Nothing for now

I spend the day exploring Charleston and its multitude of historical landmarks. It's strange how the glamor and elegance of the 'Gone with the Wind' antebellum south is intertwined with the dark realities of slavery, racism and sexual ****. Most of the plantation tours now include a nod to the slaves that ran the house, but in only one am I shown what I'm most curious about. A small, well-decorated room with a full bed up a narrow flight of steps from the master bedroom suite. When I asked the grey-haired tour-guide if this was common, she gave me a knowing smile and assured me that if I knew how to look, I'd find similar rooms in just about every old mansion in the city.

“I don't show this room to every tour group.” She explains uneasily when the rest of the tour had moved on, “There are a lot of people who still don't want to believe this ever happened, but you looked like you could handle the truth.”

“Do you know anything about the women who slept here?” I asked equally quietly, trying to hide my newfound interest in this troubling aspect of slavery in America.

“Not much.” The guide gave me another long look. “We have the purchase records, and a few of the letters that make passing references to the plantation owners being distracted by this **** or that.” The woman lets her eyes drift lower and I have no doubt that she is checking me out. The guide is older than me by a few years, her pale white skin and elegant pant suit remind me a little of either a younger Hillary Clinton or, I realized with a start, Priscilla Manning from Bianca's journal. “As you can probably guess, there aren't a lot of first-hand accounts from those slaves.” I had to bite my tongue to keep from blurting out what I had locked safely away in the hotel safe. “For this family, the slaves that we know about were all purchased from the same auction house, Havenhall Services.” I did my best to hide my reaction, but I could see the guide take note. She reached out to touch my hand in a way that made it clear that her interest was more than just academic.

“This is my last tour of the day; do you want to stick around for a while?” Her tone softened a little and she smiled as she gave me an excuse to say yes. “I could show you what we have in the private archives?”

It was my turn to feel a moment of disquiet. I've never been into women, certainly not when I was younger and even now, I've always politely turned down offers like this, but this was a chance to learn more about my ancestor and I've been so on edge this past week I wonder if maybe this is exactly what I need.

I decided to play it cool, and explained I had another tour booked, but I asked for her card so I could call her later. As it turns out there is more to Ms. Wilson than first meets the eye. The business card was simple and elegant, a mixture of no-nonsense directness with the discrete propriety you would expect from a proper lady.

A quick check on the internet confirmed that All the Finest Things was indeed a local antique shop in the historic district of Charleston was owned by her and had been an AAA rated member with the local Better Business Bureau for over ten years. The store's webpage included a list of available antiques and in addition to the furniture, jewelry advertised on the card there was a collection of dresses, parasols and lingerie reproductions in the style of the old south.

So, here I am alone in my hotel room again with Margaret Wilson's card in my hands wondering what I wanted to do. This was exactly the type of person I was hoping to find in Charlston, someone who knew the secret history of the Fancy Trade and apparently something more about Havenhall. Judging by the looks she was giving me earlier, she's going to expect more from me than I am necessarily comfortable giving. It feels almost like the excitement I felt when I first started dating, wondering if my date was going to expect me to 'put out'.