rose for the second time in a month. Rain turned the ground to mud and spirits to mush. Satan, disliking dampness, returned to his favorite indoor litter box. The leather books in the library developed mold.
Going one morning to deal with this problem, Andrea found Jim and Martin in the library. Martin was another minor annoyance; he had abandoned his typewriter and was constantly underfoot, offering assistance she didn't want and engaging in long discussions with Jim, in the course of which they strewed the house with crumbs, beer cans, and ashes.
There were two overflowing ashtrays on the library table now. And they had pulled books at random from the shelves, disturbing the neat alignment.
The library was popular with male guests; its dark oak paneling and big chairs had the elegance of an old-time London club. The decor was not seriously marred by the television set, for when this unavoidable amenity was not in use, it was discreetly concealed by a needlepoint fireplace screen. Cousin Bertha's progenitors had not been readers; their acquisitions consisted mainly of elongated sets of "Collected Works," and most of the pages had not even been cut. However, the rows of rich red and soft brown leather spines, gilt-stamped, had a luxurious look.
Andrea replaced the ashtray at Martin's elbow with a clean one. His cigarette dangling from his mouth, he glanced up. "Thanks."
"No trouble. No trouble at all." She started wiping the books.
"The rain," said Martin, responding to her tone rather than her words, "is getting on everyone's nerves."
"How is the book coming?" Andrea asked pointedly.
Martin grinned, "it isn't. I seem to have hit the well-known writer's block."
"And this is your method of breaking it?"
"It's one way," Martin said calmly. "When the imponderables of the present are too much, the pursuit of the past offers escape and a certain sense of balance."
Jim ignored this byplay. Brown head bent over the book he was examining, he said, "We're looking for stuff about the house. It's mentioned in this book."
Happy to see him absorbed in a new hobby, Andrea looked over his shoulder. "Old Houses of Western Maryland — Minor Mansions. That's not very flattering."
"Victoriana wasn't in favor when that was written," Martin said. "The major mansions of this region date from the late eighteenth or early nineteenth centuries."
A faded black-and-white photograph, further dimmed by reproduction, showed the house as it had appeared in 1925. It had not changed in essential outline, but even in the poor photo it had a fat, prosperous appearance.
"Cousin Bertha's father must have owned the place then," Andrea said. "She'd have been in her twenties."
"Was her family name Webber?" Martin asked.
"That's right."
"Here it is." Jim pointed. " 'Mr. Josiah Webber, a well-known Ladiesburg merchant, is the present owner.' He inherited from his father, and he bought the place from...It doesn't say who, just when. Nineteen hundred."
"And, as I suspected, the house was built in 1862," Martin crowed.
"But not by the Springers," Jim added, in antiphonal chorus. "The builder was a guy named Broadhurst. Must have been rich. He owned almost three hundred acres."
"I wonder how he made his money," Martin mused. "War profiteering, perhaps? Shoes of paper disguised to look like leather, rotten food and moldy flour..."
"Pinko," Andrea said amiably. "You think all millionaires get rich by trampling on the poor."
"Back in those days they did. Then they tried to assuage their consciences, and a wrathful God, by building libraries and orphan asylums."
Andrea abandoned the argument; she never won. "It's all very interesting," she said politely, picking up the dust cloth.
"Not very," Martin said. "Books like this only give the bare bones. They don't tell you about the scandals and the tragedies, the murders and the passionate love affairs."
"What a melodramatic mind you have," Andrea said.
"Life is melodramatic—hadn't you noticed? No
Going one morning to deal with this problem, Andrea found Jim and Martin in the library. Martin was another minor annoyance; he had abandoned his typewriter and was constantly underfoot, offering assistance she didn't want and engaging in long discussions with Jim, in the course of which they strewed the house with crumbs, beer cans, and ashes.
There were two overflowing ashtrays on the library table now. And they had pulled books at random from the shelves, disturbing the neat alignment.
The library was popular with male guests; its dark oak paneling and big chairs had the elegance of an old-time London club. The decor was not seriously marred by the television set, for when this unavoidable amenity was not in use, it was discreetly concealed by a needlepoint fireplace screen. Cousin Bertha's progenitors had not been readers; their acquisitions consisted mainly of elongated sets of "Collected Works," and most of the pages had not even been cut. However, the rows of rich red and soft brown leather spines, gilt-stamped, had a luxurious look.
Andrea replaced the ashtray at Martin's elbow with a clean one. His cigarette dangling from his mouth, he glanced up. "Thanks."
"No trouble. No trouble at all." She started wiping the books.
"The rain," said Martin, responding to her tone rather than her words, "is getting on everyone's nerves."
"How is the book coming?" Andrea asked pointedly.
Martin grinned, "it isn't. I seem to have hit the well-known writer's block."
"And this is your method of breaking it?"
"It's one way," Martin said calmly. "When the imponderables of the present are too much, the pursuit of the past offers escape and a certain sense of balance."
Jim ignored this byplay. Brown head bent over the book he was examining, he said, "We're looking for stuff about the house. It's mentioned in this book."
Happy to see him absorbed in a new hobby, Andrea looked over his shoulder. "Old Houses of Western Maryland — Minor Mansions. That's not very flattering."
"Victoriana wasn't in favor when that was written," Martin said. "The major mansions of this region date from the late eighteenth or early nineteenth centuries."
A faded black-and-white photograph, further dimmed by reproduction, showed the house as it had appeared in 1925. It had not changed in essential outline, but even in the poor photo it had a fat, prosperous appearance.
"Cousin Bertha's father must have owned the place then," Andrea said. "She'd have been in her twenties."
"Was her family name Webber?" Martin asked.
"That's right."
"Here it is." Jim pointed. " 'Mr. Josiah Webber, a well-known Ladiesburg merchant, is the present owner.' He inherited from his father, and he bought the place from...It doesn't say who, just when. Nineteen hundred."
"And, as I suspected, the house was built in 1862," Martin crowed.
"But not by the Springers," Jim added, in antiphonal chorus. "The builder was a guy named Broadhurst. Must have been rich. He owned almost three hundred acres."
"I wonder how he made his money," Martin mused. "War profiteering, perhaps? Shoes of paper disguised to look like leather, rotten food and moldy flour..."
"Pinko," Andrea said amiably. "You think all millionaires get rich by trampling on the poor."
"Back in those days they did. Then they tried to assuage their consciences, and a wrathful God, by building libraries and orphan asylums."
Andrea abandoned the argument; she never won. "It's all very interesting," she said politely, picking up the dust cloth.
"Not very," Martin said. "Books like this only give the bare bones. They don't tell you about the scandals and the tragedies, the murders and the passionate love affairs."
"What a melodramatic mind you have," Andrea said.
"Life is melodramatic—hadn't you noticed? No
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