"He promised me I could top the highest bid. It's not like a regular auction, he's only giving the others a chance to make one offer. That's damned decent of him, really, he's doing me a big favor. He says this is the only way he can determine what it's worth."
Peggy's eyes narrowed. "What kind of money are we talking about here? And where are you proposing to get it?"
"I don't know; I don't know." Karen brushed at the fog of smoke hovering over the table. "I haven't even thought about it. I've been too absorbed—"
"Obsessed is more like it." Peggy blew out a rather wobbly smoke ring. "Don't bother defending yourself; I know how I'd feel if a comparable discovery came into my hands. There's no sense worrying about money yet. Maybe the other bidders won't be interested. Maybe they won't be able to come up with the cash."
"You don't understand."
"So tell me."
"Simon has contacted a number of people. Two of them have expressed interest and asked to see the merchandise. He won't tell me their names, but I'm sure one of them is Bill Meyer. Once that bastard sees it . . ." Her voice rose.
"Calm down," Peggy said. "Who's Bill Meyer?"
"Yale. Associate professor. Specializes in Early American literature and in smart-ass, nasty reviews. His critique of my edition of Ismene's poems was a masterpiece of snottiness. He's also a die-hard male chauvinist and a defender of the canon." Seeing Peggy's look of exasperation, she explained, "The traditional literary canon of great works was defined by men, and consists mostly of male authors. One major book on nineteenth-century literature doesn't even admit Jane Austen or the Brontes or George Eliot into the sacred ranks. Meyer and his kind claim there aren't any great books by women on the list because women didn't write any great books."
"Huh," said Peggy. "Then why would he want—"
"This is a major discovery, Peggy, whatever its eventual literary status may be. There are a number of eighteenth-century novels by women— more than most people realize, because they have been neglected and rejected by critics. For example, I'll bet you've never heard of Charlotte Temple. Yet it was the first American best-seller; it went through over two hundred editions, official and pirated, after it was published in 1791, and it was still being read in 1912 by 'housemaids and shopgirls,' as some critic condescendingly put it. That was its problem, of course; any book popular with women was by definition—"
"You've made your point, and exposed my ignorance. Let's concentrate, for the moment, on this particular book. I take it that most of the neglected and rejected books were in print at one time. This is completely new—never published?"
"I've checked every reference I can think of. That's why it's so important, Peggy. Even Bill Meyer, male chauvinist though he is, would love to be the discoverer of an unknown American author."
"You think he can talk Yale into coming up with an offer? Money's tight these days."
"You're telling me. The other buyer has to be Dorothea Angelo, from Berkeley. She's a full professor and she's got a lot of clout. She was green with envy when I published the poems; she's been sniping at me ever since, in print and in person. She'd kill to get her hands on this."
"But Simon promised you—"
"I may not be able to raise the money." It was the first time Karen had admitted it, even to herself. Her voice was unsteady. "And even if I can, they will have seen it. Simon won't let it out of his hands, he'll insist that they examine it in his office; at least I hope that's what he'll do. But I wouldn't put it past either of them to steal the damned thing."
"Your friend Simon doesn't sound like a patsy."
"Well . . maybe not. But there's another aspect to this business— the author's identity. The poems gave no clue to her real name, or even what part of the country she came from. It would be an additional feather in my professional cap to identify her. In fact, without that background it will be impossible to do a proper study of her novel—show how she fits into the tradition, what other writers influenced her, and so on. There's no way I could prevent someone else from pursuing that search, even if I owned the manuscript. I couldn't stand it if—"
She broke off, biting her lip. The last thing she wanted to do was sound like one of the hysterical heroines of the novels they had discussed. Peggy seemed to find her reaction reasonable, though. "Yes, I see. The manuscript offers clues to her identity?"
"I think it may," Karen said cautiously. "Even more important is where it was found. Simon bought it from a person—he wouldn't even tell me whether it was a man or a woman—who had inherited an old house and its contents. He said something about 'local dealers,' so I'm assuming the house is somewhere in this area. He also said the manuscript had been found in a trunk in the attic of the house. You see what that means?"
"Who, me? I'm just an ignorant historian," Peggy said with ineffable sarcasm. But her eyes were bright and intent. " 'In this area' is pretty vague; it could cover the whole East Coast. However, you would probably be safe in limiting yourself to the Mid Atlantic region—from Pennsylvania to the Carolinas. There are a lot of old houses and old families in that part of the country ..." She ended on a questioning note; then she said, "The former owner may have been an auction hound. He could have picked up the manuscript in a box lot at some country sale."
"Then the auctioneer's records would give me the name of the person who put it up for sale," Karen said. "You're right, it may
