Houses of Stone by KATHY (booksvooks .TXT) 📕

gentleman like that. He said all sorts of sweet things about our little literary group; I didn't realize we were so well known." Her pause invited a corresponding compliment from Karen, but the latter was still too dumbfounded to produce it. With a deprecating chuckle Mrs. Fowler continued, "You can just blame him for encouraging me to ask you. I wouldn't have dared otherwise."

A sudden gust of wind set the violets on her hat to dancing madly. "Please do come in," Karen said. "I can't quite . . . I'll have to check my schedule."

"Certainly, my dear, I know how busy you are. That's why I was going to leave my little note, so you would have a chance to think about it."

Karen thought about it. She'd have to accept—or leave town for a few days. Bill had done his usual expert job of setting her up. As he was capable of doing when he chose, he had charmed the socks off Mrs. Fowler; she'd never believe he had acted out of malice, and she would be deeply offended if Karen turned her down without good and sufficient reason. Nothing less than a death in the family would suffice; despite her modest disclaimers, she obviously had a high opinion of her "little literary society."

"I guess I can manage it," Karen said. "Next Wednesday, you said?"

"How lovely! I'll notify the members right away; I'm sure such a famous speaker will attract a large group. Now as to your topic . . . Something along the lines of 'Lady Writers'? Or perhaps 'Lady Writers of the Nineteenth Century'? That's your specialty, I know."

Karen wondered whether the topic was Mrs. Fowler's idea, to make certain she wouldn't offend the audience by quoting from current "unladylike" writers. It was more likely that the topic had been Bill Meyer's idea of a joke. Oh, well, she thought resignedly, I can always talk about Jane Austen. She should be ladylike enough. The literary mavens of Blairsville wouldn't notice Jane's delicately barbed comments about male-female relationships unless someone pointed them out.

Mrs. Fowler retreated in triumph, holding tightly to the rail as she descended the steps. She had tiny feet; at least they looked small compared to the mass of the body they supported so dangerously. And of course she was wearing dainty high-heeled shoes. Karen closed the door and clumped, flat-footed, back to the kitchen.

When the rain began she hardly noticed it, except as a soothing background noise. She was fully absorbed in Ismene's story.

As she had expected, there were more visits to the grim cellars. They formed a dark counterpoint to the descriptions of sunny spring days and cheerful social engagements, and symbolized Ismene's unhappiness as she watched her sister's increasing fondness for Isabella. It was not an attachment Ismene could approve; Isabella seemed to her frivolous and heartless, and under her influence Clara's corresponding faults of character (reluctant as her sister was to admit them) were encouraged, to such an extent that she came to resent openly Ismene's gentle remonstrances. Increasingly isolated, by her own temperament as well as by Clara's coldness, Ismene wandered the wild acres of the estate, seeking solace, as she put it, in the immutable charms of nature. It was while she was engaged in one of these rambles that she came upon the little stone house.

A knock at the door interrupted Karen at this thrilling point in the narrative, and she came back to reality with a start, realizing that the sound she had scarcely noticed was that of rain beating on the roof and that the room was filled with a cavelike gloom, except for the single lamp that illumined her work. She hurried to open the door.

Cameron looked as if he had gone swimming in his clothes. Rain had darkened his hair and plastered it to his head. The box he carried had been covered with a tarpaulin, but water had collected in its folds and ran down onto the sagging floor of the porch, from which a miniature waterfall poured down the steps.

"Good God," Karen gasped. "Come in—hurry up, don't just stand there. Is this a flood or what?"

"Just a good old spring rain," Cameron said, depositing the carton on the floor and removing the tarpaulin. "It's all right—the box isn't wet. The same can't be said for your rug, I'm afraid."

"It's not my rug," Karen said callously. "Stand still; I'll get a towel, or ... or two."

He brushed the wet hair back from his face and grinned. He looked unreasonably cheerful for a man whose clothes clung wetly to his body and around whose soaked shoes a puddle was forming. "Your entire supply would be inadequate for the job. I got pretty wet out at the house, so I decided I might as well deliver the carton before I changed clothes. Sorry about the mess."

"Wait, I'll write you a check," Karen began.

"The sooner I get out of here the less damage I'll do to your—Miz Fowler's—carpet. You can pay me later. I trust you."

He was out the door before Karen could reply. She shrugged. If he was that determined to avoid even the appearance of a social relationship, that was okay with her. Had there been a suggestion of sarcasm in his final comment? She decided there had been, and went in search of a cloth to wipe up the puddle. He'd been right about the towel situation. The ones Mrs. Fowler had supplied her tenant were extremely threadbare.

There was something rather soothing about rain if you didn't have to go out in it. And if it didn't come in. A smaller puddle on the kitchen floor told her that Mrs. Fowler needed to have the roof repaired. Karen put a saucepan under it and went in search of additional leaks. She found two more, one in the bedroom—not over the bed, fortunately—and another in the corner of the living room.

She only had three saucepans. Rummaging under the sink, she found a couple of empty coffee