“What’s ironic?” I asked.
Cameron rested his folded arms on the bar. “Old man McConchie struck it rich mining gold ore. The site of his original claim is in Skipper’s Canyon—only a few miles from where we’re sitting.”
“So Bree wound up living within a stone’s throw of the source of the fortune she might have inherited,” I said. “I wonder if she knows?” I sipped my hot cocoa. “Did New Zealand have its own gold rush?”
“Yes indeed,” said Cameron. “If you take a jet-boat ride up the Shotover River, you’ll see old mining equipment rusting away in the water. Our gold rush happened later than the one in America, but the results were the same. Boom and bust. Camp sites became towns that became ghost towns when the gold ran out. Old man McConchie was cleverer than most, though. He used his earnings to build freezer works.”
“Forgive me,” I said, warming my hands on my cup, “but I have no idea what freezer works are.”
“New Zealand was England’s abbatoir back then,” Cameron explained. “Most of our sheep ended up as mutton on English dinner plates. Because of the distances involved, the meat had to be stored in refrigerated buildings and shipped in refrigerated ships. The McConchie family owned half the freezer works in the country for a time, but they went bust shortly after the Great War.”
“What happened?” I asked.
“The usual,” said Cameron. “When old man McConchie died, his oldest son took charge, but he wasn’t as clever as his dad. He put his faith in the wrong people and the business fell apart.”
“Which is unfortunate,” I said, “but not terribly ironic.”
“It’s ironic that the McConchies looked down on Aubrey Pym as a gold digger when their own fortune was based on . . . digging gold.” He looked through the bar’s glass walls to Lake Wakatipu. “What a long, strange trip it’s been, eh? Up and down the country, and back and forth in time. You’ve got to be pleased that it turned out all right in the end.”
“I couldn’t have done any of it without you,” I said. “And Donna’s biscuits.”
Cameron chuckled, finished his cocoa, and got to his feet. “I’m going up. It’s getting late and I promised Donna I’d call her as soon as we found Bree.”
“Tell her I said hello.” I turned to look up at him. “And Cameron, I want you to know—”
“See you in the morning,” he interrupted. “Breakfast in the dining room at half past eight.” As he walked away, he called over his shoulder, “Good night!”
“Good night,” I called back, feeling mildly deflated. I’d wanted to thank him from the bottom of my heart for going out of his way to make the Pym sisters’ dream come true, but it looked as though I’d have to hold on to my thanks a little longer. I shook my head, finished my own cocoa, and repaired to my room to deliver the good news to my husband.
The aftershock hit toward the end of my phone call with Bill. I thought at first that a heavy truck had driven past the hotel, then that it had been buffeted by a strong gust of wind, but as my bed continued to jiggle, I realized what was actually going on.
“Earthquake in progress,” I reported dispassionately.
“Really?” said Bill. “What’s it like?”
“Weird,” I said, “but not terrifying. Imagine lying atop a quivering bowl of Jell-O. Something’s rattling in the minibar, but nothing has fallen over. I guess that’s why the lamps are attached to the bedside tables. They’ve been like that in every hotel room, but I didn’t realize it was a safety measure. There. It’s finished.”
Bill gave a low whistle. “Ten points for sangfroid, Lori.”
“I’m turning into a Kiwi,” I said. “Nothing fazes me. Lake Wakatipu could flood its banks and I wouldn’t turn a hair. It’s all about living in faith, not in fear. I hope Bree can learn to live like that.”
“She’s taking an enormous leap of faith by coming to England with you,” Bill said. “I don’t know if I’d have the courage to step into the unknown at a moment’s notice.”
“I think you would,” I said. “In fact, I’m absolutely sure you would. When I first met Cameron he said he’d walk through fire for you. Now I know why.”
“Ah,” said Bill, after a short pause. “He told you.”
“I’ll give you a hero’s welcome when I come home,” I said.
“Shouldn’t it be the other way around?” he asked.
“No,” I said, smiling. “We both know who the hero is in our house.”
I held the cell phone to my heart after we said good night, then plugged it into the charger and opened the blue journal.
“Dimity?” I said. “The search is over. We found Bree.”
I spent nearly an hour recapitulating the day’s events and Bree’s far-reaching revelations. My voice was hoarse by the time Aunt Dimity’s handwriting curled across the page.