A fly in the ointment

Dear Diary, (May 21st, late in the evening)

I am in trouble. How much trouble I cannot yet say, but I fear the worst.

Most of today has been a blur. A series of meetings and more tours; what free time I had, I spent trying to make sense out of the plantation ledger. The large ledger is a series of dated notes detailing receipts and expenditures with no real order or structure. For example, the purchase of a 50-cent bag of sugar might be followed by the sale of a $200 horse, it is maddeningly tedious. If I am reading the entries correctly, the single largest source of income comes from the yearly sale of tobacco, much more than what is received from the rice, pork and beef combined. In fact, the second largest source of revenue after the tobacco appeared to be from the sale of slaves.

“Don't be too hasty to make changes, Miss DiFlorentini.” Mr. Thornton advised me over tea when I expressed my concerns over this most troubling practice. “Just about every family of note in Charleston is going to be watching you for signs that you are going to bring your disruptive Yankee values to this Eden of ours.”

“I just don't think it's right.” I held my tongue when I saw him shake his head carefully. Perhaps because of his Georgetown education, or the fact that he lacks the powerful drawl of many other Carolinians, but I forget sometimes that this young lawyer is as deeply rooted in Southern values as any other Charleston gentleman. “Well then, Mr. Thornton,” I fear that I may have been a little short with the man. “What do you think I should do?” If my tone offended him, he gave no indication of his irritation.

“I think you should throw a party.” Mr. Thornton must have seen my skeptical reaction because he set his teacup down deliberately and paused to be sure he had my attention. “Leave the running of the plantation to that irritable Irishman; your charms are far better suited for setting your neighbor's fears to rest.”

An hour later, guided by Mr. Thornton, I decided on six area couples to invite for a dinner gathering a fortnight hence. Shortly thereafter, we met with the cook and selected a menu and Mr. Thornton assured me that he knew of a calligrapher who would write and send out invitations by the next day.

“Do you have anything to wear?” Mr. Thornton asked suddenly, “I wonder if my mother's dressmaker could do a rush -”

“I have dresses, Mr. Thornton.” The man was not satisfied until he made me go to my room and change. The dress I had in mind was one I had made specifically for meeting my father. It was of green silk in the latest fashion from London and I knew that it fit my figure perfectly.

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The young lawyer did not say so, but I know Mr. Thornton was impressed. Until now, he had seen me in only my travel dresses and the dark blue velvet dress that I wore for the reading of the will. I don't think he expected me to have a dress like this packed away in my trunks.

All in all, as we planned the party, I had almost overcome my earlier reservations about the sale of slaves. Perhaps I could fit in here in the south. Later that night when I was preparing for bed, I discovered that my past would not so easily disappear. I was caught completely by surprise when from the shadows I heard a low whisper.

“I know your secret, Miss.” I whirled around to see the figure step from behind the heavy curtains. “I know what you are.”