Authors: KATHY
"Heathcliffe isn't a typical hero or villain, any more than Emily's novel is a typical Gothic. It's unique, unclassifiable. In
Jane
Eyre
, Rochester is dark and brooding, but he's the hero. Jane rejects St. John, the saintly
blond, because his icy detachment and denial of normal human emotion threaten her very sanity. He's not a traditional villain, though. Like Rochester, and even poor old Edgar in
Wuthering Heights,
he is far more complex. Like real people."
"There is certainly a degree of ambiguity about Ismene's male characters. I don't trust that angelic cousin of hers," Peggy muttered. "He's up to something."
"So you're enjoying the story?"
"I'm hooked, if that's what you mean, despite the archaic language and the interminable moralizing. How much longer is it going to take you to—"
The ringing of the telephone saved Karen from a reply, which would have been too vague to satisfy Peggy. The voice at the other end surprised her so, she forgot her manners. "Simon! What's wrong?"
His deep laugh reassured her. "That reaction is more characteristic of my generation than yours, Karen. I thought you had substituted telephone calls for letters as a means of social communication. I hope all is well?"
"Yes; things are going very well. We've found the right house, Simon! There's no doubt about it. I'm a third of the way through the manuscript; it's wonderful ..."
He waited until she had run down and then said politely, "I'm looking forward to reading it. And to hearing the story of your adventures. You said Peggy was working on the genealogical aspect. Is she there, by any chance?"
"Yes, she is." Karen began
to
have a deflating suspicion that she was not the object of Simon's interest. "Do you want to talk to her?"
He did. Karen handed the telephone to Peggy, who was looking particularly bland and innocent. She retreated to the kitchen and started to make tea, but it was impossible not to overhear Peggy's end of the conversation. It was not especially informative, however.
"Yes, fine, thank you . . . Really . . .
Oh?
. . . Yes, certainly. That's a good idea . . . Yes, I think so. And you? . . . Good . . . Yes, of course . . . Good night."
The kettle shrieked. Karen snatched it off the stove and poured water into the cups. Looking up, she saw Peggy standing in the doorway,
watching her with an amused smile. "What tact. Did you think I was going to murmur sweet nothings?"
"No, I expected to hear ribald remarks that would offend my ladylike sensibilities. That was a very businesslike conversation."
Peggy sat down at the table and spooned sugar into her tea. "I've talked with Simon a number of times," she said. "I hope the relationship will continue to develop."
"Do you mean you and Simon are ..." Surprise loosened Karen's tongue. She stopped herself. "I'm sorry. That's none of my business."
"No, it's not," Peggy said coolly. "I only mentioned it because I don't want you to suspect me of plotting with him behind your back. Tonight's conversation, in contrast to others we've had, was strictly business; he got a call today from the dealer from whom he bought the manuscript. While preparing for the auction—which is on Saturday, in case you've forgotten—the guy found more papers at the bottom of a box of linens. He wanted to know if Simon was interested."
"What did he say? What kind of papers? How much did he—"
"Calm yourself, please. I will give you the information in an orderly manner. Simon, moral giant that he is, refused the implicit offer; interest having been aroused, the seller stands to gain more in an open auction than in a private deal. He doubts the papers are important. All the dealer could tell him was that they look old—which as Simon knows, and you ought to know, doesn't mean a damned thing."
"Does that mean we have to bid for them on Saturday, in competition with everybody else attending the auction?" Karen demanded.
"Not without having a look at them first." Peggy tugged thoughtfully at her ear. "I'd planned to attend the auction, of course. There may be other things we'll want."
"What?"
"I won't know till I see them," Peggy said, maddeningly vague. "Usually there is a preview the day before, to give potential buyers a chance to examine the merchandise. We could attend that, but I'd prefer a private viewing, without a lot of auction freaks breathing down my neck. Do you think Cameron could arrange it?"
"I could ask."
"Do that little thing." Peggy gulped down the last of her tea and rose.
"I'm off. I want to get to the courthouse as soon as the offices open tomorrow. I'll turn up here in time for Happy Hour, okay?"
Karen followed her to the door. "Be careful on the stairs," she warned. "It's awfully dark."
"It is, isn't it? Be sure and lock up."
Karen stood in the open door until Peggy had started the engine and turned on the headlights. The glare of their beams shattered the darkness and shadows turned familiar objects into grotesque caricatures. A shiver shook Karen's body as she remembered the last sentence she had read before Peggy interrupted her that afternoon. "Sometimes," Ismene had written, "it is better not to know what lies hidden in the dark."
She was hard at work the following morning when a pounding at the door interrupted her. Automatically Karen covered the manuscript with a blank sheet of paper, and got stiffly to her feet, wondering who it could be. Not Mrs. Fowler, unless she had run out of violet notepaper and was employing clenched fists instead of ladylike knuckles to the door. Karen hesitated, struck by a sudden thought. Could the person demanding entrance so peremptorily be Dorothea Angelo? She had feared that Dorothea would track her down sooner or later, and she wasn't keen on facing that large angry individual alone.
I'll be damned if I'll let the woman intimidate me, she told herself. Squaring her shoulders, she reached for the doorknob.
Despite her bravado it was with considerable relief that she recognized her visitor. Joan's red hair was windblown, and she was wearing a bright-green T-shirt covered with feminist mottoes and insignia. The least provocative of the mottoes read, "A woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle."
"Hi," Joan said brightly.
"What are you doing here?"
"I'm a refugee from a rowing machine. Can I come in?"
Brushing past Karen, she rattled on, "I had to get away from that place. If I don't get my teeth into a hamburger or a taco within the next few hours I may turn cannibal. Everything on the menu over there is low-fat, low-cal, low-protein, and low-taste. I've consumed so goddamn
many bean sprouts I keep feeling my head to make sure things aren't growing in my hair."
"Where's Sharon?" Karen asked, looking out the door.
"Lunching on vegetable consomme and fat-free yogurt, after a morning on a treadmill. Didn't they used to sentence vicious criminals to the treadmill? Aren't you glad to see me?"
Karen indicated a chair. "Yes, to both questions. But don't think you can make a habit of this. It drives me crazy to have people think they can interrupt my work just because I'm sitting in my living room instead of in somebody else's office."
"I know. I get that all the time too. I'll call next time, I swear. This was one of those sudden, irresistible impulses Sharon keeps talking about." Her repentant frown turned to an unrepentant grin. "She doesn't even know I'm gone. I sneaked out. Come on, let me take you to lunch."
"Lunch?" Karen looked at her watch. "I didn't realize it was so late. I can't take the time, though. I could make us a sandwich—"
"It probably wouldn't be greasy enough. I came prepared to bribe you if necessary." Joan reached into her bulging purse and whipped out a paperback book. "Look what I found yesterday, during a brief moment of recreation Sharon allowed me at a bookstore."
"Haunted Houses of the Tidewater?"
Karen read the title aloud. "No, thanks. I've got enough reading material on hand."
"Ah, but there's one chapter in this that may interest you. You remember what I suggested the other night?"
"Oh. Is there something about Amberley?"
She reached for the book. Joan returned it to her purse. "I'll read aloud as we eat. There's a place down the road that serves half-pound burgers with chili and bacon and cheese and onions and—"
"Oh, all right." Karen grinned reluctantly. "An hour and a half, not a minute more."
"Make it two hours and I'll give you the book. I have to start back by three anyhow; it's a two-hour drive, and we're having a special treat at Happy Hour. Six whole ounces of tomato juice."
The hamburgers weren't quite greasy enough for Joan, but she compensated by devouring a pile of french fries. A little moan of pleasure escaped her lips as she leaned back, replete.
"You missed one," Karen said, indicating a lone french fry.
"Oh, yeah. You've done your good deed for the day, dearie. You have just saved a life."
"Sharon's, I suppose."
"She may yet survive the week. I promise I won't bug you again, but I trust you have no objection to my attending the auction this weekend."
"How do you know about that?"
"There was an ad in
Auction Weekly.
"
"Oh, so you're an auction freak. Why didn't I know that?"
"It's a secret vice. I only share it with fellow addicts. This looks like a good one—Saturday and Sunday both."
The information was new to Karen. She wondered why Peggy hadn't told her. Probably because she hadn't asked.
Joan went on, "The prison gates open at noon on Friday, so I plan to drive down and attend the viewing that afternoon. We might have dinner if you can spare the time."
"I'll see. Is Sharon coming with you?"
"She'll have to, unless she wants to rent a car," Joan said calmly.
"It could be quite a jolly little reunion," Karen said. "Peggy is here too. Did you know that?"
"I thought she might be. You'll get nasty wrinkles if you frown like that. What's the matter with you? Sure I'm curious about what you're doing. That's what friends are for—to share your interests and help out when they can."
"I wasn't frowning, I was thinking," Karen explained. "I appreciate the offer, Joan, but I don't see how you can help, unless Dorothea turns up again. You loom threateningly almost as well as she does."
Joan grinned. "I did enjoy that. However, I possess other talents besides the ability to loom, talents which I will now demonstrate." She took a book from her purse, and shook her head when Karen reached for it. "I insist on reading aloud. The literary style is absolutely delicious." Clearing her throat, she pronounced the words with unctuous enjoyment.
" 'Though the handsome mansions of the region abound in apparitions of infinite variety, none boasts the collection that haunt a grim old house not far distant from the bright lights and cheerful society of Fredericksburg. The visitor who approaches this domicile, overhung with un-trimmed trees, on a gloomy winter day feels certain that a curse does hang over the place as the dark clouds hang down over its roof.
" 'No one knows when the house was built. It is one of the oldest in the region, but history and local legend remain silent as to the precise date of its origin. Those same legends tell of the builder's horrible history; fleeing his native England after some unspeakable crime, he selected a spot in the wilderness remote from civilization, and many an unfortunate slave died in its building. And not slaves only. For he brought a companion with him, a beautiful young girl whose face bore the stamp of sorrow and was never heard to utter a word.' "
Joan paused for a drink of water, and Karen said, " 'Appalling' is more appropriate than 'delicious.' How much more of this drivel is there?"
"I haven't gotten to the best part. Listen. 'Was she mute by birth or had some cruel hand deprived her of her tongue? Was she his daughter, as he claimed, or his hapless, helpless paramour? Whatever, she went with him into the forests and was never seen again—in life. But she has been seen since, by many a terrified trespasser and poacher, her white garments floating as she runs, and in pursuit the dark, hooded shape of the man she flees. In vain! For if the watcher has the fortitude to remain and see the drama out to its end, the pursuer wins the race, falling upon the tragic victim and swallowing her up in his cloak and stifling, with repeated blows, the agonized shrieks that at last quiver into silence. Yes; in death the poor creature found the voice life had denied her, but too late! The Screaming Lady is one of the Tidewater's most tragic ghosts.' "
Joan looked up from the book. "Honestly, Karen, you're staring like a stuffed owl. Isn't it hilarious? I thought you'd get a kick out of it."
"Oh, yes. It is. I do."
"There's a pack of spectral hounds too," Joan said happily. "And a rocking chair that rocks when nobody's sitting in it, and footsteps that thump up and down the back stairs, and cold spots in various rooms— the author claims she heard the footsteps and felt the cold—and bloodstains that can't be cleaned off, and other good stuff."
Karen nodded dumbly.
"The people who produce these books are usually local wanna-be writers," Joan explained. "I collect them from all over the country. The same basic themes are repeated over and overflights going on and off, funny noises in an empty house, furniture moving—and White Ladies aren't uncommon. This one is a little off-beat, though. You see what that could mean."
"It's an interesting idea," Karen said slowly. "But it's pretty farfetched. What else does he say about Amberley?"
"Such chauvinism. It's a she, not a he. Violetta Fowler."
Peggy was fascinated by the Screaming Lady. "You're absolutely certain you never heard or read that story before today?"
"Of course I'm not certain," Karen said wearily. "I have no conscious recollection of it, but I might have run across it at some time or other. As a child I reveled in fairy tales and ghost stories."
"So did I. I don't remember this one, but we all have a lot of buried memories. The sound we heard ... It could have been a woman's scream, couldn't it?"
"In broad daylight? You were the one who said it, Peggy—the ambience was all wrong."
"Maybe she figured she'd have to risk it, since we weren't likely to wander around the woods after dark." Karen's expression indicated she didn't appreciate the light touch, and Peggy said, "Just kidding. It's a common theme in your feminist criticism, isn't it? Women being silenced, mute—no one listening?"
"Oh, sure. Mary E. Coleridge's poem about the image in the mirror: 'She had no voice to speak her dread.' There are also many references to being deprived of the most powerful 'voice,' that of literature. Even demure little Jane Austen points out that men have succeeded in slandering women because the pen has always been in their hands. She ... Oh, shit!"
"Good gracious. What brought that on?"
"I just remembered. I promised I'd talk to that damned Literary Society tomorrow."
"About Jane Austen, I cleverly deduce."
"She's safe, don't you think?"
"If you don't mention that she was a brilliant social satirist. Stick to Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, as played by Greer Garson and Laurence Olivier."
"Most of them probably haven't even read the book," Karen grumbled.
"It's a good opening for you to quiz Mrs. Fowler about ghosts, though,"
Peggy said. Her voice was quite serious. "Go early, take her book along and ask her to sign it."
"You really think it's important?"
"Could be. Not just the ghost stories. Scandal is what I'm after. I'll bet she knows a lot she hasn't told you." Peggy glanced down at the page she had been reading. " 'So long as that ancient crime is not expiated, so long will the curse, it is said, pursue the descendants of Obadiah Cartright. Despair and failure have marked the fortunes of the family down the centuries. When will the Screaming Lady be avenged? When will the soul of her tormentor find punishment in the eternal flames of damnation?' "
"Spare me," Karen said wryly. "Her literary style is as appalling as her theology."
"You're missing the point," Peggy insisted. "Don't you see the malice in those vague hints of failure and crime? She obviously detests the Cartrights."
"That's because Cameron divorced her niece. Of course Mrs. F. implied it was the other way around—that his cruelty and neglect drove the poor girl to leave him."
"You never told me that."
"It struck me as profoundly uninteresting."
"Gossip is always interesting. So that smirking pimply youth we met at the tea party is Cameron's brother-in-law?"
"I guess so," Karen said, surprised. "That would explain why he was hassling Cameron the other day."
"You never told me that either. What happened?"
"I only heard a few words. Cameron said something like 'I said no and I mean no,' and then I showed up, and Bobby Boy left."
"Probably wanted money," Peggy mused.
"Cameron's personal problems are none of your business," Karen said impatiently. "Or mine."
"How do you know? Gossip and trivialities, so-called, affect people's daily lives far more than the great events of history."
Karen had been about to object. Peggy's final comment struck a nerve; thoughtfully she said, " 'The insignificance of kitchen things.' '
"What?"
"It's from a short story—'A Jury of Her Peers.' There's been a murder. A man has been found lying in bed with a noose around his neck. The chief suspect is his wife. Two women go back to the lonely farmhouse with their husbands—the sheriff and his men—to get clothes and other necessities for the imprisoned wife. While the men are searching for clues that would explain the motive for the murder, the women look around the kitchen. 'The insignificance of kitchen things,' derided and ignored by the men, tells the women why the wife was driven to murder her husband. All the things he did to her were little things: making her cook on a broken stove; keeping her shabby and ill-clothed so that she was ashamed to go out and make friends—another form of imprisonment; and finally destroying, wantonly, the only thing she loved—her canary. The dead bird is the vital clue—and the women suppress it. They understand, as the men cannot, that the killing was justifiable homicide."
"Ha," Peggy said triumphantly. "That's exactly what I was talking about. Vital trivialities. I'll bet Mrs. Fowler knows a lot of useful dirt about the Cartrights, for six generations back, and she'd be delighted to spread it. All she needs is a little encouragement. You might confide to her your growing romantic attachment—"
"That will happen on the same day the eternal flames of damnation freeze over. I'm sorry I ever showed you this stupid book. What luck did you have today?"
"Let's sit on the steps. I want to smoke."
"I told you you could smoke in here—if you insist. Just sit next to the window."
"I want to smoke a lot and I'm a very considerate person. Come on, it's a nice day."
The declining sun cast shadows across the lawn and deepened the green of young leaves and new grass. Around the sundial in the backyard a circle of lavender hyacinths bloomed bravely—except for the ones that had been flattened by the body of a gray-and-white cat, sprawled in a patch of sunlight.
"That's a handsome cat," Peggy said. "Your landlady's?"
"I don't know who it belongs to. I doubt it's Mrs. Fowler's; you've seen that finicky neat house."
"Right. I hope it's not a stray."
"Control yourself. You have enough cats. And I am not adopting one."
"You can take shots for those allergies, you know."
"I could, but I'm not going to. Stop wandering off the subject."
Peggy continued to stare. As if aware of admiration, the cat rolled over and stretched. "It's wearing a collar," Peggy said, relieved. "Okay. My luck ran out today. The title search dead-ended in 1778. There was nothing before that."