The Beekeeper's Promise (Page 6)
‘I’ll show you around, if you like,’ I offer. It seems the least I can do after all her kindness. So I give her a brief guided tour of the dining room, the airy yoga studio with its floor-to-ceiling sliding doors that open on to a view of fields and woodland, and the chill-out space where a few people are lounging with cups of herbal tea. I lead her round to the side of the building, saying, ‘Some people have rooms upstairs, and some stay off-site at local guest houses, but the rest of us . . .’ I tail off.
‘Camp?’ Sara finishes for me as we both survey the scene of carnage before us.
Most of the tents are, admittedly, still upright, although they are dripping forlornly into wide puddles that gleam where the lights catch them. But one has been reduced to a soggy heap of crumpled material that sits like a lonely, deserted island in the middle of a sizeable pond.
‘That’s yours, I take it?’ Sara nudges me gently.
I nod, not wanting to speak in case doing so releases the barrage of tears that is welling up inside me. I feel defeated, suddenly. Apart from my handbag and phone, which are stashed in the safe in the office (we had to hand them over when we arrived – it’s all part of the detox), everything I have with me is under that pathetic-looking bundle of sodden fabric.
‘Right,’ she says briskly, immediately decisive. ‘We need to excavate your belongings and then you’re coming back to stay with us.’
I begin to object, but, to be honest, here and now I can’t really come up with an alternative solution. Sara ignores my feeble protestations and wades through the puddle to lift up what’s left of the tent. Together, we manage to unzip the inner layer and while she holds the muddy, dripping flysheet out of the way I rummage around and find my things. My holdall of clothes is soaked through. My sponge bag is afloat in the puddle. And the two sleeping bags, Pru’s and mine, are so saturated that it’s an effort to drag them free. As I’m struggling to wring as much rainwater from them as possible, Sara extracts the two sleeping mats and pulls them clear. She spots a length of clothes line stretched between two birch trees. ‘Here,’ she says, ‘let’s hang what we can over there. They’ll drip dry a bit overnight and we can finish sorting them out in the morning.’
Making it clear that she’s not prepared to discuss any other possible sleeping arrangements that I might be able to come up with, she puts my holdall to one side. ‘We’ll bring that back with us and stick everything in the washing machine. Then at least your clothes will be clean and dry for tomorrow.’
‘I’m sorry to be such a hassle, especially when you’re so busy. I bet you didn’t realise what you were letting yourself in for when you stopped beside me on the road.’
‘It’s no hassle, and it turns out to be a very good thing our paths crossed when they did. Fortunately, I happen to have a château full of empty bedrooms tonight. You can stay in one of them. And I bet it’ll be a lot more comfortable than your tent, even if it had been dry and standing upright.’
I hesitate, and she nudges me again and says, ‘Did I forget to mention the en-suite bathroom with a bathtub so deep you can almost float in it?’
I smile and hold up the towel that I’ve retrieved from the tent, which was once cream-coloured but is now a streaky mud-brown. ‘You do make a compelling case. Tell me – are there fluffy white towels too, by any chance?’
Sara grins back. ‘You betcha!’
Eliane: 1938
The following week, before setting off up the hill to her day’s work at Château Bellevue, Eliane covered her head and shoulders with a shawl to keep out the slight chill of the mist that had gathered in the river valley overnight. As she passed, the door of the mill itself stood ajar and she stepped into the dry warmth of the grinding room to say good morning to her father. She lingered for a few moments, watching as her father primed the millstones with a few handfuls of grain before turning the control wheel to open the mill race. The calm, hushed flow of the river was transformed into a powerful rush as the water began to tumble into the narrow channel, coaxing the mill wheel to begin to turn. As it gathered speed, the rush became a roar and the machinery sprang to life, adding its clattering chatter to the cacophony. Creaking and clicking, the gears began to turn the runner stone and her father opened the grain chute, directing the flow into the hole in the stone’s centre. After a few moments, the first powdery grist began to fall into the wooden trough below the bed stone, reminding Eliane of the first flakes of winter snow.
Her father checked the grist and adjusted the speed of the runner stone before he was happy that it was grinding the grain finely enough.
On rafters high above them, the boards of the upper floor creaked as Yves heaved another sack of wheat over to the hopper that fed the millstones. He pulled open the trapdoor in the ceiling above their heads, to check with Gustave that all was running smoothly, and grinned as he caught sight of Eliane. The din was far too loud for his voice to be heard, but she saw him mouth ‘Good morning’. She waved back at him, then kissed her father and bade him a ‘Bonne journée’ before gathering her shawl around her head once again and setting off towards her own place of work.
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.