Free Beyond All Dreams by Elizabeth Camden Page B

your friend,” she said flatly. “I hope the meal will stretch.”
    â€œDon’t worry, I brought a shank of smoked ham,” Anna said.
    Ruth’s eyes lit up. “Meat! Oh, I haven’t been able to afford meat in weeks.” She accepted the wrapped cut of ham.
    Anna was pleased to see Ruth’s mood brighten, especially since discussing her father was always a delicate topic between them. She followed her aunt back to the kitchen, where a small pot of lentils sat simmering on the stove. A loaf of brown bread was the only other food in sight. Anna always brought extra food when Neville came, but Ruth put the ham inside the icebox, clearly not intending to share.
    â€œI’ll step outside and have a look at your gutters, shall I?” Neville asked.
    It would give Anna a few moments to bring up the subject of the letters. Her father had always posted two letters at a time—one for her and another discussing “grown-up business” addressed to her aunt.
    Anna grabbed a knife and began dragging it through the loaf of bread, careful to cut uniform slices. “Do you remember the letters father sent us?”
    â€œHow could I forget? Always full of instructions and worrying over you.”
    â€œDo you still have any of them?”
    â€œI’m not a librarian who thinks every piece of paper with a word scribbled on it needs to be saved for posterity.”
    The glimmer of hope inside Anna grew smaller. “You don’t have them anymore?”
    â€œOf course not. I usually tossed them out with the next batch of trash.”
    Anna set the knife down and drew a careful breath. Whenever she delved into the past, she was liable to touch raw nerves and awaken the firestorm of bitterness and regret that simmered between her and Ruth. After all, Uncle Henry’s winter coat still hung from the hook on the back of the kitchen door, as thoughhe might return any moment, when the man had been dead for fourteen years. All because of Anna.
    â€œWere Papa’s letters to you only about instructions for my care? Or did he sometimes . . .” How could she frame this question? She didn’t know what her father had been trying to communicate in that final letter, so it was difficult to probe Aunt Ruth’s memory. “The last letter I received from Papa, dated just a week before the Culpeper sank, seemed very strange. Do you remember if his final letter to you was also strange? Did he go into unusual detail about anything?”
    The pot banged as Aunt Ruth moved the lentils to the far side of the stove. “All his letters were the same: rules, instructions, and nonstop worrying over his precious Anna. You’d think he didn’t trust us, the way he worried over you.”
    It wasn’t an entirely misplaced fear. Ruth and Henry had never had children of their own and weren’t particularly affectionate people. It had been a lonely household to grow up in.
    Anna’s shoulders sagged. It seemed that as her curiosity about the Culpeper grew, the likelihood of finding more information dwindled. Feeling deflated, she walked over to the small jar tucked amid the tins of flour and tea. Lifting the lid, she tilted the jar to peek inside. Only two dollars and a few coins rattled in the bottom. Without a word she reached into her pocket and slipped a small wad of bills into the jar—the unspoken routine they’d been practicing for years. While there was little familial affection between the two of them, Aunt Ruth took it for granted that Anna would support her.
    There were so many things Anna could do with the money that went to Ruth each month. All her adult life she’d wished to buy herself a typewriter. Or perhaps a private room in O’Grady’s. Not that she needed a typewriter or her own room, but it was fun to dream all the same.
    â€œLet me help set the table,” Anna said. She began removing bowls from the cupboard. If there