Free The Beekeeper's Daughter by Santa Montefiore Page A

the ensuing swelling. The bee flew off, but Grace knew it would die and suffered a moment of anguish. Rufus looked at her and arched an eyebrow. ‘Well, that was painless,’ he said. Then raising his voice he turned to his grandmother. ‘How does that feel, Grandmama?’
    ‘I hope it’s doing some good. Are you sure I don’t need another one?’
    ‘Absolutely sure,’ Arthur replied. ‘One should do the trick.’
    ‘Well then, I’ll pray for a miracle.’
    ‘So will I,’ Rufus agreed. Grace wanted to offer garlic to stop the pain, but she sensed that Lady Penselwood would refuse. She was certainly made of tougher stuff than Freddie. She couldn’t wait to tell him.
    Rufus walked his grandmother round to the Bentley and helped her into her seat. Grace was impressed by the soft leather and shiny wood interior. She had never been so close to such a motor car in all her life. It was like a rare and beautiful beast. ‘Thank you, Grace, for your advice. If it works you’ll have the whole of the county queuing up to be stung.’ Grace felt a stab of panic and blanched. If the whole county came to be stung, how many bees would die? Rufus laughed. ‘Don’t worry, I’m only teasing,’ he said, his face suddenly creasing into a frown. ‘Few are made of steel like Grandmama!’
    ‘She is very brave,’ Grace agreed.
    ‘They should have sent women like Grandmama to the front line. We might have won the war sooner.’ He chuckled at the thought. ‘Well, I’ll let you know if it works. Now I’ll need a miracle to get her back into the house without my parents finding out. I’m not sure they’d wholly approve of this rather unorthodox treatment.’
    Grace and Arthur watched him drive off. He waved cheerfully while his grandmother sat stony-faced, staring ahead. ‘What was that all about?’ Arthur asked his daughter once they had disappeared into the lane.
    ‘I simply mentioned that you allowed yourself to be stung on purpose to cure your arthritis,’ she explained. ‘I never thought anything would come of it.’
    ‘When did you talk to Lord Melville?’
    ‘Outside church, this morning. I was lying on the grass, playing with a bee, and he came up and said hello.’ She paused. ‘Do you think it’ll work?’
    ‘It might do. It certainly helps me.’ He walked back into the cottage. ‘Old Lady Penselwood is a cold fish.’
    ‘Perhaps because she’s in pain. Those hands look really bad.’
    ‘Or perhaps because she’s just sour.’
    ‘Sour people are unhappy people. You told me that, Dad.’
    ‘I also told you that there are exceptions to every rule,’ he replied with a grin.
    Darkness crept up slowly. The twittering of roosting birds grew silent and the flute-like calling of a cuckoo was replaced by the eerie hooting of an owl. Arthur sat in his chair, smoking his pipe, reading glasses on the bridge of his nose, a history book on his knee. His spaniel snoozed at his feet. Grace stared at the pages of her novel, but although her eyes scanned the words, her thoughts were elsewhere. It had been a shock to find Rufus in her hall, but now he had gone, she found herself going over every moment of their encounter and wishing she had behaved differently.
    She was only fourteen, so there was no reason why a young man like Rufus Melville should even notice her. But since he had spoken to her, and not as a man speaks to a child, but as equals, she wished she had been somehow wittier. There was a light tone to his voice that suggested he found most things amusing. She wondered what sort of repartee he was used to with his friends at Oxford. She imagined they were all very clever, like him, and witty, too. She could be funny with Freddie. He thought everything she said was clever, but with Rufus she had felt gauche, immature and self-conscious. And her hair – oh, how she wished he hadn’t seen her with her hair wet and tangled.
    She closed her book with a sigh. Her father raised his eyes over his glasses. ‘You