Free Biarritz Passion: A French Summer Novel by Laurette Long

Caroline and Birdie.
    ‘I’d better take it back, get a refund, what do you think Birdie?’
    Margaret sniffed.
    ‘Oh alright then. I suppose it’s not every day one gets to the ripe old age of eighty. And I did hear someone on television say that nowadays eigh ty was the new sixty.’
    Caroline laughed and held out the parcel to her aunt, whose eyes were gleaming with anticipation.
    ‘Open it, open it,’ urged Birdie, unable to sit still.
    ‘Surely it can wait until the child has had her breakfast,’ said Margaret innocently. ‘Oh very well then, if you insist.’
    Her hands trembled as she unwrapped the paper.
    ‘Oh my goodness!’
    The exclamation left Caroline in no doubt as to her aunt’s pleasure. Margaret blinked as she gazed at the box, running her fingers over the wood, exclaiming with delight as she opened it up and saw the blue velvet interior.
    ‘It’s lovely my dear, simply lovely. I shall never use it.’
    ‘Auntie M!’
    ‘Oh no. It’s far too beautiful. I shall put it in a cupboard, somewhere safe.’
    Birdie gave a snort.
    ‘Don’t believe a word she says, Caroline, by next week there will have been at least half a dozen unprintable letters written on it!’
    Birdie’s cheeks were pink with pleasure for her friend.
    ‘I’m a spoiled old woman,’ said Margaret. ‘Come here and give me a kiss my dear. Thank you so much. And look, this is from Birdie.’
    She leaned back to show her niece the antique brooch edged with heavy gold that was pinned to her dress.
    ‘Oh it’s lovely Birdie! I’ve never seen such an unusual cameo.’
    ‘It belonged to my mother,’ said Birdie. ‘She was the same type as Margaret, small and fine-boned, the sort who can wear cameos.’
    Caroline didn’t miss the note of wistfulness in her voice. She glanced at Birdie’s hands, clasped before her, large, square-fingered capable hands, the skin roughened by housework and gardening and felt a sudden pang. Had there ever been a James in Birdie’s life?
    ‘How about a cup of tea?’ she asked, lifting the heavy teapot and filling up the cups of the two women with the strong brown liquid they drank incessantly.
    ‘The sausages!’ Birdie gave a startled cry and rushed indoors, reappearing some minutes later with a platter of bacon and sausages, somewhat crisp around the edges but basically unharmed. Caroline fell upon the food ravenously while the two women exchanged glances of approval.
    After breakfast the three of them took a stroll round the garden. Margaret walked with difficulty, leaning on the arm of her niece, pausing frequently, while Birdie made little rushes at offending sprays of foliage with her secateurs. They had an elderly gardener, Soames, who came in twice a week to tend the flowerbeds, but the rest of the time it was Birdie who kept the garden in shape. They inspected the spring vegetables, late this year, neatly laid out in rows. Caroline, casting a glance at Birdie, wondered how much longer she would be able to do the kneeling and bending. Beyond the vegetable garden, fruit bushes grew, and further still, an orchard opened out, covered in fading blossom. In the distance across the fields rose the church steeple of Ravensfield village.
    ‘The first really warm day of the year,’ marvelled Birdie, perspiring slightly in her tweeds. ‘Especially for your birthday, Margaret.’
    ‘What time did Annabel say they’d be here?’ Caroline hoped her voice conveyed nothing more than casual interest.
    ‘She just said some time after lunch.’
    Her aunt paused for a moment to rest.
    ‘Julian had to go into the City this morning. They’ll probably turn up in time for tea.’
    But in fact the three of them were still sitting over their post-lunch cups of coffee when they heard the sound of Julian’s BMW turning into the drive. It pulled up before the steps in the obligatory shower of gravel. Annabel was at the wheel.
    Caroline caught her breath as she went forward to greet her sister. She looked