Sean Kyleson, plantation manager

Dear Diary,

Mr. Thornton and I were greeted by Mr. Kyleson, my father's manager. The man's face was burned from exposure to the southern sun, and his expression guarded, but when our eyes met for the first time, I detected a change. His brows lowered, troubled by a memory or thought and he paused for just a second before speaking. By his side, was stately older man in a white suit that I thought might be my father but was introduced instead as the family solicitor.

I let Mr. Thornton do the introductions as I noted the black bands on the arms of the men and the stricken look on the face of the houseslave who stood respectfully behind the men. I knew what Mr. Kyleson was going to tell me before he opened his mouth; I was not however prepared for the curtness of his words.

“You’re too late, Miss DiFlorentini. The Master’s funeral was yesterday.” I am still seething when I recall the abruptness of Mr. Kyleson's greeting. I have attempted to render his brooding expression, below but I lack the skill to capture the full nature of his surly disdain.

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It was my father's personal solicitor, Mr. Naylor, who bowed politely over my hand and demonstrated the southern charm I was expecting. “Welcome to Havenhall, Miss DiFlorentini.” His accent as charming as his manner was polite. “I am most distressed to meet under these most unfortunate circumstances.” Mr. Naylor ushered us up the steps to the porch and into the salon while my trunks were carried upstairs by the same strong slaves who first met the carriage,

I would like to be charitable to my father's plantation manager, but what few words the man spoke were cold and dismissive. He could not make it clearer, by action or word, that strangers from Pennsylvania had no business here in South Carolina on his plantation. I don't normally drink anything stronger than sherry, but when Mr. Naylor pressed a heavy crystal tumbler filled with bourbon I accepted the drink gratefully; the strong spirits was just what I needed to calm my frayed nerves.

“It is good that you are here, Miss DiFlorentini.” Mr. Naylor told me after Kyleson set down his drink with a thud and left with only the slightest of nods to myself and Mr. Thornton. “Mr. Hayward's last will and testament is going to be unsealed tomorrow. I have it from his own lips that you are mentioned in this document.”

Before I could press the stately lawyer for more details, one of the house slaves entered the salon with a tray of sandwiches and a tureen of beef consume. As frustrated as I was by the interruption, in hindsight, it was good that I had some food to go with the bourbon that was starting to affect my judgement. This would have been my mother's role twenty years ago before she was freed. I studied the ****'s pretty face as she curtseyed before me silently, her eyes lowered politely as she presented the plate of sandwiches. She was less shy when she presented the same tray to Mr. Thornton with a coquettish smile, and I noticed with interest that his eyes lingered for a fraction of a second too long on the ****'s breasts where they peeked up from her tightly laced bodice.

After the day's events that started in Charleston harbor and ended here in my father's plantation after almost eight hours of travel, I was exhausted. Even the simplest of tasks, like maintaining small talk with the gentlemen was too much, and I begged their leave to find my room.

The same pretty houseslave that had brought our food, led me up the grand staircase to the second floor of the mansion and down the corridor to the right until she opened the door to my room. She still did not speak, as she lit the lamp and turned down the covers to the bed. Finally, just when I was beginning to think she was mute, she broke the awkward silence.

She gestured gracefully to the wardrobe and chest on the far side of the room. “Your trunks have been unpacked, Miss, if it pleases you.” Her big black eyes lifted to meet mine for the very first time. “Do you need help changing, Mistress?” It was, to the best of my memory, the first time a **** had addressed me with that title, and I wondered if I would ever get used to it. I realized that this young woman had **** but to do whatever I wanted. It was wrong; I knew that, but also the way the system worked here in the south.