Houses of Stone (35 page)

"Don't you think I know it?" After a moment the hard muscles of his arm relaxed; he set her politely on her feet before he stepped back
and put his hands in his pockets, as if imprisoning them. "I can wait."

Karen tried to think of an appropriate response. No doubt something witty would occur to her about two in the morning. At the moment her head was as empty as a sieve. She turned away.

He fell in step with her, hands still in his pockets. "If you really want to get rid of me you might try a little reverse psychology," he suggested amiably. "Try throwing yourself into my arms and see what happens."

"Some other time. Just what the hell are you up to, Bill?"

"Falling in love with you, I suspect." His voice was so gloomy she glanced at him in surprise, and again stumbled over the rough ground. He let her recover herself unaided this time. "Or maybe I'm hopelessly attracted to women who despise me. Damned if I know. I never felt this way before."

"Oh, really? What way is that?"

He pondered the question, his brow furrowed. "Worrying about you. Maybe I've just turned philanthropist in my middle age. Whatever it is, it's keeping me awake at night. What harm would it do you to let me hang around and help out? For God's sake, Karen, you've already got everybody in on the deal but the Marx Brothers. Why not me?"

They stopped at the edge of the road. Karen looked carefully in both directions before crossing. "I trust them," she said over her shoulder. "They're helping me, not competing."

"If you let me collaborate I won't be competing," Bill said patiently. "With all due respect to your friends they aren't the stoutest of champions. Simon is an old man, Peggy is—er—"

"Don't call her old. Or short."

"I think she's terrific. Let's say she is no longer young and not extraordinarily tall. Wait a minute before you go rushing off. I've one more thing to throw into the pot. You saw the portrait."

An unpleasant sinking sensation seized Karen. "There were a number of portraits," she said warily.

"Oh, come off it. You know the one I mean; I know Peggy saw it because I saw her pull it out and take it into the light."

"So that's why you left me alone all day Friday. You were trailing Peggy!"

Bill was unrepentant. "Of course. She's the historian. I'd already spotted the painting, actually. The resemblance to the Bronte portrait was coincidental but eye-catching. I didn't bid on it."

"How do I know that's true?"

"Give me a break, will you? You should know no other interested party was bidding, you got it damned cheap. At least I assume it was one of your agents that acquired it. You and Peggy weren't bidding on anything interesting, so you must have had someone else doing it for you. A smart move."

"Peggy is a smart lady."

"But not very tall."

Karen tried not to laugh, but failed. He was wearing her down, not with his absurd declaration of love—it was much more likely that, as he himself had suggested, he was drawn to women who resisted his charms— but by his sense of humor and his intelligence. Whatever his motives, he was trying hard, and humility wasn't easy for a man of his arrogance. Or was pride a more accurate word? Karen smothered a smile. Bill's pride and her prejudice against him—another classic plot! Bill had a better sense of humor than Darcy, though.

"All right," she said. "I'll discuss your offer with Peggy. But not until after the auction."

"Fair enough. See you later."

By the end of the second day Karen's head was spinning and she was so tired she could have gone to sleep in the hard wooden chair. Anxious to finish, the auctioneer picked up the pace as the day wore on; objects were knocked down so quickly she had a hard time keeping track of what was up for sale. Somehow or other she had acquired a pile of things she had not intended to buy, including a box of crocheted doilies and a lamp made out of an old whiskey jug. When Peggy nudged her she started and turned a dazed face on her companion.

"We can go now," Peggy announced. She looked better than Karen felt, but the red bow hung limp over one ear and her face was gray with dust and fatigue.

"Thank God," Karen said sincerely. "Where's Simon?"

"He left an hour ago. We're meeting him for drinks, so get a move on."

Sharon had abandoned ship much earlier, but Joan refused to leave. "This is when you get the bargains," she muttered, glazed eyes fixed on the auctioneer. "Go away, you're distracting me."

Simon was waiting in the bar when they got there. "I know I look terrible," Karen declared, dropping onto the sofa beside him. "But I'm too tired to care. I did wash my hands."

She held them out. Simon took them in his, turned them over, and gravely inspected her palms. "They'll do. It is a tiring procedure. I'm a little weary myself."

"How'd you do?" Peggy asked. As a kindly gesture to her bedraggled companion she hadn't changed either, but the red bow rose triumphant and she had put on fresh makeup.

"Very well," Simon said.

Karen knew that guarded tone. "What did I miss?" she asked. "I swear I looked at every book in the place."

"You didn't miss anything. We weren't looking for the same things. What will you have, ladies? Champagne would be appropriate but not perhaps at this hour."

"That well, huh?" Peggy beamed at him. "Congratulations. I think I'll have Scotch, though."

"Is anyone else joining us?" Simon asked.

"I don't know where Sharon's got to, and Joan is still hanging in at the auction," Peggy said. "The way things were going they may not finish till late." She glanced at Karen. "I invited Bill Meyer, but he said he wouldn't come unless you asked him."

"How touching." Simon was visibly amused.

"Childish, you mean," Karen retorted.

"No, no, you misinterpret his intent. He is not sulking, he is allowing you to decide when and if you wish to see him. It is a most delicate attention," Simon added approvingly.

"Why not let him come to the cemetery?" Peggy suggested. "There's nothing to stop him from investigating the place anyhow; we could use a little muscle."

"Well ... All right. When?"

"Tomorrow. Want to join us, Simon?"

"I had planned to return to Baltimore," Simon said slowly.

"How can you resist such a treat? Crawling around in the weeds, nose-to-nose with snakes and other critters, getting scratched and covered with poison ivy."

"It does sound enticing. I'll think about it." He glanced toward the doorway. "There's Geoffrey. He has your purchases, I presume?"

"Right. I'll have to settle with him." Peggy finished her drink and stood up. "Want to come along and see the goodies?"

Karen had already helped Peggy carry her other purchases to her room. After the amiable Geoffrey had brought the rest upstairs Peggy scribbled a check and sent him on his way. Then they surveyed the loot. It covered both of the twin beds and several square feet of the floor.

"Good God," Karen breathed. "I didn't realize you'd bought so much."

"Neither did I," Peggy admitted. "I tend to get carried away."

"You certainly do. Why did you buy this trunk?" Karen wrestled with the tight-fitting lid and finally managed to lift it. A pervasive, pungent odor rose from the interior. She turned her head aside. "It's full of old rags!

"Those aren't rags, those are vintage clothes. Very collectible, unfortunately; I had to pay a stiff price for this." Peggy lifted a mass of dark fabric from the pile and shook it out. Dark sparks shimmered in the lamplight. Peggy swung the black, jet-beaded cape around her shoulders and pirouetted in front of the mirror, wrinkling her nose against the strong stench of mothballs. Or was it camphor? Some preservative, Karen supposed.

"Very becoming," Simon said with a smile.

"I might actually wear it someday," Peggy said, studying her reflection complacently. "After it's been aired, that is. Whew, what a smell! We can thank whatever that stuff is for the survival of the manuscript, though."

Under a pile of old clothes in a trunk in the attic . . . "You mean this is that trunk?" Karen exclaimed, digging both hands into the remaining fabric. "Why didn't you tell me? Why didn't I think—"

"You've had a lot on your mind," Peggy said. "Don't bother excavating it now, there are no more papers there. I bought it for purely sentimental reasons."

"I'm glad you thought of it." Karen held up a strange construction of tape and wire. "What on earth is this?"

"A bustle," Peggy said, laughing. "That I won't wear. But some of the dresses are in good shape. Want to try them on? I think they're all too long for me."

Karen tossed the other clothes back into the trunk and closed the lid. "Not now. Where's the portrait?"

She exclaimed in outrage when Peggy dragged it out from under a collection of tarnished silver pieces. "Be careful! You'll scratch it."

"Honey, one more scratch won't even show. Have a look, Simon. What do you think?"

She spread it out on the bed and turned on both lamps.

Simon inspected the sad object in silence. "It could be two women. It could also be a woman and a man wearing a wig. Or two men wearing wigs. Or a couple of dogs with long ears. I hope you didn't pay a great deal for this masterpiece."

"Don't be such a killjoy," Peggy said. "It will have to be cleaned, of course. And restored."

"Dogs!" Karen exclaimed, aghast.

"He's just kidding," Peggy assured her.

"The dogs were indeed a jest." Simon stepped back and squinted professionally at the canvas. "However, I think the casual resemblance to the Bronte portrait—which results primarily from the fact that this canvas, like the other, was folded—has given you false hopes."

"Probably," Peggy said cheerfully.

"On the other hand . . . If you like, I'll take it back with me. Paintings are not my specialty, but the people at the Walters can probably recommend someone. Now this ..." He lifted the framed portrait of the grim old lady onto the bed and studied it approvingly. "This has a certain appeal. The technique is poor, of course, but the painter has certainly caught a personality."

"But it's not Ismene," Karen exclaimed.

Simon turned to look searchingly at her. "How do you know?"

"Why, she . . . She's not . . . Well. The clothing, for one thing. It's Victorian—late Victorian. This is in much better condition than the other, it can't be as old."

"That doesn't necessarily follow," Simon said. "As for the date . . . Let's say this was painted in 1870 or 1880. The subject appears to be elderly. She may have been born in 1800, give or take ten years.

You believe the manuscript could have been written as late as 1840 ..."

"Earlier, I think," Karen mumbled, returning the old lady's painted frown.

Peggy pulled up a chair and straddled it, arms folded on the back. "We may as well settle this, Karen. I've seen it coming, and it is going to prejudice your judgment. Just how do you picture Ismene?"

Karen didn't answer. Peggy chuckled. "There's a scene in one of the Alcott books—
J
o's Boys,
I think—which takes place after Jo, like her creator, has become a famous author with doting fans pursuing her. In those days they didn't just write fan letters, they dropped in, uninvited and unheralded."

"What are you talking about?" Karen demanded belligerently. Simon was smiling too. She might have known he had read Louisa May Alcott. He was probably the only male in the world who had.

"Wait, this is not irrelevant. One such party of admirers corners Jo, although she has disguised herself as the cleaning lady in the hope of avoiding them. She is by now the mother of grown sons and not by any stretch of the imagination a beautiful woman. When the visiting lady turns to one of her daughters and says, 'Don't you want her autograph,' the honest child replies, 'No. I thought she'd be about seventeen, with her hair done up in braids.' "

Simon's shoulders were shaking with laughter. After a brief internal struggle Karen threw in the towel. "You're right, damn it. I wasn't picturing a seventeen-year-old with pigtails, but my image of her was certainly influenced by irrational romanticism. Someone young, sensitive, slight ..."

"A typical heroine, in fact," Peggy finished. "Even heroines get old, Karen. Or ... they don't. The first alternative may not be romantic, but take my word for it, it's the lesser of the two evils."