Authors: KATHY
Peggy refused to explain this enigmatic statement, and Karen did not press her. At that moment she was more interested in basic creature
comforts, such as food and drink, cold showers and a flat surface on which to recline. Even Bill shook off his macho image long enough to mutter, "If this is what constitutes historical research I'm glad I took up literature instead."
"So you're not volunteering to join the archaeological dig?" Peggy inquired. Fatigue had not affected the panache with which she drove; Bill cringed as she made a wide, shrieking turn onto the highway, but replied, "The stone house, you mean? Wild horses couldn't keep me away. Or wild dogs."
Karen declined Simon's invitation to lunch, so they dropped her at the apartment.
"I'll call you later," Peggy said. "We'll worry about your car tomorrow, okay?"
Her recalcitrant vehicle was the farthest thing from Karen's mind just then. She was not so far gone that she forgot to retrieve the briefcase from Peggy's trunk, however.
After a shower and a late lunch she felt better. Her food supplies were low; Joan had made vast inroads on them. Damn the damn car; she'd have to ask Peggy to take her shopping. And how was she going to locate a mechanic who wouldn't take advantage of a woman and a stranger? Cameron was the obvious person to ask, but there was no way she could reach him if he was working at the house. Lisa would probably give her the name of the most rapacious mechanic in town, out of spite. After a moment of cogitation she reached for the limp, dog-eared telephone book and dialed.
Tanya sounded genuinely pleased to hear from her, and she was able to recommend a garage. "They've managed to keep me on the road, and believe me, that's no small feat. Sorry to hear you're having problems. If you need a lift—"
"I don't think so. But thanks for the offer."
A warm contralto laugh preceded Tanya's reply. "I owe you one, lady. You gave me one of the best hours of my life last week. The whole town's talking about it."
"So I hear," Karen said wryly.
"Mrs. F. giving you a hard time?"
"Trying to. She called me a trollop."
"Oh, God, really? How wonderful."
Under the gurgle of her laughter Karen heard a soft click, as if Tanya had let the telephone knock against some other object.
"Also a brazen hussy ... a disgrace to the name of woman ..." It was funny now. She could hear Tanya giggling uncontrollably. "Wanton, lewd, filthy-minded . . . And of course ill-bred, rude and crude."
"You've got to let me buy you a drink sometime."
"Aren't you afraid of guilt by association?"
"There is that." Tanya sobered. "She could get me fired."
"You're kidding."
"Unfortunately, I'm not. The old biddy wields a lot of power in this town. There's nothing she can do to you, though."
"I've been called worse things than trollop," Karen agreed, laughing. "I'll take a rain check on that drink—until it's safe. Maybe after I finish this part of the project."
"How's it going?"
"I've made progress in some areas; very little in others."
"You ought to talk to my mama sometime."
"Your mother? Why?"
"She's worked for the Cartrights off and on for fifty years. And her mama before her. Knows a lot of stories."
"I would like to talk to her," Karen said. "Does she live here?"
"Uh-huh. She takes care of old Miz Hayes. Cameron's mama."
"I didn't know that. When can I—"
"Gotta go," Tanya interrupted. "One of the trustees just walked in. I'll be in touch."
"Ditto. And thanks again."
Karen repeated the conversation to Peggy when she turned up later that afternoon. "I called the garage; they said if it is a rod, I shouldn't risk driving it. They'll send a tow truck around in the morning. Do you want to meet Tanya's mother?"
"Definitely." Peggy stubbed out one cigarette in the chipped saucer Karen had supplied as an ashtray and lit another. "We're running out of sources, Karen. Joan may have hit it on the head when she suggested pursuing oral tradition. The old lady could be a mine of information."
"She needn't be that old. Tanya can't be more than thirty."
"If she's a local girl her family has probably been working for the Cartrights for generations. Free and slave," Peggy added.
"I thought of that, but I didn't want to ask. What did you mean this afternoon when you said you'd been on the wrong track?"
"Just an amorphous idea." Peggy lit another cigarette. "I haven't got it quite clear in my head yet. We're having dinner with Simon, by the way. If you're ready, we can have a drink in the bar before we meet him."
"All right." Karen gathered up the pages of manuscript and notes.
"That thing is getting to be a damned nuisance," Peggy said, watching her stuff the papers into the briefcase. "We really ought to figure out some safe place to leave it instead of hauling it everywhere we go."
"Anyplace safe is also inaccessible. I can't go running off to a bank every time I want to work on it."
Peggy drove slowly as they drove past the house. "No sign of Mrs. F. Doesn't she usually sit on the front porch this time of day?"
"She's probably afraid the mere sight of me will contaminate her."
"Not likely. I'll bet she watches you day and night from behind the curtains, hoping she'll catch you doing something . . . What's the matter?"
"My God," Karen exclaimed. "It never occurred to me till this minute. That funny click I heard when I was talking to Tanya—do you suppose my telephone is an extension of the one in the main house?"
"It never occurred to me either, but I guess it's possible." Peggy pondered. "She's the sort that would feel she was justified in keeping tabs on her tenants."
"But how would she know when I made or received a call?"
"Damned if I know. Maybe she just happened to pick up the phone. Or maybe she didn't. My telephone is always making strange noises. What difference does it make? We haven't discussed anything important over the phone."
"It could make a difference to Tanya," Karen said soberly.
"Surely not! The old bat can't have that much influence."
"God, I hope not. If Mrs. Fowler was listening she got an earful, to put it mildly." Karen groaned. "If Tanya loses her job it will be my fault."
"Let's not trouble trouble till trouble troubles us," Peggy advised.
"What?"
"It's a folk saying."
"So I imagined. Well, there's nothing we can do about it now."
"That's what I said." Peggy pulled into a parking space.
Simon joined them before long, but refused Peggy's offer of a drink. "I made a reservation at a restaurant in Williamsburg. The food here is an affront to the culinary art."
"Is anyone else coming?" Karen asked.
"Bill would have," Simon said. "I did not invite him. I wanted a quiet chat with you two."
"About anything in particular.
7
" Peggy stood back and allowed him to open the door.
"About everything. I have an interest. I would appreciate being brought up-to-date."
He refused to discuss the subject, however, until they had reached their destination and been shown to a table. Karen recognized the signs; Simon viewed dining out, as opposed to eating per se, as an art form, prolonged, leisurely and deliberate. It took him ten minutes to select the wine, after long consultation with a headwaiter who was obviously enraptured by his attitude toward food. They would be there until midnight, Karen thought resignedly.
After the most important matters had been settled, Simon looked at Peggy. "Begin at the beginning," he said. "And go on until you reach the end."
Peggy was happy to oblige. Simon let her ramble on, with only an occasional question. The last question brought her up short. "What next?"
"Uh—well . . . We're planning to excavate the stone house ..."
"Why?"
Peggy looked at Karen, who stared blankly back at her.
"What do you hope to find?" Simon asked. "Or, to put it another way, what can you possibly hope to find?"
"The fact that it was hers," Karen began.
"Not good enough," Simon said bluntly. "Let me summarize the situation as I see it."
"I'm not going to like this," Peggy muttered, reaching for an ashtray.
Knowing Simon's views on smoking between courses, Karen took it as a meaningful sign when he gave Peggy an affectionate smile instead
of a lecture. "I am not criticizing what you have done. All of it would have to be done at some time or other, and you seem to be enjoying yourselves hugely. But you remind me of Stephen Leacock's equestrian, who leapt onto his horse and rode off in all directions.
"The project you have undertaken has two major parts: one, the study of the manuscript itself; and two, the identification of the author. Yes, Karen, I know you have been working on the manuscript and I hope you will entertain me, later, with a summary of the plot. However, you have allowed yourself to be distracted. You ought to be in your apartment in Wilmington, safe and undisturbed."
"Safe," Peggy repeated, narrowing her eyes.
"Safe," Simon said. "Someone invaded her living quarters and attacked her physically. What on earth has come over you two, that you can coolly ignore that event? The intruder may not have intended to harm Karen, but she might have been injured, and the copy of the manuscript might have been taken. It would not be at risk—as it still is—if she had remained where she ought to be."
"You're right," Peggy murmured.
"But—" Karen began.
"Let me finish, please. The second part of the search is primarily Peggy's responsibility in any case, and it is also secondary to the main job. How can you possibly hope to identify this woman? You've already taken the obvious steps; you knew—at least I hope you knew—when you began that your chances of success were slim. What can you learn from that battered portrait? What can you find in the stone house? Even if it is the one she mentions in the manuscript, she left it a century and a half ago."
"There are other possible sources," Peggy said, frowning.
"Correct. And you were wise to purchase as many of the family possessions as you could. Some scrap of paper, some letter or diary may yet turn up. The chance is remote, however, and the search will be prolonged. I cannot understand why you are not concentrating on the manuscript. It has given you your most concrete evidence so far; you know you have found the right house, and that Ismene was most probably a member of the family. You've found absolutely nothing to connect her with a particular woman, and your best hope of finding that lies, it seems to me, in the text itself. Would you care for dessert?"
"You've taken away my appetite," Peggy said gloomily.
They settled for coffee and brandy. "Now tell me about the book," Simon said. "Start at the beginning and go on—"
"I don't know the ending yet," Karen said. "I've managed to resist the temptation to skip ahead; I want to get a feeling for the narrative, as an ordinary reader would do. And I'm horribly afraid we'll never know how it came out. Part of it is missing."
"Start at the beginning, then."
By the time she finished, the dining room was almost empty; except for one other party, they were the only ones there. "The pages I read this afternoon clear up the mystery of the old woman's identity. As Ismene cowers away from that groping hand, Edmund rushes into the room, accompanied by one of the servants. The old woman shrinks from him, mumbling incoherently, but she does not resist when the servant leads her from the room.
"Ismene is on the verge of collapse. Gently Edmund takes her into his arms and carries her to her bed. Rubbing her icy hands, he explains that the old woman is his poor, senile stepmother, his father's second wife. She is half-blind and so lacking in her wits that she must be confined and closely watched, for fear she might injure herself.
" 'She is completely harmless,' he insists, 'But the poor creature's appearance is so dreadful I do not wonder you were panic-struck. Even her daughter shrinks from visiting her. She has returned to infancy, physically as well as mentally, but rest assured that she receives the same tender care an infant would receive. Occasionally she takes these restless fits and escapes her guardian, wandering the house in search of heaven knows what fantasy of the mind. But you were in no danger, dear Ismene. Never will you be in danger while I am here.'
She stopped speaking. "Then what?" Peggy asked.
"Edmund leaves, she falls asleep. That's as far as I got."
"She's in bed, vulnerable and quivering, he's leaning over her holding her hands—and he leaves?" Peggy exclaimed.
"This is at least a hundred years too soon for what you've got in mind," Karen said. "In its own way, though, it is distinctly sensuous. You'd have to read it to know what I mean."
"Oh, yeah? You could have a best-seller on your hands after all."
"I doubt it," Simon said, his lip curling. "The romantic sensibilities
of modern readers have been blunted by anatomically detailed descriptions. Never mind your best-sellers. What concerns me—and should concern you—is to what extent you can interpret this story as autobiographical." He raised his hand and ticked the points off on his long thin fingers, folding them under as he touched them. "One: The setting appears to be based on reality—a specific house in a specific location. Two: The heroine, like her creator, aspires to literature and perhaps to the attainment of solitude in a 'room of her own.' "