by Calia Read
I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. Buildings are becoming replaced by clusters of trees that threaten to reach out toward the road. I make a right onto a narrow road, where signs warn drivers to slow down, then up ahead, I see Belgrave. Or what’s left of her.
If it weren’t for the car behind me, I would stop and get out, because at first, it’s almost unrecognizable. The pictures couldn’t prepare me for this. The one thing that stands tall and proud are the Corinthian columns on the front porch. I keep driving, following the weaving road through the forest. A sign says the parking lot is to the left.
For the day after Christmas, you’d think this place would be a ghost town, but it’s relatively busy. Grabbing my purse, I step out of my car then pluck my coat from the backseat, even though I probably don’t need it. The air is dense, giving the illusion it’s almost springtime instead of the heart of winter.
I stare at the live oaks and make a slow turn. I’m trying to find something familiar, but I think I’m too far away from Belgrave for that. Up ahead is a small green building that has WELCOME CENTER written above the door. A sign near the pathway has the hours of operation.
Stepping inside the building, I’m bombarded by memorabilia of Belgrave in its prime: coffee mugs, shirts, hoodies, blankets, cutlery, magnets, postcards, calendars, and coasters. Hell, there’re even Christmas ornaments. There are books by local authors that center around the Lacroix family, and I flip through one of them. In the middle are colored photographs of Belgrave and Étienne’s grandparents on his mother’s side. I stop when I see a photo of Étienne. His hair is shorter, and his face holds a youthfulness that makes me think the picture was taken before his parents passed away. He’s unsmiling, and his brows are furrowed. I smirk because his body language screams unrest. I can imagine he was counting down the seconds until the photographer was finished and he could leave.
I put the book back on the shelf and head toward the front desk, where I see a display of signature Belgrave candles. I hold one candle to my nose and breathe in the scent of wild honeysuckle.
“May I help you?” says a woman behind the counter. She’s heavyset, with graying hair and a Southern drawl. The sound is so comforting, I’m tempted to rest my head on her shoulder and tell her all my problems.
Instead, I put the candle up and ask when the next tour of Belgrave will begin.
She smiles, revealing a small gap between her two front teeth. “Child, you got here just in time. The final tour of the day starts in fifteen minutes.”
Smiling in relief, I pay the twenty-five-dollar admission fee. She hands me my ticket, and I move out of the way for the next people in line, who are complaining—none too quietly—that the cost of tickets is too high.
My feet crunch on the gravel as I head toward Belgrave, holding my ticket as though it’s a hundred-dollar bill. I notice the black wrought-iron gates around the acres of land. Probably to keep out any future vandals.
Up ahead, a cluster of people linger around the gated driveway, and my heartbeat thunders in my ears. In my mind, I can vividly picture those gates being opened by servants and promptly closed after a car drives through.
“Excuse me, ma’am.” A lady with a clipboard in her hand taps my shoulder. With her auburn hair cut around her shoulders and her Belgrave Plantation shirt tucked into her khaki pants, she looks like the perfect little tour guide. Her chin juts out as she gives me a brittle smile. “The line is to the left. The tour will begin in ten minutes.”
This lady, who according to her name tag is Morgan, thinks she knows so much about this place. If there were any other way into Belgrave, I would ignore her and go about my business, but I’m desperate to be next to anything that Étienne touched and this stupid woman can’t take that away from me. I nod and walk toward the line of people.
I make my way to the back and stop behind a family of three.
“It’s tragic, isn’t it?” the woman next to me says. She has a camera hanging from her neck and a sleeping baby in Bjorn carrier.
A man who I assume is her husband stands next to her, flipping through the brochure with boredom.
I nod and go back to staring at the house, but the lady doesn’t take the hint. She holds out a postcard of Belgrave in its glory days. “Look how beautiful it once was. It makes you wonder what happened to it.”
“Time, I suppose,” I say sadly.
The lady continues, “I mean, how could the owners let it slip into such a state of ruin?”
My head snaps in her direction. “They would’ve done everything possible to keep this place alive.”
The woman veers back a little and quickly looks away. She seems like a nice person, and she probably thinks I’m insane. Not that I can blame her. I talked as if I had a personal relationship with the owners.
And I do. But here, in this time, that’s considered impossible.
Looking around and seeing all the people snapping pictures with their iPhones and digital cameras, I realize this might’ve been a bad idea. Can I listen to the tour guide talk while I stare at the ruins of Belgrave as though I’ve never walked through those doors? As though my hand has never glided up that mahogany banister?
Honestly, I don’t think I can, but what choice do I have?
For the next few minutes, I glance at my watch a dozen times.
Morgan, the tour guide, waits until it’s twelve on the dot to step forward. She clears her throat and pastes on the perkiest smile known to mankind. “Good afternoon, everyone. I’m Morgan, and I’ll be your tour guide today.”
I raise my hand.
Morgan’s lips thin around the same time she narrows her eyes. Not even two minutes into the tour and this lady hates me. “Yes?”
“Which rooms will we be able to see?”
“Unfortunately, structural issues make touring the inside impossible. Come spring, we hope to have at least one of the rooms on the first floor ready to walk through. We will be touring the grounds around the plantation where you are all more than welcome to take pictures of Belgrave. There are acres and acres of land on this ground, but unfortunately, we’ll only see a portion of it.”
While the people around me nod enthusiastically about what they’re going to see, Morgan pulls out an old skeleton key and slides it into the gate lock. I swear she’s deliberately slow for my benefit. When the lock clicks open, Morgan, with the help of a tourist, pushes back the gates. They creak loudly, the sound ominous. It sends a chill down my spine and makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand.
People filter in through the gates. It takes all my control not to shove through the crowd to the front of the line. But before I walk through the gates, I stop next to the plaque. It has a shortened version of the information I read online. Directly above the plaque is another oval-shaped plaque with EST. 1850 in the middle and the words “Belgrave Plantation” around it.
When everyone is finally through, Morgan announces above the idle chatter, “We’ll start the tour here to admire the grounds”—she pointedly makes eye contact with me—“and please try to save all questions until the end of the tour.”
Bitch.
Once I tune out Morgan’s voice, the walk up the driveway is one word—peaceful. The Spanish moss and old oak trees are still where they belong, and for a second, I feel as though I’m truly back in 1912. Some people stop to take pictures or pull out brochures and compare the present to the past. I don’t need the brochure. I see the present-day Belgrave, but my mind superimposes the Belgrave from the past. The two integrate, and I shiver at the juxtaposition of the images.
As Morgan drones on about the beautiful landscape, I raise my hand. She pretends to ignore me. It only makes me lift my hand higher until I’m on my tiptoes.
She sighs. “Yes?”
“Whatever happened to the slave quarters?”
“I don’t believe there were ever slave quarters on Belgrave property.”
“Yes, there were,” I argue. If she’s going to give tours of Belgrave, s
he needs to know the history. The good and bad. “Before Adrien sold off his shares of the sugar plantation, there used to be slave quarters. There was even a general store on the property. It was near the pond.” Pivoting, I try to find the direction of the pond, but I have no idea where it could be now.
“Why did he sell?” the woman next to me asks.
“Well, Adrien wanted to focus on the shipping company, but if you ask me, I think he got out while he was still on top. Belgrave already had one year of bad crops,” I explain.
“Smart move.”
I nod. “I know, right?”
“Moving on,” Morgan says, her voice a high pitch.
As we inch closer to Belgrave, the woman leans in. “Are you from here?”
“No. I’m just visiting.”
“You sure know a lot about this place.”
“I, uh, had to do a history project on Belgrave once,” I lie.
She nods and moves ahead with the rest of the group.
The closer we get, the quicker my heart beats. I have to stop myself from breaking out into a full run.
Morgan stops the tour directly in front of the circular drive. The fountain is long gone. The shrubs that once surrounded it are still here. They haven’t been trimmed, but I think it would be odd to have pristine landscape against such a tragic backdrop.
Belgrave was once so vibrant, the stucco a pristine white and the windows gleaming in the sunlight. Now the stucco is gray from harsh weather and chipped off in some areas. Vines adhere to the foundation. Brambles surround the once-beautiful porch. The left portion of the porch sags. One stair railing has fallen off. All four of the Corinthian columns are cracked.
Morgan leads the tour toward the porch, and I crane my neck, trying to see if I can see the derelict portion of the east wing. It’s impossible to tell from here.
When I read that the total cost to restore Belgrave was four million, I thought it was a bit exaggerated, but now I see that so much needs to be done. It seems like an impossible task. It hurts to think Belgrave has become a thing of the past and chances are, no else will see it in all its glory again.
All too soon, the tour is over and we’re walking down the long driveway. The people around me talk in excited whispers about what Belgrave once looked like, but all I can fixate on is that I gained nothing from this tour.
I’m no closer to Étienne. I swear the house has eyes and is looking at me. Every few seconds, I look over my shoulder at the imposing structure.
My heart tugs. It doesn’t want me to leave.
Right now, I have to. I didn’t spend all this money to come to Charleston only to give up on the first try. Come night time, I’m going to find a way into Belgrave. I’m going to walk through those rooms.
I’m going to try to find a way back to Étienne even if it kills me.
HOURS LATER, I slowly walk along The Battery, taking everything in. A few puffy clouds that remind me of cotton balls shade the sun. It manages to peek out every so often, bathing me in a warm glow. If it weren’t for the clouds, I wouldn’t need my coat. A soft breeze brings in the scent of salt water.
Tourists walk along the unsteady promenade, stopping every so often to take pictures or admire the endless view of the water to their left and the palmettos lining the streets. It’s beautiful, but I’m more enamored with the mansions to the right. They stand there, tall and imposing as ever. I smile sadly at them because they somehow survived time. Belgrave didn’t.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a bit defeated, but I still plan on breaking in tonight. I don’t know how, but I’ll find a way in.
I hurry across the road and walk past the row of mansions. Most are private residences, but I can see one is a bed-and-breakfast. Palm trees dot the landscape. Most of the narrow homes have tilted porches, which I’m assuming is so water will fall off the side when it rains. Still, these homes reveal the glamour and sophistication that once was. I think that’s what makes Charleston so alluring to people—it holds so many pieces of the past that the rest of the world has lost.
I make my way down the sidewalk, lost in thought. Soon, I stop in front of one of the beautiful mansions. It’s not the grandest of them all, but it’s probably the most well-kept. The siding looks freshly painted. Black shutters flank the windows.
Asa Calhoun’s home stood the test of time.
Immaculate shrubs line the fence in front of the yard. I continue down the sidewalk but stop when I see the iron gates to the property are open. Its private property and I have no business walking through here, but I can’t help myself; something is pushing me forward, beckoning me closer.
Ignoring the voice in my head that’s telling me this is a bad idea, I step through the gate and into the backyard.
The brick pathway is as uneven as the cobblestone streets around Charleston. A large magnolia tree to my left shades half the yard. Wisteria vines are tangled throughout the fence surrounding the property. At this time of year, hardly any flowers are in bloom, but I can imagine how beautiful this backyard is during the springtime.
A fountain stands in the middle of the circular brick pathway. A lone swing hangs from a thick oak branch in the far corner of the yard. It sways gently in the breeze, squeaking slightly.
“It’s a beautiful garden, isn’t it?”
Jumping, I turn around and come face to face with an older woman leaning heavily on a cane. Her gray hair is pulled up into a loose bun. Wrinkles line her face, especially around her eyes and lips. But her blue eyes hold a twinkle that not even time can steal.
“I’m sorry I’m trespassing.” I point toward the iron gate. “I’ll leave right now.”
She sighs before she holds up a hand. “Nonsense, child. You’re here now. Might as well get a tour.”
Rapidly, I blink. I was not expecting that. “A tour?”
“Of the grounds, of course. Not the house. I’m not that generous,” she says wearily.
I smile. “A tour would be nice. I was just thinking how beautiful this place must be the springtime.”
I follow her deeper into the backyard. She moves slowly, but that’s okay. It gives me time to inspect her from the corner of my eye. She has to be one of Asa’s descendants. I want to say daughter, but that might be a reach.
“Yes, it is,” she says. “Once the camellias, azaleas, and hydrangeas are in full bloom, it truly is a sight to behold. Of course, they come at different seasons, but I prefer it that way.”
I wait for her to give me more info or point at something I don’t notice (because isn’t that the point of a tour?) Instead, she heads toward a small secluded spot in the far corner of this private paradise. White wicker patio furniture, shaded by the live oaks, centers around a wicker coffee table. I imagine her placing trays filled with delicious food and tea on the surface as her friends and or family talked and laughed. A good distance from the furniture sits a white, weather-beaten rocking chair. Only minutes in the presence of this woman, but I can easily envision her being someone who prefers to sit and watch everything so she misses nothing. She sits and she leans her cane against the side table.
She gestures to the seat next to her. “Sit.”
I sit and stare at her expectantly. Boldly, she stares back. Maybe it’s my mind playing tricks on me, but I see Asa’s steely determination in her posture.
Shaking my head, I hold out my hand. “I’m sorry. Where are my manners? I’m Serene Parow.”
“Cordelia Rafferty.”
My heart skips a beat. When I looked up Asa, I remember seeing the name Cordelia. Resting my elbows on my knees, I angle my body toward her. “You wouldn’t happen to be one of Asa Calhoun’s daughters, would you?”
She looks momentarily shocked before she nods. “Yes. He was my daddy,” she replies in her lilting Charleston accent.
“I was doing some family research. His name came up.”
She smiles faintly. “Ah, yes. During his time, he was very active in Charleston.”
“Yes, h
e was,” I reply quietly.
Cordelia still hears me though. Her blue eyes carefully assess me. “How did my daddy’s name come up in your research?”
I can’t blame her for being suspicious. If some stranger came up to me and knew things about one of my family members, I’d want to know how they knew them.
“I have a family member who married into the Lacroix family. In old letters, it was mentioned that Asa Calhoun was a friend of the family.” That technically isn’t a lie, but it’s a stretch to say it’s the truth. “Did your father ever mention the Lacroixs?”
A nostalgic smile appears on Cordelia’s face as she leans back in her chair. “Yes, he did. Frequently.”
My heart races so fast, I can barely think straight. I have to take a deep breath before I keep talking. “Did you ever meet Étienne, Livingston, or Nat?”
Her smile slightly fades. “I was born in 1920, many years after the fire.”
“Oh,” I say, deflated.
“However, I did hear stories about the Lacroix family. And I saw photos of them.” Cordelia stares out into the distance. “And of the girl too.”
“Nathalie?” I ask.
She nods. “My daddy was sweet on her. She was a lovely girl, that one.”
Oh, if Nat could hear this. Her life would’ve been made.
“Why didn’t he tell her how he felt?”
Cordelia veers back over my question, arching a single brow. I’m positive she’s going to tell me that story time is over and to please leave, but she doesn’t.
“My father said one of her brothers put a stop to him tellin’ her how he felt.”
If anyone, it was probably Étienne. Too protective for his own damn good, I want to say. But I can’t. So I settle for a small smile.
“My oldest daughter is named Nathalie,” Cordelia confesses.
“It’s a pretty name,” I say.
Cordelia nods and continues to rock back and forth. “Momma and Daddy married a year after the fire hit Belgrave. He was crushed by their deaths. Suspected foul play.”
At her words, I sit on the edge of my seat. “He did?”