The Beekeeper's Promise Page 4

  As she trudged up the hill, the sounds of the mill faded behind her. In the distance, far away on the other side of the river, the faint, rhythmic rumble of a passing train stirred the air like a pulsing heartbeat before the silence swallowed it. At the top of the ridge she emerged into the autumn sunrise, which would soon evaporate the river’s night-time blanket and reveal the mill house to the day.

  She paused to catch her breath, glancing back to the valley below. The upper branches of the willow tree were just visible now, and she smiled to herself as she remembered how she and Mathieu had sat beneath the leafy canopy yesterday evening, as they had done on all the evenings since he’d helped her move the additional beehives, and how, at last, he had plucked up the courage to reach out his hand and hold hers.

  Madame Boin was already clattering pots and pans when Eliane stepped across the threshold into the warmth of the cavernous kitchen, which was filled with the smell of baking bread.

  ‘Bonjour, madame. What do we need this morning?’ She picked up the shallow wickerwork basket that sat beside the door, being careful not to track the prints of her dusty boots on to the clean kitchen floor. Her final duty each day was to sweep and mop the slate tiles so that Madame Boin would arrive to find her domain neat and tidy the next morning.

  ‘Bonjour, Eliane. I’m making a blanquette for lunch today, so bring some carrots and potatoes. We need the peppermint leaves for Monsieur le Comte’s tisanes. And didn’t you say there was something else I could add that would help speed his recovery? I’m still worried about that ulcer on his leg.’

  ‘Thyme is best for circulation and for fighting infection, Maman says. I’ll bring you a good bunch. And basil is good for convalescence too, as well as the mint tea. There’s still some growing in a pot in the corner of the garden, although I should probably bring the whole thing back inside now if it’s to survive the winter.’

  Madame Boin nodded. ‘And bring me a good handful of sage leaves too, would you? Your sage tea is certainly helping to calm these blasted hot flushes. I slept much better last night.’

  Even though summer was well on the wane now, Eliane’s potager still flourished within the protection of the walled garden. The gardener had let her take over a couple of unused beds for her pharmacy of herbs and medicinal plants. It was useful, especially at this time of the year, to have access to these sheltered, upland plots as well as her more shaded riverside garden at the mill, so that she could grow a wider range of varieties across the two different habitats. When Eliane had asked his permission to cultivate the redundant beds, Monsieur le Comte had been delighted that the château could help to provide Lisette with the plants she used to treat her patients across the community.

  The stone walls of the garden were already soaking up the morning sunshine when she pushed open the gate. The first bees were at work mining the sweetly pungent nectar from cushions of thyme and rosemary. They seemed to have a sense of businesslike urgency about themselves today and Eliane knew that they had read something in the softening autumn light that had told them to hasten to lay in their supplies before winter arrived. She wouldn’t gather any more honey from the hives now, until the bees could harvest the renewed bounty of pollen next spring, making sure that they had the resources to see them through the austerity of the coming months.

  She dug up the vegetables, smiling at the robin who had been watching her from his perch in the pear tree and who immediately fluttered down to search the newly-turned earth for breakfast titbits. From her apron pocket, she took a penknife and cut the herbs, placing everything in the basket. She had a list of ingredients to bring home for her mother, too, but she would gather these at the end of the day when the sun had warmed the leaves, stimulating a good supply of the essential oils that were a vital part of the healing concoctions.

  Re-entering the kitchen, she untied her boots and set them on the mat beside the doorway, before slipping her feet into the wooden-soled sabots that she wore inside the château and beginning her day’s work.

  Abi: 2017

  For a moment, I can’t think where I am. Early-morning sunshine slants across the pillow through slatted shutters and my legs, which ought to be constricted by a narrow sleeping bag, slide freely over smooth sheets. And then I remember: so Château Bellevue and its owners weren’t just a lovely dream I conjured up during the best night’s sleep I’ve had in years.

  I check my watch. It’s early. Thomas said he’d run me back to the yoga centre after breakfast as he’d be going that way anyway. I stretch luxuriantly one more time, making the most of the space and comfort of a proper bed, and then reluctantly throw back the covers and plant my feet on the floor. I’m conscious that the room I’m staying in is part of Sara and Thomas’ business and that I’ve created enough extra work for them already, so I strip the bed and clean the bathroom, leaving the room looking as if I’d never been there.

  As I scoop up the bundle of bedding, a memory ambushes me out of nowhere. The simple, everyday gesture of holding an armful of washing suddenly brings back associations for me that touch a nerve running right to my very core. In my mind’s eye, I see myself as a teenager again, back in the flat trying to get Mum’s bed sorted. She’d have been drinking all day, as usual, and I’d persuade her out of her sodden bed when I got home from school and help her into a bath. Then, leaving her changed and propped in an armchair beside the gas fire, with a silent prayer that she wouldn’t set fire to herself and the flat, I’d bundle the sheets into a bin bag and trudge around the corner to the launderette. I’d sit there in the soap-scented warmth, doing my homework while the machines juddered and sloshed around me. If we had enough money that day I’d stick a fifty-pence piece in the dryer and come home with a stack of neatly folded still-warm linen. But more often, and especially towards the end of the month, I’d have to turn the bin bag inside out and stuff the wet sheets back in, my arms aching after hauling the heavy bundle back home to drape them over a plastic clothes horse in front of the fire.

  ‘Caring’, they call it these days. To me, it just felt like surviving. I was terrified of the alternative, of being taken away from her. I suppose children almost always want to stay with their parents, no matter what. So even when Mum got really bad I didn’t let on; I just looked after her the best I could.

  Her own family had made it clear that they wanted nothing more to do with her when she got pregnant with me. I have no idea who my father was – and, to be honest, I’m not sure that Mum really knew either. She told me various stories, over the years, depending how much she’d had to drink and whether she was in one of her full-on happy moods or on a complete downer . . . Maybe he really was a soldier who’d been killed in a friendly-fire incident on training manoeuvres shortly after I was conceived; or maybe he was the Australian backpacker who had disappeared without leaving his number (or even, apparently, his name); or maybe he was just some scummy chancer who’d taken advantage of a girl who’d been too drunk to know what she was doing. Anyway, we were a team, Mum and me, and we managed just fine on our own, so long as she was sober enough to collect her benefits and didn’t blow the whole lot in the off-licence on her way home.

  I shake my head, rousing myself and shrugging off the memory, and take the bundle of bedding downstairs. Sara is already bustling about in the kitchen.

  ‘Good morning,’ I say. ‘And thanks for the best night’s sleep I’ve had in ages. Where do these go?’ I show her the armful of bedding. ‘If you give me a fresh set I’ll get the bed made up again. I’ve cleaned through, but I just need to give the room a quick going over with the vacuum and then it’ll be all ready for your wedding guests.’

  She nods, approvingly. ‘Here, give those to me. I’ll stick them in a laundry bag. Thanks for doing that, it’s a huge help. I’ll give you a hand re-making the bed, but sit down and have your breakfast first.’

  Thomas comes in, whistling cheerfully, and we sit around the kitchen table which is set with a red-and-white gingham cloth. I help myself to fr
esh fruit and a big bowl of cereal, as Sara pours us each a mug of richly fragrant coffee.

  Thomas and Sara exchange a glance. ‘Look, Abi,’ she says, ‘I know this is probably going to sound like a crazy proposition, and it’s right out of the blue, but how would you like to try working at Château Bellevue for the season? Thomas and I discussed it last night. You seem very practical and I’m sure you’d pick it all up very quickly. Heaven knows, you’d be doing us a massive favour as we’re desperate for another pair of hands. We can offer you accommodation in the mill house, as long as you don’t mind it being a bit of a building site. But I promise you the room you’d be sleeping in would be as far away from the mess and noise as possible. It would certainly be a lot more comfortable than a tent!’

  I laugh. ‘Are you serious? You’ve only just met me.’

  ‘Yes, but I can see that we already get on well. I’m afraid the pay isn’t great, but you get your meals when you’re working so that helps. I think you’d fit in well as a member of the team. I know this is all very sudden, so maybe you could think about it for the rest of the week while you finish your yoga retreat? And then, if you decide you’re happy to give it a try, you can see how it goes.’

  I think of the empty apartment waiting for me back in London, of its huge floor-to-ceiling windows, which look out across the docklands on to the vast sprawling city beyond, and of how lonely and isolated I feel among all those millions of people. There’s no sense of purpose to my life there. Whereas here, I realise, I’ll be busy. I won’t spend hours trapped inside my own head as there’ll be so many other things to think about. Weddings! Parties to organise. Guests to look after.

  But then I hesitate again. Will I be up to the work? What if I let them down? What if I ruin someone’s special day because I make some terrible mistake? What if I have a panic attack at being in a crowded room and collapse, gasping for breath, in the middle of someone’s elegant reception?

  As if she can read my mind, Sara smiles reassuringly. ‘Abi, I know you’ve told us you haven’t been well lately, and if it’s something that means you can’t work then we would completely understand. But it seems to me you are a very capable woman – maybe more capable than you think. You could give it a go on a trial basis and if you decide, at any point, that you don’t want to stay on then you can go home straight away. But, honestly, any help you can give us will be better than none. It’ll free up Thomas to get on with the work on the mill house during the day; otherwise the project’s going to over-run badly and the bank manager won’t be very happy. And although the weddings are quite hard work, you might find that it’s quite enjoyable too.’

  I look from Sara to Thomas and back to Sara again, both waiting for my answer.

  And then I decide. And, despite the events of yesterday afternoon, I clearly haven’t learned my lesson about the dangers of spontaneity at all, because I say, with a grin, ‘Is there room for a yoga mat in the bedroom at the mill house, do you think? If so, I could probably start right away.’

  Eliane: 1938

  ‘Pass me the rolling pin if you’ve finished with it, would you, Eliane?’

  Mother and daughter were busy in the kitchen at the mill, preparing food for the holiday weekend. Eliane was slicing the pears that Madame Boin had allowed her to bring home from the château’s kitchen garden, and arranging them in a neat fan shape on top of the frangipane tart she was making.

  Lisette looked over at her handiwork approvingly. ‘Very good; that looks perfect.’

  ‘I’ve tried to make an extra effort for Mireille coming home. She’s probably used to fancy Parisian pâtisseries now and will find our home-made offerings far too ordinary. Do you think she’ll have changed, Maman? I imagine she’ll be very sophisticated now.’

  Lisette laughed and shook her head. ‘Not our Mireille. You know tarte aux poires is her very favourite dessert. This will be more delicious than anything you could buy in a shop, even in Paris. I’m looking forward to seeing her clothes, though. Working in such a prestigious atelier she’ll know about all the latest fashions.’

  Happily, All Saints Day fell on a Tuesday that year, so Eliane’s sister Mireille had been allowed to take the Monday off as well and was coming back to the mill for the first time since she’d left in May to embark on her career as an apprentice seamstress at a Parisian couture house.

  Yves entered the kitchen, whistling, accompanied by a flurry of fallen leaves that blew in on the late-October wind as he opened the door. He set a lidded wicker basket on the table with an air of triumph. Lisette came over to inspect.

  ‘Oh là-là, what beauties!’

  ‘Eighteen of the finest langoustines the river can offer.’ He lifted one of the plump crawfish out of the basket and pretended to threaten Eliane’s ear with its fierce-looking claws. She batted him away, unruffled by his teasing, and he picked up a piece of her leftover pastry instead and popped it into his mouth.

  The sound of the truck pulling into the barn brought them all to the kitchen door and then Mireille was there, laughing and exclaiming as her family engulfed her, her dark curls blown into a tangle by the blustering October wind.

  She set down her handbag and stood for a moment, breathing deep the air of home, taking it all in: the soft rush of the river turning the millwheel; the willow tree trailing its leaves into the pool below the weir; the chickens pecking busily in the dust; the nanny goat and her kid grazing in the pasture beyond the orchard; and, from within, the familiar smells of woodsmoke and something good simmering on the range; the faint under-notes of the herbs and medicinal plants that were hanging to dry beside the chimney breast for her mother to use; and, most of all, the embrace of her father, mother, sister and brother: her family.

  ‘Look at this chic bag,’ Lisette exclaimed. ‘And your jacket!’

  ‘Ooh, fancy,’ Yves mocked, picking up the bag and mincing about the kitchen with it over his arm. ‘Mademoiselle Mireille Martin is far too fine for the Moulin de Coulliac these days!’

  ‘Not so fine that I can’t still beat up my cheeky little brother.’ Mireille pounced on him and pretended to twist his arm behind his back until he surrendered her bag. ‘In fact I can’t wait to change into my comfortable clothes and sabots again.’

  Gustave brought in her luggage. ‘I’ll take this straight up to your room, shall I?’

  ‘Come, Eliane.’ Mireille linked arms with her sister. ‘Help me unpack. I’ve got some presents for you.’

  The bedroom the sisters shared was tucked under the eaves of the mill, its windows looking out across the weir to the fields beyond. Gustave had set the bags down next to one of the single beds and Mireille flung herself on to its sprigged cotton quilt. The room smelled faintly of beeswax and the lavender bags that scented the chest of drawers and the tall walnut-wood armoire in the corner. ‘It’s so good to be home,’ she sighed.

  Eliane had arranged a posy of autumn berries in a little porcelain vase at her sister’s bedside and they now glowed carmine in the pool of sunshine that filtered through the window panes.

  ‘Come,’ said Mireille, patting the coverlet. ‘Sit down and tell me the news. What’s it like working at the château? Have you tamed that dragon Madame Boin yet? And how is Monsieur le Comte’s health these days?’

  Eliane settled herself on the bed beside her sister, tucking her legs up beneath her. ‘It’s good. I like the work. They let me do quite a bit in the kitchen garden, so I’m not always indoors, and I have my bees up there now. Nine hives! And there’ll be more next summer if they swarm. Madame Boin is alright – her bark is worse than her bite. We get on okay now. And Monsieur le Comte is in better health. The ulcer on his leg is healing well, thanks to Maman’s herbs and regular honey poultices. He’s a kind boss, a real gentleman as always.

  ‘But tell me all about Paris,’ she continued. ‘Have you dressed any film stars yet? How do you survive in all that noise and bustle? Among such crowds of people? I can’t imagine it.’

  Eliane listened, wi
de-eyed, as Mireille described the basement lodgings that she shared with two of the other seamstresses, her journey to work on a careering, clanging tram, and the demanding Parisiennes who came to the sâlon for fittings of their expensive new outfits. Mireille rummaged in one of her bags. ‘Here, I’ve brought these patterns for you and Maman. I thought you might like to make some of them – they’re very à la mode.’

  Yves stuck his head round the door of the girls’ room. ‘Look at you two, gossiping away there. Has Eliane told you about her boyfriend yet?’

  He grinned as his sister blushed.

  ‘He’s not my boyfriend; he’s just a friend. And anyway, he spends more time going fishing with you than he does with me. He’s just as much your friend as mine.’

  ‘Ha!’ Yves exclaimed. ‘If you say so, but he and I don’t spend hours sitting under the willow tree together, holding hands and gazing into each other’s eyes.’

  ‘I see,’ said Mireille, the laughter in her dark eyes belying her serious tone of voice. ‘And what is “his” name, may I enquire?’

  ‘Mathieu Dubosq,’ Yves cut in eagerly. ‘He’s a great fisherman, always knows where the big ones are lurking. Knows all about hunting too. And he’s almost as much of an expert on mushrooms as Eliane is. He’s also coming to have lunch with us in a few minutes.’

  ‘Well, I’m looking forward to meeting him.’ Mireille diverted her brother by passing him a small package wrapped in brown paper and tied with rough twine.

  Yves whistled through his teeth as he unwrapped a horn-handled penknife. ‘Just look how sharp that blade is. Fantastic. Thanks, Mireille.’