Coming Home by Rosamunde Pilcher Read Free Book Online

without youngsters around was a bleak one, and not to be countenanced.
    The fact that she had little in common with her sister, and scarcely knew the two girls, had rendered her not too hopeful as to the outcome of the arrangement. But it had all been a surprising success. Molly, it was true, had wilted from time to time, defeated by the pace of Biddy's social whirl, and had retired to her bed to put her feet up; and Jess, it had to be admitted, was a spoilt and babied brat, dreadfully indulged and petted every time she cried.
    But Judith had proved a real eye-opener, the sort of girl Biddy would have liked as a daughter of her own, if ever she had had one. Entertaining herself if necessary, never chipping into adult conversations, and enthusiastic about, and grateful for, any ploy suggested for her diversion. She was also, Biddy thought, extraordinarily pretty…or, at least, she would be in a few years. The fact that there was no one of her own age around the place had not fazed her in the very least, and at Biddy's parties she had made herself useful, handing round nuts and biscuits, and responding to anybody who paused to talk to her. The rapport she had struck up with Bob was an extra bonus, because it was obvious that she had given him as much pleasure as he had bestowed upon her. He liked her for old-fashioned reasons, for her good manners, and the way she spoke up and looked you in the eye; but as well, for both of them, there was a natural attraction and stimulation of being with a member of the opposite sex, a father–daughter relationship that both of them, one way or another, had missed out on.
    Perhaps they should have had daughters. Perhaps they should have had a string of children. But there was only Ned, packed off to prep school when he was eight, and then to Dartmouth. The years flew by so fast, and it felt almost no time had passed since he was small, and precious, with baby cheeks and flaxen hair, and dirty knees and rough, warm little hands. Now he was sixteen and nearly as tall as his father. Before you could say Jack Robinson, he'd be done with his studies and sent to sea. Be grown up. Get married. Produce a family of his own. Biddy's imagination flew ahead. She sighed. Being a grandmother did not appeal to her. She was young. She
felt
young. Middle age must be kept, at all costs, at bay.
    The door opened, and Hobbs trod creakily into the room, bearing the morning mail and a fresh pot of black coffee. He put this on the hotplate on the sideboard, and then came to lay the letters down on the table by her side. She wished that he would do something about his squeaking boots.
    ‘Bitter cold this morning,’ he observed with relish. ‘All the gutters thick with ice. I've salted the front-door step.’
    But Biddy only said, ‘Thank you, Hobbs,’ because if she responded to his observation he might stand and chat forever. Frustrated by her lengthening silence, Hobbs sucked his teeth in a morose sort of way, straightened a fork on the table in order to justify his presence, but finally, defeated, took himself off. Bob continued to read his paper. Biddy leafed through her mail. Not so much as a postcard from Ned, but a letter from her mother, probably thanking for the knitted knee-rug that Biddy had sent her for Christmas. She took up a knife to slit the envelope open. As she did this, Bob lowered his paper, folded it, and slapped it down on the table with some force.
    Biddy looked up. ‘What's wrong?’
    ‘Disarmament. The League of Nations. And I don't like the smell of what's happening in Germany.’
    ‘Oh dear.’ She hated him to be depressed or concerned. Herself, she only read cheerful news, and hastily turned the page if the headlines looked black.
    He looked at his watch. ‘Time I was off.’ He pushed back his heavy chair and stood up, a tall and squarely built man, his bulk made yet more impressive by the dark, double-breasted, gold-buttoned jacket. His face, clean-shaven and craggy, was