Houses of Stone (3 page)

"I understand your position, Simon," she said steadily. "Now hear mine. The first person to get hold of this manuscript, by hook or crook
or legal purchase, will be the one to publish it. If it goes to a university or library, they'll pick one of their own people to handle it. I wouldn't have a chance."

"You believe you can persuade your college to—"

"Simon, you're not listening! Even if the college would put up the money, which is unlikely, there's at least one other person on the faculty who would lay claim to it. He'd probably succeed, too, because he sucks up to the board and the faculty senate and I don't. Bill Meyer at Yale, and Dorothea Angelo at Berkeley—to name only two—would kill for the chance to get this. And both institutions have a hell of a lot more money than my college."

"Yes, I understand that. But you—"

"Let me finish." He hated being interrupted, and now she had done it twice. She plunged on, desperately seeking words that would convince him. "Do you know what a less scrupulous person would do in my place? Accept your invitation to spend the night, slip you a sleeping pill and sneak out, with the manuscript, to one of those all-night copying places."

Simon's eyes widened. "That would be a despicable act."

"Of course. I'd never commit it, but I can think of several other people who wouldn't hesitate for a second. You of all people ought to know that the definition of legal ownership with regard to old manuscripts is hideously complex. The pages themselves, the physical manuscript, can be bought or sold, inherited, given away. I would be guilty of theft if I stole it. But what about the text—the words? They can't be copyrighted, they are old enough to be in the public domain. If I had a copy of the text, I doubt very much if you could prevent me from publishing it. I'd sure as hell be willing to take that chance—and so would Bill Meyer, or dear old Joe Cropsey, my favorite departmental chairman. That's why I have to own it, Simon, and guard it with my life—to keep other people from getting their hands on it. It wouldn't take more than two hours to have a copy made."

She was breathless when she finished, but she had made her point. Simon was looking very sober. "I hadn't thought of it that way. It is true that there are other interested parties. Your own fault, Karen; you were the one who made Ismene famous. How many copies of your edition of the poems were sold? How many articles on her have appeared since then?"

Karen didn't answer. It was particularly embittering to realize that if she hadn't made Ismene famous, in the scholarly world at least, she wouldn't have to fear competition. On the other hand, Simon would not have called her first if she had not been the acknowledged authority. The manuscript itself might have been overlooked, discarded, if she had not publicized that vital name. The very idea made her break into a cold sweat.

"Where did you get it?" she asked.

"From a trunk in a dusty attic, of course. Isn't that the traditional source for such finds? In fact, most discoveries of this nature do come from places like that. Remember the first half of the
Huckleberry Finn
manuscript that was found a few years ago? Mark Twain had sent it to a friend, who evidently mislaid it; it remained in a trunk in Gluck's attic for over a century."

Karen smiled sweetly. "If you think you are going to distract me, Simon, you are sadly mistaken."

Simon sighed. "The house from which this manuscript came belonged to an old gentleman who was a pack rat, like his ancestors before him. When he died, the new owner called in a local auctioneer and told him to clear the place out in preparation for a sale. The auctioneer is a man with whom I've dealt before; local dealers often consult me about books and manuscripts. He and the owner agreed to let me handle this particular item, since it was—shall we say—somewhat esoteric."

"Who—" she began.

"You know I can't tell you that," Simon interrupted with a frown.

"Are you selling on consignment?"

"No. I bought it outright." He hesitated for a moment, and then named a figure. It was less than she had feared, but more than she had hoped. Simon was too damned honorable; he could have told the owner the manuscript was worthless, and offered him ten dollars as a gesture of goodwill.

"I'll top your highest bid," she repeated. "Whatever it is." Reaching into her purse, she took out her checkbook. "I've got seven thousand, six hundred in my savings account. I'll give you seven thousand as a deposit. And yes, thank you—I will spend the night."

Karen had reached the faculty parking lot before she realized the sound— repeated, peremptory, vaguely familiar—was that of her own name. She turned. The form bearing down on her was also familiar: Dr. Margaret Finneyfrock, professor of American history, known to her friends as Peggy. She insisted on the diminutive, for reasons Karen had never understood; it certainly didn't suit her. Her crop of short gray curls looked as if it had been trimmed with garden shears, her weathered face was devoid of makeup, her stocky frame was clad in one of her legendary tweed suits. Her students claimed that when she bought a new one she weighted the pockets with stones and left it hanging in her closet until it had been suitably aged before putting it on. The skirts always bagged
at the seat and the pockets always sagged and the fabric was always frayed by the claws
of
Peggy's cats.

Peggy was not wearing a coat, and Karen realized it was a mild, sunny day. She hadn't taken notice of the weather or the flowerbeds, which were bright with crocuses and daffodils.

"Are you going deaf, or just trying to avoid me?" Peggy demanded. "I've been bellowing at you for five minutes. Where the hell do you think you're going?"

"Home. Why the hell shouldn't I?"

"There is an extremely exasperated young woman outside your office door who could answer that. She claims she had an appointment with you at eleven."

"Oh, Lord." Karen bit her lip. "Debbie. This is the second ... I suppose I'll have to see her."

"Don't bother. She went stamping off after she'd unloaded on me. I don't know why they all unload on
me.
I certainly don't invite— Hey, wait a minute!" Karen turned. Peggy caught her by the arm. "I didn't chase you all this way just to tell you you'd screwed up. Why do you think I went by your office in the first place? I haven't seen you for over a week. Let's go have lunch."

"Sorry. I really don't have time."

Peggy gripped Karen's other arm and swung her around so that they stood face-to-face. The expression was not entirely accurate; Peggy was five inches shorter than Karen, and she had to tip her head back in order to meet the latter's eyes. Apparently she did not approve of what she saw.

"You look terrible," she said bluntly. "What have you been doing? Not eating or sleeping, obviously. Is something wrong?"

Not sleeping, Karen thought. Dreaming. The flash of memory—palpable darkness, weighting her down—shivered through her body, and Peggy's grip tightened. "What is it?"

"Nothing. I'm fine. I've been working, that's all. A new project. I've got to get back to it, I don't have time for—"

"Then you'd damned well better make time. You'll fall ill if you go on like this, and then where will your precious project be? This isn't an invitation, it's an order."

"Did Joan put you up to this?" Karen demanded. "Or Sharon?"

"They're worried about you too. You didn't show up for lunch last week, or call to tell them you weren't coming. You aren't answering your phone and you're hardly ever in your office."

"So? I've been busy. Those lunches aren't formal meetings, we just get together when we can. They aren't my keepers, I don't owe them—"

"They are your friends," Peggy interrupted. "You owe them. It was Sharon who called me; you know these psychologists, they're always reading sinister meanings into sudden alterations of behavior. Joan's theory is that you have a new boyfriend."

Karen smiled in spite of herself. She didn't need Peggy's critical stare to know she did not look like a woman in love. Her panty hose had a run and her lipstick must be ... Had she put on makeup that morning? She couldn't remember. "Oh, all right," she said ungraciously. "Where do you want to go?"

"Anyplace that has a liquor license and does not serve tofu in any form. Come on. I'll drive."

Once she had her prisoner safely in the car, Peggy relapsed into tactful silence, and Karen felt herself beginning to relax. Wilmington was a pretty town, nestled in the folds of the hills Marylanders euphemistically referred to as mountains; the spring sunshine freshened the facades
of
the old houses, and the new green of the lawns was freckled with bright-yellow dandelions. Quite a contrast to that gloomy day a week ago when she had driven back from Baltimore through a last-of-the season snowstorm. Spring had come on unnoticed by her; she had scarcely left the house since, except when she happened to remember she had a class or a faculty meeting.

They passed through the old town and headed west toward one of the shopping centers that had sprung up, with their cluster of surrounding subdivisions. "I thought we'd try that new Mexican restaurant at the mall," Peggy explained. "They say the food is pretty good."

"You're just trying to get as far away from campus as possible," Karen said. "Don't worry, I won't leap out and try to escape. You were right; I do need a break. Thanks."

"For what? My motives were purely selfish, as they always are."

Karen studied her with an affectionate smile. Peggy's gruff voice, deepened to bass-baritone by years of chain smoking, and her disdain for feminine fripperies concealed a personality as soft as marshmallow. It
wasn't surprising that Joan and Sharon, Karen's closest friends on the faculty, had appealed to Peggy; everybody unloaded on her, including students in other departments. Even the least perceptive of them realized within a week that there was a mother hen under the gruff facade. Peggy yelled at them and scolded them and was always there when they needed her.

As she was for me, Karen thought, dutifully stuffing herself with the taco salad Peggy had made her order. She hadn't realized how hungry she was until she had actually eaten most of the monstrous object— chili, guacamole, lettuce and tomatoes and shredded cheese and a mound of sour cream in a casing of puffed dough.

"You can have a margarita now if you want," said Peggy. She had had two.

"No, thanks."

"Coffee, then." Peggy summoned the waitress with a peremptory flourish of her arm. With a wry smile, Karen nodded agreement. The preliminaries having been concluded, Peggy was about to get down to the real business of the meeting.

"Has somebody been complaining about me?" Karen asked for openers. She was pretty sure she knew the answer.

"You've missed two classes and God knows how many student conferences," Peggy said. "But of course you know who's done the complaining—your favorite departmental chairman, Joe Cropsey. All under the guise of fatherly solicitude. Perhaps you've been ill? Perhaps you've had bad news from home? Perhaps—giggle, smirk, nudge, nudge—your personal life has gone sour?"

"He would think of that," Karen muttered, shoving a wilted scrap of taco around the plate.

"He wants to be part of your personal life," Peggy said. She added dispassionately, "Nasty little prick. You'd better tell me, or you'll have him oozing around offering to console you."

"A fate worse than death. I'd like to tell you, actually. I guess I've reached the stage where I need some dispassionate advice. I hadn't ..." She brushed a lock of limp brown hair away from her face. It was long overdue for a shampoo. She went on, "I hadn't realized how madly preoccupied I've been. It may take a while; do you have the time?"

"I have all day," Peggy said.

She had finished her coffee by the time the tale was told. She accepted a refill and asked the waitress to replace Karen's untouched, tepid tea.

"So did you dope the old gent?"

"Of course not." With a wry smile, Karen added, "I wouldn't have gotten away with it; he watched me like a hawk. In the end he consented to take my check. He made me read some of the manuscript first, though, honorable soul that he is. Not that he had to force me. That's why I stayed the night and missed half my appointments next day. I'm too noble to steal and copy it, but I'm not noble enough to resist the chance to read as much as I could."

"So what is it?"

"It is a novel. A Gothic novel."

"Ruined castles, dastardly villains in hot pursuit of the helpless heroine's virginity?" Peggy grinned. "I used to read that sort of thing. I was still in my twenties, which is some excuse."

"You're thinking about the imitation Gothics, most of which were nothing of the sort, that were all over the bookstores thirty years ago." Unconsciously Karen assumed her lecturer's pose. "The original Gothic novel began with
The Castle of Otranto
in 1764, and reached its height in the novels of Mrs. Radcliffe thirty years later. They were certainly overburdened with dastardly villains and vapid heroines, ancient castles and Deadly Secrets; but the Gothic romance represents a significant development in the history of the modern novel. The images of imprisonment and danger represent the social, intellectual and economic frustration of women in a rigid paternalistic society—"

"Spare me. I'm not knocking literary criticism, but I just don't give a damn about analysis of that sort, be it Freudian or feminist. The only thing I care about is whether it's a good read."

"Do you consider Jane
Eyre
a good read? How about
Wuthering
Heights?"

"They aren't Gothic novels."

"They are in the Gothic tradition. Gloomy, isolated old houses, glowering Byronic heroes, threatened heroines—"

Peggy's eyes narrowed. "But those are great works of literature. Are you saying that this manuscript is of the same caliber?"