Melissa meets Charles at High Cotton

Having already called in sick today, I figured that I may as well take Friday off too and make it a four-day weekend. I packed a small carry-on sized bag with the essentials I'd need including the dress I chose for dinner that I hope will make a striking impression. I had hoped to read a little more about Bianca's inheritance, but by the time I got to the hotel, unpacked and settled down in the bed I found myself turning to the page that showed Bianca on her knees. I'm ashamed to admit that after that I got very little actual reading done.

On Friday I toured the waterfront, and visited two nearby plantations. The tours were, pleasant enough and the guides had lots of information, but both times I left the historic sites feeling like I wanted more. In the afternoon, I got my hair done. Straightening it (chemically in a salon, not with a heated knifeblade) and trimming off the frizzy ends. It wasn't until I looked at the results in the mirror that I realized that with my hair like this I looked even more like the sketches in the diary. I hadn't consciously tried to do that, but who knows what my inner-self is thinking.

High Cotton is an exclusive restaurant on Bay Street known for its quiet elegance and historical charm. I had eaten brunch there once, years ago when visiting Charlston with friends after my divorce. I remember the spectacular view out over the harbor, and the quality (and expense) of the food. On a Friday evening, the place was jammed with people, but no sooner had I joined the line of people waiting on the sidewalk to check-in than an older gentleman wearing a jacket, vest, and tie walked over to greet me warmly.

“Miss Gordon?” I had a momentary pause wondering how this man knew who I was, but then it occured to me that I was the only African American in line. “It's a pleasure to meet you Ma'am. Mr. Manton is waiting for you and would be honored if you would join him for dinner on the patio.”

I took a moment to enjoy the envious looks of the well-dressed white people waiting to check in and packed into the lobby and waiting for a table. I strutted in past all of them and made my way to the courtyard patio. The restaurant was jammed with people, but the courtyard only had one large table in it, with a gilded white tablecloth and beautiful china. Every eye was on me as the well dressed, sexy black woman was led across the room through the sea of white faces, the Charleston elite.

The man waiting for me at the dinner table looked so much like the sketches of his distant relative that it was scary. Next to him sat an older gentleman whose white hair and neatly trimmed beard reminded me vaguely of Colonel Saunders of KFC fame. Both men rose to greet me and I have to admit, this polite Southern charm thing is kind of nice.

“Melissa!” Charles said, smiling warmly. “So glad that you could make it. You look... most fetching tonight.”

I smiled at the compliment. Truth be told, I had spent a lot of time agonizing about what I should wear. I knew it was an elegant restaurant, and some level of decorum was required. But the image of Bianca kneeling naked before the bidders excited me, and I had actually masturbated myself to sleep last night thinking of it.

In the end I had decided on my Susana Monaco tube dress. The short black satin dress was probably intended for someone younger and less curvy than me so on my body there seemed to be a constant battle between showing off too much leg or too much cleavage. A silk scarf, black snakeskin clutch and strappy high heels completed the look.

This is the first time I actually wore the dress in public. I bought it last year at Saks planning to wear it to the annual company gala, but when I modeled it for Aniya, she nixed that idea with her usual lack of tact.

“Mom, you look like a hooker.”

My dress was form fitting, and hugged every curve. I knew it was hit when the string quartet playing Dixie in the corner of the patio hit several wrong notes as I entered. They abruptly changed to The Yellow Rose of Texas. I used it as my entrance march as I slowly sauntered towards the lone table, like a super model going down the runway, pausing midway to adjust my scarf knowing that it gave the men a chance to admire my figure. Charles Manton seemed to know exactly what I was doing and smiled appreciatively. By the time I finally reached the table, it wasn't only their eyes that were bulging.

I flashed back to my conversation with my daughter, and her voice played in my head as the two men looked me up-and-down, and literally licked their lips. “You know that white men have been sexualizing black women for hundreds of years, right?” This was one of her favorite rants, so I knew where it was going. “If you show up to that stupid gala wearing this, those horny old C-level bastards will think you a nigga whore for sho.” The last few words were delivered in a mock Ebonics that summed up her contempt for my company, my job, my choice of clothing and well, me.

She may have been right about wearing the dress to a company function, but this was different. Ever since I started reading the diary, I've wanted to feel sexy - just like this. It would also have the effect of distracting Mr. Manton and keeping him off balance. As I neared the table, I smiled at the thought of my militant black daughter crossing swords with the genteel racism of Charles Manton. That, I realized, seemed like a chemical spill in the making.

The older gentleman with the white goatee shook my hand warmly. Charles Manton, bowing deeply, kissed my hand before holding my chair for me as I sat down. "Melissa, I am impressed. Silly me, worried about what you might wear. You look good enough to eat."

“Thank you, Charles,” I decided that if he was going to use my first name that I'd do the same. “You're dressed quite nicely as well. Your costume is quite striking.”

While the Colonel Saunders look-a-like was wearing a modern (if conservative) charcoal-shaded suit and tie, Charles Manton was dressed in the height of 1850's elegance. A white planter's suit with a gold and green embroidered waistcoat and a black cravat pined with what looked like a two-carat diamond.

Charles laughed and gave a knowing glance to his companion. “I don't actually think of it as a costume, Melissa. When I'm in my house at the battery, or at my beloved Havenhall, I like to dress for the occasion. This building here dates back to the colonial period; it was used as a warehouse and commerce center. They used to buy and sell cotton, and tobacco, and rice, and... well, all sorts of things here.” With that long-winded and pretentious explanation, Manton turned to introduce his guest.

“I'd like you to meet Dr. Shelby Davis, Professor emeritus of history at Clemson, with expert knowledge of all things related to our beloved past. I was hoping he might be able to take a look at this diary of yours. Did you by chance change your mind and bring it with you?”

“I copied a few pages, as we agreed.” I met his gaze without flinching, “They're here in my clutch.”

“You shouldn't expose antiques to that much light,” the older man scolded. “I hope you didn't damage the pages when you copied them.” He turned to Manton like I wasn't even there. “I'll have to see the original piece, if I'm going to authenticate it.”

“I only brought the copies.” For some reason I was feeling protective of the antique journal and the story it contained. Mr. Manton must have seen me eying his wine glass because he interrupted what was starting to feel like a stand-off between me and Dr. Davis.

“Oh, my, where are my manners?” Charles Manton said. “I am so sorry!” Sitting down he snapped his fingers and a thin black waiter with salt-and-pepper hair dressed entirely in white literally ran across the patio to fill my wine glass.

“It's from my family's private wine cellar, made from Carolina Gold rice, grown right at Havenhall. I do hope you enjoy it.”

“Oh, it's delicious!” The wine filled my mouth with a bouquet of flavors. “Strong, but sweet.”

“We don't skip on the alcoholic content,” A glance at the attentive waiter, and my glass was instantly topped off. Emboldened by the wine, I turned to the other man seated at the table.

“Professor Davis, I believe I'm familiar with your research,” I said. “Are you the author of Fancy Trade?”

The old man looked surprised. “Indeed I am. You know of my book?”

“Indeed, I do,” It wouldn't hurt to flatter the man a little. “I read it cover-to-cover. It was... fascinating. I hadn't realized that the tone of a girl's skin could have such an impact on her price.”

“Not so much for field work,” Dr. Davis, perhaps encouraged by my flattery was rising to his area of expertise. “For field work, you want muscles, and strong backs. But for... um... more personal services, fairer skin girls were definitely preferred.” Clearly Manton did not like being the third wheel.

“I'm surprised that an educated modern woman like you would take such an interest in such... sordid reading material, Melissa,” Charles Manton played with the rim of his wine glass as he carefully chose his words. “My dear Shelby's book is quite explicit about how the bed wenches were bred, trained and then sold. Stripped naked just as you described your cousin Bianca, I believe.” He paused for effect. “It only makes sense I guess, after all, one has to see the merchandise before placing a bid.”

Aniya's warning seemed almost prophetic, and I suddenly regretted the choice of evening wear. Manton smiled at me as I squirmed in my chair. The bastard was enjoying my discomfort, looking me up-and-down. My breasts aren't nearly as firm as they were twenty years ago when my daughter was born but they're still nice and plump; my hips and bottom have filled out a little too, but I am still a good-looking woman, and I could tell that Manton thought so too. Yes, he was looking at my body, straining in my tube dress, but in disclosing that I had read Shelby's book, I had revealed more than my bare shoulders and legs. I had given this evil man a glimpse into my deepest, most hidden fantasies, and my very soul.

“I find your fascination ... fascinating,” he added, with a knowing smile.

“I can read what I wish,” I said defensively.

“Of course you can, at least now,” he said, chuckling. “If you'd been caught with a book at Havenhall 200 years ago, you would have gotten a right good paddling!” he said, chuckling.

I felt my butt cheeks tighten instinctively, as once again I squirmed in my seat. Charles Manton laughed out loud as he watched me wiggling on the richly upholstered chair.

“Would you like to hear how whoopings were handled at Havenhall, Miss Gordon? Or am I boring you?”

Professor Davis was becoming noticeably uncomfortable at this turn in conversation, and looked first at Manton, and then at me. The silence was palpable, broken only by the soft sounds of the string quartet playing a slow rendition of that old racist favorite, Turkey in the Straw.

I knew Manton was testing the line, slowly drawing me in like a fish on a hook. I had inadvertently revealed my more lascivious interests; first by admitting that I had read Fancy Trade "cover-to-cover", and then by my poorly concealed reactions to his subtle interrogation of my "fascinations."

Well, that proverbial cat is already out of the bag, and racing around the dinner table. The question remained, should I satisfy my unwholesome curiosity about what sort of humiliations Bianca might have witnessed, or even experienced, at Havenhall?

Or should I attempt to turn the tables, and put my host on the defensive?