I’m certain that they’ll tell you the whole story eventually. In the meantime, try to focus on Bree’s problems, which are far more serious than your own. I must say that I agree with Cameron’s assessment of the situation. The child seems to be in a very fragile state.
“If the child would sit still for two minutes, I might be able to help her,” I said. “But until she stays put long enough for Cameron and me to pin her down, there’s not a darned thing I can do about her fragile state.”
Concentrate, then, on Bill’s splendid news. Dr. Finisterre has taken Ruth and Louise off oxygen. Nell’s nursing and their fascination with your journey have given them a new lease on life. You’ve made a significant contribution to their unanticipated progress, Lori. It must warm your heart to know that they’ve regained some of their strength.
“It’s the best news I’ve heard since they fell ill,” I acknowledged.
And think of how much you’ve learned about the New Zealand branch of the Pym family.
“Hold on a minute,” I said. I looked up from the journal and peered intently into the middle distance. Aunt Dimity’s words had triggered a memory, but I needed a moment to capture it. “Amanda said something strange this morning, Dimity. I’d forgotten about it until now, when you mentioned the New Zealand branch of the Pym family.”
What did Amanda say?
I glanced down at the journal, then looked away again, frowning in concentration. “She said that, when Ed Pym was drunk, he’d talk about ‘the English aunts.’ He ‘cursed them’—those were her words,” I went on, nodding. “Amanda thought he was delusional.”
A reasonable assumption, given his inebriated state.
“He wasn’t delusional, though, was he?” I said. “He must have been referring to Ruth and Louise.”
He may have heard his father speak of them.
“Okay,” I said slowly. “So Aubrey Pym, Senior, tells his son A. J. about the twin sisters he left behind in England. And A. J. passes the story along to his son, Ed. And Ed ends up cursing the English aunts. What story did Ed hear, Dimity? What made him think that Ruth and Louise were the bad guys?”
As I’ve indicated before, family feuds can span many generations.
“Yes,” I said, “but Aubrey’s dispute was with his father, not with his sisters. Ruth and Louise didn’t kick him out of the house. His father did. I could understand it if he told nasty stories about his dear old dad, but why would he paint his sisters as villains? They’d done nothing to harm him. They were innocent bystanders in the whole affair.”
Perhaps the story became garbled as it was passed down from father to son.
“Or from father to daughter,” I said. “I wonder what Bree knows, or thinks she knows, about her great-grandaunts?”
I expect you’ll find out when you and Cameron reach Wellington.
“I expect so,” I said, “unless Bree has taken off for Rio or Nairobi or Minneapolis. . . .”
I sincerely doubt that Bree can afford to go to any of those places. Have faith, Lori. You will find her. Good night, my dear.
“Good night.”
I watched Aunt Dimity’s handwriting fade from the page, placed the journal on the bedside table, twiddled Reginald’s ears, and turned out the light. As I snuggled my head into the pillows, however, a small part of my brain was still chattering away like a fantail.
How would Bree react to the Pym sisters’ letter? I asked myself. Would she rip it to shreds, or weep tears of joy over it?
And how, I wondered, had my husband saved Cameron’s life?
Thirteen
The fog had lifted by the time I met Cameron for breakfast in the Matterhorn the following morning. When we checked out of the hotel, Teresa urged us to return soon and to stay longer. I responded with a courteous nod, even though I was dead certain that she wasn’t talking to me.
I was faintly shocked when the hotel cat failed to follow us to the jeep. Eau de Cameron combined with the fragrance of dead trout should have been irresistible to her, but she stayed in her grotto, intent, no doubt, on seducing the next good-looking stranger who walked into the chateau.
It took us a little over an hour to drive back to the Taupo airport, where Aidan Dun was waiting for us, clad in brown corduroy trousers, a green oiled-cotton jacket, and a beat-up straw cowboy hat decorated with fishing lures. I shared the last of the Anzac biscuits with him—they didn’t seem to get stale—and we shot the breeze while Cameron refueled the plane.
“Has Cameron ever told you a story about someone saving his life?” I asked.
“Sure,” said Aidan. “He claims that Donna saved his life when she married him.”
My spirits, which had risen briefly, settled back into their original, frustrated position.
“Just his wife?” I pressed. “No one else?”
Aidan tilted his cowboy hat back and rubbed his jaw thoughtfully as he mulled over the question.
“I hauled him away from a bar fight once,” he said finally. “If Donna ever found out that he’d been stupid enough to get himself into a bar fight, she’d kill him, so I guess you could say I saved his life.”