Houses of Stone (7 page)

"It's meant to sound ominous. She's got some nice descriptive touches," Karen admitted cautiously. "The storm-clouded sky and the moaning of the wind are typically Gothic, but the figure with the angelic halo and the blank face is quite well done. So is the transition from that
horrific vision—was it hallucination or reality?—to the commonplace comforts of a warm, well-lighted bedroom and the smiling face of a kindly old servant."

"Sounds like . . . what's her name? . . . the housekeeper in
J
ane Eyre."

"Mrs. Fairfax."

"Right. Does that imply that Ismene had read Charlotte Bronte?"

"No." Karen's voice was sharp. The slightest suggestion that Ismene's work was derivative, anything other than brilliantly original, raised her hackles. "That's one of the things I've been looking for, of course— internal clues that could tell when the book was written. Right now I can only guess. Sometime between 1775 and 1840. That's another frustrating thing! I haven't heard a word from the original owner. Why the hell doesn't he have the courtesy to answer my letter? You don't suppose Simon—"

"No, I don't suppose Simon failed to forward it. The guy could be sick or out of town or just dilatory. It's all for the best, really; you've got a lot of work to do right now. Once the semester is over, you can concentrate on the manuscript."

Karen scowled at her. "I hate reasonable people. As a matter of fact, I could concentrate on my academic work a lot better if I knew there would be something else to concentrate on afterward. I don't have the manuscript, I don't have a name or an address—I don't have anything!"

"If it relieves you to make melodramatic speeches, go right ahead," Peggy said calmly. "But you know that's nonsense. You have Simon's word—and mine—that the manuscript will be yours."

"I wasn't implying—"

"And even if the owner doesn't respond to your letter we can probably track him down. It may take a while, but I can think of several methods." She glanced at her watch. "I've got a meeting at one-thirty. Hurry up, finish your salad."

Karen did as she was told, resignedly anticipating indigestion. It was easier to obey Peggy's orders than argue with her.

She stopped at the bank and the cleaner's, reaching campus in time to meet her two-thirty class. The students seemed particularly dim-witted that afternoon, and two of them asked for extensions on their semester papers. Karen's stomach was churning as she trudged up the stairs toward
her office, and she cursed Peggy under her breath—unfairly, because her discomfort was due more to general frustration than to guacamole and sour cream. Turning the corner of the long corridor, she came to a sudden stop. Someone was standing in front of the door of her office. It was not one of her students. The outline was that of a man, abnormally tall and thin. Late-afte
rn
oon sunlight pouring through the window at the end of the hall framed his head in a golden halo, but his face was an oval of darkness.

Karen let out a stifled cry and lost her grip on the books she carried. The tall figure hurried toward her. It seemed to shrink and fill out as it approached, assuming normal dimensions; he was tall, but not monstrously so, lean but not as cadaverously thin as that first image had suggested, and when he spoke it was to utter the most banal of courtesies.

"I'm sorry, did I startle you?"

Karen knelt to collect her scattered belongings. She felt like a fool. That momentary impression of facelessness had been the result of her overactive imagination, assisted by the effect of the light. She could see him quite clearly now, even to the color of his eyes, as he stooped to help her pick up the books. They were grayish-blue, framed by lashes as light as his hair, which might have been silver-gray or sun-bleached blond. The latter, she thought, studying him covertly; though permanent lines had been etched into the skin of his forehead and around his mouth, she judged him to be in his mid-thirties. When he straightened, offering a hand to help her to her feet, she saw he was several inches over six feet, and dressed conservatively in a dark three-piece suit and white shirt.

He went on apologizing. "They said it would be all right for me to wait for you here. That is ... you are Dr. Holloway?"

He sounded as if he didn't believe it. She could see herself reflected in his look as in a mirror—round face and dimpled chin, snub nose and smooth pink cheeks. "Except for my hair I look like that damned moppet Shirley Temple," she had once shouted angrily at her mother, from whom she had inherited the characteristics in question. It was no consolation to know that when she was her mother's age, she would look fifteen years younger. Right now she needed those years. It was difficult enough for a woman to make men take her seriously. A moppet, even an adult moppet, didn't stand a chance.

"That is correct," she said coldly. "It was not your fault; my mind was on something else. We didn't have an appointment, did we?"

"No. I took the chance of stopping by, since I was in the neighborhood. My name is Cameron Hayes. You don't know me . . ."

She did, though—suddenly, surely, illogically. Her icy expression slipped; she beamed at him as if he had been a long-lost lover. Hayes's face relaxed into an answering, if tentative smile. "I'm the person you wrote to a few weeks ago, Miss Holloway. Or should it be 'Doctor'?"

"Ms. will do," Karen said. "I'm pleased to meet you, Mr. Hayes."

And that, she thought, was the understatement of the year. Somehow she managed to unlock the door without losing her grip on her books. Not until she had him settled in a chair did she dare believe he was really there. "I'm so glad to meet you," she repeated. "I'd given up hope of hearing from you. It was kind of you to come."

Hayes leaned back, hands loosely clasped. They jarred with the white-collar businessman image, for they were callused and scratched—the hands of a manual laborer. He was much more at ease than she, Karen thought. She was babbling like a giddy student.

"I didn't get your letter until a few days ago," he explained. "I thought it might be better if we discussed the situation in person, instead of by letter or phone. But I don't want to interfere with your plans—"

"No, that's all right," Karen assured him, with the utmost sincerity.

Hayes nodded. "I had no idea that bundle of ragged papers would arouse such interest, but after I got your letter I checked with some people on the faculty at William and Mary. They said—"

"Oh, no!"

"I'm sorry. Shouldn't I have done that?"

"You had every right," Karen admitted, trying to remember if there was anyone in the English Department at William and Mary who specialized in early women's lit. Marian Beech. ... It wasn't her field, precisely, but she would spread the word. Damn, damn, damn! Why hadn't it occurred to her to ask Hayes to keep her letter confidential?

"The thing is, I wanted to keep the discovery under wraps until after I acquired the manuscript," she explained. "From your point of view, it doesn't matter; you've already sold it, so you don't stand to gain anything by increased competition."

"How painfully true. Not that I'm complaining; Mr. Hallett paid a fair price, considering that neither I nor Jack Wickett had the faintest idea of what the thing was." He moved one hand in a gesture of dismissal.

"Maybe we can still make a deal. Not on the manuscript, that's out of my hands. But I gather you are interested in other things. What, specifically?"

"Information. I did explain that I'm interested in the provenance of the manuscript?"

"Uh-huh. Well, I
can tell you where I found it, but that's about all. I don't know how my great-uncle got his hands on it. You see, he ... Are you sure you've got time for this? It's rather a long story."

"I've got the time," Karen assured him. "But, Mr. Hayes, I don't want to take advantage of you. You said something about a deal—"

"I'm a businessman, Ms. Holloway. Believe me, you aren't going to take advantage of me. But I don't charge for information—especially information you could easily acquire without my assistance. Shall I go on?"

Karen nodded. She was beginning to respect Mr. Hayes. He was shrewd enough to realize that now that she knew his name, she could easily trace him, and the family history he was about to relate was probably common knowledge in his home town.

"I'll have to go back a bit to give you the picture," Hayes said. "My family has been settled in the Tidewater area for a long time. A couple of centuries, to be precise. The old homestead is called Amberley. It's on the James . . . What's the matter? Did I say something wrong?"

"No," Karen murmured. This was too good to be true. This was what she had hoped to hear.

"My great-uncle had two sons; one was killed in World War Two, the other died, without issue, sometime later. Uncle Josiah turned into a recluse, shut himself up in the house and sat there brooding, while the place fell down around his ears. He was ninety-one when he passed away, leaving only daughters to inherit."

"Then Hayes is not the family name?"

"Correct. That's what sent the old boy into a decline—the fact that there were no sons to carry on the sacred name of Cartright."

"How long ..." Karen turned the catch in her breath into a cough. She didn't want him to know how important the question and its answer were to her. "How long has the family lived at ... Amberley, you said?"

"You won't have heard of it," Hayes said. "Unlike the famous James River plantation houses, it's never been open to the public. It has neither
architectural distinction nor historical associations that would attract visitors. It is old, though. According to my mother, who used to amuse herself with genealogical research, the family has lived there since the beginning of the eighteenth century. They were definitely not one of the First Families of Virginia, though."

"You don't have a Virginia accent," Karen said—though why she said it she could not imagine. It was not only irrelevant, it was none of her business.

Hayes's expression suggested that he didn't think it was any of her business either. Karen got a grip on herself. To have him turn up out of the blue, after she had almost given up hope of hearing from him, had gotten her so excited she had not been able to think clearly.

"Perhaps we had better postpone our discussion," she said briskly. "I do have another appointment, and there's someone else involved—my partner."

"I see." Hayes had been rubbing his hands absent-mindedly. Some of the reddened patches might have been poison ivy, Karen thought. When he realized she was staring at them he folded his hands again. "I wondered about that. Mr. Hallett told me you had the right of refusal on the manuscript, and I got the impression that the price was going to be pretty stiff. No offense, Dr. Holloway, but I know what academic salaries are like. You have a backer?"

"A partner," Karen repeated. "A friend of mine."

He acknowledged the correction with a faint smile. "Fair enough. We'll meet later, then. Where and when?"

After he had gone, Karen ran to the window, which overlooked the parking lot, but he didn't appear. He must have parked on the street.

Or elsewhere. Why did she have the feeling that he had kept something back? He had appeared candid enough, had spoken without apparent reserve, and yet ... He wanted something from her, he wouldn't have come in person and agreed to another appointment solely in order to oblige a stranger. Money? That was the most obvious explanation. His curiosity about her financial status had been overt, and out of character for the Virginia gentleman role. He wasn't stupid. She had to be careful. Thank God some instinct had warned her to postpone the discussion until she had had time to calm down and think clearly about how to
handle the situation. And confer with Peggy. Karen reached for the telephone.

"Well?" Karen demanded.

"Shhh." Peggy took her arm and pulled her away from the entrance to La Vieille France, Wilmington's most elegant and expensive restaurant. The food was supposed to be excellent, but Karen couldn't have testified on its behalf. She couldn't even remember what she had ordered, much less what it had tasted like. Glancing over her shoulder at the shadowy form retreating down the darkened street, she said irritably, "He can't hear us. What do you think?"

"He's not bad." Peggy unlocked her car door and shoved Karen inside. "Except that his eyes are a little too close together."

"For God's sake, Peggy!"

"Wait till we get to my place." Peggy slammed the car into gear and pulled away from the curb with a screech of tires. "We need to talk about this. The guy is up to something."

"If you had met me before dinner—"

"I couldn't. I had that meeting. If you had given me advance notice—"

"He didn't give me any."

"Right. I wonder if that was deliberate." Peggy pondered the question. "He wasn't too crazy about me being there."

"That's nonsense. You were the one he wanted to meet. You and your checkbook."

Peggy sighed. "They're always after my money. Even Simon. Someday I'll meet a man who loves me for myself."

Karen couldn't help laughing. "You don't come across as a susceptible, swooning millionaire, Peggy. That suit—"

"What's wrong with it? Years more wear in this suit." Peggy pulled into the curb in front of her house.