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

professionally with the material. Rushing into print, risking the chance of error, wouldn't add luster to a professional career. It might have an adverse effect. Meyer wasn't the only one of her colleagues whose idea of criticism was splitting hairs.

She called the number twice more before she persuaded herself to calm down and relax. She was eating a nutritionally balanced and carefully prepared lunch (a lettuce-cheese-and-tomato sandwich on whole-grain bread) when there was a knock at the door.

Hoping her visitor was Cameron, with good news, fearing it was Mrs. Fowler wanting to gossip, she was struck dumb by what could only be an answer to prayer. Lisa Fairweather wore a dress that had a strange resemblance to her despised pink voile. She also wore white gloves and a matching pink hat.

Lisa's first act was to remove the hat and toss it onto the sofa. Her second act was to strip off the gloves. "What a relief. I feel like a kid let out of school."

"The Garden Club?" I ought to have known, Karen thought.

"Uh-huh. The uniform is obligatory. I hate pink. And gardening."

"Why do you go?" Karen asked curiously.

"It's called good manners, honey. Also tact, respect for tradition, kindness to your elders. Would you think me rude if I begged for a cup of coffee—good strong coffee? The dear old ladies brew a beverage that looks like weak tea and tastes like warm water."

"Just instant, I'm afraid."

"That'll be fine."

She followed Karen to the kitchen and perched on a chair, chatting, while the kettle came to a boil. "I swear to you this is the first and last time I'll appear uninvited. But Cam said he'd been in touch with you, and I thought you might have called while I was out. I feel as if I owe you an explanation—an apology, even. I had no idea those papers would interest you."

Give her the benefit of a doubt, Karen thought. Aloud she said, "I suppose you couldn't have known. I haven't been exactly forthcoming about my reasons for being here. Reticence can become a bad habit with academics; I've known historians who sat on some obscure bit of research for twenty years, hoarding it like a miser."

"You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to," Lisa said, looking at Karen from under her lashes. "But I'm not exactly stupid, and if I knew exactly what you were looking for, I might be able to help. I know more about the family history than Cam does. He's never been interested."

Karen gave her a brief run-down. Lisa didn't appear to find the story interesting in itself, but the possibility of making money definitely aroused her interest. "I don't see why an old book is so valuable, but I'll take your word for it. So you want to find out who this woman was? Are you sure she was a Cartright?"

"Pretty sure. I may never know for certain." It was the first time Karen had admitted this to herself. The idea of failure was so appalling she had to swallow before she could go on. "At least I hope to come up with a strong possibility."

"Like, a woman who lived at the right period and who fits the other clues?"

"That's the general idea."

"Then some kind of genealogy might help."

"It certainly would." Karen's eyes opened wide. "Don't tell me you have—"

"I sure do. Bill practically fainted when he saw it, so I figured it must be important. He thought I didn't notice. Men never think women have right good sense, do they?"

Her smile invited Karen to share her amusement. Sisterhood was a word Lisa would probably reject, just as she would deny being a feminist. What she had invoked was the age-old secret understanding among women who manipulate men without letting the poor fools know they are being manipulated.

"You've got that right too," Karen said. "You—you didn't let him have it, I hope."

"Course not. You want to see those papers?"

"As soon as possible."

"They're in my car." Lisa finished her coffee and rose. "What about right now?"

Chapter Six

America is now wholly given over to a d------d mob of scribbling women, and I should have no chance of success while the public taste is occupied with their trash—and should be ashamed of myself if I did succeed.

Nathaniel Hawthorne, Letters, 1854

KAREN had never been particularly interested in tracing her, or anyone else's, ancestors. What was the point? Discovering that a remote predecessor had carried a musket or a pike in an old, pointless battle, or tracing a connection to a set of illiterate, bloodthirsty noblemen? Even if you could claim a distant relationship with Erasmus or Shakespeare, it didn't mean you had inherited their talents or were entitled to increased respect.

She had pictured the genealogy as a chart, a family tree with names and dates. Some of the ones she had seen had been designed to look like trees, with the names inscribed on leaves—more decorative than useful. When Lisa handed her a thick sheaf of papers her hopes soared. There might be more information here than she had expected.

She and Lisa had wrestled the heavy carton up the steps and into the living room. Lisa was stronger than she looked, and she didn't shirk her half of the weight. She sat watching in silence as Karen examined the papers.

The pages consisted of printed forms which had been filled in by hand. At the top right corner was the word "Generation." After puzzling over this for a moment Karen realized it referred to the number of generations since the original ancestor—in this case, the first settler in America. The form was fairly easy to decipher once she got the hang of it. A separate page for each individual listed the name, the names of father, mother, spouse and children, and the appropriate dates—birth, death, marriage—as well as the names of the spouse's parents. The spouse was always female, since (of course, Karen thought sourly) descent was traced through the male.

The Cartrights had been a prolific lot.