been taken into his confidence. She could see a number of motor cars on the gravel in front of the house. There was a sleek black Bentley which belonged to the Marquess, with its long bonnet and exquisite leather interior. She had seen that vehicle many times, parked outside the church and motoring through the village carrying the Marchioness off to London. A little red Austin was parked beside it, which belonged to the vicar, but outshining both was a sleek racing-green Alfa Romeo. She imagined that one belonged to Rufus. It seemed to be a motor car worthy of a dashing young man like the Earl of Melville.
She remained there a long while, watching. Before, she had barely noticed the house. Her father’s fascination with the place had rather baffled her. How was it possible for someone to be so fixated on a pile of bricks and mortar, however well constructed? Gardens she could understand, because flora and fauna had always held her in wonder, but houses had never held such appeal. Walbridge Hall certainly hadn’t warranted more than a glance. But now it seemed to breathe with life. She imagined the people inside it and wondered what they were all doing. She fantasized about knocking on that great door. She couldn’t imagine what it looked like inside because she had no experience to draw on. But she knew it would be superb.
After a while her stomach began to rumble and she turned her thoughts to dinner. Her father would expect his meal on time. Reluctantly, she tore herself away from her vigil and cut through the middle of the wood, along a track where the grass was kept short because the Penselwoods liked to ride there. She loved this part of the forest with its ancient oak trees, whose gnarled and twisted branches reminded her of fairy tales she had read as a child. In spring the ground was a sea of bluebells, but now, being July, bracken and ferns had grown dense and strong – perfect cover for pheasants and rabbits.
She reached the other side of the wood and pushed her bike out into the field. From there she could see the thatched roof of the cottage she had lived in all her life. It didn’t belong to her father; it was part of the estate, but it was his for as long as he was head gardener and beekeeper. Its official name was Cottage Number 3, but because of the hives it had become known as Beekeeper’s Cottage, and Grace thought the name suited it well.
Perfect in symmetry, with white walls and a grey thatched roof, it was a harmonious little house with a great deal of charm. Two windows peeped out from beneath a fringe of thatch and seemed to survey the surrounding countryside with a constant look of wonder, as if the magic of those green fields and ancient woods never lost its power to enchant. A trio of chimneys made perfect perches for pigeons grown fat on the bounty of wheat and barley from the surrounding fields. They settled in up there and cooed softly until the winter fires sent them into the trees, where they cooed grudgingly instead.
Grace found her father on his knees in the garden, pulling out weeds. He never stopped. When he wasn’t working at the Hall he was toiling in his own garden or at the hives. The only thing that brought him inside was the dark, and then he’d sink into his favourite armchair with his loyal spaniel, Pepper, at his feet, light a pipe and read. For an ill-educated man Arthur Hamblin was extremely well read, with a natural intelligence and an enquiring mind. He devoured history books and biographies and reread his favourite classics in fiction so that the pages were dog-eared and the hard covers shabby. Recognizing the same curiosity in his daughter, he had set about teaching her with love and patience everything he had learned. They shared books and discussed the great mysteries of the world, but the knowledge Grace most treasured was the wisdom of bees. Father and daughter were never closer than when they were looking after the hives and pouring honey into jars to take up
She remained there a long while, watching. Before, she had barely noticed the house. Her father’s fascination with the place had rather baffled her. How was it possible for someone to be so fixated on a pile of bricks and mortar, however well constructed? Gardens she could understand, because flora and fauna had always held her in wonder, but houses had never held such appeal. Walbridge Hall certainly hadn’t warranted more than a glance. But now it seemed to breathe with life. She imagined the people inside it and wondered what they were all doing. She fantasized about knocking on that great door. She couldn’t imagine what it looked like inside because she had no experience to draw on. But she knew it would be superb.
After a while her stomach began to rumble and she turned her thoughts to dinner. Her father would expect his meal on time. Reluctantly, she tore herself away from her vigil and cut through the middle of the wood, along a track where the grass was kept short because the Penselwoods liked to ride there. She loved this part of the forest with its ancient oak trees, whose gnarled and twisted branches reminded her of fairy tales she had read as a child. In spring the ground was a sea of bluebells, but now, being July, bracken and ferns had grown dense and strong – perfect cover for pheasants and rabbits.
She reached the other side of the wood and pushed her bike out into the field. From there she could see the thatched roof of the cottage she had lived in all her life. It didn’t belong to her father; it was part of the estate, but it was his for as long as he was head gardener and beekeeper. Its official name was Cottage Number 3, but because of the hives it had become known as Beekeeper’s Cottage, and Grace thought the name suited it well.
Perfect in symmetry, with white walls and a grey thatched roof, it was a harmonious little house with a great deal of charm. Two windows peeped out from beneath a fringe of thatch and seemed to survey the surrounding countryside with a constant look of wonder, as if the magic of those green fields and ancient woods never lost its power to enchant. A trio of chimneys made perfect perches for pigeons grown fat on the bounty of wheat and barley from the surrounding fields. They settled in up there and cooed softly until the winter fires sent them into the trees, where they cooed grudgingly instead.
Grace found her father on his knees in the garden, pulling out weeds. He never stopped. When he wasn’t working at the Hall he was toiling in his own garden or at the hives. The only thing that brought him inside was the dark, and then he’d sink into his favourite armchair with his loyal spaniel, Pepper, at his feet, light a pipe and read. For an ill-educated man Arthur Hamblin was extremely well read, with a natural intelligence and an enquiring mind. He devoured history books and biographies and reread his favourite classics in fiction so that the pages were dog-eared and the hard covers shabby. Recognizing the same curiosity in his daughter, he had set about teaching her with love and patience everything he had learned. They shared books and discussed the great mysteries of the world, but the knowledge Grace most treasured was the wisdom of bees. Father and daughter were never closer than when they were looking after the hives and pouring honey into jars to take up
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