Melissa questions Miles' greatness

“I must beg to differ,” I offer tentatively. “There are stories in my diaries... pictures... that might change your opinion of our ancestor.”

“OUR ancestor?” his voice is sharp. “Is this some sort of attempt at a claim? I must warn you that I am friends with most of the judges in Charleston, and they take a dim view of colo... outsiders... who use mysterious, long-lost documents of questionable providence to make legal claims.”

“I'm not making any such claim, Sir,” I let my anger show. “The diary was sent to me, and I am merely its reader, not it's defendant.” When Manton doesn't jump in, I continue a little calmer than before. “I only seek the truth. But I must tell you that what I have read so far is most... shocking. Particularly one of the illustrations.” I close my argument with the disturbing drawing, perhaps the strongest argument for my case.

“Really?” he said, his tone changing. Clearly, I had piqued his interest. “What sort of illustration? Do tell.”

I hesitated for a moment, wondering how much I should tell him. “I'm not sure I should say.”

Mr. Manton's voice softened. “Rest assured, Miss Gordon, that like you, I am a seeker of the truth. If you do have a diary in your possession that purports to discuss my family history, I implore you to share it with me. If it authentic, then it would be truly priceless to me. Naturally, I would pay you handsomely for returning such an important artifact to my family's tender care.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Manton, I'm not sure you're the rightful owner. The lawyers gave the diary to me, which implies it is MY family's story, not yours. Furthermore, I'm not sure it's for sale,” I'm careful not to entirely close the door on a potential windfall. “I mean... I've only started reading it, and I think it belongs in a museum, not a private collection.”

“I'm sorry if you feel insulted,” Manton attempts a half apology. “I was merely pointing out how valuable such a diary could be, and how handsomely you might profit from it.”

“Really?” I ask, a little tempted in spite of myself. “How much do you think it would be worth?”

“I would have to see it first, and review it carefully, and have it authenticated.” The idea of someone else, especially this man, reading Bianca's private account feels like a violation, but still... “Rest assured, you would be generously rewarded. I'm a very wealthy man, Melissa, and I can buy ANYTHING I wish to.”

His tone was imploring, and it was clear that he was baiting the hook. But there was something about the way he chuckled after he said that he could buy anything that he wished to that reminded me of his (our?) ancestor.

“Now tell me about this diary, and these pictures.” Is it my imagination, or is it the erotic pictures that he seems most interested in? “Let's start with the ones that disturbed you, my dear. Don't leave anything out.”

I could almost hear him leaning into the phone, and my pulse quickened as I described the scene. “It was a detailed sketch of Bianca... or one of the lighter skinned **** girls, perhaps. She was on her knees, in front of a group of men, on a sort of stage. The men appeared to be... bidding on her.”

“I see. What makes you think they were bidding on her?” the man challenged. “Perhaps it was some sort of musical performance. The coloreds-” there is that fucking word again! Doesn't he realize he sounds like a refugee from the 1950's? “-who work for me, even today, are quite musical, and love to sing and dance. It's in their blood. They love to entertain me and my guests." It is a good thing this is a phone conversation because I could not hide the shock and contempt I was feeling.

His description of the blacks who worked for him as being “musical” makes me cringe. From his tone it is obvious he thinks he is complimenting blacks in general, and seems entirely unaware of the innate racism of his remarks, but really! This is 2023!

“She wasn't entertaining,” I can't believe I'm even having this conversation, “she was quite... I mean entirely...naked.”

“That sounds entertaining to me,” he chuckles. “But I don't mean to be rude. Go on, girl. Tell me the part that was shocking.”

I pause, confused by why he can't understand. “She was naked,” I repeat as if hearing it a second time will make any difference. “Absolutely butt naked. Without a stitch on. And the men were smiling, and raising their hands, and bidding on her!” In spite of myself, I can feel that tingle of excitement between my legs, and my voice drops weakly as I try one final time. “They were bidding on her naked body."

“That is how it was done,” Mr. Manton replies casually. “We actually still have an old auction block from back-in-the day in front of one of cotton barns. Sometimes the neighbors will come, and bring their wares, as we are the largest of the old-time plantations. We'll have buyers come in and bid on our crop.” In spite of myself, I am more than a little curious about this relic from the past. To think that I could stand on one of the same platforms as my enslaved ancestors sends a disquieting chill down my spine. “We sell some of our livestock there, too, from time to time, goats and pigs and such. We like to run it like an old-time plantation and stay as self-sufficient as possible. The point is, Miss Gordon,“ Manton laughs easily, “we don't dress the lovestock in pants and shirts when we put them on the block.”

Charles Manton's nonchalant reaction leaves me stunned. Had he not understood what I was saying? If so, he doesn't seem shocked, merely intrigued as he asks about the picture of Bianca on her knees.

“I'm very interested in this depiction of the sale. So, was this block about 7 feet long, and maybe three steps high?”

“I can't say if I recall the steps,” I admit. “I was looking at the poor girl.”

“Of course, you were,” he assures me soothingly. “You sound like a very fine person, Melissa, showing sympathy for your kin, much as I do for mine. I would be most charmed to make your acquaintance and examine this diary of yours.” Still stunned from the earlier conversation I am unable to respond, so Charles Manton continues with old-fashioned Southern gallantry.

“I would be honored, Miss Gordon, if you would join me for dinner, at High Cotton on Bay Street. My treat, of course. Dress nice, as it's rather elegant at dinner. Bring that diary of yours. Rest assured; I will make our visit worth your while."

I bristle a bit at the suggestion that I didn't know how to dress, but let it go. From his tone I gather that he was attempting to be helpful, not insulting. It would be quite a drive to get to Charleston, but I could get there in time for dinner - if I choose to meet with him ...

“Well, I'm not sure I want to bring The Diary to a restaurant.” I hesitate before commiting myself to something crazy, “I might be able to photograph a few more pages and bring them with me?”

“Quite so,” he agrees readily. “If you'd rather, we can meet at my mansion on the Battery, or even at Havenhall itself if you prefer. I set a mighty fine table, Melissa, and we can peruse this extraordinary document of yours at our leisure, and in greater detail.”

“The remains of Havenhall still exists, then?” I ask, surprised. “I couldn't find any modern references to it.”

“Indeed, they do, although we keep it off the map. Google doesn't need to know anything. It is actually one of my places of business, and a working plantation.” He pauses and dangles another carrot, “If you come to visit me at Havenhall, you can look at the ledgers while I examine the Diary. We'll need to get you a visitor's tag, but that won't be a problem. We can snap your picture and prepare it in the security shed at the front gate.”

I'm not going to bring him the entire diary, particularly if it is as valuable as he says, but in spite of his objectionable word choice and attitudes I know I am going to meet with him. The question is should I join him at High Cotton, his downtown mansion, or at his plantation? I pause as I considered my options. I had seen the mansions along the Battery, and they were gorgeous. High Cotton was clearly the safest option for a first meeting, as it was a public place. Havenhall sounded intriguing as was the chance to see the ledgers, but why would I need a visitor's badge, or 'tag', as he called it? Did I want to risk going off the map, literally?