Houses of Stone (25 page)

Peggy picked up her flowing skirts and curtsied. The wide-brimmed straw hat fell over her eyes. "Damn thing," she muttered, shoving it back into place. "You wouldn't have a hat pin around, would you?"

"I'm as short of hat pins as I am of pink notepaper. Honestly, Peggy—"

"She won't see the joke, believe me. It's important to make a good first impression."

She looked so pleased with herself, and so charmingly, consciously absurd, that Karen burst out laughing. "Peggy, you light up my life—to quote a distinctly minor poet. I suppose the least I can do is comb my hair. Come in, it will only take me a minute."

Mincing on high heels, one hand clutching her hat, Peggy watched her return the manuscript to the briefcase. "Any luck?"

"Not in the sense I had hoped. The love interest has turned up. At least I think he's going to be the hero; he's dark and gruff and taciturn. He's also a doctor, which I gather makes him a social inferior."

"Not necessarily. But unless he's also landed gentry he probably wouldn't be considered a suitable suitor. You ought to change your blouse at least; that one looks rather grubby."

"Oh, all right. Is this one acceptable?"

Peggy stuck her head in the closet. "This one. Little flowers and a Peter Pan collar."

"How about you?" Karen asked, slipping into the blouse.

"So far it's all Cartright. But I'm only back to 1830. It's slow work, especially when you're reading script instead of print. Hurry up, can't you?"

She did not comment when Karen carried the briefcase downstairs and locked it in the trunk of her car. They followed the driveway to the front of the house and knocked at the door.

Karen had anticipated Mrs. Fowler's reaction with a certain amount of pleasure. She and Peggy would have made an absurd couple even without the hat, which was so wide-brimmed it made Peggy look like an animated mushroom. However, she underestimated Mrs. Fowler's breeding. Only the faintest flicker of criticism crossed her face when she saw them, and it was directed at Karen. Hearing voices from the living room,
the latter realized she had committed a social error. They weren't the only guests. This was a party, not a casual visit.

There were four other guests, all male. Two of them had been with Mrs. Fowler at the restaurant: a heavy, pudgy-faced elderly man with an expression of insufferable self-satisfaction, and a wizened little scarecrow of approximately the same age. The third man was also someone she had seen before—trying to "start something" with Cameron, as he had expressed it. The fourth . . .

Only Peggy's shrill cry of greeting stopped Karen from making a profane remark. "Why, Dr. Meyer, what a pleasure to see you again. I had no idea you'd be here today."

"It's my pleasure. But please, won't you call me Bill? Hello, Karen."

"Such an honor to have three such distinguished visitors," exclaimed Mrs. Fowler. "Dr. Finneyfrock, Dr. Holloway, allow me to present Colonel Bishop and Mr. Blair, two of our leading citizens. Both of them are prominent in civic and intellectual affairs. And this young man is one of those to whom our failing hands will pass the torch of learning and culture—my nephew, Robert Mansfield."

"Just call me Bobby," said Robert Mansfield, flashing his teeth, flexing his muscles, and seizing Karen's limp hand. "Old Cam took care I didn't get introduced last time we met, but I told you I'd see you again."

After shaking hands all around Karen sank into the nearest chair. She was the only one who wasn't dressed to the nines. Even Bobby had put on a coat and tie; his hair, stiffy and shiny with gel, had been shaped into upstanding curls. Meyer's charcoal-gray suit would have been appropriate for a wedding or a funeral, and the other men matched him in formality if not in shape. The Colonel's stomach strained the buttons of his waistcoat. Somehow Karen wasn't surprised when he modestly admitted to being an authority on Civil War battles—referring to that conflict, of course, as "The War of Southern Independence." Settling into a chair next to Peggy, whom he was kind enough to acknowledge as a fellow-historian, he started talking and, so far as Karen could tell, didn't stop until they were ready to leave.

His voice boomed a background accompaniment to the genteel conversation of the others. Mrs. Fowler did most of the talking. Bobby arranged his face in a smile and fixed pale-blue, white-lashed eyes on Karen. With his hair standing up in gluey tufts, he reminded her of an
albino rabbit. Mr. Blair said very little, but he nodded a lot. He asked Karen one question: "What do you think of the work of Mr. James Fenimore Cooper?" Karen's surprised reply—"I try not to think about it"—upset him to such an extent that he didn't try again. It also wrung an explosive noise from Bill Meyer, which he managed to suppress before it developed into a laugh.

Sandwiches (crustless, paper-thin and spread with various indeterminate substances) had been added to the inevitable macaroons. The Colonel and Bobby ate most of them. Since there was no hope of escape from the Colonel, Peggy was relieving her boredom by making fun of him. "How fascinating," Karen heard her say. "Really? Why, I never knew that. Do tell me more."

Karen tried not to look at her watch. How long, oh Lord, must she endure this agony? Bobby's fixed stare was driving her up the wall. He obviously expected she would be flattered by it. She couldn't pump Mrs. Fowler for information with Bill Meyer sitting there, ears pricked. Damn him, she thought, smiling sweetly at him as he proffered the plate of macaroons; he knows I'm about to explode with frustration and he's loving it.

After an hour and twenty minutes, Peggy jumped to her feet with a girlish giggle, her skirts billowing wildly. "My goodness gracious, just look at the time! I've been enjoying myself so much I couldn't tear myself away. Thank you so much, Mrs. Fowler; it's been a pleasure meeting you gentlemen—and seeing you, Bill dear—"

Bill dear left with them. The other men remained; Karen felt sure they were looking forward to a good gossip about the visitors, with special attention to her tactlessness and improper attire. The Colonel's parting remark was addressed to her. "We're all looking forward to your little talk on Wednesday, young lady."

As soon as they were out of earshot Peggy asked curiously, "What little talk is that?"

"I am addressing the literary society," Karen snapped. "Thanks to Bill here. He set me up."

Meyer caught Peggy's arm as she staggered. The hat fell off; he fielded it with a deft left-handed catch. "I said I was sorry," he said with an unrepentant grin. "You all right, Peggy?"

"It's these damned shoes."

Meyer shook his head sympathetically. "Martyrdom of that magnitude deserves a reward. Can I buy you a drink? Or a thick steak? Or both?"

"Sure," Peggy said, before Karen could reply. "Let me change my shoes first. My sneakers are in my car."

They turned into the driveway, Peggy still holding Meyer's arm. Karen followed, kicking at pebbles to relieve her feelings. Whatever Meyer's motive for inviting them to dinner, it would have been childish to refuse—but that didn't mean she had to like what she was doing.

"Who's that?" Meyer exclaimed, coming to a stop.

"Where?" Thrown off-balance, Peggy clutched at him. He thrust her at Karen and started to run.

Karen managed to stay on her feet and keep Peggy from falling. By that time Meyer was out of sight. Cursing female fashions, specifically footwear, Peggy tottered toward her car. She was changing into her sneakers when Meyer reappeared, pushing through the bushes at the back of the garage. He was disheveled and short of breath when he joined them.

"She got away. Must have parked in the alley; I heard a car start up and take off."

"She," Peggy repeated. "Who?"

Meyer hesitated. He had unbuttoned his coat and vest and loosened his tie. "I should have asked if you were expecting a visitor. She took off in such a hurry—"

"I didn't see anyone," Karen said.

"I only caught a glimpse of her, coming down the stairs. Did you?"

He spoke to Peggy. She shook her head. "I was too busy concentrating on walking. What did she look like?"

Meyer ran his fingers through his hair, dislodging a shower of twigs and leaves. "Almost my height, built like a tank. Sound like anyone we know?"

"Dorothea!" Karen exclaimed. "It can't be."

"I'm afraid it could," Meyer said.

"What are you talking about?" she demanded. "You're supposed to be looking for clues. I'd be the first to admit that Ismene's literary style lags
at times, but those descriptions are typical of the genre—the Byronic hero-villain, dark and gloomy, and the fair-haired hero—"

"No doubt. But that's not what I meant."

"I know what you meant, and no, I can't picture Bill Meyer as a Byronic hero."

"Hero-villain, you said. That's one of the problems, isn't it? Is he for us or against us?"

"Come on, Peggy. Surely you weren't naive enough to believe those protestations of his. He put on a good show tonight, I admit. I told you he can be charming when he wants to be."

"He does have a nice smile. 'A flood of sunlight breaking through the clouds

Karen
made a wordless sound of disgust. Peggy chuckled, and then sobered. "I'm not saying you're wrong about Bill, Karen, but you're too intelligent to let prejudice influence your judgment. So far he hasn't done anything wrong—except tease you a little—and he's done several helpful things. Look how he rushed chivalrously in pursuit of your shy visitor. Got his nice neat hair all messed up."

"I didn't see anyone. Did you?"

"I thought I caught a glimpse of someone ducking into the shrubbery. But I'm very suggestible," Peggy admitted calmly. "Are you accusing him of inventing the whole thing?"

"Possibly. On the other hand, it wouldn't surprise me to learn Dorothea was still on the trail. I only hope to God Joe Cropsey doesn't track me down. What did you think of Bill's offer to help excavate the stone house?"

"That's another of those wonderfully enigmatic Gothic touches," Peggy said gleefully. "Is he genuinely anxious to assist you, or does he have an ulterior motive? We may not know the truth until the denouement, when he saves you from a hideous fate or threatens you with same. In the latter case it will be Cameron who rushes to your side in the nick of time, risking his life to—"

"An even less likely scenario. Did you find anything I missed?"

With a shrug and a smile Peggy accepted the change of subject. "Can't say that I did. There's no question about the ambience—the terrain she describes, the flora and fauna, the presence of slave-servants . . . It's American, and Southern American at that. From her description of the
house we can make a very strong case for Amberley being the specific locale—in fact, the carved stone you described makes the identification virtually certain."

"Virtually?"

"That's the standard academic qualifier," Peggy said ironically. "There's no doubt in my mind. The time period is post-Revolution, but I haven't found anything that would pin it down more precisely, not even references to specific articles of costume. Cloaks and mantles and hoods and trailing skirts could apply to any time in the century. You'd think a woman would describe clothes in more detail."

"I hope you're not implying Ismene was a man. That's the old male-chauvinist syllogism: Women's books have no literary merit; this book has literary merit; hence this book could not have been written by a woman. Some idiot even claimed that
J
ane Eyre
and
Wuthering Heights
were written by Branwell Bronte."

"The town drunk of Haworth?" Peggy grinned. "Did he ever publish anything? Surely not even an idiot would make that claim unless he had something indisputably written by Branwell with which to compare the novels."

"That would be a logical procedure, wouldn't it? Branwell's own work, such as it was, proves beyond a doubt that he couldn't have written a salable Silhouette romance, much less
Wuthering Heights.
But the syllogism is hard to fight. What the hell do you think feminist critics are complaining about?"

"Don't yell at me, I'm on your side." Peggy pretended to cower. "I never doubted Ismene was female. Neither does Bill Meyer."

"Who gives a damn what Bill Meyer thinks? I don't want to talk about Bill Meyer. Or Cameron."

"Fine with me. But didn't it strike you, as it struck me, that Ismene's characters are more ambiguous than conventional Gothic heroes and villains? I haven't read that many of the damned things, but usually the dark brooding villain and the fair-haired rather vapid hero are more distinct. Heathcliffe and what's-'is-name—Edgar—in
Wuthering Heights,
the dark browed-Baron and the insipid youth in
Castle of Otranto
—"