“. . . only if you love it,” said Louise. “And you must love it for its own sake . . .”
“. . . not for ours,” said Ruth. “When a gift becomes a burden . . .”
“. . . it ceases to be a gift,” said Louise.
“You’re getting ahead of yourselves,” Bree protested. “You’re not gone yet.”
“We will be shortly,” said Ruth. “Lori?”
“I’m here,” I said, stepping forward.
“Thank you,” said Ruth.
“Thank you,” said Louise.
It was the first time I’d heard them speak as individuals. I was so surprised, and so deeply touched, that I nearly forgot my manners, but I managed to blurt an inadequate, “You’re welcome.”
“Tell Will and Rob,” said Ruth, “that we depend upon them . . .”
“. . . to carry on our tradition,” said Louise. “Finch wouldn’t be Finch without . . .”
“. . . a set of twins to call its own,” said Ruth.
“I’ll tell them,” I promised.
“Bree is a clever girl,” Ruth continued. “If she stays on, and if she chooses to cultivate her mind . . .”
“. . . as well as our garden,” said Louise, “you must help her . . .”
“. . . to attend university,” said Ruth. “We hear there’s quite a good one . . .”
“. . . not too terribly far from here,” said Louise.
“Oxford’s not too shabby,” I agreed, smiling. “Don’t worry. If Bree wants my help with anything, she’ll have it.”
“Lori is a woman of her word, Bree,” said Ruth. “If you need assistance of any kind . . .”
“. . . you can rely on her to provide it,” said Louise, “even if it means leaving her family . . .”
“. . . and traveling to the ends of the earth,” said Ruth.
“I’d do it all over again, if you asked me to,” I said.
“We won’t,” said Ruth. “You have brought our treasure . . .”
“. . . home to us,” said Louise. “We hope you’ll forgive us, Lori, but we would like . . .”
“. . . to be alone with our great-grandniece for a while,” said Ruth. “Would you please ask Nell . . .”
“. . . to bring up soup and sandwiches?” said Louise. “And perhaps some . . .”
“. . . seed cake,” said Ruth. “The poor child needs . . .”
“. . . feeding up,” said Louise.
I left the Pym sisters to dote on Bree, to plan for her future, to learn as much as they could about a girl they already loved. I left them basking in the auntly pleasures that had for so long been denied them, and as I closed the bedroom door, I caught a glimpse of their identical lips curving into identical smiles.
It was the last time I ever saw those smiles.
Twenty
Ruth Violet Pym and Louise Rose Pym died the day after I returned from New Zealand. They passed away on a golden October evening, in the house that had always been their home, with the vicar, Nell, and Kit watching over them, and their great-grandniece holding their hands.
St. George’s Church wasn’t big enough to hold everyone who attended the funeral. Mourners came from miles around, filling the church and the churchyard and spilling into the lane. Though heavy gray clouds blocked the sun, those who’d brought umbrellas weren’t forced to use them. The autumn rain showed its respect for the occasion by taking the day off.
Theodore Bunting, the vicar of St. George’s, had prepared for a larger than usual service by attaching loudspeakers to the bell tower, but since the only speakers he could afford made him sound like a mouse with a head cold, I was glad to be seated indoors.
The villagers had, of course, arrived in plenty of time to claim their regular spots, though a few had been displaced by the pallbearers, who sat upright and somber in the front pew. My family sat in the front pew as well, in part because Bill was a pallbearer, but mostly because Bree had asked us to sit with her. Will and Rob were torn between peering speculatively at the matching coffins and staring openly at Bree’s nose ring, but for once they kept their comments to themselves. I breathed a silent prayer of thanks for the blessing of self-control.
Bree, who was the subject of much speculation in the village as well as many curious glances in the church, sat on my right, at the end of our pew, near the center aisle. She had, unbeknownst to me, spent some of our snow day in Queenstown purchasing black suede ankle boots, a black miniskirt, and a clinging black sweater that concealed her tattoos but didn’t quite cover her tummy. Her youthful take on funeral attire set her apart from the rest of the mourners, as did her piercings, which, as Holly had observed, were on permanent display. When whispers began to swirl through the church, her expression became increasingly pugnacious, but she, like my boys, exercised praiseworthy self-restraint and said nothing.