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

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.' "

Three fingers remained untouched. Raising his eyebrows, Simon looked from one of them to the other. "And that's it," he said. "That's all you have. Obviously the Gothic trimmings are pure fantasy. The grim labyrinthine old house, the vague hints of sinister secrets—and the characters themselves. Ismene's childish, helpless sister, her angelically handsome cousin, her dark, surly suitor the doctor, the elderly madwoman—don't you see, they are stock characters of Gothic fiction! What leads you to suppose that they have any basis in reality? If you ever learn Ismene's identity, you will probably discover that she was a smug, respectable Victorian matron who had a dozen children and a very lurid imagination!"

Silence fell like a damp, depressing fog. Karen could think of nothing to say. Simon was one hundred percent right. She ought to have known it. She had known it. And she knew why she had not been willing to admit the truth.

Peggy emitted a long sigh. "All right. So what do you suggest?"

"I suggest we take our departure," Simon said, beckoning the waiter. "It is getting late."

They were in the car heading back before he spoke again. "The only thing that puzzles me is why two intelligent, highly educated women should be so reluctant to face facts that must be even more obvious to them than they are to me. Have you any information you are keeping to yourselves? If you choose not to confide in me—"

"Don't be an idiot," Peggy growled.

"Then the answer is obvious, surely. Rid yourself of your preconceptions. Start again from the beginning, which is the manuscript itself. What you require is evidence that will enable you to fix the date of the manuscript more closely. You may find a specific reference to some historic or literary event. If not, you should be able to make an educated guess on the basis of the style of the writing itself. I fear you are letting your preconceptions influence your judgment on that question as well. The earlier the book, the more important the discovery; I quite understand that. But it sounds to me as if it is closer in time to the Brontes than to Mrs. Radcliffe."

"Karen is the best judge of that," Peggy said loyally.

Karen said nothing.

Simon didn't wait for her response. There was a new note of urgency in his voice when he spoke. "I must leave tomorrow. I have an important appointment on Wednesday. Please, Karen, won't you come with me? Have I not convinced you that remaining here is counterproductive?"

"He's right," Peggy said. "Much as I hate to admit it. Not that you're in any danger—"

"No, no," Simon said quickly. "I didn't mean to alarm you."

"Like hell you didn't." Karen reached out to pat his shoulder. "But I appreciate your concern, Simon dear. And your insightful analysis. You are right, of course, I should be concentrating on the manuscript. Anyway, I've accomplished most of what I hoped to do here. I can't leave until my car is fixed, but I promise, as soon as it's ready, I'll head for home. Are you satisfied?"

They were not as late as she had believed they would be; it was a few minutes before eleven when Peggy turned into the driveway. She and Simon followed Karen up the stairs and into the apartment.

"It's all right, you see," Karen said, switching on the lights. "You needn't look under the bed, Simon."

Simon gave her a cool stare and proceeded to do so. While he was looking into the bathroom and the closet, Karen whispered, "You aren't going to say anything to him about—about—"

"Of course not! I adore that man, even if he does treat me like a blithering idiot sometimes; I don't want him to think I'm a superstitious blithering idiot."

Simon emerged from the bedroom. "No one is there," he announced.

"Thank you," Karen said meekly.

"Not at all. Be sure you bolt the door securely. If you are ready, Peggy?"

Peggy gave Karen a wink and a grin, and she smiled back. Simon could lecture them all he liked about irrational romanticism, but he was not entirely immune; there was a certain swagger in his step as he strode to the door and held it for Peggy.

As soon as the car pulled away Karen turned