by Kathy
"Childish, you mean," Karen retorted.
"No, no, you misinterpret his intent. He is not sulking, he is allowing you to decide when and if you wish to see him. It is a most delicate attention," Simon added approvingly.
"Why not let him come to the cemetery?" Peggy suggested. "There's nothing to stop him from investigating the place anyhow; we could use a little muscle."
"Well ... All right. When?"
"Tomorrow. Want to join us, Simon?"
"I had planned to return to Baltimore," Simon said slowly.
"How can you resist such a treat? Crawling around in the weeds, nose-to-nose with snakes and other critters, getting scratched and covered with poison ivy."
"It does sound enticing. I'll think about it." He glanced toward the doorway. "There's Geoffrey. He has your purchases, I presume?"
"Right. I'll have to settle with him." Peggy finished her drink and stood up. "Want to come along and see the goodies?"
Karen had already helped Peggy carry her other purchases to her room. After the amiable Geoffrey had brought the rest upstairs Peggy scribbled a check and sent him on his way. Then they surveyed the loot. It covered both of the twin beds and several square feet of the floor.
"Good God," Karen breathed. "I didn't realize you'd bought so much."
"Neither did I," Peggy admitted. "I tend to get carried away."
"You certainly do. Why did you buy this trunk?" Karen wrestled with the tight-fitting lid and finally managed to lift it. A pervasive, pungent odor rose from the interior. She turned her head aside. "It's full of old rags!
"Those aren't rags, those are vintage clothes. Very collectible, unfortunately; I had to pay a stiff price for this." Peggy lifted a mass of dark fabric from the pile and shook it out. Dark sparks shimmered in the lamplight. Peggy swung the black, jet-beaded cape around her shoulders and pirouetted in front of the mirror, wrinkling her nose against the strong stench of mothballs. Or was it camphor? Some preservative, Karen supposed.
"Very becoming," Simon said with a smile.
"I might actually wear it someday," Peggy said, studying her reflection complacently. "After it's been aired, that is. Whew, what a smell! We can thank whatever that stuff is for the survival of the manuscript, though."
Under a pile of old clothes in a trunk in the attic . . . "You mean this is that trunk?" Karen exclaimed, digging both hands into the remaining fabric. "Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't I think—"
"You've had a lot on your mind," Peggy said. "Don't bother excavating it now, there are no more papers there. I bought it for purely sentimental reasons."
"I'm glad you thought of it." Karen held up a strange construction of tape and wire. "What on earth is this?"
"A bustle," Peggy said, laughing. "That I won't wear. But some of the dresses are in good shape. Want to try them on? I think they're all too long for me."
Karen tossed the other clothes back into the trunk and closed the lid. "Not now. Where's the portrait?"
She exclaimed in outrage when Peggy dragged it out from under a collection of tarnished silver pieces. "Be careful! You'll scratch it."
"Honey, one more scratch won't even show. Have a look, Simon. What do you think?"
She spread it out on the bed and turned on both lamps.
Simon inspected the sad object in silence. "It could be two women. It could also be a woman and a man wearing a wig. Or two men wearing wigs. Or a couple of dogs with long ears. I hope you didn't pay a great deal for this masterpiece."
"Don't be such a killjoy," Peggy said. "It will have to be cleaned, of course. And restored."
"Dogs!" Karen exclaimed, aghast.
"He's just kidding," Peggy assured her.
"The dogs were indeed a jest." Simon stepped back and squinted professionally at the canvas. "However, I think the casual resemblance to the Bronte portrait—which results primarily from the fact that this canvas, like the other, was folded—has given you false hopes."
"Probably," Peggy said cheerfully.
"On the other hand . . . If you like, I'll take it back with me. Paintings are not my specialty, but the people at the Walters can probably recommend someone. Now this ..." He lifted the framed portrait of the grim old lady onto the bed and studied it approvingly. "This has a certain appeal. The technique is poor, of course, but the painter has certainly caught a personality."
"But it's not Ismene," Karen exclaimed.
Simon turned to look searchingly at her. "How do you know?"
"Why, she . . . She's not . . . Well. The clothing, for one thing. It's Victorian—late Victorian. This is in much better condition than the other, it can't be as old."
"That doesn't necessarily follow," Simon said. "As for the date . . . Let's say this was painted in 1870 or 1880. The subject appears to be elderly. She may have been born in 1800, give or take ten years.
You believe the manuscript could have been written as late as 1840 ..."
"Earlier, I think," Karen mumbled, returning the old lady's painted frown.
Peggy pulled up a chair and straddled it, arms folded on the back. "We may as well settle this, Karen. I've seen it coming, and it is going to prejudice your judgment. Just how do you picture Ismene?"
Karen didn't answer. Peggy chuckled. "There's a scene in one of the Alcott books—Jo's Boys, I think—which takes place after Jo, like her creator, has become a famous author with doting fans pursuing her. In those days they didn't just write fan letters, they dropped in, uninvited and unheralded."
"What are you talking about?" Karen demanded belligerently. Simon was smiling too. She might have known he had read Louisa May Alcott. He was probably the only male in the world who had.
"Wait, this is not irrelevant. One such party of admirers corners Jo, although she has disguised herself as the cleaning lady in the hope of avoiding them. She is by now the mother of grown sons and not by any stretch of the imagination a beautiful woman. When the visiting lady turns to one of her daughters and says, 'Don't you want her autograph,' the honest child replies, 'No. I thought she'd be about seventeen, with her hair done up in braids.' "
Simon's shoulders were shaking with laughter. After a brief internal struggle Karen threw in the towel. "You're right, damn it. I wasn't picturing a seventeen-year-old with pigtails, but my image of her was certainly influenced by irrational romanticism. Someone young, sensitive, slight ..."
"A typical heroine, in fact," Peggy finished. "Even heroines get old, Karen. Or ... they don't. The first alternative may not be romantic, but take my word for it, it's the lesser of the two evils."
Chapter Thirteen
Most of these books are about women who just can't seem to get out of the house.
E. C. DeLaMotte, Perils of the Night, 1990
HALF-raising herself from the bed, Ismene drew aside the curtain and looked toward the door. Sleep and the confusion attendant thereon weighted her eyelids; but it was soon replaced by the liveliest sensations of apprehension, for the sound was repeated: a soft scraping or scratching, like that which would have been produced by the claws of a beast. She had extinguished the lamp upon retiring; the fire, no more than a bed of red coals, gave not enough light to enable her to see the portal clearly; it was hearing, not sight, that allowed her to solve the mystery, for when the sound came again she recognized it for the turning of the handle.
So uncertain, so sly and slow was that movement that her heart sickened within her. The hour was late; the cold moon sank toward the horizon. Not even Clara would creep to her door at such an hour; Clara's hands would not fumble and slip, pause and renew the effort.
She forced her trembling limbs to abandon the deceptive shelter of the bed and the enclosing curtains. Once on her feet, a little of her courage returned; but what could she do to save herself! There was no fastening on the door, no other exit from the room save the high window. Every fiber of her being cried out for light. To locate tinderbox and candle, and force her tremulous fingers to perform the necessary motions, would take too long. The door
was opening.
She rushed to the fireplace, seized the bellows, and with the strength of terror fanned the embers to new life. The flames were low and feeble, but they gave sufficient light to illumine the dark figure advancing toward her. She saw the outstretched hands first, pallid and knotted like roots long underground. The form itself was indistinct, squat, shapeless and dark. With a slow writhing movement a face thrust itself forward, into the light.
Ismene had known who it must be, but the sight of that withered countenance with its one blind white eye reflecting the firelight in a crimson glare and its features horribly shadowed was so shocking she fell back against the wall with a stifled shriek.
The dreadful face turned in her direction. "Is it she? Is she the one?" a hoarse voice mumbled. Twisted fingers groped through the dark, writhing like white worms. Ismene shrank back. "Where is she? She must be warned. It must not be. Is she the one?"
Karen had dreamed of that face, luridly lit by flames. The portrait of the old woman and Peggy's morbid commentary must have recalled to her sleeping mind the last scene she had transcribed from the manuscript. It was still unpleasantly clear in her mind as she got dressed and made coffee.
She wished she hadn't agreed to join the expedition to the cemetery. It had been three days since she had been able to work on the manuscript, and she was anxious to find out what was going to happen next. She had finished almost two-thirds of it now, and her familiarity with the conventions of the Gothic novel had inspired several hunches—educated guesses, rather—as to how the book would end. In one sense she hoped she was right, for that would prove how clever she was; in another sense she hoped Ismene would prove cleverer than she, scorning the old Gothic traditions in favor of a more original solution.
It would have to wait a few more hours. She had been too tired the night before to work, and there wasn't time now; she had promised to meet the others at the motel and she was already late. She called Peggy, announced she was on her way, grabbed her purse and the briefcase, and ran out.
Absorbed in literary speculation—was the dark, surly doctor the hero, or were the dark hints about Edmund only red herrings?—she didn't notice the ominous thumping sound until she turned onto the highway and put her foot down on the gas. By the time she reached the motel it sounded as if there were a rock ricocheting back and forth under the hood.
They were waiting for her: Peggy in her commando outfit; Bill equally businesslike in jeans and denim shirt; and Simon, whose only concession to the rough work ahead had been to leave off his cravat.
Peggy trotted toward the car. "What's wrong with it?" she yelled, over the thunderous knocking.
"I don't know. It just started." Karen turned off the ignition.
"Sounds like a rod," Bill said, sauntering up. "Want to take it to a garage? I'll follow you—"
"Follow her where?" Peggy demanded. "We haven't got time to locate a reliable mechanic. I'll drive. Pull over next to my car, Karen."
"How much is that rod going to set me back?" Karen asked, once they were on their way.
Bill, in the back seat with Simon, replied, "Try not to think about it."
"Damn. All right, I won't think about it." She turned, arm over the seat. "I thought you were going back to Baltimore, Simon. You aren't dressed for this, you know."
"I mean to supervise," Simon said coolly. "And take a few photographs, if you are fortunate enough to find anything worth photographing."
"You brought a camera? Good thinking, Simon."
"It's mine. I brought tools, too." Peggy indicated the shopping bag at Karen's feet. "Clippers, shears, trowels."
Karen's first thought, when she saw the cemetery, was that a power mower and a few scythes would have been more useful. Except for the rusted iron fence that surrounded it and the ruins of the church, she would have taken the place for a meadow or an unmowed pasture. A few monuments reared stained marble heads above the waving grass, but there was no sign of an ordinary tombstone.
Bill was the first to break the pained silence. "We could just set fire to it."
"I'd be tempted, if I thought the damned stuff would burn," Peggy muttered. "Oh, well. Let's get organized."
Rummaging in her bag she produced an aerosol spray can and advanced purposefully on Karen. With a resigned shrug, Karen submitted.
"Is this necessary?" Bill demanded, watching the evil-smelling mist surround Karen. "Surely it's too early for ticks."
"No, it's not," Peggy said. "Hold out your arms."
When she turned to Simon he backed away. "No, thank you."
"You want Lyme disease?"
"No, but—"
"Hold out your arms."
The gate sagged on rusted hinges. One by one they squeezed through. "Disgraceful," Simon murmured. "Even the church has fallen into ruin. They show no respect, these people."
"They probably don't have any money for restoration," Peggy said. "Fan out now. We're looking for the Cartright place. There should be a monument or mausoleum in the center of it, and maybe a low fence around it. Watch out for that, if it's metal you could trip and impale yourself."
The grass was knee-high. Lush and green, sprinkled with the delicate blooms of weeds and wildflowers, it was as pretty as a piece of embroidery, and Karen decided not to think about why it flourished with such extravagance. She stumbled over an unseen obstruction, and felt a supportive arm catch her around the waist.
"Fan out, Bill," she said.
"Then start shuffling" was the amused reply. "It's the only safe way to walk in this terrain; there are fallen tombstones every foot or so."
Shuffling, Karen headed for the nearest of the visible monuments, a tall marble column horribly stained by weather and bird droppings. Whatever object had surmounted it was now gone; the jagged shaft had cracked clean across. The lettering had been deeply incised; she could make out enough of the name to be sure it was not the one she wanted. A face leered up at her from the grass at its foot; dimpled cheeks and the stubs of wings at its shoulders identified it as some variety of angel.
Bill and Peggy had fanned out, Peggy to her right and Bill to her left. True to his promise, Simon was supervising. He had found something to sit on, but she couldn't see what, because it was hidden by the tall grass. He looked uncannily like a Hindu mystic perched cross-legged on empty air, his face as blandly impassive as that of an idol, his fine hands folded loosely on his lap.
It was Bill who found the Cartright monument—a miniature mausoleum shaped of dark stone, square and unadorned except for a simple cavetto cornice. In response to his hail they converged upon him; even Simon climbed down off his tombstone and joined the others.
"As a family, the Cartrights display an admirable consistency of bad taste," Bill remarked, studying the unprepossessing structure. "It's a simple rectangle; hard to go wrong with a form like that, but there's something about the proportions ..."
"Granite," Simon murmured. "Dark as night, hard as adamant. Could one conceive of resurrection from such a habitation?"
"Don't be fanciful," Peggy said. "This is where the fun begins. Take your clippers, ladies and gentlemen."
Karen had to force herself to kneel. The grass enveloped her as it had the stones, pressing in on either side, bending in over her head to form a green canopy.
It took over an hour for them to clear the plot, and all three were hot and perspiring by the time they finished. Studying Peggy's flushed face, shiny with sweat and speckled with green grass clippings, Simon decreed a pause for rest and refreshment. The bottled water was lukewarm, but they gulped it down, leaning against the car and catching their breaths.
"Did we find them all?" Karen asked.
"No." Peggy swabbed at her face with her sleeve. "I don't think so. Some have sunk under the ground. And they, as you might expect, are the oldest ones."
"Hence the trowels," Bill said morosely. "Let's get at it, then."
"Sorry you came?" Undaunted, Peggy grinned at him.
"No." He gave K
aren a soulful look.
"I will be recorder," Simon announced, corking the bottle. "Call out to me the inscriptions as you find them. In that way you will not have to carry writing materials with you."
"Glad you came?" Peggy asked.
"I would not have missed it for the world."
His suggestion saved a good deal of time. How long they would have been at it—and how she could possibly have survived the ordeal—without Simon's assistance Karen could not imagine. Not only did he record the inscriptions but he produced a neat plan, with numbers keying the stones to the inscriptions. The plan also enabled them to see gaps in the placement of the graves; following that lead, Bill dug out two of the missing stones. The inscription on one was so worn it was illegible. The other bore a name Karen recognized; it had been in the genealogy. Poor little Jacob Cartright, born 1796, died 1798; the firstborn son of that generation, he had been given a more elaborate stone than most of the dead infants.
The majority of the remaining tombstones were of a later date than the ones with which they were concerned. One of these caught Karen's attention, and she lingered long enough to clear away the heaped-up earth at its base so she could read the inscription. Eliza Cartright, world traveler and would-be authoress, had lived to a ripe old age even by modern standards. She had been eighty-one when she died in 1912. She had never married; that, Karen realized, was why she was here, in her family plot. A married woman would have lost even that feeble and final independence, joining her husband in death as she had in life. A long poem praised Eliza's virtues and expressed her expectation of immortality. It was so bad Karen suspected Eliza had composed it herself.
As the day went on the sun rose over the trees and shone full upon them. Pollen, dust and bits of grass stuck to the sweat that covered exposed skin to form a conglomerate that looked terrible and itched like fury. Increasingly miserable though she was, Karen did not want to be the first to call for mercy. She was infinitely relieved to hear Simon announce, "We have visitors."