The Beekeeper's Daughter by Santa Montefiore Page A

whispered in her ear. ‘Don’t worry, Grace, deep down she’s as soft as a pussycat. She’s in a good mood this morning, so she’s positively purring.’ He directed her down a long corridor. They passed a room on the right which immediately caught Grace’s attention. It was a square room with bookshelves either side of a marble fireplace, but instead of books, row upon row of model boats were placed beneath glass covers. There were hundreds. ‘My father’s study,’ said Rufus, pausing a moment at the open door. ‘Papa is mad about boats. It must have been a bore to inherit a house in the middle of the countryside when all he wants to do is sail. Have you ever sailed, Grace?’
    ‘No, I think I’d be a little nervous of the sea,’ she replied.
    ‘Rubbish, you’d love it. Papa taught me how to sail as a little boy. There’s something magical about the ocean.’ She swept her eyes over the paintings which adorned the other walls. They were all of seaside scenes: sailing boats on blue seas, azure skies with soaring white seagulls, busy harbours, sand dunes and swathes of pink roses.
    Reluctantly, she pulled herself away and followed Rufus further down the corridor into a large conservatory at the end, which looked over the glorious gardens of Walbridge Hall. There, seated in regal splendour on a wicker garden chair, with a small fluffy dog on her lap, was the Dowager Marchioness. When she saw Grace her wizened old face was transformed by an unexpectedly warm smile.
    ‘Ah, come over here, my dear, and let me thank you.’ She held out her hand. Grace stepped forward and took it shyly, bobbing into a curtsy, because she felt the Dowager Marchioness demanded more than a polite nod of the head. ‘Look!’ The old lady waved her hand. It was no longer bent into a claw. ‘Barely any pain this morning. The swelling is down. You’re a good little doctor, aren’t you?’
    ‘I’m happy it’s better, m’lady,’ Grace replied, surprised that the bee venom had worked so effectively.
    ‘Speak up, child. I can’t hear if you whisper.’
    ‘I’m happy it’s better,’ she repeated, louder this time.
    ‘So am I,’ said the Dowager Marchioness.
    ‘Thank you, Johnson,’ said Rufus, taking a glass of juice off the tray. The butler departed with a little bow. ‘For you, Grace. Strawberry and raspberry juice. It’s rather good. I had some for breakfast.’
    ‘The fruit is from the garden,’ said Lady Penselwood. ‘We have a splendid vegetable garden, but you know that of course, being Arthur Hamblin’s daughter. Gardening used to be my hobby before arthritis set in and stopped me enjoying myself. Perhaps those bees will save my hands and I can be useful again.’ She raised her eyebrows at Grace. Grace swallowed her juice. It was the most delicious thing she had ever tasted. She felt she should say something, but wasn’t sure what.
    Rufus cut in, defusing any awkwardness. ‘Grandmama so enjoyed being stung, she’d like to do it again.’
    ‘Oh, really, Rufus. You are a ridiculous boy. A person doesn’t enjoy being stung, ever. One simply endures the pain for the rewards to come. It’s like life, Rufus. One endures it for the promise of paradise and the joys of Heaven.’
    ‘I wouldn’t say life is to be endured, Grandmama,’ he retorted, sitting down opposite her. ‘I’d argue that it offers a lot of pleasure.’
    ‘I dare say, for a young, pleasure-seeking boy such as yourself. When you are old, Rufus, and look back over your life, you will see a bumpy road of pleasure and pain. The past will be strewn with misfortune and mishaps, not to mention the terrible losses of people dear to you. You will have to endure their loss . . .’
    ‘Like yours, Grandmama,’ he interrupted, his mouth curling mischievously. ‘I shall be very sorry when it’s your time to go.’ Grace feared he had gone one step too far, but his grandmother smiled, clearly finding amusement in his bluntness.
    ‘I dare say you