Читать книгу Meg Harris Mysteries 6-Book Bundle - R.J. Harlick - Страница 19

I slowly hung up the phone, as an icy tingle of apprehension crept under my skin. François had reminded me that today was Friday. In two days it would be Sunday, the day Gareth was coming.

What a fool I’d been to give into Gareth. And for what? A stupid painting. Sure, I wanted it. But it was hardly a good enough reason to let him invade my new life at Three Deer Point. Nothing could be. Not even his supposedly renewed interest. And I believed that as much as I believed we could return to our good times.

So why had I said yes? Stupid idiot, that was me. You’d think I’d have learned by now. But the sound of his voice on the phone had taken me back to the early years of our marriage, when we’d been like any young couple in love. It had made me want to see him one last time, if only for the few minutes it took to retrieve the painting from his car. After all, for fifteen years he’d been a major force in my life. For that matter, still was, if my confused feelings were anything to go by.

Hell, what confusion. I really did want to see him, to touch him, even laugh with him again. But I was afraid, too afraid of where it would lead. They say history repeats itself. Renewal of our relationship would only lead to the disastrous ending it had already once reached. I found it impossible to believe that the Gareth of today could return to the man I’d fallen in love with and married. Too much time had passed. Too much had happened. And as if in confirmation, my arm began to throb.

If only I could shove these conflicting emotions back to where I’d managed to hide them over the course of three years. But it was too late. Gareth’s phone call had re-opened the door. Still, there was one remedy I knew that would help dull the pain, so I clamped a lid on Eric’s warning and poured myself a good measure of vodka.

Then, fortified with the glass, I resumed what I’d set out to do before the interruption of François’ phone call, the continuing search through Aunt Aggie’s belongings for any connection with Whispers Island. This too would help to take my mind off Sunday, and maybe, if the gods were on my side, I might even discover the deed.

The only remaining items in the attic offering promise were a couple of wooden boxes shoved under one of the eaves. Unfortunately, they were both nailed shut. So rather than trekking back down two flights of stairs to get a hammer, then up again, I struggled down to the main floor with the lightest of the heavy boxes and hoped I wasn’t wrenching my back for nothing.

I placed it on the carpet in what was once Aunt Aggie’s favourite room, the octagonal turret room, where the late afternoon sun was flooding through the five windowed sides. It lit up the words stamped on the box, Highland Malt Whiskey, the only brand Aunt Aggie would drink. Although I wasn’t following exactly in her footsteps, I at least was keeping up the Harris drinking tradition started by Great-grandpa Joe.

A hammer and large screwdriver soon revealed a box crammed with loose papers and envelopes, all with the brittle yellow texture that comes with age. On the first envelope I picked-up, the address, Miss Agatha Harris, Three Deer Point, Echo Lake, Quebec, confirmed the box did belong to Aunt Aggie. And the cancellation date of July 13, 1910 on the George V stamp told me I was far enough back in time.

I slid the thin sheets of paper from the envelope and eagerly unfolded them. But a quick read told me I wasn’t going to be lucky enough to find mention of Whispers Island in the first letter. Filled with girlish chatter about friends and annoying siblings, it was a letter from a friend called Edith.

I discovered more letters to Agatha from Edith who, judging from their gushing tone and almost daily frequency, must have been her best bosom buddy. While the soul-baring contents reminded me of my own childhood friendships, it was obvious that islands and land holdings didn’t even enter the periphery of her girlish concerns.

I scooped out several more layers of papers and discovered a few ancient photographs. From one grinned Great-grandpa Joe, who stood with one arm embracing his rifle and the other resting on the shoulder of a much shorter Indian man, probably his guide. Next to them hung three large deer carcasses, which were strung up by their feet from a beam of the easily recognizable Three Deer Point verandah. Their trophy-size antlers made me wonder if this wasn’t the memorable hunt that gave my property its name.

When I reached into the box to extract more papers, my fingers encountered a strange object wedged into a corner. It felt smooth and hard and oddly warm, with a smokiness that made my nostrils tingle. When extracted, I realized the smell came from the soot-coated metal interior of the bowl of a well-used Indian peace pipe. The end of the reed-like wooden stem was also charred, suggesting the pipe might have been partially consumed by a fire.

I found it a strange item for Aunt Aggie to keep and wondered if there was a story behind it, but decided when I retrieved the next items from the box that the pipe, like these postcards, was merely a memento from her close ties with the people of the Migiskan Band. While the postcards confirmed Aunt Aggie’s grand tour of Europe, they also revealed she had a friend among the Algonquin by the name of Snow Flower.

Several of the postcards mentioned “beaux”, as she called them, which made me think that if I didn’t find anything related to Whispers Island, I might at least discover the answer to her secret marriage.

The rest of the box was filled with more of the same, loose letters, postcards, a few pictures and a thick packet of letters tied with a purple ribbon. Intrigued by the packet, I untied the bow. A folded slip of paper slid onto the floor.

Dearest Agatha,

I am returning your letters. Given how events have turned out, I thought you would want to keep them yourself. While I have found them most enjoyable, I am sure you will take greater pleasure in their memories. You might even someday want to pass them on to your daughter. Oh dear, did I say daughter. I still am unable to imagine either of us as mothers.

Love,

Edith

At the word daughter, I almost choked. First, there was this unknown husband, now it seemed Aunt Aggie might have had a child. I ripped the ribbon from the packet and settled down to read the first letter.

Paris

September 15, 1913

Dearest Edith

You know how we’ve always talked about meeting the man of our dreams. Well, I’ve finally met him, and he is much, much more than I ever dreamed of. Tall, very tall, taller than Father, wavy brown hair with deep, deep blue eyes and a wonderful smile. And oh, he is so charming and correct. He has even tamed Father, and you know how difficult Father can be.

We were introduced a month ago at the Comte de Montigny’s Ball. He asked me no less than five times to dance. I was so surprised that such an aristocratic gentleman would pay such attention to plain boring me, that you can imagine my greater surprise when he asked me to dance seven times at the Duc du Bois Ball, three nights later. Since that evening, he has been in constant attention. He even asked Father if he could call on me.

Oh, Edith, I am so excited. Imagine, a German baron actually being interested in little old me. Oh dear, I can see I’ve forgotten to tell you his name. Baron Johann von Wichtenstein. Isn’t that such a wonderfully elegant name?

I had better close this letter. Mimi just knocked on the door to say Johann has arrived. Yes dear, I even call him by his first name. I will write you as soon as I can.

Love,

Your very best friend,

Agatha

I wondered if Baron von Wichtenstein could be the mystery husband. His name at least started with a “W”, although it was hardly a simple English name. His description, tall with brown hair, fit the man in the wedding picture. And he was German. So, if Eric’s theory was right, this Baron von Wichtenstein might have had a duelling scar too, like the man in the photo.

Several letters later, the possibility became more promising.

Gasthaus Lindenhof, Berlin

December 18, 1913

Dearest Edith

As you can see, we have finally arrived in Berlin. It took us more than a month to travel from Paris, one long, lonely month without Johann. I was dying from impatience, but Father insisted on taking his time, saying he wanted to experience the German countryside. But it was hardly countryside we toured, more like every factory from the French border to Berlin. They were filthy and dreadfully boring. But I shouldn’t complain, now that I am with my Johann. And he was even waiting for us at the railroad station with his new horseless carriage. What a treat. I donned veils and sat fearless in the back with Father.

Oh, Edith, it was wonderful to see him again, and it was very difficult to remain perfectly correct in front of Father and the servants. I wanted to fling my arms around him. In two days time, we travel to his castle, Schloss Grünwald, where we will spend Christmas. I hope we can find someplace in this castle to escape from our parents.

I am very nervous about meeting his parents. Whatever will they think of me, a commoner from an uncivilized land? Johann says not to be frightened of them. They look much sterner than they are. He says that I only need smile and be my usual charming self, and they will be won over as he has been won over. Dear, dear Johann.

Unfortunately, our timing doesn’t appear to be good. The Germans and the British are going through one of those periods when they don’t like each other. In fact, Father is worried that it may develop into something more serious than a diplomatic spat. So if we are going to get married, it must be soon.

Just imagine marrying Johann and staying with him forever and ever, here in Germany. I know I would miss you and Three Deer Point terribly, but I would miss Johann more if I couldn’t be with him. Edith, pray that his parents approve of me and my family. He needs their approval before he will formally ask my father for my hand. I don’t know what we will do if they don’t give it.

Love,

Your very best friend,

Agatha

To this point, Aunt Aggie had written her dear friend Edith every two weeks, if not more frequently. With this last letter, she suddenly stopped. The next and final letter was written four months later.

Villa Bencista, Fiesole

April 3, 1914

Dearest Edith

Thank you so much for your letters. They have been like a ray of sunshine in this dark hole I’ve been buried in. Whenever I felt I couldn’t continue, I would reread them and feel so comforted.

I apologize for being such a poor writer, but I know you understand. It has been most difficult these past months, but I think now I can even say his name, Johann, without falling into a pit of black despair. The penetrating Italian sun has helped and, of course, your letters.

We are coming home. Father has booked passage on the H.M.S. Lusitania, leaving Southampton on the 31st of May. I am so looking forward to returning to you and all that is familiar and comforting. It will be wonderful to hear your sweet voice again and to see your smiling face. You must come with me to Three Deer Point. I hunger for its cleansing wildness and isolation from all that has gone so terribly wrong.

Johann has written many times, even came to the villa, but I refused to see him or even read the letters. It is over. I cannot forgive him for what he has done.

Love,

Your sad but much wiser friend,

Agatha

I mentally scratched out Baron Johann von Wichtenstein’s name from my very short list of candidates for secret husband. Poor Aunt Aggie, she wasn’t any better at keeping her men than I was.

Unfortunately, it left me with Mother’s disreputable gentleman with a short English name, beginning with “W”, and so far I’d not come across a name like that in these letters.

But it was Edith’s mention of a daughter that confused me the most. Aunt Aggie with a daughter was even more implausible than a husband. A husband you could pretend never happened if the marriage ended quickly, but a child was an entirely different matter. Unless, of course, the child had died. Still, this would be something my family would know about, not something to hide.

Poor Aunt Aggie. I could still picture her on lazy summer afternoons, sunk into her rocking chair deep within the shade of the verandah, glass in hand, the pale liquid flowing with the rhythm of the rocking. “Me medicine,” she used to call it.

Well, it never did her any harm, I thought as I refilled my vodka glass. No reason why it should me. And as the numbing warmth of the tonic crept over me, my anxieties over Gareth retreated further.