Melville and where that affair had dramatically ended, without explanation. Her mother had left England for ever, broken-hearted. And what of her father? What of
him
?

As she drifted off to sleep the memory of her mother howling on the swing chair floated into her mind and strengthened her resolve to do whatever she could to find out the truth. She knew it was important. Someone was tugging at her conscience, driving her on, silently insisting that it was indeed
very
important. Before she sank into the cool darkness of slumber she saw in her mind’s eye the silhouette of a man, standing by the beehives. She couldn’t see him clearly and yet she recognized him. Yes, she knew him on some deep and unconscious level, and he was smiling at her with love.

Chapter 23

Dawn broke through the dark with an enthusiasm akin to summer. Sunshine set the trees aflame and seagulls cried mournfully as they glided over the river. Trixie opened the curtains and her heart inflated with joy as she took in the tranquil scene before her. A row of mallards floated on the surface like a convoy of little ships and a willow wept its delicate branches into the water. Orange leaves gathered near the bank where a young dog played excitedly until its owner summoned it back with a whistle. She looked up at the pale blue sky where wisps of white cloud wafted on a gentle breeze and sighed with pleasure. She could see now why people considered England beautiful. The drizzle was gone and the sunshine had transmuted the grey into a bright golden light.

She breakfasted downstairs in the pub and Robert told her proudly that he had arranged for her to meet his mother here at lunchtime. ‘She knew your mother,’ he said. ‘Grace was her name, wasn’t it? Not only that, but she worked for a Josephine Valentine for a while when she was in her twenties. Red Valentine, that was the name of the shop. I’ve got an exceedingly good memory.’ He grinned playfully.

Trixie was impressed. ‘Josephine is my father’s sister. I remember her coming out to visit with my grandparents when I was little. She wore very red lipstick and a perfume that made my head ache. But I thought her incredibly glamorous. She looked like a film star. I wonder where she is now.’

‘You can ask my mother. She loves to talk about the past. Once you get her going, there’ll be no stopping her. So, what are you going to do this morning?’

‘I’m going to go in search of the Beekeeper’s Cottage.’

‘Do you have any idea where it is?’

‘No. I was hoping you were going to enlighten me.’

He laughed. ‘Maeve will know. She’s on the Parish Committee, so she’s visited every house in Walbridge.’

Maeve stepped into the pub from the hall. ‘Do I hear my name being taken in vain?’

‘Trixie’s looking for the Beekeeper’s Cottage,’ said Robert. ‘I told her you’d know where it is.’

‘And I do,’ Maeve replied loftily. Then to Trixie: ‘I distribute the parish magazine, you see. There’s not a house in Walbridge I haven’t been to.’

‘My mother was a beekeeper,’ said Trixie.

‘Oh, I love bees. Such fascinating insects,’ Maeve cooed. ‘To think they make honey all by themselves. Such clever little things. There are still hives up there. Robin Arkwright is the beekeeper now. He’s also the gamekeeper. There’s nothing he doesn’t know about birds. I sometimes send our guests up to see him, those that are interested in birds, because he’s an encyclopaedia. Ask him about the Pied-billed Grebe or the Balearic Shearwater. Wonderful names, don’t you think?’

‘Wonderful,’ Trixie humoured her. ‘Where do I find the cottage?’

‘It’s a beautiful day to walk there. You can take the road, but it’s the long way round. I’d take the footpath that cuts through the estate. That’s the scenic route and the one I recommend to my paying guests. Here, let me draw you a map.’ She began to write on the notepad beside the till. ‘Past the church, take the farm entrance
here
. Past cottages and through the gate
there
. You’ll see a sign that clearly marks the footpath. Apparently they went to court to try to stop the public walking through their land, but they lost. The judge said people had a right to admire such a historic and beautiful house. Fancy that, eh? So, you have a right, too, dear. Enjoy it.’

Trixie set off up the narrow lane that opened into the high street. The street was wide and picturesque with sandy-coloured shops and houses built haphazardly on either side, their roofs and chimneys jutting into the sky at differing heights and angles, giving the place a charming inconsistency. A few people wandered up the pavement and one or two cars motored past, but it was generally quiet.

She reached the church. The graveyard was still, the headstones bathed in the morning sunshine. Blackbirds scavenged amongst the fallen leaves on the grass and Trixie wondered whether her grandfather was buried there. She’d have a look later. At that moment the church door opened and the vicar came out with an elderly lady in a headscarf, tweed skirt and gumboots. She was leaning on a walking stick and gesticulating vigorously with the other hand. The vicar threw his head back and laughed heartily. Trixie was intrigued to know what was amusing them so much and paused to listen. As they wandered down the path towards her their voices could be heard. The old lady’s tone was strident. She was clearly a woman accustomed to getting her way.

‘So, the doctor bound my leg up and told me to rest it for a few days. Bloody fool! When I got home I pulled off the bandage, had a large sherry and took Magnus for a walk. I only went to the doctor to please Georgie, who insisted. Really, people nowadays make a fuss about everything. My generation just got on with it. We didn’t have time to sit about in doctors’ waiting rooms. Lottie takes those children to the doctor every time they sniff, which is quite often. I have to keep my mouth shut; after all, I’m only their great-grandmother, what do I know?’ She chortled. ‘So, it’s settled, then?’

‘Yes, it is, Lady Penselwood.’

‘Good.’

‘I do hope it’s not anytime soon.’

‘
Que sera, sera
, as the old saying goes. Forewarned is forearmed is another one. And don’t let Georgie change anything. I might be ten feet under but I won’t like it if she overrules me. Do you understand?’