“No problem,” I said meekly. “What’s up? ”
“I don’t know how to break it to you gently, so I’ll just go ahead and say it,” Emma replied tersely. “The wedding’s off.”
“Good one,” I said, chuckling. “You almost sound convincing. Now stop joking around and—”
“I’m not joking,” she said heavily. “The wedding has been called off. Nell and Kit have postponed it indefinitely.”
“They’ve . . . they’ve what?” I hunched over the phone, unable to believe my ears. “Are you serious? Why in heaven’s name would they postpone the wedding? ”
“It’s Ruth and Louise Pym.” Emma took a shaky breath. “They’re dying.”
A shadow seemed to pass over the sun.
Two
I felt as though I’d been kicked in the chest. I stumbled across the room and sank, weak-kneed, onto a chair at the kitchen table. Emma’s heart-wrenching news shouldn’t have come as a surprise to me, but it had shaken me to the core.
Ruth and Louise Pym were the utterly identical twin daughters of a man who had for many years been the parson at St. George’s Church in Finch. The sisters had never married and had spent all of their industrious lives together in their father’s thatched, redbrick house on the outskirts of the village. No one knew how old they were, but they were by far the oldest members of our community—most guesses placed them well over the century mark. Although the sisters appeared to be as frail as lace, their energy had always been boundless, their work ethic, awe inspiring. They routinely accomplished more in one day than most women half their age could accomplish in a week.
When Bill and I had moved into the cottage, the Pym sisters had been among the first to welcome us. They’d attended our wedding, embroidered our sons’ christening gowns, invited us to countless tea parties, and shared with us their vast store of local lore. Ruth and Louise were keen gardeners, skilled needlewomen, superb cooks, faithful churchgoers, the best of good neighbors, and the only other pair of identical twins Will and Rob had ever met. They were, in short, irreplaceable.
“Ruth and Louise are dying?” I said, half-hoping I’d misunderstood Emma’s words. “Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” said Emma.
“How did you find out? ” I asked.
“Ruth called me around two o’clock this afternoon to let me know that she and Louise had finished making Nell’s veil,” Emma said. “The veil was their wedding gift to Nell. They’ve always been very fond of her.” Emma’s voice seemed to catch in her throat, but after a short pause she carried on. “To save them the trouble of dropping it off, I drove over to their house to pick it up. When they didn’t answer the door, I let myself in.”
I nodded. Locked doors were a rarity in Finch. My neighbors considered it perfectly acceptable to enter a house uninvited to do a favor for an absent friend.
“I found the finished veil neatly folded in a cardboard box on the dining room table,” Emma went on, “but Ruth and Louise were upstairs in bed. They told me they’d had a funny turn and insisted that there was no need to make a fuss, but I didn’t like their color or the way they were breathing, so I telephoned Dr. Finisterre. He came as quickly as he could and it didn’t take him long to make a diagnosis. Apparently he’s known about their condition for some time.”
“What condition?” I asked.
“It’s their hearts,” said Emma. “They’re . . . worn out.”
“I don’t understand,” I said, clutching the telephone with both hands. “They took a train trip to the seaside a couple of weeks ago. How could they make a journey like that if their hearts were weak? ”
“Dr. Finisterre advised them not to go,” Emma informed me, “but they were convinced that the sea air would do them good, so they went anyway. The doctor believes that the stress of travel brought on the current crisis.”
“I would have driven them, if they’d asked,” I said softly.
“We all would have,” said Emma, “but they didn’t ask. They have their pride, I suppose. They’re accustomed to looking after themselves.”
“It’s hard to break the habits of a lifetime,” I acknowledged, “especially such a long lifetime. Has the doctor taken them to the hospital? ”
“No, they’re still at home,” Emma said. “They wouldn’t let me or Dr. Finisterre call an ambulance for them. They refuse to go to the hospital and I can’t say that I blame them. I certainly don’t want to end my days hooked up to feeding tubes and monitors.”
“Nor do I,” I agreed, “but if something can be done to help them . . .”
“Nothing can be done,” Emma said with an air of finality. “Dr. Finisterre can make them comfortable, but apart from that . . . It’s only a matter of time.”