The Beekeeper's Daughter by Santa Montefiore Page A

board and pressed it onto the sting. ‘Does that hurt?’ she asked softly.
    ‘A little,’ said Freddie.
    Grace rolled her eyes. ‘I’ve never known so much fuss!’ she chided. ‘Boys are big babies.’
    ‘Boys fight wars, Grace. They’re courageous when it matters,’ said May quietly.
    ‘Not Freddie,’ Grace laughed. ‘Freddie’s a big girl!’
    ‘He’s only fifteen. One day he’ll be a man and think nothing of a bee sting.’ May kissed his forehead affectionately. ‘All done now.’
    ‘You have to come swimming with me this afternoon, Grace. You made a promise,’ said Freddie.
    ‘I did, and I will honour my word.’
    ‘Will you come by after lunch, then?’
    ‘As soon as Dad lets me go.’
    ‘I’ll make you sandwiches for tea if you like,’ May suggested, picking up a potato to peel.
    ‘Thank you, we’d love that, wouldn’t we, Freddie? We can eat them on the river bank. It’ll be fun.’
    ‘Don’t tell your sister, Freddie. I won’t be making sandwiches for her.’ May shook her ginger curls. ‘If your father knew how much I spoil you, he’d have words to say. Now off you both go. I’ve got to cook lunch. We’ve got company.’
    Freddie walked Grace back to the church where she had left her bicycle. It was a short ride home if she took the shortcut along the farm tracks through the wood. ‘How’s your sting?’ she asked.
    ‘Better,’ he replied. ‘I suppose you were right about the garlic’
    ‘I’m a witch, after all,’ she laughed.
    ‘But I stink.’
    ‘You can wash it off in the river.’
    ‘The fish will love that!’
    ‘I’m sorry, Freddie,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean for the bee to hurt you.’
    ‘I know. It’s OK. It’s feeling better now.’
    ‘Still, I feel sorrier for the bee.’ She picked up her bicycle, which she had leaned against the church wall. ‘I’ll see you later,’ she said, climbing on.
    Grace pedalled through the village until she came to the farm entrance of Walbridge Hall. She cycled in, past a cluster of pretty farm cottages where chickens wandered freely, pecking at the earth, and where barns were swept clean in preparation for the harvest. It was quiet, being a Sunday. She pedalled hard up the track towards the wood. The grass had grown long and was thick with clover. On her left the hedges were high and bushy with cow parsley and blackthorn. Small birds darted in and out and hares lolloped up ahead, disappearing into the undergrowth when she got too close for comfort. As she was about to cut through the wood, she felt the desire to take a look at the big house. She’d seen it lots of times before with her father, but now she had met Rufus, it took on a whole new meaning. It was no longer just very fine bricks but Rufus’s home.
    She changed direction and walked her bike along the field at the foot of the wood. From there she could see Walbridge Hall nestled in the valley, protected by sturdy plane trees and surrounded by acres of gardens, lovingly managed by her father who had held the position of head gardener for over twenty years. His knowledge and skill were said to be unmatched by anyone else in Dorset. She remembered with a smile how he’d stop and admire the house and say: ‘That’s a mighty fine building, that is.’ And being a man who loved history and read a great deal, he’d tell her about it without caring that she’d heard it a dozen times already.
    Arthur Hamblin was right. It was a magnificent seventeenth-century stately home built in the soft, pale-yellow stone of Dorset. With three floors, tall gables, large imposing-looking windows and chimneys set in pairs, it was undeniably grand yet not at all formidable. Perhaps it was due to the gentle colour of the stone, or the prettiness of the bay windows and gables, or the general harmony of the design, but Walbridge Hall seemed to welcome the onlooker with a silent salutation.
    Grace thought of Rufus at lunch with the vicar and smiled to herself, thrilled to have