"I said I was sorry."
"Did you say that to Mark?"
"Damn it, Pat, there is a limit!"
"To what? Justice?" Pat gave him a sidelong look. His profile resembled the stony contours of a Toltec statue- lower lip protruding, brows lowering. "All I'm saying is that Mark is no monster. He isn't trying to-er-"
"Seduce my daughter?" Unexpectedly, Josef's rigid features relaxed. "I'd think he was abnormal if he didn't."
"Then it must be Kathy you don't trust," Pat said.
Immediately she knew she had made a grave misstep. His whole body went rigid.
Oh, damn, Pat thought wretchedly. So that's it. I guess I should have known. Why would a woman leave a man like him-attractive, intelligent, comfortably well off- unless she fell in love with someone else? Well, but there are other reasons, lots of them. He's also arrogant, dogmatic, something of a snob-not easy to live with. Damn, why did I have to say that? Shall I drop the subject, or try to explain?…
"What is it you hope to find in New Market?" Josef asked.
He had raised the No Trespassing sign; and there was no way she could bypass it. Her own position was too vulnerable.
"Nothing in particular," she answered. "I thought we might find some books on local history."
"It's worth a try. I confess I'm becoming curious about the Turnbulls. The people I bought the house from were named Stanton. Does that imply, perhaps, that the Turnbull family died out?"
"Maybe they just sold the house. Or… Wasn't there an older sister? She could have married a man named Stanton."
They continued to speculate-fruitless speculation, since they had so little evidence, but it got them over the bad moment. By the time they reached New Market they were conversing without strain. However, Pat had not forgotten her faux pas.
New Market, advertised as the antiques capital of Maryland, has a single street lined with lovely old houses. The majority of them have been converted into antique shops. Since this particular trade caters to the weekend shopper, the town was crowded, and Pat had to go some distance before she found a parking space. They walked back toward the center of town and the bookstore.
The building was constructed of pale, rough stone. The front door stood open; from the interior came the musty smell of old paper and worn leather bindings.
Josef went immediately to the nearest shelf and began browsing. His absorbed expression told Pat that he belonged to the same breed as Jerry-the book fanatics. Not being of that breed herself, she looked around the dusty room. Shelves lined the walls, stretching all the way to the ceiling. Books filled the shelves and overflowed into untidy heaps on the floor. A desk in the middle of the room was also piled high. The shop was very quiet. A few other browsers stood like statues, pouring over one esoteric volume or another.
Then a head appeared behind the heaped-up desk in the center of the room. Pat stared, amazed, as it rose, and rose, and rose. The man must have been over six and a half feet tall. Drooping white cavalry-style mustache, long white hair, and an old-fashioned string tie and high collar converted him into an image out of the past: a gentleman of the Old South. She was not at all surprised when he addressed her in courtly terms.
"May Ah be of some assistance, ma'am?"
"Uh-thank you. I'm looking for books about the Civil War."
The mustache quivered.
"You refer, ma'am, to the War Between the States?"
Josef, who was behind the irate Confederate, turned to stare. His mouth curved into a grin. Pat resisted the impulse to shake a fist at him.
"Yes," she said meekly.
"Two of the rooms of this h'yere house, ma'am, are filled with volumes on that subject. Mah more rare and expensive volumes repose behind glass on shelves in the regions above stairs. May Ah ask what partic'lar aspect of that epic struggle interests you?"
Josef had abandoned all pretense of interest in his book. Pat felt sure that without his malicious enjoyment of her discomfiture she would never have been able to reply.
" Maryland," she said. "The Poolesville area in particular."
"Not much goin' on there," said the relic of the Old South. "Unless it's Captain 'Lige White…"
"The Turnbulls," Pat said. "And the Bateses. I live in the old Bates house."
The white mustache vibrated, and a spark of interest lit the faded blue eyes.
"Most interesting ma'am. If you-all will wait a moment, till Ah deal with this gentleman…"
With lordly condescension he accepted a ten-dollar bill from a waiting customer and retreated into the back regions, presumably to get change. The buyer, a middle-aged man wearing a sports shirt and horn-rimmed glasses, grinned at Pat and said in a conspiratorial whisper, "Don't let Bill get to you, lady. He was born in Hartford, Connecticut. It's all an act. He-"
He broke off as Bill returned with a few limp dollar bills. With a last, amused wink at Pat, he departed with his book.
"Now, then," said Bill. "What was it you were sayin', ma'am?"
The mystique, alas, was gone; the accent was palpably false.
"I said, 'I live in the old Bates house,' " Pat said.
"And I," said Josef, advancing, "have purchased the Turnbull house. We are interested in the history of the families."
"Nat'chrally." Bill stroked his mustache and eyed them speculatively. "But o' course you wouldn't hope to find any personal memoirs or reminiscences, now would you? That would be too great a stroke of luck."
"Well," Josef began.
"Aha." Bill leaned forward. "And what would you-all say if Ah told you that Ah happen to possess one o' the few remainin' copies of Miss Mary Jane Turnbull's memoirs? Privately printed in Richmond after war"-he pronounced it "wo-ah"-"in an edition of only two hundred copies, excellent condition, pages uncut…"
"Mary Jane?" Pat turned to Josef. "Peter's older sister? Do you suppose-"
Josef jabbed her in the ribs; she took the hint, and stopped speaking. She had sounded far too eager. Bill's blue eyes had taken on the gleam of a good businessman encountering a prospective buyer.
"We might be interested," Josef said. "Could we have a look at the book, please?"
"Certainly, mah dear sir." Bill trotted off. The memoirs were obviously one of his choicer volumes, kept under glass in the chambers above.
"How much is this book worth to us?" Josef asked softly.
"Why-a few dollars, I suppose."
"It won't be a few dollars. I know this routine; it always means large sums of money. Let me handle it, will you? You are obviously lousy at bargaining."
When Bill returned he carried the book balanced on both hands. It lacked only a silver salver. Its appearance did not justify Bill's tender care. Bound in faded green cloth, the gilt-lettered title equally faded, it was not an imposing object.
Pat's intention of skimming through the pages was frustrated from the start by the fact that there were no separate pages, only the thick bundles of the uncut fascicles. Opening the book at random, she came upon the following paragraph:
The more we learn of the victory last Sunday the greater it seems to be. They say the Yankee dead lay upon the field like a blue blanket. The arrogant ladies and gentlemen of Washington had anticipated triumph; coming in carriages to view the annihilation of our hopes, they carried picnic baskets and bottles of French champagne, all of which they were forced to abandon in their precipitate flight when their army was overwhelmed. Hurrah! We expect momentarily to hear of the arrival of our men in the enemy capital.
"Wednesday, July 24, 1861." Pat read the date aloud.
" Bull Run," said Josef, who had been reading over her shoulder. "First Manassas, as the Confederates called it. They might indeed have taken Washington then, if they had pressed on."
"It's all so impersonal," Pat complained. "Nothing about the family."
"An invaluable record, suh and ma'am." Bill saw a prospective customer losing interest, and increased the pressure. "There is considerable information there, as you will discover when you cut the pages. Naturally Ah would not do so until the book is sold. It is in mint condition and therefore much more valuable uncut."