Houses of Stone by KATHY (booksvooks .TXT) 📕

because I want to play fair with you but because . . . well, you never know what might turn out to be useful. Besides, I don't have that computer-style memory."

Lisa sat in silence for a while. Her face had smoothed out (Karen could almost hear a dear old mammy saying, "Frownin' leaves ugly wrinkles, honey chile.") but she was obviously thinking furiously. Finally she said, "You've been a lot more honest than he was. I'll check with Cam about the legal procedures, but so far as I'm concerned, the genealogy is yours. In fact, if you want to copy down those names right now ..."

Karen definitely did want to.

An inspection of the remaining contents of the carton revealed nothing of interest. There were several photo albums and a box of snapshots, which Karen passed over; she might not be much of a historian, but she knew photography hadn't been in common use until the second half of the nineteenth century.

However, she indicated she was willing to stick to her original offer of buying the whole lot. Then she helped Lisa carry the carton back to the car. Lisa was favorably inclined toward her now, but she wasn't naive enough to hand over the material without payment.

In fact, Lisa wasn't at all naive. Meyer had succeeded in tricking her, not because she was stupid but because she was ignorant of the subject. Now that she had been warned she'd be on her guard. Against me, too, Karen thought. But she didn't regret her candor. In this case at least, honesty was probably the best policy. She must remember not to underestimate Lisa, or assume that the other woman was necessarily an adversary.

Leaning on the table, she studied the list of names. Elizabeth, Sarah, Maria; Georgiana, Louisa, Rebecca . . . None of them struck a chord. She straightened, with a derisive little smile at her own folly. Had she expected some inner voice would shout, "That's the one!"?

She had promised to report progress and give Peggy her new address, so that evening she called the number Peggy had given her. It turned out to be a hotel. Karen was surprised; she had assumed Peggy would be staying with her friend.

Peggy answered the phone on the second ring. At first Karen didn't recognize her voice. "What's wrong?" she asked. "Are you sick?"

"Just tired." Peggy cleared her throat. "It's been a long day. How are things going?"

By the time Karen finished her report Peggy was sounding more like herself—that is, critical. "You're still not certain Ismene was a Cartright. Have you done anything about tracing the manuscript itself?"

"I've been a little busy," Karen said sarcastically. "But I think that's a hopeless cause. From what I've heard about Josiah, he was not only a pack rat but a scavenger; he'd cruise the streets picking up newspapers and other junk people left out for the trashmen. There's a better way of proving the manuscript originated at Amberley. The more I read, the more convinced I am that it's semi-autobiographical. Oh, not the plot, of course; it seems to be your standard Gothic melodrama. However, the setting—the house and the grounds—closely resembles what I've seen of Amberley. I'm going out tomorrow to look for—for a particular landmark Ismene mentions."

"For God's sake, be careful. If the place is as wild and isolated as you said—"

"I won't be alone. Cameron is out there every day, working on the house."

"Oh, so it's Cameron now, is it?"

"Don't start that," Karen said in exasperation. "Just give me the benefit of your expert advice. The genealogy wasn't as useful as I hoped. I haven't the faintest idea what to do with it."

"Don't do anything. I can be there Saturday. If you still want me to take over that part of the job ..."

"I thought we'd settled that. Don't get huffy and self-conscious on me; I can't do this without you."

"Oh. All right, then. You might find me a hotel. I presume there is one?"

"One," Karen agreed. "I'll make a reservation for you. Unless you'd rather stay here; there are twin beds."

"You wouldn't care for me as a long-term roommate, dearie. I have too many filthy habits, none of which I intend to give up."

She sounded more like her old self. Sitting with a sick friend had to be depressing, Karen supposed; Peggy had probably had more than enough of it. And she was looking forward to Peggy's company—not only to her help, which was going to be more useful than she had anticipated, but to her sense of humor and bluff common sense.

She hadn't told Peggy the best part. Eagerly she returned to the manuscript and reread the section that would undoubtedly intrigue her friend as much as it had excited her.

The composition of the household at Ferncliffe had changed with the arrival of Edmund's sister, who had been visiting friends on a plantation farther south. Edmund explained, in answer to Ismene's exclamation of surprise, that Isabella was in fact his half-sister, the only child of his father's second wife. The fate of Edmund's mother and the cause of the break between his father and Ismene's were still obscure to Karen and, as far as she could tell, to Ismene herself. (The dread family secret was a stock element of Gothic fiction; no doubt the horrible truth would be disclosed as part of the denouement.)

"I have missed her sadly," Edmund explained. "My own disposition, as you have no doubt observed, tends toward the reflective and melancholy. Her smiles and high spirits bring sunshine to me and to this dreary old house, as you and Clara have done. She was delighted to hear of your coming, and now that she has companions of her own age and sex, I hope I can prevail upon her to spend more time at Ferncliffe."

Like the laughing daughter of Ceres returned from her sojourn in the dismal regions of Hades (as Ismene put it), Isabella brought the spring with her. The old house was transformed; windows