The Beekeeper's Daughter by Santa Montefiore

view. It was even more splendid close up, with its many glass windows twinkling in the sunshine, and tall gables rising into imposing chimneys. Her throat went dry at the thought of having to walk inside on her own and she wished more than ever that she was up on the hill, at the foot of the woods, watching from afar.
    The motor car drew up and the chauffeur switched off the engine. Without a word he climbed out onto the gravel and opened her door. She stepped out unsteadily and waited to be told what to do, fidgeting nervously with her bitten-down fingernails. She glanced at a couple of gardeners in brown overalls clipping the yew hedge. One of them paused his cutting to watch her. She hoped she might see her father, but he didn’t appear.
    She didn’t need to wait long. They were obviously expecting her. The great door of the house opened slowly like a terrifying mouth about to swallow her in one gulp. She stifled her fear, expecting a butler, as formidable as the chauffeur, to summon her inside. To her great relief Rufus appeared, grinning in his usual cheerful way, and ran down the steps two at a time towards her. ‘Hello, Grace. I hope we haven’t taken you away from something important,’ he said, his dark eyes sparkling at her.
    She wanted to cry with happiness, for surely if something dreadful had happened Rufus wouldn’t be smiling at her so joyfully. ‘I was picking vegetables,’ she replied, then wished she had lied and said something more interesting.
    ‘Then you must be thirsty. Johnson,’ he shouted up to the waiting butler. ‘Please bring Miss Grace some juice. We’ll be in the garden room.’
    Rufus looked casual in a sleeveless Fair Isle pullover of pale rusts and browns, his blue shirt rolled up at the sleeves to reveal muscular forearms and an elegant gold watch with a leather strap. A gold signet ring glinted on his little finger as he put his hand on her back to lead her up the steps into the hall. It was a vast room with a fireplace so large that Grace’s entire bed would have fitted inside it. The hall table was ablaze with the most stunning arrangement of lilies, and Persian rugs covered the flagstone floor, threadbare from centuries of footsteps. A dark wooden staircase swept up to an arresting portrait of an ancestor in a suit of armour before dividing into two and joining a gallery on opposite sides of the hall. ‘That’s great-great-great grandfather Aldrich,’ said Rufus, nodding towards the portrait. ‘And a fine figure of a man he was, too. Aldrich means “king”, but still, I’d rather be named after a pauper than be called Aldrich. Poor Papa: of all the family names to choose, his parents chose the most ridiculous!’
    Grace laughed, but she couldn’t think of anything clever to say. ‘I like his armour,’ she replied, feeling foolish.
    ‘So do I. It’s hanging in the games room. I used to dress up in it as a boy, but I’m much too tall for it now. Funny how small people were in those days. Much smaller than one imagines.’
    ‘He doesn’t look small at all.’
    ‘Not there. Perhaps the painter was keen to curry favour and painted him looking bigger than he actually was.’
    Grace was now feeling much more comfortable. In fact, she was almost dizzy with happiness, being shown around the house by Rufus. It was as impressive inside as it was outside. He showed her the other portraits hanging around the hall. They all had funny names like Winthrop and Morven, except the one that was called Rufus. ‘I’m named after him,’ said Rufus, screwing up his nose. ‘I’m not sure why, considering he’s the least handsome of the lot.’
    ‘I think Rufus is a nice name. You could have been called Broderick.’
    He chuckled. ‘That would have been a terrible fate. Come on, I don’t suppose we can keep Grandmama waiting much longer.’
    Grace felt afraid again. She took a sharp intake of breath and must have paled, for Rufus grinned at her kindly. He leaned down and