Houses of Stone by KATHY (booksvooks .TXT) 📕

enough. The book couldn't have been written before then. Why are you so set on tracing the ownership of the house?"

"I don't like unfinished business. However, there's not much I can do about it unless I spend a lot of time and effort trying other sources. So I spent the rest of the day looking up birth and death certificates. I managed to fill in a number of blanks on the genealogy."

She stubbed out her cigarette and turned so that she could unfold the papers. "Don't worry, I made copies before I started scribbling on them," she said, anticipating Karen's objection. "Here's the second generation. As you might expect, a lot of the poor little devils died in infancy. Three of the girls survived, one to the ripe old age of seventy-four. She must have been a tough old bird; she managed to outlive three husbands, and produced—are you ready for this?—sixteen children."

"My God," Karen breathed.

"You said it. I doubt she's Ismene. Show me a woman who finds time to write while birthing and raising sixteen kids, and I'll introduce you to a real superwoman. One of the other women—Alexandra—died at seventeen. Too young?"

"Almost certainly. But she could be Clara."

"Clara . . . Oh, Ismene's sister. I think you're leaning too heavily on the autobiographical idea, but . . . The other, Ann, was older by two years. She lived to be thirty-seven. Had only two children."

"She was married?"

"That's what women did in those days. Got married. Period." Peggy lit another cigarette and stared thoughtfully out across the garden. The cat had gone, leaving the broken corpses of several hyacinths. "Don't get fixated on a picture of Ismene as a carefree unattached spinster. It happened, but not very often. Most women achieved economic independence by surviving a well-to-do husband. Ismene could have been a widow or even a happily married woman with a husband who was sympathetic to her literary aspirations."

"Fat chance," Karen said cynically. "Even Tom Jefferson, who gave his daughter a classical education, told her she had to learn to sew in order to direct the servants' work." She picked up the papers and leafed through them. "You've only covered one generation."

"The farther back you go, the more fragmentary the records," Peggy explained patiently. "I don't see the sense of spending time and effort on unlikely possibilities. What's your informed, expert opinion on a probable date? You must have some idea by this time."

"I was afraid you were going to ask me that."

"I know you can't be precise within a year or two—"

"Year, hell. I can't even pick a likely decade." Karen shifted position; the wooden steps were hard. "There are too many variables. You've got to allow for originality and individual talent. The style of 'Houses of Stone' is much less artificial and stilted than that of the eighteenth-century Gothics, but the type had almost disappeared, at least in America, by 1800. It was replaced by the sentimental or domestic novel, whose plot elements are entirely different from—"

"Spare me the lecture," Peggy interrupted. "And never mind the cautious academic qualifiers; I'm not one of your critical colleagues. Pick a decade."

"Well." Karen thumbed through the pages of the genealogy. "I'll commit myself to this extent: the women of the second and third generations are the most likely. You can concentrate on them."

"That's some help," Peggy grumbled. "All right, I'll tackle the third generation tomorrow; at least I should be able to eliminate the ones that died young. But bear in mind that there's a limit to what I can do with original historical sources. Some of them just aren't there. I have some hopes for the auction, and for those possibly apocryphal boxes of papers Cameron mentioned. How I'd love to find a family Bible—one of those big heavy tomes with pages for births and deaths. And I intend to have a nice long gossip with your landlady. If I can— Well, well, speak of the devil."

Mrs. Fowler had emerged from the back door. She wore a wide-brimmed hat, tied under her chin with a coquettish bow, and a pair of gloves. At first she appeared not to see them. Hands behind her, she strolled slowly along the walk, pausing from time to time to sniff at a blossom or inspect a clump of what appeared to be violets. When she approached the sundial she let out a squeal and knelt stiffly, fingering the broken flowers. Her agitated monologue was audible, but Karen could not make out the words. Rising, she stamped her foot and turned, looking around the yard.

"I pity the cat if she gets hold of it," Peggy said with a chuckle. "She's seen us. Hi, there, Mrs. Fowler!" She waved.

Mrs. Fowler waved back, but was apparently too ladylike to imitate Peggy's yell. Crossing the grass she stopped at the hedge that bordered the drive and looked up. "Did you see a cat?" she demanded.

"Why, yes," Peggy answered. "It was lying by the sundial."

"I knew it!" Mrs. Fowler's chins quivered. "I've told the Millers over and over they must keep that beast out of my yard. It digs in the flower beds and—and—uses them as a litter box, and leaves dead moles on my back steps and kills the sweet little birds."

"Sweet little birds my arse," Peggy muttered out of the corner of her mouth. "They make as much mess as a cat—droppings, and piles of seed hulls . . . You notice there's no feeder visible."

She raised her voice and called back, "It's hard to confine cats, Mrs. Fowler. But it's a shame about your pretty flowers. We have been admiring your garden."

"Such a lot of work," Mrs. Fowler sighed, inspecting her gloves, which appeared to be unstained by vulgar dirt. "But worth every bit of it. I derive spiritual sustenance from these lovely blooms. 'One is nearer to God in a garden, Than anywhere else on earth,' you know."

"I'll bet that's the motto on the sundial," Peggy said, in the same ventriloquist's murmur.

"I mustn't