The Beekeeper's Daughter (34 page)

‘Of course, Lady Penselwood.’

‘She has horrible taste in music, always did.’ Lady Penselwood sniffed. ‘If only Rufus . . .’ Her voice trailed off and Trixie went pink at the mention of Rufus’s name, as if she were guilty of having the affair and not her mother. They reached the road and Lady Penselwood turned her formidable gaze on Trixie, who recoiled. ‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Beautiful morning, isn’t it?’

‘It certainly is,’ Trixie agreed. Lady Penselwood narrowed her eyes, probably wondering who the stranger with the American accent was, then walked on to the waiting car, leaving behind a faint smell of lilac.

Trixie watched the car drive off. So, that was Rufus’s mother, she mused. Lady Penselwood. How confusing that there were
three
Lady Penselwoods. Lottie, Jasper’s wife; Georgie, who must be his mother; and this great lady, Georgie’s mother-in-law. She longed to pick up the telephone and ask her mother all about them. But she couldn’t reveal where she was. She would then have to admit to reading the letters. No, she had to find it all out on her own without any help from the two people who knew the most.

She followed Maeve’s map and set off along the footpath that cut through the fields towards the woods. Sheep grazed and birds twittered, and Trixie took pleasure in the tranquillity of the countryside. It was unlike anything she had seen in America. Everything was on a smaller scale and it all seemed so old-fashioned and charming to her foreign eye.

She climbed a hill, stopping every now and then to catch her breath and admire the surroundings. She imagined her mother had taken this route through the farm many times. Did she ever return in her imagination? Did she miss it? At length Trixie walked along the edge of a field, recently ploughed. On her left was a tall hedge that ran all the way to the woods. When she reached the end she glimpsed, through the thinning branches, chimneys rising out of the valley below. Curiosity drew her through a gap in the hedge. When she emerged the other side she caught her breath. There below her, surrounded by endless gardens, was a magnificent old mansion.

She walked along the field beneath the line of the woods, then stood and allowed her eyes to take in the beauty of the Penselwood family estate, Walbridge Hall. She had never seen a house of such splendour except on the television and in books. Hands on hips, she laughed out loud at her ignorance. So
this
was the house Jasper gave up his career for.
This
was his heritage, the estate that demanded his total commitment. The family seat that obliged its heirs to sacrifice their own personal happiness so it could survive from generation to generation, like a minotaur of brick and stone. Jasper had sacrificed
her
. Had Rufus sacrificed her mother?

She stopped laughing and gazed with bitterness upon the house that had stolen her one true love. She now saw beyond its beauty to its cold and heartless core. Was Jasper happy? Did he ever think of her? Did he ever pick up his guitar and play the song he wrote for her? Did he sing at all?

She dragged herself away, fearing that if she remained she might see him and be unable to restrain herself. She continued along the footpath, down the hill to the bottom of the wood where a path led her through thick bracken, ferns and gnarled old oak trees that scrutinized her loftily like ancient dukes questioning her business there. The forest rustled with creatures she couldn’t see, and she began to feel afraid.

At last she could make out the end of the wood and a tantalizing glimpse of open fields, bathed in sunshine. As she walked into the light she saw a cottage, not too far away, partly obscured by a cluster of trees. The Beekeeper’s Cottage; she had no doubt. She made her way slowly towards it, and the knowledge that she was retracing her mother’s footsteps made her feel unexpectedly emotional. The cottage was thatched with white walls and sleepy windows. She wished she could know what those windows had seen.

She knocked on the door and waited. No one answered. She remained there, wondering what to do. She didn’t fancy getting caught spying, but the desire to look at the hives made her reckless. She wandered round to the back. ‘Hello,’ she called. ‘Is anyone at home?’

A woolly head appeared above a shrub like a scarecrow. ‘Who’s asking?’

‘Oh hello,’ she replied, surprised. ‘Maeve said I’d find you here.’

‘You’re one of her guests, are you?’

‘Yes. She said she sends people up to talk to you about birds.’

‘Ah, you’re interested in birds, are you?’ he said in a more friendly tone, stepping out of the border onto the lawn.

‘Bees, actually.’

His face lit up. ‘Even better. I have lots of bees.’ He brushed his hand on his trousers. ‘Robin Arkwright.’

She gave it a firm shake. ‘Trixie Valentine.’

‘Valentine, that’s a romantic name.’

‘Thank you. My parents used to live here.’

‘Ah,
that
Valentine?’

‘My mother was the beekeeper during the war.’

‘Grace Valentine,’ he said with a nod.

Trixie’s heart gave a little skip. ‘Did you know her?’

‘No, I arrived in 1962, but Tom Garner was my mother’s brother and he used to speak very highly of Grace and Freddie.’

‘That’s nice to hear. Who was Tom Garner?’

‘He was estate manager here right into his seventies. They had to force him into retirement. As soon as he retired, he keeled over and pegged it. He employed your father, Freddie Valentine.’ He scratched his greying curls and grinned. ‘Funny to hear that name after all these years.’

‘They moved to America.’

‘That’s right. They just disappeared from one day to the next. He was wounded in the war, wasn’t he?’

‘Yes, he only has one eye.’

Robin shook his head. ‘Poor devil. Uncle Tom used to refer to him as a hero.’

‘Really? Dad?’

‘That’s right. He was a hero in the war. Didn’t he tell you?’

‘He never speaks about the war.’

‘No, I don’t suppose he does. My uncle never spoke about Ypres where he lost his leg. I suppose they wanted to come back and forget all about it.’

‘Have you lived here since ’62?’

‘No, I lived with my uncle to start with. I was a young lad with no experience of gamekeeping or beekeeping, but I worked with Mr Swift, who was the gamekeeper at the time, and old Benedict Latimer, who was the beekeeper, taught me about bees. When he retired I took over. My uncle couldn’t find anyone who knew about beekeeping, or he didn’t have the energy to look, so I found myself in the enviable position of moving in here.’

‘It’s a very pretty cottage.’

‘My wife thought it was too small, so we built a conservatory. Apart from that, it probably hasn’t changed much since your parents lived here.’

‘I’d love to see the hives.’

‘Of course. I’ll show you.’ He led her down the garden. ‘You do a bit of beekeeping yourself, do you?’

‘Yes, my mother has hives and I help her look after them.’

‘It’s an addictive hobby, beekeeping. Once you start you can’t stop. Fascinating creatures, aren’t they?’

‘They certainly are.’

Robin proudly showed her a row of eight hives, standing against a hedge that ran along the bottom of the garden. ‘I would bet half these hives were here when your mother kept bees. Besides the odd repairs and replacements they’re the very same ones. I’ve added a few and I’m sure Mr Latimer added some new ones too, but look at those three over there, they look like they’ve been here for centuries!’ He chuckled. ‘You here visiting, then?’

‘I came to see where my parents grew up and married.’

‘Are they . . . ?’

‘No, they’re very much alive. I was in London on business and decided to take a detour.’

‘Ah, very nice. You can tell your mother that the bees are still thriving in Walbridge. She’d like to know that, I bet.’

‘She would.’

They chatted about the bees, the recent harvest and the trouble with pesticides and moths. Trixie wondered what her mother would make of her visit. She so wished she could share it with her. It was mid-morning by the time she made her way back through the wood. She reflected on what Robin had told her about her father being a hero. He had never mentioned it and neither had her mother, which was odd, because it was the sort of thing a man should be proud of. So far her questions hadn’t been answered, only added to.

As she wandered through the wood she heard a panting noise in the bracken. The green stalks began to part as the creature came bounding through the undergrowth towards her. At first she feared it might be a wild boar or a fox, but then a black nose, followed by large black paws and sleek black fur, tumbled onto the track in the shape of a Labrador. Relieved, she bent down to pat him. He didn’t seem as surprised to see her as she was to see him. He wagged his tail and thrust his nose between her knees in the friendliest manner. She looked about for the owner, but the woods remained still and silent.

After a while she realized the dog was alone. She saw a tag dangling at his neck.
Ralph, The White House, Walbridge Hall.
It gave a telephone number. ‘Well, Ralph, I’d better take you home, hadn’t I?’ she said, striding off down the track. She didn’t know where the White House was, but she knew Walbridge Hall. She had no option but to go there. Perhaps it was her destiny to see Jasper again after all.

With her stomach tying itself into knots, she walked down the hill towards the Hall with the dog at her heels. Now she had a legitimate reason to be there. Gone was the fear of making a faux pas. She’d ring the bell and ask for the White House. She envisaged Jasper at the door and the look on his face when he saw her standing there with the dog. He was going to be knocked for six, she mused. She ran her hands through her hair, smoothing it down self-consciously.

The house was much more formidable close up. The sand-coloured walls were high and austere, the windows gazing out at the world imperiously. Her heart quickened with nervousness. Just as she was about to ring the bell that hung in a thick rope to the right of the great door, a voice spoke to her from behind. ‘Can I help you?’ She spun round, disappointed to find she was being addressed by a gardener.

‘I’ve found this dog in the woods. I’ve come to return it,’ she explained.

‘That’s Ralph. Hello, Ralph.’ He patted his knees and the dog leapt up at him excitedly. ‘Silly boy, he’s always wandering off. That’s dogs for you; bitches are less trouble. He’s Lady Georgina’s. Do you know where the White House is?’

Trixie didn’t welcome the idea of having to meet the woman who had persuaded Jasper not to marry her. ‘No, I’m not from here,’ she replied, backing away. ‘Perhaps I can leave him with you?’

‘Come, I’ll show you. It’s through the garden. The other side of the vegetable garden.’

Reluctantly she followed him round to the side of the house. An immaculately mown lawn stretched into the distance where a statue of a rearing horse on a pedestal was silhouetted against the deep crimson of a maple tree. The borders were ablaze with purple, red and yellow flowers, and towering trees shed their golden leaves to be picked up by the wind and playfully tossed about. The effect was so dramatic that it looked as if the gardens were on fire. Trixie slowed her pace to take it all in. She didn’t think she had ever seen a more beautiful place. She realized then that every garden her mother had designed on Tekanasset was a poor imitation of this; every flower and shrub and tree was planted with nostalgia and longing. Her mother might have left England for ever, but the gardens she created kept bringing her back.

Trixie could see a tennis court through a gap in a yew hedge and hear the faint putt-putting of balls on rackets. She hoped the gardener would lead her past the court in case Jasper was playing, but he took her through a walled vegetable garden to the other side where a large white house was nestled in a glorious crimson-and-gold garden of its own. In a hurry to return to his duties, the gardener left her there. ‘I’m sure Lady G. would like to thank you personally,’ he told her, before disappearing back into the walled garden.

Trixie wondered whether Jasper’s mother was a terrifying character: otherwise why hadn’t he offered to take the dog back himself? She huffed irritably and rang the bell, cursing the gardener for being such a coward. A moment later the door opened and a tall, willowy woman with ash-blonde hair cut into a severe bob stared down at her with ice-blue eyes. ‘And you are?’ she asked without even a hint of a smile.

Trixie took in the sharp cheekbones, the full mouth, the neat nose and thought her beauty well preserved, albeit frosty. ‘I found your dog in the woods,’ said Trixie, staring back at her boldly.

Lady Georgina dropped her eyes to her dog. ‘Ralph, not again?’ she sighed impatiently. ‘Where was he?’

‘I don’t know, somewhere in the middle?’

‘Of course you wouldn’t know, you’re American. Are you a tourist?’

‘I suppose I am,’ she replied. Lady Georgina gave a little sniff. She narrowed her eyes and looked at Trixie more closely. She seemed suddenly disarmed by what she saw. ‘The gardens are incredibly beautiful,’ said Trixie. ‘Really, I’ve never seen such magnificent colours.’

‘Yes, it is a rather special place, isn’t it?’ The dog wandered past her into the house. ‘Well, thank you for bringing him back.’

‘Is that Ralph?’ came a voice from inside.

‘Yes, he ran off again.’

A man appeared behind Lady Georgina. ‘And you brought him back?’ He smiled at Trixie warmly. ‘Aren’t you an angel!’

‘Well, not really. I was just visiting the Beekeeper’s Cottage. My mother used to live there.’ She noticed Lady Georgina’s face twitch with recognition.

‘Grace Valentine?’ she said slowly. ‘Good Lord, you’re the image of her.’

‘Really? I don’t know.’

‘Yes, you are! Come in. Would you like a cup of tea? We really must thank you for bringing Rufus back. It’s terribly kind of you.’ Trixie was overwhelmed by the sudden change in her manner. ‘Grace and Freddie Valentine, well, those are names from the past. Tell me, how are they?’

Trixie was ushered into a pretty pale-blue sitting room. ‘Darling, take her coat for her. What did you say your name was?’