She put the key in the lock and pushed open the door. As she stepped over the threshold she was struck immediately by the familiar damp smell of the sea, which filled her heart with a warm sense of nostalgia. She looked around at the cosy hall with its polished wooden floorboards and the staircase that swept up to the first floor in a graceful curve, and sighed with satisfaction. This was where she belonged. She inhaled deeply: home at last.
She wandered through the rooms. Big had hired a decorator for her guest house and the woman, well known on the island, had stuck to her trademark nautical theme, using blues and whites and a lot of wicker furniture. Trixie decided she’d add some crimson here and there to make it her own, and to see her through to spring with its vibrant warmth. She wandered into the sitting room, which was arranged around a fireplace, and sat on one of the sofas. Sunshine shone feebly through the glass, illuminating the blue-and-white rug that softened the floor and dominated the room. The silence of the empty house filled her with peace. Outside the waves lapped the snowy beach with weary regularity, as if the cold had robbed their strength.
So what did her future hold? Ever since she had left Jasper in Walbridge she had known for certain that she would never love another as she loved him. At that time she had believed she might find someone to share her life with; after all, she was young and perhaps second best was better than nothing at all. She had many years ahead of her and life was lonely on one’s own. But in the last few days it had become blissfully clear that she didn’t need a man after all, not even Jasper. She had discovered that she had returned to America with a stowaway: a tiny part of Jasper hiding out in her belly and slowly growing. The love she already felt for her child would be enough to sustain her for the rest of her life. They’d be fine, just the two of them. They’d be perfectly happy. Nothing mattered now but this beautiful little soul. She put her hand on her stomach and silently thanked God for His compassion.
Chapter 29
Three years later
The autumn sun cast long shadows over Sunset Slip and set the purple clouds aflame in a dramatic display of crimson and red. Trixie walked up the beach with her son, Arthur, and cast her eyes out to sea, where the splendour of sunset was reflected on the water. The beauty of it strained her heartstrings and she gave in to a wave of melancholy, stopping a moment to savour the splendour of another sunset on Tekanasset, the magnificence of which never lost the power to disarm her. Arthur ran across the sand in pursuit of a piping plover. The child’s gurgling laughter was carried on the breeze with the lone cry of a gull.
It was the end of summer. Soon the plovers and terns would fly off to warmer shores and the winds would grow strong and cold, and moan at night outside her bedroom window. She loved Big’s guest house. She loved the beach. She had never been happier.
Jasper’s letters, so ardent at the beginning, had now dwindled as she thought they might, given that she had never encouraged him by writing back. Perhaps he believed that she no longer loved him. That thought gave her pain and she had often put pen to paper to bare her soul, only to regret her impulsiveness and toss the unfinished letter into the fire. No good could come of it. There was nothing she could do. She was powerless to change the past and unwilling to alter the present. At least she didn’t have the destruction of his family on her conscience.
She watched Arthur and recalled her parents’ surprising reaction on learning that she was carrying Jasper’s child. The old prejudices upheld by their generation seemed so trivial in the wake of Grace’s illness. They had learned that life was a gift and that love was the only important thing in it. Ultimately they simply wanted their daughter’s happiness. When the baby arrived they embraced him with joy. Grace said he looked like her father, Freddie claimed a resemblance to his mother. But later, as her son grew, Trixie saw Jasper in his smile and in the grey-green colour of his eyes. And they all appreciated the gift of love he had brought into the world and the enormous pleasure he gave to every one of them.
Trixie had made many new friends on Tekanasset since she had moved back three years before. Lucy Durlacher, recently divorced from Ben (who had exchanged his drumsticks for a suit and now worked for an investment bank in Washington), had returned to the island with her three children, and surprisingly the two women had grown close. It seemed that Tekanasset was the place to settle when life got too hectic, or when the soul was in need of its healing waters. Its beaches were balm to battered hearts and the vast skies of shifting colours and shades lifted the spirit and gave the lost an invaluable sense of belonging. When Trixie gazed out at that immense horizon she was reminded of what was important: friends, family and home. Boiled down they all meant the same thing: love.
She wrapped her cardigan about her body and folded her arms. The sun was setting and it was chilly in the shadows. She saw a figure in the distance walking towards her. Probably a man with his dog, she thought, shifting her eyes to her son who now crouched on the sand, playing with a piece of bright-blue sea glass. She decided to turn back to the house. ‘Arthur,’ she called. ‘Come on, darling. Time for tea.’ The little boy stood up and ran towards her. As he put out his arms, she lifted her gaze to see the man, closer now, walking faster and with intent. She bent down and lifted the child into her arms. She hugged him close, relishing the solid feeling of his body against hers.
She was about to turn around when she noticed something familiar about the man’s gait. He moved with long strides and, as he got closer, he seemed to pick up his pace. She froze. It couldn’t be. How could it? It was just her eyes, playing tricks on her. Hadn’t she thought she had seen him countless times before? Hadn’t she been crippled by disappointment every time she realized she was wrong? Surely this was simply one of those times. She swallowed back tears, cursing the red sky and golden sea for making her emotional. She was perfectly happy. Perfectly fine. She had Arthur. What more could she wish for?
But the man began to run. His long legs raced over the sand and his voice was carried on the wind. She was sure he was calling her name. ‘Trixie . . .’ She blinked to focus, but the tears blurred her vision and she saw nothing, just her own longing, now falling in streams down her cheeks.
‘Mummy cry,’ said Arthur, concerned. She kissed his cold face. But she couldn’t reply. Her voice was lost, squeezed to death by her constricting throat.
And then he was before her. Panting, red in the face, desperate. They stared at one another for a moment, neither knowing what to say.
‘She’s left me,’ Jasper said at last. His eyes took in the child and his shoulders dropped in defeat. He was too late.
Trixie read his mind and she smiled through her tears. ‘Jasper, this is Arthur,’ she whispered, moving her shoulder so he could see the child’s face. The little boy turned around and stared at the strange man shyly, his grey-green eyes large and enquiring. Jasper looked at his son, then back at Trixie. Words were now inadequate. He shook his head in astonishment, strode forward and wrapped his arms around the two of them, drawing them close.
Trixie rested her head on his shoulder and sighed. ‘You came back,’ she said softly.
‘Because I cried tears into the harbour waters,’ he replied. He squeezed her hard. ‘But more truthfully, because I love you,’ he added, squeezing her harder. ‘I love you, Trixie, and always will.’
Acknowledgements
My most frequently asked question is: how do I come up with stories for my books? Well, in this particular case, it all began one summer’s evening in 2012 when I was pulling out weeds in my cottage garden in Hampshire. I noticed a ball of bees clinging to the bricks beside my daughter’s bedroom window. I had never seen anything like it and was naturally quite alarmed. It was enormous. I called my father, who lives next door, to come and have a look, and soon the whole family stood beneath, staring up in bewilderment at the seething ball. My father suggested they might move away the following morning, so I thought nothing more about it until I woke up at dawn to loud buzzing outside my window. The air was thick with thousands of bees who clearly had no intention of leaving. My father called the local beekeeper who keeps hives on his farm, and his daughter arrived to explain the situation, that basically they were trying to find a new place to build a hive. ‘Not in
my
brickwork!’ I announced defiantly. As much as I like bees, I didn’t want them settling inside my wall. She told me that if they formed a ball again she would come that evening and literally scoop them into a basket and take them home with her, to try to introduce them to one of her father’s vacant hives. As it happened they did eventually leave on their own. But I reflected on how good the title ‘The Beekeeper’s Cottage’ sounded and an idea began to form. Later we changed the title, but that ‘evening of the bees’ was the catalyst for this book.
While I was in the process of researching I happened to talk to a very nice grandmother at a match tea at my son’s school. She told me that she enjoyed my novels and asked what I was currently working on. I told her: a beekeeper’s daughter during the Second World War. Her eyes lit up and she declared that her father had been a beekeeper during the war. I was less astonished than she, because every time I embark on a novel, I send out a request for help and it’s amazing how everything I need just happens to fall into my lap. Elizabeth Kennerley,
you
fell into my lap and I thank the angels for organizing the meeting! Before we met I knew very little about bees. Now I know a great deal. Much more than I was able to put into the book. Thank you for all your advice and for lending me a beautiful old book that was so informative I really didn’t have to look anywhere else.
I based Tekanasset Island on Nantucket. I always like to invent my own locations because that way I have the freedom to design it just as I want it, as well as knowing it better than anyone else. I spent a heavenly week on Nantucket with Peter and Flora Soros many years ago but I remember thinking, even then, that one day I would base a novel there. So, thank you, Peter and Flora, for a fabulous holiday and for sowing the seed that eventually flowered into this book.
I always write to music. I make a different playlist for every novel and spend a great deal of time searching for the right tunes to inspire me. I love John Barry, Howard Shore and Ennio Morricone, but for
The Beekeeper’s Daughter
I discovered a very talented composer I hadn’t heard before; Guy Farley writes music for movies, I can’t imagine he ever thought he would be the constant soundtrack to the conception of a novel. I downloaded every one of his tracks and played them on a loop. I know them all by heart and love them passionately. Thank you, Guy, for transporting me to the windy beaches of Tekanasset Island and the lush green hills of Dorset. The moment I switched on my iPod nothing could distract me from the beauty of your music and the splendour of the scenes it inspired.
I have dedicated this book to my uncle Jeremy Palmer-Tomkinson. Along with his wife, Clare, Jeremy has always been an enthusiastic supporter of my books. So, when I needed advice on a particular scene that takes place during the war, I invited him out to lunch, knowing what an expert he is on World War II. Clare came as well and I told them the plot over a hearty meal. Jeremy duly told me what I needed to know in order to write the scene, but more importantly he gave me a word of advice about the general plot. Now you have read the novel you may know what I am referring to, but all I can say is that the entire novel depends on that small but important thing. I hadn’t planned for the plot to go that way at all, but Jeremy’s idea was a very good one, therefore, I felt it right and proper to dedicate the book to him, and to him alone. When I told him he was very embarrassed, because he didn’t think he deserved it. But he hasn’t read the book yet, so how could he know? Well, I can tell you, Jeremy, that you really
do
deserve it. Sometimes angels don’t have wings, they have lunch with me and share a bottle of wine!
I would like to thank my mother, Patty Palmer-Tomkinson, who is always the first person to read my manuscripts. She read
The Beekeeper’s Daughter
with a sharp eye for detail and saved my editor a lot of work on correcting bad grammar and ill-chosen words! Thank you, Mummy, for taking the time and trouble to save me from myself.
I’d also like to thank my mother-in-law, April Sebag-Montefiore (what would we do without generous-spirited mothers!) who read through the sections of the book that related to the 1940s. She was crucial. Without her help I would not have captured a sense of time. I can’t thank you enough, April, for giving me so much of your time and energy, and for your constant support and enthusiasm.
My old friend Harry Legge-Bourke was also helpful in answering questions about the army, having been in the Welsh Guards (
not
during the war!) – really, research can be very pleasant when it’s done in the sunshine outside Colbert over a cocktail or two! Thank you, Harry, for your help.
I’d also like to thank Bob and Nancy Phifer, my friends from Boston, who have been incredibly helpful in answering questions and recommending books to read in order to bring my Tekanasset scenes to life, and their local book shop, The Brewster Bookstore, who have been so supportive and kind.
My father is evident in the book as the wind is evident in the rustling of the leaves in the woods. I have absorbed his philosophies and wisdom over the years like an eager sponge and it all goes into my characters as they learn lessons from the cards life deals them and the choices they make. That is the part of writing I enjoy so much, because it is the part of life that interests me most. Thank you, Daddy, for arousing my curiosity.
My darling children teach me more about life than anything else. Love is why we’re all here and it’s what we take with us when our lives are done. They are a constant inspiration and I’m so grateful for them. My husband, Sebag, is my dearest friend, my most fervent ally and my greatest champion. I extend my deepest gratitude to him for giving me the time and space to be creative.