Houses of Stone

by Kathy

  Leaning on the table, she studied the list of names. Elizabeth, Sarah, Maria; Georgiana, Louisa, Rebecca . . . None of them struck a chord. She straightened, with a derisive little smile at her own folly. Had she expected some inner voice would shout, "That's the one!"?

  She had promised to report progress and give Peggy her new address, so that evening she called the number Peggy had given her. It turned out to be a hotel. Karen was surprised; she had assumed Peggy would be staying with her friend.

  Peggy answered the phone on the second ring. At first Karen didn't recognize her voice. "What's wrong?" she asked. "Are you sick?"

  "Just tired." Peggy cleared her throat. "It's been a long day. How are things going?"

  By the time Karen finished her report Peggy was sounding more like herself—that is, critical. "You're still not certain Ismene was a Cartright. Have you done anything about tracing the manuscript itself?"

  "I've been a little busy," Karen said sarcastically. "But I think that's a hopeless cause. From what I've heard about Josiah, he was not only a pack rat but a scavenger; he'd cruise the streets picking up newspapers and other junk people left out for the trashmen. There's a better way of proving the manuscript originated at Amberley. The more I read, the more convinced I am that it's semi-autobiographical. Oh, not the plot, of course; it seems to be your standard Gothic melodrama. However, the setting—the house and the grounds—closely resembles what I've seen of Amberley. I'm going out tomorrow to look for—for a particular landmark Ismene mentions."

  "For God's sake, be careful. If the place is as wild and isolated as you said—"

  "I won't be alone. Cameron is out there every day, working on the house."

  "Oh, so it's Cameron now, is it?"

  "Don't start that," Karen said in exasperation. "Just give me the benefit of your expert advice. The genealogy wasn't as useful as I hoped. I haven't the faintest idea what to do with it."

  "Don't do anything. I can be there Saturday. If you still want me to take over that part of the job ..."

  "I thought we'd settled that. Don't get huffy and self-conscious on me; I can't do this without you."

  "Oh. All right, then. You might find me a hotel. I presume there is one?"

  "One," Karen agreed. "I'll make a reservation for you. Unless you'd rather stay here; there are twin beds."

  "You wouldn't care for me as a long-term roommate, dearie. I have too many filthy habits, none of which I intend to give up."

  She sounded more like her old self. Sitting with a sick friend had to be depressing, Karen supposed; Peggy had probably had more than enough of it. And she was looking forward to Peggy's company—not only to her help, which was going to be more useful than she had anticipated, but to her sense of humor and bluff common sense.

  She hadn't told Peggy the best part. Eagerly she returned to the manuscript and reread the section that would undoubtedly intrigue her friend as much as it had excited her.

  The composition of the household at Ferncliffe had changed with the arrival of Edmund's sister, who had been visiting friends on a plantation farther south. Edmund explained, in answer to Ismene's exclamation of surprise, that Isabella was in fact his half-sister, the only child of his father's second wife. The fate of Edmund's mother and the cause of the break between his father and Ismene's were still obscure to Karen and, as far as she could tell, to Ismene herself. (The dread family secret was a stock element of Gothic fiction; no doubt the horrible truth would be disclosed as part of the denouement.)

  "I have missed her sadly," Edmund explained. "My own disposition, as you have no doubt observed, tends toward the reflective and melancholy. Her smiles and high spirits bring sunshine to me and to this dreary old house, as you and Clara have done. She was delighted to hear of your coming, and now that she has companions of her own age and sex, I hope I can prevail upon her to spend more time at Ferncliffe."

  Like the laughing daughter of Ceres returned from her sojourn in the dismal regions of Hades (as Ismene put it), Isabella brought the spring with her. The old house was transformed; windows were thrown open to the soft breezes. The singing of birds was no more musical than Isabella's laughter, and her golden curls shone like sunlight. She and Clara instantly became bosom friends. Ismene found herself spending more and more time with her books, or in the company of Edmund. Like his, her disposition was reflective and withdrawn; but she admitted her jealousy of Isabella even as she struggled to overcome it. Until now she and Clara had been closer than sisters. It was not pleasant to be supplanted.

  Isabella's was not the only new face. Her circle of acquaintances was extensive and her nature open; there were visits, callers, social gatherings. So idyllic and light-hearted were the scenes Ismene described that the narrative would have turned into a social novel—an American Pride and Prejudice—had it not been for the hints of dark family secrets and one scene of pure Gothic sensationalism that didn't seem to have any bearing on the plot. It was effective, though, all the more so because of the contrast with what had gone before: To retire after an evening of cheerful social intercourse and encounter "the dark form, swathed in shadows and silence, its arm raised in somber warning," was a shock to the reader as well as to the startled Ismene. She caught one horrifying glimpse of a withered face, a toothless gaping mouth, and a blind eye covered with a white integument, before the apparition retreated into the shadows from which it had emerged. Convinced that unhealthy imagination, stimulated by too much reading—"dangerous to the delicate brains of females"—was responsible for this horrific vision, Ismene had not mentioned it to anyone in the household. Not for worlds would she have frightened Clara or roused Edmund's kindly contempt.

  That had been rather stupid of Ismene, Karen thought critically. Such behavior was typical of romantic heroines, however; if they didn't conceal information and hide their feelings, there wouldn't be a plot. This was not the part of the text that had aroused Karen's fascinated interest.

  A group of travelers arrived at Ferncliffe next day. They were on their way to "the city," and, as was customary in those days of poor roads and slow transportation, had decided to break their journey at the home of friends.

  These visitors were not strangers to Isabella, though her brother had never met them. He welcomed them, of course; but Ismene fancied, from the ironical glance he gave her, that he was no more taken with them than she had been. Her description of the family was wonderfully satirical: the pompous, puffing father, whose waistcoat strained across his middle; the meek, faded wife; the swaggering sons and the giggling daughters. Ismene's temper was not at its best; the increasing intimacy between Isabella and Clara was difficult to bear, and the ghostly encounter the previous night had added weight to apprehensions she was reluctant to confess even to herself. But she controlled herself throughout dinner. Afterward, when the gentlemen joined the ladies for tea, the conversation took a turn that roused her to wrath. It concerned the "late unpleasantness" and the joyful success of "our forces."

  Aware of her sister's imploring glances, Ismene had restrained her speech, though she felt that the words filled her mouth and pressed against her tight-closed lips to such an extent that breath was stifled. One of the young gentlemen—whose military service, it appeared, had been limited to riding around the family estate in a handsome uniform—spoke glowingly of loosing the bonds of tyranny; raising his cup, he proposed a toast to freedom and independence.

  Ismene could contain herself no longer. With an impetuous movement she sprang to her feet. "And why should we women join in your self-congratulation? You gentlemen have indeed freed yourself—and from what frightful burden? Already you enjoyed the rights you still deny to half your race. What have females to celebrate in this new nation of yours? We are bound by the same unfair laws, the same stifling convention, that held us prisoner before. And what of them?"

  Her gesture indicated the dusky maiden who had entered with a fresh pot of tea. ' 'She, of course, is only a woman,'' Ismene continued bitterly. “But her fat
her, brothers, sons share her servitude. Are they not men? Are they not endowed with the same rights you claim from the Creator?''

  She could not go on. Emotion stifled speech. Clara's brimming eyes, Edmund's look of gentle surprise affected her more than the shocked expressions of the ladies or the flushed, infuriated countenance of Mr. Hampton. The only face that showed no trace of emotion was that of Rebecca. Mute and emotionless as an automaton, she carried out her duties.

  Pressing her handkerchief to her lips, Ismene fled. Once in the sanctuary of her chamber she flung herself onto her bed and gave way to violent weeping. She was unaware of Clara's presence until a gentle hand pressed hers.

  "Dear sister, " Clara began. Her soft voice and loving gesture broke through Ismene's defenses as no reproach could have done.

  "Forgive me!" Rising, she caught Clara in a tight embrace and blotted her tears on her sister's shoulder. “How often and how rightly have you counseled me to control my passionate temperament! But, oh, Clara—to what avail is moderation? Silence is no better than cowardice and hypocrisy! If safety were to be ensured thereby, the temptation to remain silent would have practical if not moral justification. I cannot believe this is so! I cannot believe the meek inherit the earth, except for that small portion of it in which they rest at last. The same fate awaits us all, our common inheritance is the grave; why should we not demand the same happiness mankind enjoys during its brief sojourn upon this planet?"

  Clara gazed upon her with a troubled brow. "Are you not happy here, Ismene? I had thought ..."

  Again Ismene caught her in a fond embrace. Even as she murmured agreement and reassurance she knew, with a cold and chilling despair, that Clara would never understand; that the one dearest to her heart was a stranger to her thoughts.

  Karen let out a sigh of pleasure. What a discovery—a hitherto unknown Early American woman writer who was also a feminist and an abolitionist!

  She wouldn't have to plead for grants to enable her to work on the book; foundations would be lining up at her door, fighting to give her money.

  In practical terms the passage gave her the terminus a quo she had hoped for. The book must have been written after 1780—after the Declaration of Independence, the decisive Battle of Yorktown, and/or the final peace treaty between Britain and her rebellious American colonies. That didn't tell her anything new; she had already concluded, on the basis of the literary style, that a date after 1800 was most likely. Still, the reference to the Declaration of Independence and the end of the Revolution were solid facts that would look good in her introduction.

  Closing her notebook, she gathered the papers together, put them in the briefcase, and stowed it away under the bed. She felt foolish doing this, like a nervous old lady hiding the family silver before retiring, but what the hell, she thought defiantly. There was nobody watching her.

  One more chore before she could go to bed. She had promised Joan and Sharon she'd call when she got settled. Joan would still be up, she was a night owl.

  Not only was Joan still up, she had guests. They sounded very happy. Joan was feeling no pain either, but when Karen apologized for interrupting the party and tried to cut the conversation short, Joan would have none of it. "It's just the usual bunch of my drunken, boring friends," she shouted. "They're composing limericks. I hate limericks. Wait a minute, I'll take the phone into the other room . . . Okay, that's better. I'm glad you called, I wanted to warn you. Cropsey telephoned me yesterday. He's looking for you."

  "I hope to God you didn't tell him where I am!"

  "What kind of lousy rat fink do you take me for?"

  "Thanks," Karen said sincerely. "Did he tell you why he's trying to find me?"

  "Oh, sure. You know Joe. He's got this delusion that he can persuade or bully people into doing whatever he wants. He needs to talk to you about the manuscript you found. He is at a loss to understand why you did not confide in him. You have put him in an impossible position. People keep calling and asking him about it and it is humiliating to be forced to confess he knows nothing. He is deeply hurt. He is also pissed. He didn't say that, but I figured it out."

  "It'll do him good."

  "I couldn't agree more. How did he find out? I swear to God I never said anything."

  "I believe you. Warn Sharon, though, will you? She's so damned conscientious she might fall for his whining."

  "Fear not, fair maiden, your secret is safe with us. So tell me what you've been up to."

  Karen obliged with a spirited description of her encounters with Mrs. Fowler and Lisa. "I've got the genealogy," she finished. "But Bill the Bastard is on the trail and on the spot. Fortunately he was his usual detestable self and managed to piss off both Lisa and Cameron."

  "It sounds like fun," Joan said wistfully. "Plots and counterplots, mysteries and treasure hunts. Maybe I should join you. I could seduce the Bastard and distract him while you—"

  "No, thanks. I don't need femmes fatales, I need help in ordinary boring research. Peggy is coming on Saturday. Without wishing to denigrate your talents I think she'll be more useful than you could be."

  "Oh, yeah? Is the house haunted?"

  The question was so unexpected, Karen couldn't think what to say. Joan went on, her voice quite serious, "You shouldn't ignore folklore and oral tradition. The old lady with a fixation on violets sounds like a hoot, but she and her buddies could tell you some good stuff. I wasn't kidding about the ghosts, either. So-called psychic investigators crow when they find out somebody really was murdered in a house whose occupants have seen bloody specters and heard horrible screams. They don't realize it works the other way around. A tragedy inspires legends and makes nervous, imaginative people see things."

  Nervous, imaginative people. She had seen nothing. But there were other senses among the normal five. The blast of cold air, palpable as a plunge into an icy river, the voice calling from empty air ... "There aren't any ghosts," she said firmly. "Nor a tragedy."

  "How do you know? Life is full of tragedies and in those far-off days ..." The murmur of voices in the background suddenly rose in pitch, and Joan said, "Oh, hell. The party's getting noisy. I'd better see what they're doing before the neighbors start calling the cops. What's your number?"

  Before she got into bed Karen went through her evening routine. Going from window to window, she looked out into the darkness. Mrs. Fowler must be asleep; no light shone from her window. There was movement out there, though—branches swaying in the breeze, a shadowy shape gliding silently across the driveway. The shape was that of a cat; its eyes glowed eerily, reflecting some unknown source of light, before it vanished into the shrubbery.

  All the same, Karen decided to take a sleeping pill.

  The morning skies were as gloomy as Karen's mood. She hated taking sleeping pills; they took too long to wear off, leaving her grumpy and groggy. She was finishing her second cup of coffee and feeling slightly less inclined to slash her wrists when a faint sound got her onto her feet and into the living room. Someone at the door? The sound had not been a knock. Then she saw a white triangle next to the door. It moved toward her, growing larger, turning from a triangle into a rectangle.

  Karen opened the door. Cameron Hayes got to his feet. "I was just leaving a note for you," he explained unnecessarily.

  "So I see." She wasn't inclined to ask why he favored this means of communication. Maybe it was an old Southern custom. Realizing that her voice had been less than welcoming, she added, "Would you like a cup of coffee?"

  "No, thanks." He stepped back. "I just wanted to tell you that you can have that box of papers. Does fifty bucks seem fair to you?"

  "I'd have paid more," Karen admitted, her mood miraculously improved.

  "So I gathered. I'll deliver it this evening, if you like. Or you can call Lisa if you want it earlier."

  "This evening will be fine. Come in and I'll give you a check."

  He retreated again until he was backed up against the wooden rail that enclosed the landing. "That's
okay, you can pay on delivery. I want to finish up some things at the house. It's supposed to rain tonight."

  "I'll follow you there if I may."

  "Sure." He hesitated; she could see courtesy and curiosity vying for precedence. Curiosity won. "Anything in particular you're after?"

  "I was hoping I could have a look at the cellar."

  He obviously didn't like the idea, but after a moment he said, "I guess this would be as good a time as any. The water should have subsided by now, and if it rains again tonight . . . It's a filthy mess, though. Wear— uh—something old. And boots, if you have them."

  He hadn't looked directly at her except for the first startled acknowledgment of her sudden appearance. Amused, Karen went to her room and exchanged her lace-trimmed pale-blue, rosebud-embroidered robe for jeans and sweatshirt. The robe was another of the follies she had committed under the influence of Joan and Sharon; she wore it, in private, because it would have been a waste of money to buy another, more practical garment. It must have given Cameron a false impression, especially after the pink frilly gown she had worn to tea. He had been embarrassed, bless his innocent little heart. Or perhaps he had feared Mrs. Fowler would see them in what she would certainly interpret as a potentially compromising position. If she could see Mrs. Fowler's window. Mrs. F. could undoubtedly see the apartment from that same window, and it wouldn't surprise her to learn that Mrs. Fowler kept a pair of binoculars on the windowsill.

  Her present ensemble ought to convince Cameron her wardrobe was not limited to business suits and frilly frocks. She studied the effect in the mirror as she applied lipstick. The jeans had a patch on one knee and the color had faded to a blue almost as pale as that of the robe, with streaks of yellow paint still showing from the time she had redecorated her apartment. The sweatshirt featured the President of the United States, in glowing blue neon, playing a blue saxophone. How was that for making a statement? She slid her feet into sneakers, pulled her boots from the closet, collected her purse and the briefcase, and went out. She could have sworn she saw the curtains of Mrs. Fowler's bedroom window twitch.