Houses of Stone

by Kathy

  "I wasn't frowning, I was thinking," Karen explained. "I appreciate the offer, Joan, but I don't see how you can help, unless Dorothea turns up again. You loom threateningly almost as well as she does."

  Joan grinned. "I did enjoy that. However, I possess other talents besides the ability to loom, talents which I will now demonstrate." She took a book from her purse, and shook her head when Karen reached for it. "I insist on reading aloud. The literary style is absolutely delicious." Clearing her throat, she pronounced the words with unctuous enjoyment.

  " 'Though the handsome mansions of the region abound in apparitions of infinite variety, none boasts the collection that haunt a grim old house not far distant from the bright lights and cheerful society of Fredericksburg. The visitor who approaches this domicile, overhung with un-trimmed trees, on a gloomy winter day feels certain that a curse does hang over the place as the dark clouds hang down over its roof.

  " 'No one knows when the house was built. It is one of the oldest in the region, but history and local legend remain silent as to the precise date of its origin. Those same legends tell of the builder's horrible history; fleeing his native England after some unspeakable crime, he selected a spot in the wilderness remote from civilization, and many an unfortunate slave died in its building. And not slaves only. For he brought a companion with him, a beautiful young girl whose face bore the stamp of sorrow and was never heard to utter a word.' "

  Joan paused for a drink of water, and Karen said, " 'Appalling' is more appropriate than 'delicious.' How much more of this drivel is there?"

  "I haven't gotten to the best part. Listen. 'Was she mute by birth or had some cruel hand deprived her of her tongue? Was she his daughter, as he claimed, or his hapless, helpless paramour? Whatever, she went with him into the forests and was never seen again—in life. But she has been seen since, by many a terrified trespasser and poacher, her white garments floating as she runs, and in pursuit the dark, hooded shape of the man she flees. In vain! For if the watcher has the fortitude to remain and see the drama out to its end, the pursuer wins the race, falling upon the tragic victim and swallowing her up in his cloak and stifling, with repeated blows, the agonized shrieks that at last quiver into silence. Yes; in death the poor creature found the voice life had denied her, but too late! The Screaming Lady is one of the Tidewater's most tragic ghosts.' "

  Joan looked up from the book. "Honestly, Karen, you're staring like a stuffed owl. Isn't it hilarious? I thought you'd get a kick out of it."

  "Oh, yes. It is. I do."

  "There's a pack of spectral hounds too," Joan said happily. "And a rocking chair that rocks when nobody's sitting in it, and footsteps that thump up and down the back stairs, and cold spots in various rooms— the author claims she heard the footsteps and felt the cold—and bloodstains that can't be cleaned off, and other good stuff."

  Karen nodded dumbly.

  "The people who produce these books are usually local wanna-be writers," Joan explained. "I collect them from all over the country. The same basic themes are repeated over and overflights going on and off, funny noises in an empty house, furniture moving—and White Ladies aren't uncommon. This one is a little off-beat, though. You see what that could mean."

  "It's an interesting idea," Karen said slowly. "But it's pretty farfetched. What else does he say about Amberley?"

  "Such chauvinism. It's a she, not a he. Violetta Fowler."

  Peggy was fascinated by the Screaming Lady. "You're absolutely certain you never heard or read that story before today?"

  "Of course I'm not certain," Karen said wearily. "I have no conscious recollection of it, but I might have run across it at some time or other. As a child I reveled in fairy tales and ghost stories."

  "So did I. I don't remember this one, but we all have a lot of buried memories. The sound we heard ... It could have been a woman's scream, couldn't it?"

  "In broad daylight? You were the one who said it, Peggy—the ambience was all wrong."

  "Maybe she figured she'd have to risk it, since we weren't likely to wander around the woods after dark." Karen's expression indicated she didn't appreciate the light touch, and Peggy said, "Just kidding. It's a common theme in your feminist criticism, isn't it? Women being silenced, mute—no one listening?"

  "Oh, sure. Mary E. Coleridge's poem about the image in the mirror: 'She had no voice to speak her dread.' There are also many references to being deprived of the most powerful 'voice,' that of literature. Even demure little Jane Austen points out that men have succeeded in slandering women because the pen has always been in their hands. She ... Oh, shit!"

  "Good gracious. What brought that on?"

  "I just remembered. I promised I'd talk to that damned Literary Society tomorrow."

  "About Jane Austen, I cleverly deduce."

  "She's safe, don't you think?"

  "If you don't mention that she was a brilliant social satirist. Stick to Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, as played by Greer Garson and Laurence Olivier."

  "Most of them probably haven't even read the book," Karen grumbled.

  "It's a good opening for you to quiz Mrs. Fowler about ghosts, though,"

  Peggy said. Her voice was quite serious. "Go early, take her book along and ask her to sign it."

  "You really think it's important?"

  "Could be. Not just the ghost stories. Scandal is what I'm after. I'll bet she knows a lot she hasn't told you." Peggy glanced down at the page she had been reading. " 'So long as that ancient crime is not expiated, so long will the curse, it is said, pursue the descendants of Obadiah Cartright. Despair and failure have marked the fortunes of the family down the centuries. When will the Screaming Lady be avenged? When will the soul of her tormentor find punishment in the eternal flames of damnation?' "

  "Spare me," Karen said wryly. "Her literary style is as appalling as her theology."

  "You're missing the point," Peggy insisted. "Don't you see the malice in those vague hints of failure and crime? She obviously detests the Cartrights."

  "That's because Cameron divorced her niece. Of course Mrs. F. implied it was the other way around—that his cruelty and neglect drove the poor girl to leave him."

  "You never told me that."

  "It struck me as profoundly uninteresting."

  "Gossip is always interesting. So that smirking pimply youth we met at the tea party is Cameron's brother-in-law?"

  "I guess so," Karen said, surprised. "That would explain why he was hassling Cameron the other day."

  "You never told me that either. What happened?"

  "I only heard a few words. Cameron said something like 'I said no and I mean no,' and then I showed up, and Bobby Boy left."

  "Probably wanted money," Peggy mused.

  "Cameron's personal problems are none of your business," Karen said impatiently. "Or mine."

  "How do you know? Gossip and trivialities, so-called, affect people's daily lives far more than the great events of history."

  Karen had been about to object. Peggy's final comment struck a nerve; thoughtfully she said, " 'The insignificance of kitchen things.' '

  "What?"

  "It's from a short story—'A Jury of Her Peers.' There's been a murder. A man has been found lying in bed with a noose around his neck. The chief suspect is his wife. Two women go back to the lonely farmhouse with their husbands—the sheriff and his men—to get clothes and other necessities for the imprisoned wife. While the men are searching for clues that would explain the motive for the murder, the women look around the kitchen. 'The insignificance of kitchen things,' derided and ignored by the men, tells the women why the wife was driven to murder her husband. All the things he did to her were little things: making her cook on a broken stove; keeping her shabby and ill-clothed so that she was ashamed to go out and make friends—another form of imprisonment; and finally destroying, wantonly, the only thing she loved—her canary. The dead bird is the vital clue—and the women suppress it. They understand, as the men cannot, that the ki
lling was justifiable homicide."

  "Ha," Peggy said triumphantly. "That's exactly what I was talking about. Vital trivialities. I'll bet Mrs. Fowler knows a lot of useful dirt about the Cartrights, for six generations back, and she'd be delighted to spread it. All she needs is a little encouragement. You might confide to her your growing romantic attachment—"

  "That will happen on the same day the eternal flames of damnation freeze over. I'm sorry I ever showed you this stupid book. What luck did you have today?"

  "Let's sit on the steps. I want to smoke."

  "I told you you could smoke in here—if you insist. Just sit next to the window."

  "I want to smoke a lot and I'm a very considerate person. Come on, it's a nice day."

  The declining sun cast shadows across the lawn and deepened the green of young leaves and new grass. Around the sundial in the backyard a circle of lavender hyacinths bloomed bravely—except for the ones that had been flattened by the body of a gray-and-white cat, sprawled in a patch of sunlight.

  "That's a handsome cat," Peggy said. "Your landlady's?"

  "I don't know who it belongs to. I doubt it's Mrs. Fowler's; you've seen that finicky neat house."

  "Right. I hope it's not a stray."

  "Control yourself. You have enough cats. And I am not adopting one."

  "You can take shots for those allergies, you know."

  "I could, but I'm not going to. Stop wandering off the subject."

  Peggy continued to stare. As if aware of admiration, the cat rolled over and stretched. "It's wearing a collar," Peggy said, relieved. "Okay. My luck ran out today. The title search dead-ended in 1778. There was nothing before that."

  "That's far 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 stand here shouting," Mrs. Fowler shouted. "That's the sort of vulgar thing the Millers do. But I'm glad I happened to see you, Dr. Holloway; I wanted to tell you the Colonel has kindly offered to drive us to the meeting tomorrow. He'll pick us up at eleven-thirty."

  Karen had been enjoying the double-edged conversation; consternation replaced amusement when she heard Mrs. Fowler's offer. She could imagine how the Colonel drove—straight down the middle of the road, through red lights and stop signs. "That's very kind, but unnecessary," she called. "I'll drive you. The meeting isn't at your house, then?"

  "Oh, no, my dear, there wouldn't be room. We're expe
cting a large crowd, with such a distinguished speaker. Our monthly meetings are always at the restaurant. A private room, of course."

  "Creamed chicken on toast and petrified peas," murmured Peggy. "Lucky you."

  "Are you sure you want to drive?" Mrs. Fowler called. "The Colonel will be happy—"

  "Absolutely sure," Karen said firmly. "Can you be ready by eleven? I'd love to have a little chat before we go." Out of the corner of her mouth she mumbled, "How was that?"

  Peggy raised her thumbs.

  After Mrs. Fowler had retreated, Peggy got to her feet. "My stomach is making noises Mrs. F. would consider vulgar. Where shall we eat?"

  "I don't care. Someplace quiet. I have a treat for you—an excerpt from the manuscript. The stone house was Ismene's—a room of her own. The book was probably written there."

  The small structure drew her to it. She could think of nothing else. What had been the function of that strange house of stone? Why she thought of it as a house she could not say; the word was inappropriate, with its connotations of a dwelling place, a source of homely comfort. It preyed on her mind to such an extent that one evening, when she and Edmund sat in the library, she spoke to him of it.

  They were alone. Clara and Isabella had gone the day before to visit friends of the latter; they would remain, in all probability, for at least two weeks. Ismene had refused the invitation; the alacrity with which her excuses were received, without urging or repetition, assured her that only courtesy had prompted the offer. She did not repine; Clara was lost to her now, unless some sudden change of fortune or of heart should lead her sister back to the love that would never fail. Much more to her taste than empty chatter and laughter were those peaceful hours of companionable silence with one who shared her interests and sympathized with her feelings.

  For a time she watched the play of lamplight through his golden curls as he sat with head bent over the volume he was perusing. Not for worlds would she have disturbed his communion with the poet; but at last he closed the volume and turned in his chair. ' 7 feel your eyes upon me,'' he said with an affectionate smile. "Are you musing, in your own thoughtful way, on the passages you have read, or does something trouble you? Surely you know you need not hesitate to confide in me.