by Kathy
"I'm getting mad," Peggy said briefly.
"So I noticed. What are you going to do with that Bible? You're right, it's of no use to us."
Peggy tossed the book irreverently on the bed. "I'll give it back to Cameron. Lisa probably stole it from his mother's house, along with the other cartons. Now that you've seen the situation there, you can see how she got away with it. Mrs. Madison wouldn't dare interfere with her."
Karen sat down on the bed and opened the Bible. "It belonged to Eliza," she said in surprise. "I thought the handwriting looked familiar. She started with her parents' generation. Do you suppose there was an older Bible, with the earlier names?"
"Unlikely and irrelevant. If such a book existed it's long gone. Who's Eliza?"
"A Victorian bluestocking," Karen answered. "I ran across her diaries ... Oh, Lord! They're gone too, in the fire. Mrs. F. will probably raise hell about that. She forced them on me the day I went to the Historical Society."
"Don't worry about Mrs. Fowler." Peggy brandished the hairbrush she had been using. "We're going to break that woman! Let's go have dinner."
The phone was ringing when they returned to their room. Peggy made a dash for it. From the way her face fell, Karen deduced she had hoped the caller would be someone other than Joan.
"We're fine, how are you?" she said. "Uh . . . No. Nothing new. What? Do you want to talk to Karen?" Karen had opened the briefcase and placed the manuscript on the table; she shook her head vehemently. "Good," Peggy said. "She doesn't want to talk to you either, she's working. Oh, yeah? Well, I'll tell her. We'll let you know."
She hung up. "Joan's bored."
"She hadn't heard about the fire?"
"It wouldn't make the wire services," Peggy said. "We can pray Simon hasn't heard about it either. He'd have a fit."
"Were you expecting him to call?"
"He said he would. Maybe I'll take the phone into the bathroom and call him instead. That way you won't be disturbed."
"You just don't want me to hear those erotic verses you quote at one another," Karen said with a smile.
"That too. Go ahead, I won't bother you again."
She vanished into the bathroom trailing the telephone cord behind her and shut the door with a decisive slam.
"We are fortunate indeed, Doctor, that you happened to be in the house when this occurred," Ismene said gratefully. "You have been a frequent visitor of late; I hope that means that you have acquired many new patients in this region.''
A dark, unbecoming flush mantled his swarthy cheeks. "My services, such as they are, were unnecessary; your sister suffered an ordinary swoon, from which she would have recovered under your ministrations; but what was that wild talk of withered faces and dark forms? Miss Clara's constitution is delicate, I know; is her mind also given to morbid fancies?"
Fairness to Clara as well as concern for another moved Ismene to speak. "It was no fantasy, but an actual living woman she saw—Isabella's poor mad mother, whom Edmund, in the kindness of his noble heart, maintains here in her home. From time to time she escapes her guardian and wanders the house. The sight of her is startling in the extreme, and Clara did not know of her presence; to come upon her unawares would be a shock to the strongest system. It was to mine the first time I saw her."
"Good heavens!" the doctor murmured. "I had no idea such an individual existed. Is she not dangerous? Should she not be confined more closely?"
"I do not believe she means the least harm," Ismene said firmly. "She is too old and frail to constitute a danger to any but herself Indeed, she appeared to be as terrified of Clara as my poor sister was of her; I found her cowering against the wall, unable or unwilling to move, when I rushed to the spot in answer to Clara's cries. Her attendant had to carry her away, and I fear she may have taken harm. It would ease my mind if you would see her."
"Certainly." But the smile that altered his features so attractively did not linger. In an uncharacteristically hesitant manner he went on, "Are you certain Mr. Merrivale will not object? He appears to have kept this woman's very existence concealed from the world—"
“Only out of compassion for her, I feel certain, and to spare the feelings of those who knew her in happier days. I would wait to ask him,'' she added, seeing that his countenance continued to mirror his doubt, “but he and Isabella will probably not return until later this afternoon, and I know you must be anxious to continue your journey.
He no longer demurred, but followed her toward the remote and lofty regions where Edmund had assured her his stepmother dwelt. The door was now secure; in response to Ismene's knock came a rattling of bolts and chains whose sound engendered awful suggestions of imprisonment. Yet when her arguments with the attendant, who appeared reluctant to let them in, had at last won them admission to the chamber, she saw Edmund had spoken no more than the truth when he assured her the unfortunate creature lacked no comfort he could provide. The windows were closely barred and a heavy screen covered the hearth, which was now dark and cold, for the mild summer weather required no other source of heat. Yet the chamber was clean and airy, and the low bed had been furnished with ample covering.
“Let her see and hear me first,'' Ismene urged, placing a hand on the doctor's arm. "She may take fright at the sight of a stranger. "
The old woman was not sleeping, as the attendant had claimed, and as Ismene had believed. Hearing the soft low voice of her visitor, she opened her eyes. Almost could Ismene have fancied she saw a gleam of intelligence in the single operative orb. It was short-lived; frenzy transformed the withered features and a gabble of agitated speech distorted the gaping mouth.
With an alarmed exclamation the doctor stepped quickly forward. "There is no cause for concern," Ismene hasted to assure him. "It is her old mania, the same vague, meaningless warnings she always utters. Who knows what dread phantoms her troubled brain sees around us? Dear madam"—taking the bony fingers in hers and leaning closer—"dear madam, here is a physician come to see you. He is my friend and would be yours. Will you allow him to examine you?'
She had not expected a response nor dared even hope for comprehension. Whether this occurred or not she could not be sure, but at least the old creature lay still, submitting without visible demonstrations of alarm to the doctor's cautious approach and gentle touch. One by one he lifted the bony limbs; delicately he ran his hands over the wrinkled scalp and frail body.
“There appears to be no injury,'' he murmured; and Ismene saw he had forgot all else in the exercise of his noble art. “She does not cry out in pain. What does she say?"
For his patient had begun to speak, if speech it could be called. Even Ismene could not distinguish words in the hoarse mumble.
"It is only nonsense, I fear," she began. "Her troubled mind—"
He broke in, with the same touch of irony she had heard before. "If her mind were untroubled she would have difficulty expressing her thoughts with her organs of speech so impaired. It is difficult to articulate without dental apparatus. Speak more slowly, madam; I am listening. What would you tell me?"
There was no evidence of repugnance, only compassion and interest, on his face as he bent closer; when the clawlike fingers groped for his sleeve he folded them unhesitatingly in his. Ismene's heart swelled. To see him thus, to behold the tenderness he displayed toward the helpless and infirm was to comprehend the limitations of physiognomy as a designation of character. Who could suppose, having seen those forbidding features in their normal expression of sardonic silence, that they could soften so remarkably?
The chamber door opened. Edmund stood on the threshold.
His sudden appearance broke the spell. The old woman's mumble erupted in a ghastly shriek. Ismene started to speak, but was prevented by Edmund. His tones were soft, but they quivered with anger.
"How dare you come here?"
He addressed not Ismene but the doctor, whose expression had resumed its old harsh cast. Detaching the fingers that clutched at him he rose to his feet. "I must apolog
ize—"
“No apology can compensate for this inexcusable intrusion,'' Edmund said in a low savage tone. "Begone, and never return to this house."
"Edmund, you are unjust, " Ismene protested. "If anger is called for here, it should be directed at me. I proposed—nay, I insisted upon—this visit. You do not know what transpired.''
Quickly and tersely she told all. Edmund's furious color subsided as he listened. "I see. Well, sir, no doubt you meant well. If you have assured yourself there is no need of your services ..."
"Yes" was the curt reply. With a final look at the old woman, who had slumped back against the pillows and closed her eyes, he walked quickly to the door and went out.
"Wait," Edmund said, as Ismene would have followed. "You are still angry with me. That condition must not endure. "
"I am not so much angry as surprised—shocked—astonished," Ismene replied. "I had not supposed you capable of speaking and acting so rashly, without waiting to hear explanations. "
"My dear. " He drew her to the door and closed it behind him. The corridor was deserted. When he would have taken her in his arms Ismene stiffened and drew away.
"I was not angry with you," Edmund said softly. "How could I feel other than admiration for the benevolence that prompted your action? Seeing him with you, watching his false actions, I was overcome by jealousy.''
At first she could not believe she had heard aright. "What!" the cry burst from her. "You insult me, Edmund, if you believe—"
"My dearest girl." His arms enclosed her. Gently but inexorably he overcame her resistance and pressed her to his breast. "How can you be insensible to my overpowering affection? Is your modesty so great that you have failed to observe that I love—worship—adore you? That same modesty and innocence veils his intentions from you, but they are no secret to me. Now that you have been warned you will avoid them. He is unable to offer you a heart worthy of your acceptance, Ismene. Your happiness shall be the sole study of my life. I cannot—will not—live without you.
Chapter Fifteen
There comes John, and I must put this away,—he hates to have me write a word. . . . She is all the time trying to crawl through. But nobody could climb through that pattern—it strangles so. . . .
Charlotte P. Gilman, The Yellow Wallpaper, 1892
"SO that's the way the land lies," Peggy said, returning the papers to Karen and signaling the waitress for more coffee. "I thought Edmund would declare himself before long. I'm betting on the doctor, though."
"Why?" Karen pushed the remains of her cereal away. Peggy had insisted she eat a hearty breakfast, in preparation for the hard day's work ahead. She hated cereal.
"Edmund's after her money. And," Peggy added, before Karen could object to this dogmatic statement, "the sister, Clara, has her eye on Edmund too. Ismene's too noble to find happiness at her sister's expense. Then there's The Horrible Secret to be exposed. The old lady knows what it is, and maybe she's not as crazy as she seems."
"You really are jumping to conclusions."
"I'm making educated guesses," Peggy corrected. "That's part of the fun of reading mysteries—trying to figure out the solution. Ismene has set up the plot, and unless she cheats by introducing a new character or a vital clue at the last minute, an intelligent reader ought to be able to predict what will happen. How much more of the manuscript have you got to read?"
"Forty or fifty pages. But I have a nasty feeling that 'Houses of Stone' is going to be another Edwin Drood. You know, the murder mystery by Charles Dickens that he never finished."
"Why didn't he?"
"He died."
"That's a good reason," Peggy admitted.
"Dickens set up the plot and the list of suspects," Karen went on. "And the victim. But nobody knows whether Edwin disappeared voluntarily, or was kidnapped or murdered, much less which of the suspects committed the crime—if there was a crime. Hundreds of books and articles have been written speculating on how Dickens meant to end the book."
"Is this going to be the same? I know you said some pages seem to be missing, but maybe it's only a few. Come on, don't tell me you haven't cheated and looked ahead."
"I peeked," Karen admitted. "The last page ends in mid-sentence; it seems to be a description of some damned rose garden. This isn't a typical murder mystery, where the explanation is left till the last chapter, so I'm hoping Ismene tied up most of the loose ends earlier and that the missing pages contained only unimportant moralizing. But I won't know till I've read the whole thing."
"Maybe you ought to stay with it, Karen. I can take pictures and supervise the workmen."
"The manuscript can wait. I'll have to go over it again and again anyhow. We may not have access to Amberley much longer."
"Especially after what we did yesterday." Peggy scribbled her name on the check and pushed her chair away from the table. "Not that we intended to misbehave; we were properly invited and had no reason to think Cameron would resent our being there."
"I suppose I might have suspected he would," Karen said slowly. "He never invited me to his home or gave me the address—only a phone number. He's made it clear from the beginning that our relationship was strictly business."
"Hmmm. Are you sure you didn't miss a cue here and there? I'm not criticizing, mind you, it's none of my business how you feel about him, but he's awfully thin-skinned; the slightest hint of rejection and he pulls back into his shell."
"I tried to be friendly," Karen protested. "He never—" She broke off in some confusion, remembering at least two occasions when Cameron had. "Anyhow," she went on, "he has nothing more to sell. From now on we're not potential buyers, we're damned nuisances. He'll be happy to see the last of us."
Cameron certainly did not appear happy to see them that morning. The man who followed him out of the house was a stranger to Karen, but she knew who, or what, he must be.
Cameron was wearing a suit and tie and carrying a briefcase. He greeted them with a frown and a curt "I didn't expect you so early. Your crew won't be here for another hour."
"That's okay," Peggy said, deliberately misinterpreting this speech as an apology. "We wanted to take some pictures before we start work."
She turned her bright innocent smile on the other man. "Sleek" was the word that came to Karen's mind—slick, well-groomed gray hair, expensive tailoring, a smooth pink face. "Good morning," she cooed. "We won't be in your way, I promise. Just ignore us."
"Not at all, ladies" was the affable if meaningless reply. His eyes went over them with a curious absence of expression; Karen realized he was seeing them not as women or even human beings, but as potential business rivals.
Peggy said nothing to dispel this impression. Names were exchanged and hands were shaken, and then they excused themselves, leaving the men to talk.
"You were right," Peggy said sotto voce. "The guy's a developer if I ever saw one. I wonder what he's got in mind for the house. You could turn it into a conference center or bed and breakfast, I suppose, if you weren't sensitive to atmosphere. Me, I'd tear it down and start all over."
"Who gives a damn?" Karen demanded. "Honestly, Peggy, you can waste more time on—"
"Kitchen things," Peggy said, smiling. "Here, hold the light meter and the extra film. Where shall we start?"
They moved methodically from room to room. Karen was dreading the moment when they would reach the narrow stairs that led to the attic; she was determined not to shirk the job, but she wasn't anxious to repeat that experience. Luckily for her, Peggy was a finicky, fussy photographer; they were still on the first floor, in the library, when Cameron joined them.
"I'm driving Mr. Halston back to town," he announced. "The crew should be here anytime. Can you manage without me? I should be back in an hour or two."
"No problem," Karen said. She was dying to know whether Cameron had made his sale, but didn't like to ask.
Peggy was less inhibited. "Is he going to buy the place?"
Cameron's face mirrored his feelings—
exasperation, reflection, and finally reluctant amusement. "There are a few details left to work out. Excuse me, I don't want to keep him waiting."
"I don't know how you get away with it," Karen said after he had marched out.
"It's my age. Old ladies are expected to be nosy, and in this part of the world at least, people don't hit grandmas. If we hurry we can finish the library before the men get here."
They were sitting on the front steps when a car pulled up. Karen had forgotten Bill Meyer was to be part of the work crew but she discovered, somewhat to her surprise, that she was glad to see him—or at least not sorry to see him. His scraped face still looked awful, but it seemed to be healing.
"Not even a singed curl," he said, looking her over with an expression that contradicted his light tone.
"I told you she was fine," Peggy said.
He dropped down onto the step next to Karen. "I went by the place this morning," he said soberly. "How you ever managed . . . I guess you'd rather not talk about it."
"I don't see any point in talking about it. But it was nice of you to call yesterday."
"Nice, hell. You're making me very nervous, Karen. Try not to get mashed by falling rocks or bitten by a poisonous snake today, will you?"
"We'll let you boys do the dirty work," Peggy said. "This must be them. Or should I, in the presence of two English teachers, say 'they'?"
The noun fit the other "boys" better than it did Bill; they were all in their late teens and they introduced themselves by diminutives: Scotty, Jimmy Joe and Bucky. They might have been brothers or cousins, they looked so much alike, and Karen had a hard time remembering which was which.
At first they took Bill for the boss, but Peggy soon set them straight.
Shouldering the tools they had brought, they followed in an obedient procession, with Karen and Bill bringing up the rear.
"You've been here before, Bill, I gather," she said, as they entered the woodland path.