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

can only do so much with what he's got, and if I may be permitted to brag a trifle, I know better than he does how to go about it. Your discoveries strongly support the presumption that Ismene lived in that house, but was she a Cartright? The property may have changed hands, not once but several times. In this case we can't rely on people's memories, we need documentary proof. I'll hit the county courthouse tomorrow morning and begin tracing the deeds. You ought to—this is just an opinion, of course—"

"Don't be so damned tactful."

"Me, tactful? Please, don't be insulting." They smiled at one another, and Peggy went on, "As I was saying: Now that I've seen the manuscript, I realize how difficult it is to decipher. I'm amazed you've got through as much as you have. For heaven's sake, don't let Bill get to you with his boasts about skimming a text. You can't risk doing that. The text has given us our best leads so far, and a single blurred word or phrase could be crucial."

Karen spent the next day on the manuscript, not skimming. Peggy had said she would show up in time for the tea party and she was as good as her word. It lacked several minutes till four when Karen heard the pounding on her door. The emphatic, peremptory noise would have identified her caller even if she had not been expecting Peggy, but when she opened the door she had to look twice before she was certain. Her jaw dropped.

"Hurry up and change," Peggy ordered. "It's not polite to be more than ten minutes late."

Karen recovered herself. "I'm going as I am. I'm neat and clean and my pants are modestly loose. For God's sake, Peggy, don't you think you went a little overboard? She'll know you're making fun of her."

Peggy picked up her flowing skirts and curtsied. The wide-brimmed straw hat fell over her eyes. "Damn thing," she muttered, shoving it back into place. "You wouldn't have a hat pin around, would you?"

"I'm as short of hat pins as I am of pink notepaper. Honestly, Peggy—"

"She won't see the joke, believe me. It's important to make a good first impression."

She looked so pleased with herself, and so charmingly, consciously absurd, that Karen burst out laughing. "Peggy, you light up my life—to quote a distinctly minor poet. I suppose the least I can do is comb my hair. Come in, it will only take me a minute."

Mincing on high heels, one hand clutching her hat, Peggy watched her return the manuscript to the briefcase. "Any luck?"

"Not in the sense I had hoped. The love interest has turned up. At least I think he's going to be the hero; he's dark and gruff and taciturn. He's also a doctor, which I gather makes him a social inferior."

"Not necessarily. But unless he's also landed gentry he probably wouldn't be considered a suitable suitor. You ought to change your blouse at least; that one looks rather grubby."

"Oh, all right. Is this one acceptable?"

Peggy stuck her head in the closet. "This one. Little flowers and a Peter Pan collar."

"How about you?" Karen asked, slipping into the blouse.

"So far it's all Cartright. But I'm only back to 1830. It's slow work, especially when you're reading script instead of print. Hurry up, can't you?"

She did not comment when Karen carried the briefcase downstairs and locked it in the trunk of her car. They followed the driveway to the front of the house and knocked at the door.

Karen had anticipated Mrs. Fowler's reaction with a certain amount of pleasure. She and Peggy would have made an absurd couple even without the hat, which was so wide-brimmed it made Peggy look like an animated mushroom. However, she underestimated Mrs. Fowler's breeding. Only the faintest flicker of criticism crossed her face when she saw them, and it was directed at Karen. Hearing voices from the living room, the latter realized she had committed a social error. They weren't the only guests. This was a party, not a casual visit.

There were four other guests, all male. Two of them had been with Mrs. Fowler at the restaurant: a heavy, pudgy-faced elderly man with an expression of insufferable self-satisfaction, and a wizened little scarecrow of approximately the same age. The third man was also someone she had seen before—trying to "start something" with Cameron, as he had expressed it. The fourth . . .

Only Peggy's shrill cry of greeting stopped Karen from making a profane remark. "Why, Dr. Meyer, what a pleasure to see you again. I had no idea you'd be here today."

"It's my pleasure. But please, won't you call me Bill? Hello, Karen."

"Such an honor to have three such distinguished visitors," exclaimed Mrs. Fowler. "Dr. Finneyfrock, Dr. Holloway, allow me to present Colonel Bishop and Mr. Blair, two of our leading citizens. Both of them are prominent in civic and intellectual affairs. And this young man is one of those to whom our failing hands will pass the torch of learning and culture—my nephew, Robert Mansfield."

"Just call me Bobby," said Robert Mansfield, flashing his teeth, flexing his muscles, and seizing Karen's limp hand. "Old Cam took care I didn't get introduced last time we met, but I told you I'd see you again."

After shaking hands all around Karen sank into the nearest chair. She was the only one who wasn't dressed to the nines. Even Bobby had put on a coat and tie; his hair, stiffy and shiny with gel, had been shaped into upstanding curls. Meyer's charcoal-gray suit would have been appropriate for a wedding or a funeral, and the other men matched him in formality if not in shape. The Colonel's stomach strained the buttons of his waistcoat. Somehow Karen wasn't surprised when he modestly admitted to being an authority on Civil War battles—referring to that conflict, of course, as "The War of Southern Independence." Settling into a chair next to Peggy, whom he was kind enough to acknowledge