Houses of Stone (4 page)

"I don't know what it is yet," Karen said in a low voice. "Simon gave me a copy of the first thirty pages. He's doing the same, damn him, for
all the other potential buyers. I've spent the last week going over and over those pages and making a typewritten copy. The text is awfully hard to read. The ink has faded, the handwriting is minuscule—paper was expensive in those days, they crammed as much as they could onto a page—and there are a lot of interpolations and abbreviations and interlineations. I can only do a few pages at a time before my eyes start aching."

"I see." Peggy lit another cigarette. "At least I think I do. This is really important to you, isn't it?"

"It could be the most important thing that's ever happened to me. Or ever will happen. Grants, job offers from big universities, a step, maybe two steps, up the academic ladder, national recognition."

"Whew. That big, huh? For heaven's sake, relax," she added in some alarm. "You're bending that spoon into a circle. Your friend the bookseller promised it to you, didn't he?"

"He promised me I could top the highest bid. It's not like a regular auction, he's only giving the others a chance to make one offer. That's damned decent of him, really, he's doing me a big favor. He says this is the only way he can determine what it's worth."

Peggy's eyes narrowed. "What kind of money are we talking about here? And where are you proposing to get it?"

"I don't know; I don't know." Karen brushed at the fog of smoke hovering over the table. "I haven't even thought about it. I've been too absorbed—"

"Obsessed is more like it." Peggy blew out a rather wobbly smoke ring. "Don't bother defending yourself; I know how I'd feel if a comparable discovery came into my hands. There's no sense worrying about money yet. Maybe the other bidders won't be interested. Maybe they won't be able to come up with the cash."

"You don't understand."

"So tell me."

"Simon has contacted a number of people. Two of them have expressed interest and asked to see the merchandise. He won't tell me their names, but I'm sure one of them is Bill Meyer. Once that bastard sees it . . ." Her voice rose.

"Calm down," Peggy said. "Who's Bill Meyer?"

"Yale. Associate professor. Specializes in Early American literature and
in smart-ass, nasty reviews. His critique of my edition of Ismene's poems was a masterpiece of snottiness. He's also a die-hard male chauvinist and a defender of the canon." Seeing Peggy's look of exasperation, she explained, "The traditional literary canon of great works was defined by men, and consists mostly of male authors. One major book on nineteenth-century literature doesn't even admit Jane Austen or the Brontes or George Eliot into the sacred ranks. Meyer and his kind claim there aren't any great books by women on the list because women didn't
write
any great books."

"Huh," said Peggy. "Then why would he want—"

"This is a major discovery, Peggy, whatever its eventual literary status may be. There are a number of eighteenth-century novels by women— more than most people realize, because they have been neglected and rejected by critics. For example, I'll bet you've never heard of Charlotte
Temple.
Yet it was the first American best-seller; it went through over two hundred editions, official and pirated, after it was published in 1791, and it was still being read in 1912 by 'housemaids and shopgirls,' as some critic condescendingly put it. That was its problem, of course; any book popular with women was by definition—"

"You've made your point, and exposed my ignorance. Let's concentrate, for the moment, on this particular book. I take it that most of the neglected and rejected books were in print at one time. This is completely new—never published?"

"I've checked every reference I can think of. That's why it's so important, Peggy. Even Bill Meyer, male chauvinist though he is, would love to be the discoverer of an unknown American author."

"You think he can talk Yale into coming up with an offer? Money's tight these days."

"You're telling me. The other buyer has to be Dorothea Angelo, from Berkeley. She's a full professor and she's got a lot of clout. She was green with envy when I published the poems; she's been sniping at me ever since, in print and in person. She'd kill to get her hands on this."

"But Simon promised you—"

"I may not be able to raise the money." It was the first time Karen had admitted it, even to herself. Her voice was unsteady. "And even if I can, they will have seen it. Simon won't let it out of his hands, he'll insist that they examine it in his office; at least I hope that's what he'll
do. But I wouldn't put it past either of them to steal the damned thing."

"Your friend Simon doesn't sound like a patsy."

"Well . . maybe not. But there's another aspect to this business— the author's identity. The poems gave no clue to her real name, or even what part of the country she came from. It would be an additional feather in my professional cap to identify her. In fact, without that background it will be impossible to do a proper study of her novel—show how she fits into the tradition, what other writers influenced her, and so on. There's no way I could prevent someone else from pursuing that search, even if I owned the manuscript. I couldn't stand it if—"

She broke off, biting her lip. The last thing she wanted to do was sound like one of the hysterical heroines of the novels they had discussed. Peggy seemed to find her reaction reasonable, though. "Yes, I see. The manuscript offers clues to her identity?"

"I think it may," Karen said cautiously. "Even more important is where it was found. Simon bought it from a person—he wouldn't even tell me whether it was a man or a woman—who had inherited an old house and its contents. He said something about 'local dealers,' so I'm assuming the house is somewhere in this area. He also said the manuscript had been found in a trunk in the attic of the house. You see what that means?"

"Who, me? I'm just an ignorant historian," Peggy said with ineffable sarcasm. But her eyes were bright and intent. " 'In this area' is pretty vague; it could cover the whole East Coast. However, you would probably be safe in limiting yourself to the Mid Atlantic region—from Pennsylvania to the Carolinas. There are a lot of old houses and old families in that part of the country ..." She ended on a questioning note; then she said, "The former owner may have been an auction hound. He could have picked up the manuscript in a box lot at some country sale."

"Then the auctioneer's records would give me the name of the person who put it up for sale," Karen said. "You're right, it may have passed through many hands; tracking it down would be like those treasure-hunt games we used to play, with one clue leading to another."

"Or tracing the ownership of a plot of land." Peggy lit another cigarette from the stub of the last. Karen could tell she was hooked. She wondered why she hadn't thought of confiding in Peggy earlier. This part of the problem required historical rather than literary research and Peggy loved puzzles in all forms, from mystery stories to double-crostics.

"There's another possibility, of course," Peggy went on musingly. "From Mrs. Radcliffe to the Brontes; you're talking about a literary type that flourished around the turn of the eighteenth century, right? This part of the country was well settled by 1800. The author must have been a member of a wealthy, land-owning family; only the upper classes bothered to have their sons educated, much less their daughters. They were lordly aristocrats—slave owners—flaunting their wealth, importing books and furniture from England, building great mansions ..." She had been talking to herself, letting her agile and informed imagination build up a theory. Now she looked directly at Karen and said, "That's what you believe, isn't it? That the seller is one of Ismene's descendants. That the house where the manuscript was found is her home."

"I don't know why the weather is always foul when I go to Baltimore," Karen grumbled. "If I were superstitious I'd regard it as an omen, and turn back."

It was rain, not sleet or snow, that darkened the highway that morning. Patches of mist drifted across the road.

Peggy checked her seat belt for the tenth time. She had offered to drive, but Karen had overruled her, even though she knew Peggy hated being a passenger.

"You wouldn't turn back if the clouds opened up and God threw a thunderbolt at you." Peggy reached in her purse, which squatted on the floor at her feet like a malignant black gnome, and then made a face and withdrew her hand.

"Go ahead and smoke," Karen said resignedly.

"And deprive you of ten minutes of your busy, productive, happy, interminable life?"

"I don't want to see a premature end to
your
busy, productive, happy, interminable life. And I hate having the smell of it in the car. But I'd rather put up with that than have you twitching and snapping at me all the way to Baltimore."

Peggy grinned. "Oh, well. If you insist."

She lit her cigarette, cracked the window, and then leaned back, looking more relaxed. "I'm looking forward to meeting your friend Simon. Do you think he'll mind my coming along?"

"If he does, he won't show it. He's a perfect gent. Your presence will add a certain legitimacy to my claim on the manuscript; he'll think you represent the college."

"Just watch what you say," Peggy warned her. "I don't represent the college, and I don't particularly want to be sued for misrepresentation— by Simon or the board of trustees."

"Don't worry."

"Huh," said Peggy. "Are you still set on that crazy scheme of yours?"

"I have to know who the other bidders are, Peggy! Simon wouldn't tell me."

"You didn't expect him to, did you?"

"Well—no. I certainly wouldn't want him to give the others my name. Call it idle curiosity if you like—"

"Oh, I can see why you're interested."

"Will you please stop interrupting me?"

Peggy laughed aloud. After a moment Karen laughed too. "Am I being prickly?"

"Uh-huh. And overly defensive. Hell, you don't have to explain why you're curious about the competition. I am too. I wouldn't miss this for the world. Skulking in doorways with my hat pulled down over my eyes, snapping pictures with my hidden camera, trailing suspects through the byways of Baltimore ..."

Karen groaned. "I knew I'd regret letting you come."

It was a lie; she could only thank heaven that chance had involved Peggy in her project. Not only was her historical expertise proving invaluable, but her practical, commonsense presence steadied Karen's imagination. She had been in danger of going off the deep end that first week; excitement had muddled her thinking processes and endangered not only her job but the acquisition of the precious manuscript. With Peggy nagging her, she had resumed her normal academic schedule and managed to refrain from hassling Simon. Her enforced patience had paid off; when he called to tell her she wouldn't have to wait much longer, he had volunteered the information that he expected the other interested parties that weekend, and when she asked if she might have another look at the prize, he had agreed.

"You're sure Bill Meyer is coming today?" Peggy asked. "I don't mind playing spy, even in the rain, so long as it isn't a waste of time."

"I'm not sure who the client is," Karen said. "Simon's too damned discreet to mention a name. But someone will be there today or tomorrow."

"Goody, goody. I can play spy two days in a row."

"That's why I suggested you bring an overnight bag. Simon mentioned two prospects. If both show up today, we won't have to stay over, but just in case ..."

"Fine with me. For God's sake," Peggy added irritably, "you're driving fifty miles an hour and every damned vehicle on the road is passing us. Can't you go a little faster?"

"Have another cigarette," Karen said.

The rain slackened when they approached the city; only a dismal drizzle dampened their coats as they walked toward Simon's shop. Peggy had covered her head with a garish red-and-purple tie-dyed scarf. She explained she was saving her hat for surveillance purposes.

Simon was waiting at the door. His bushy eyebrows lifted when he saw Peggy, but he acknowledged the introduction with a slight bow and took the hand she extended.

They made one of the oddest couples Karen had ever seen. Simon's lean height dwarfed Peggy's stocky form, though he bent gallantly at the waist in order not to seem to loom over her. Peggy stood with her feet firmly planted; the pockets of her shabby raincoat sagged, and the hideous scarf drooped over her face. She pushed it back and grinned up at him. "I've heard a lot about you, Mr. Hallett."

"I am of course familiar with your work, Dr. Finneyfrock. But I mustn't keep you standing in your wet coat. Let me hang it up, here . . . And now, what about something hot to drink? Tea or coffee?"

He ushered her into the sitting area, leaving Karen to follow.

The manuscript, encased in its wrappings, lay on the table. Karen didn't wait for Simon's gesture of permission; she snatched it up like a mother embracing a missing child. This time she was not tempted to read on. A few more pages would not satisfy her urgent need.

It took the other two less than five minutes to get into a violent argument. Simon had never mentioned to Karen that he had read Peggy's book, but it was clear that he had, and it was only to be expected that he would take exception to her views on the role of women in pioneer America. Peggy was no more reluctant than he to express her opinions.

Before long the dangerous word "herstory" had been mentioned and Peggy's voice had deepened to a growl. "Conventional history completely ignores half the human race. What do you think women were doing while their men were shooting Indians and slaughtering animals and cutting down the forests—embroidering doilies? The progress of civilization ..."

Karen listened with amused enjoyment. She had thought Simon would like Peggy, but she hadn't dared hope they would hit it off so quickly and thoroughly. Simon never waxed sarcastic with people unless he approved of them.

He kept an unobtrusive eye on the clock, however, and finally he smiled and shrugged. "Greatly as I am enjoying this discussion, I fear I must excuse myself. We must talk again, Dr. Finneyfrock; I will not abandon hope of convincing such a rational woman of her small errors."

"I'll send you a copy of that article," Peggy said. "If it doesn't convince you, I will be forced to the conclusion that you are not as rational a man as you give occasional evidence of being."

Simon laughed aloud. "I will read it with pleasure. Your presence here makes me suspect that you are also interested in the manuscript. May I ask whether that interest is financial?"

Peggy returned his smile. "To whatever extent proves necessary."

Karen choked on the mouthful of coffee she had been about to swallow, and had to retire behind her napkin. It had never occurred to her to ask Peggy for financial help. There were some limits friends didn't cross, even when they were in the grip of an obsession like hers.

"I see." Simon stroked his chin and studied Peggy thoughtfully. "You are aware of the terms of the agreement? We have not committed it to writing; neither of us felt the need—"

"Nor do I," Peggy said. "Your word is good enough for me. I assure you I can and will match any offer you receive, but if you would like financial references—"

Simon's smile broadened. "I didn't require them of Karen. I can hardly do less for her . . . partner?"

"Whatever," said Peggy amiably. "Our arrangements need not concern you, Mr. Hallett."