Houses of Stone, KATHY [classic literature books TXT] 📗

"Not at all." He was obviously impatient to be off, though. His hands were tight on the wheel. They looked even worse than they had the week before, scraped and cut and raw. Not the hands of a gentleman, as Mrs. Fowler's pained glance and raised eyebrows had made clear.

After he drove off Karen went to her car and opened the trunk. It was jammed full, as was the back seat. Her packing couldn't be called well organized. There had been so much to do and she had been so impatient to get away that she had thrown things at random into boxes and suitcases. But she hadn't forgotten the important things. Taking the briefcase from the trunk, she carried it to her room.

Once again Ismene's feet carried her to the rocky promontory from which Edmund had first displayed to her awestruck gaze the fearful solitude of the wilderness. That vision—the furious rush of the swollen stream, foam-flecked and dark, the savage woodlands stretching to the limit of vision—was imprinted in her memory as indelibly as if a celestial hand had pressed its stamp upon it, though sunlight and the soft airs of spring now supervened to wash the dark woods with green, and sparkle on the flowing water.

The tender duty she owed her sister (not bodily weakness, for the day following their arrival had seen her fully recovered) would have kept her at Clara's bedside had not Clara herself urged her to seek daily exercise. "I know your restless spirit cannot endure quiet long,'' she had said. “There is no need for you to sit dully beside me. No queen could ask for kinder attentions than I have received and am receiving.

Indeed, Ismene's fears for her sister's health had been relieved that first night when, penetrating the elegant chamber where Clara lay, she had found the younger girl sitting up in bed and partaking of a dish of soup. Edmund had even insisted on sending for a physician, though by the time Dr. Fitzgerald arrived upon the scene he himself proclaimed his services unnecessary. The following days had seen steady improvement and no diminution of the attentions bestowed upon the invalid. Had it not seemed ungrateful, Ismene might have wished for such a diminution; Clara's only fault was a tendency toward laziness and a childish enjoyment of luxury.

It was on her first such walk that she had encountered Edmund; seeing her caped and hooded and ready for the out-of-doors, he had insisted upon accompanying her, claiming a brisk stroll was just what he wanted after a morning with his tedious ledgers and accounts. "In any case," he had added, "though it does not rain the skies are dark and the wind blows strong. The grounds are extensive and wilder than I would like; you might lose your way."

He had sheltered her with his cloak and supported her steps as they made their way through dripping shrubbery and along muddy paths; and yet he had led her to the unsheltered, windswept promontory, with its terrifying vista of untrammeled wilderness and its rocky precipice. Fearful yet strangely drawn, Ismene had stood balanced on the brink, leaning against the wind, until he drew her back into the circle of his arm.

"I knew," he had murmured, "that you would venture to the edge. Take care, Ismene, lest your courageous spirit lead you beyond daring into danger."

Had it been a test? And if so, a test of what? Ismene pondered the question as she stood marveling at the transformation a few weeks' passage had wrought. Wildflowers blossomed shyly in the grass at her feet; the gently swelling curves of the distant mountains were modestly swathed in green; even the cruel rocks of the cliff below were softened by sprays of feathery green—a fernery created not by the hand of a gardener but by nature herself, rooted in adamantine stone and sheltered by it.

A nagging discomfort penetrated Karen's absorption. Her foot had gone to sleep. Looking up, she realized that the windows were dark, and that another source of discomfort came from her empty stomach. She had been working for hours.

She rose and stretched aching shoulders. A trifle repetitive, that last part, she thought critically. The flashback was handled fairly well, but there was no need for it; Ismene had filled several pages with a description of her cousin's "angelic" form and features, and her description of their walk to the windy promontory had been detailed and—as she clearly intended—vaguely ominous.

Still . . . The style was characteristic of nineteenth-century novels, and less effusive than many. When your readership demanded two-and three-volume novels, a certain amount of padding became necessary. And this was clearly a first draft. Changes and emendations were frequent, making the close-written lines even harder to read.

Enough for tonight; her eyes were tired, and she had made an exciting discovery. The ferns and the cliff . . . Ferncliffe? It wasn't proof, there were ferns and cliffs all over the place; but in this case it had to be more than a coincidence.

She decided to celebrate by calling room service instead of going to the trouble of changing out of her comfortable robe. After the waiter had delivered her sandwich and a pot of coffee, she stretched out on the bed and was soon deep in the exaggerated horrors of The Castle of Otranto.

The sight of this questionable masterpiece and the other books she had packed brought a surprised comment from Cameron Hayes. He had been waiting for her when she arrived at Mrs. Fowler's and had not only carried the boxes of books upstairs for her but helped unpack them. As he waited for her to arrange the stack he had handed her, he opened Horace Walpole's novel and read aloud. " 'I value not my life,' said the stranger, 'and it will be some comfort in losing it to free you from his tyranny.' Is this your favorite bedtime reading?"

Karen laughed and reached for the book. "Who could resist dialogue