by Tara Cowan
“He’s lucky if there is a schedule,” she said, sticking the thermometer beneath the boy’s arm. “Hold that down—don’t wiggle, child. He’s supposed to work from eight until five. He drops this one off at school and then heads over to work. I pick Jude up from school, for it’s a rare occasion he can go early. He’s usually home by six. Oh, and he teaches a night class at the College of Charleston on Thursdays, so it’s nine on those nights.”
Adeline lifted her brows. It would be difficult to catch him. “Thank you.”
She nodded, checking the temperature with her glasses halfway down her nose. “You’re welcome dear. Forgive me, I need to call his father,” she said, looking up apologetically.
Adeline winced sympathetically. “Yes, of course.”
She was almost out the door when the woman called, “I’m Jane Lindsey, by the way.”
Adeline stopped, looking at her quickly. “Oh! I thought Mrs. Ravenel was Jane.”
Mrs. Lindsey looked at the boy, a little on edge, and shook her head, seemingly relieved when he went on licking the peanut butter off his bread, his fever apparently not affecting his appetite. “No, just me,” she said, with an attempt at cheerfulness. “I’ll send him to you when he gets home.” And with that, Adeline left the room, her thoughts in a tangle of confusion.
Charleston, South Carolina
Chapter Two
It was April, and so the evening shadows had not quite begun to fall at six o’clock. Adeline, having taken a shower, put on comfier clothes, and wrapped her curls with her favorite bandeau, went outside to bring in the rest of her things. She crossed the brick pavers to her car and had just opened the back hatch when a black Land Rover turned in. She pulled one of her boxes toward her and attempted to lift it. Okay, it was heavier than she remembered. She would wait until Mr. Ralph Lauren model got in the house before she hefted it in.
She heard his door close and was surprised when he came around behind her car. “Hi!” she said in a friendly manner.
He nodded his greeting. “How did everything go today?”
“Great! So many stories waiting to be told.” She pushed the box back further, standing in her usual comfortable pose with one hand at her back. “Speaking of which: do you know any of the history of the house? Oh, wait—never mind, you can tell me tomorrow. Your son is sick, isn’t he.”
He lifted his brows, apparently surprised at her knowledge. “Yes. But we couldn’t get him an appointment today, so I’ll be taking him tomorrow. What did you say you needed?”
She brushed a corkscrew curl back with her clean hand. “I always like to incorporate the history of the house, find out as much as I can about it before I set in. Do you know if there are any records? Did it have a name?”
“I think in the Twentieth Century it was called the Ravenel-Thompson house, after the two previous owners.”
Her heart jumped with historical interest. “Oh, you have a connection to the house, then,” she said.
He nodded. “An ancestor built it in the early 1830s. I think the Ravenels had it up through the 1890s, when they sold it to the Thompsons. Our parents used to drive us by when we were kids, telling us the family story.”
“What is the family story?” she asked.
He lifted a shoulder. “They had a plantation on the Ashley and would come here in the summer during the sickly season and for the social season in the winter. I’m not really sure about the particulars. We’re not really a historical family—except my brother. But it was John Ravenel who built it, if that helps.”
“It does: thank you.” She turned back to her depressing mound of boxes, surprised when he didn’t leave.
“Do you need help with any of that?”
She looked up, raising her brows. “Why… Yes, thank you. If you could take this one inside, I would be appreciative.”
He lifted it, despite his perfect white shirt and tie, and took it toward the door. He didn’t return, but he did carry it all the way to the top floor, so it was a start.
Not yet provided with the wi-fi password, Adeline sat down on her bed with her phone, running up data but needing to research the Ravenels. The bed was just as hard as she had thought it would be.
Apparently Ravenel was a big name in these parts, as her grandfather would’ve said. They were some of the first settlers and had been at the very highest rung of society, comparable with names like Middleton and Alston. It was cool to be staying in their house and to know one of their descendants, but that was just because she had tendencies toward historical elitism. Not that she wasn’t interested in their slaves, too. She hoped to incorporate some of their history as well, though how she was to do so when she was having difficulty in tracking down the right John Ravenel was beyond her.
She thought a good place to start was to look for their plantation among the Ashley River Road plantations. She googled “Ravenel” and “Ashley River plantation” but found nothing. It could’ve been burned or auctioned off so long ago that the connection was tenuous. Still, she would’ve thought there was something. It didn’t sound like it was mere familial puffery (Adeline didn’t think she was really a descendant of Queen Elizabeth’s hypothetical illegitimate child, as her Uncle Joe asserted). The Ravenels were certainly well-connected, and most people who had owned homes on this street had indeed been planters.
Frustrated, she decided she would need her computer. Her contacts were annoying her, and the small print seemed to be getting smaller.
Almost ready to go to bed, she decided to google (on private mode) “Adrian Ravenel psychiatrist.” She found his office’s website immediately and then read a few reviews from clients. It seemed most of them were well-pleased, raving about his knowledge and intuition, and his caring manner. She checked the particular doctor’s name again. Yep, the same one. Hmm. She raised and lowered her brows.
She scrolled on down the Google list, seeing his page on the College of Charleston’s website, not surprised that he taught a psychology course. There seemed to be an article about when he bought the house, one of those local history spotlights.
She wondered about his wife, and, after figuring out her earlier mistake, whether he might be divorced, since she hadn’t seen the woman. Dr. Ravenel seemed to have primary custody of the child, if that was the case, so that was a little unusual. But maybe she was so high society that she hadn’t yet made an appearance. But there was no doubt that the Jane he had spoken of was the nanny.
Her heart jumped in her throat. She saw a link to a newspaper article, the title: “Local Psychiatrist’s Wife Killed in Car Accident.” She hoped that had nothing to do with him, but why would a search of his name turn it up unless it was one of those annoying flukes? She clicked on it, moistening her lips when she read the first line. “Lauren Ravenel, Charleston socialite and wife of renowned local psychiatrist, Adrian Ravenel, was killed yesterday in an I-95 head-on collision. A native of Savannah, Georgia, Mrs. Ravenel–” It cut off, offering to let her purchase a subscription.
Adeline swallowed, her heart beating fast, stomach twisting with the sick feeling that things like that really did happen. One could almost pretend they didn’t, that people didn’t really die young. There was no good reason it should be so shocking when of course she had known people who were in similar situations. Dr. Ravenel could probably tell her that it was the mind trying to shut off reality to cope, or something. It sounded like something he would say.
Her mind whirled with the new development. She bit her lip, thinking of the little boy she had seen in the kitchen, and the man who, while he seemed cold, must have loved her. She was glad she had looked now, so she wouldn’t say anything else. The nanny seemed to have been ordered not to talk about it in front of the boy.
Still, she felt like a creep, invading someone’s personal life, and she clicked out of all of it quickly. Gosh, what if he found out she had done that? It was unprofessional. She
wouldn’t do it again.
Adeline descended the stairs the next morning, thinking that she really needed to go get some groceries. She had done a couple of trips for fast food yesterday, but she couldn’t do that forever. For now, she wondered if she would be allowed any fridge or pantry space.
She went into the kitchen to be brought up short by Dr. Ravenel, standing behind the island in more casual clothes than he wore to work—jeans and a faded light blue long sleeve T-shirt that looked like what people who sailed wore on the boat. He was sliding a plate toward his son, who wore cute little sweatpants and a Charleston T-shirt. Dr. Ravenel looked up, dark eyes meeting hers.
She kind of caught up short, biting her cheek and thinking she should have known not to come down dressed in her sister’s old exercise shorts and her brother’s old Asheville High track shirt. She should’ve remembered that they were going to the doctor.
Oh, well. She smiled. “Headed to the doctor?”
“We’ve already been,” he said, passing her under scrutiny for what purpose and with what result she didn’t know.
“Oh, that was early,” she said, glancing toward the fridge, wondering if he would sacrifice a bottle of water.
“There’s water in the fridge.”
Crap. He really was a mind-reader. “Oh, thanks,” she said, color unaccountably high. She walked forward and opened the Viking industrial fridge and looked around, snagging a Nestle from the door. There were other water bottles in there, but they scared her. As she turned back around, Dr. Ravenel was saying quietly to his son, “If I took away eight of your grapes, how many would you have left?”
“Four,” the boy said without even looking up.
Dr. Ravenel studied him, then looked up at her. “I hope everything went okay this morning?” she said, smiling.
“Just allergies, but he gets a day off school for it, and I get a day off work.” The little boy grinned up at him, popping a grape into his mouth. Dr. Ravenel tucked the corners of his mouth in a smile. She knew that a day off of work in his kind of job wasn’t a treat. He would be slammed with work tomorrow. But she liked that he didn’t let the little boy know.
“Oh, good,” she said, wondering where Jane was. She had thought she was a live-in nanny, but–
“We gave Jane the day off. She’s gone to visit some friends.”
“Oh, good for her,” she said, noticing that he had excellent legs and feet. It said a lot about a man.
Suddenly all she could think about was her legs, which were quite visible in her shorts. They were a little bit chicken, and her knees were knobby, but they were pretty long, and someone—she couldn’t remember who—had once told her they were pretty. Or maybe that was her feet. They were long and bony—not that one could see them when they were in her old Toms. Oh, great, the left one had a stain on the top.
Realizing that she had been staring at her legs longer than was probably socially appropriate, she looked up and saw that he was watching her. Okay, embarrassment complete. Maybe she should make it look like she had been looking at a bug bite or something. Not that she really cared that much. He probably thought she was weird, but he might as well know that now, she thought.
The silence really was dragging out, though. So she said, “I think I’ll start on sanding the stain off the cabinets in the library today. I don’t need the crew for that, and I’m pretty much finished with the planning process.”
He didn’t respond. He seemed to know she was using it as a conversation filler and, apparently, he didn’t like those. “Why do you feel uncomfortable around me?” he enquired cordially.
She blinked. Okay, so much for not letting things get awkward. “Umm… That’s a weird question,” she said, giving him a confused look.
“I can tell you do,” he said, apparently not uncomfortable at all. “And also that you don’t normally feel that way.”
She lifted her brows. “How do you know that?”
“Because you’re comfortable, confident,” he said, still regarding her like a specimen. Well, wasn’t this a fun little experiment for him. Good grief, how did his family bear it, if he did this all day? And how was he so flipping accurate?
She studied him, not knowing what to say. Nothing but candor was apparently acceptable to him. The truth was, she didn’t know why she felt little thrown off around him. Maybe it was because he kept surprising her, or rather, his personal life did. But if she was just doing her job, not really concerned about her host except insofar as she had to follow his requests, she wouldn’t care. She usually didn’t care. The truth is, you’ve been interested ever since you saw him in those white pants, Adeline Miller.
Okay. Attraction. She wasn’t used to it, but she could deal with it. She usually attracted the Jack Johnson or Jason Mraz type, and she liked their style. But they weren’t really boyfriend material. So she didn’t date that much. And she was rarely attracted at all. And certainly not by this type. That was probably why she thought about it more than in passing. It was like her mind was afraid she had been missing out on a whole new type of men. A type most history major girls rolled their eyes at, partially from real scorn, partially from jealousy. She would call the type Martha’s Vineyard.
“Sorry if I’ve given you that impression,” she said, giving a reasonable go at genuine surprise. “I’ll try to notice in the future. I guess I have been a little distracted by the house.”
“Never mind,” he said, looking at his son, who was watching them intently. “Finished, Jude?”
“Nope,” he said, still looking between them.
“Eat the rest of your toast, and we’ll get you dressed.”
“’Kay,” he said, nibbling on his toast.
Adeline pressed her lips together for a moment before saying, “Is it… Would it be possible for you to give me your brother’s number?”
He lifted his head, and his brows.
She bit her lip, flushing again. She almost never did so. She was basically fourteen. “No, I’m not looking for a date. You said he was interested in history, and that he might know something about the house. I’m having a really difficult time tracking down your family’s plantation, and if I could just go there, I would have a really good sense of their style and tastes.”
“Oh.” He glanced at his watch. “He’ll be in court right now, I think. But he’ll be finished by the afternoon.”
Now she lifted her brows.
“He’s an attorney,” he said flatly, giving her a level look. He turned, got a pen and paper, and wrote it down. He handed it to her. “I’ll text him to let him know you’ll be calling.”
“Thanks!” she said. “I’ll be off, then. I have a little bit more inspection to do, and then I’ll be in the library all day.” Thank goodness she was making her escape. It would take her a couple of hours to recover.
He nodded.
“Hope you feel better, Jude,” she said as she was leaving.
“Law Office of Hartman and Joyce, how may I help you?”
Adeline lifted her brows. Great. He hadn’t given her his private cell. “Hello,” she said, after a pause. “May I speak with Mr. Ravenel please?”
“Just a minute, let me check… Yes, he’s in. I’ll transfer you.”
“Thanks.” She walked across her little room, glancing out the narrow dormer window, watching as a cross-over SUV parked and a black woman got out, going to the trunk and pulling out what looked to be cleaning supplies.
“Hello, this is Harris Ravenel.”
“Hi, this is Adeline Miller. I think Adrian told you I would be calling?”
“Oh, he probably texted me. Let me look.” There was a rustling. “Oh!” he said with recognition. “Yeah, I’ll be happy to help if I can, but I’ll be forthcoming and admit my concentration was Modern Britain.”
“Oh, that’s fine,” she said, smiling. “I’m mostly curious about yo
ur family’s history. I take it the rest of them are more sciency?”
He laughed. “I guess you could say that. I’ve never done as much research as I would like, but I always listened when my grandmother told me the family stories.”
Her heart sped. “Is your grandmother still with you?”
“No,” he said with a smiling wistfulness. “I’d refer you to her immediately if she were. What are you looking for?”
“At another time, any tidbits you have. But for now, I was wondering if you have any information about the plantation your family owned. I can’t seem to find it. Or if I find one, it’s owned by the wrong Ravenels.”
“Dad always said it was on the Ashley River, that that was what his grandpa told him. But I’ll admit I’ve driven through there several times and I can’t quite figure it out. Most of those houses are open for tours now with a strong family story. And it’s not our family story.”
That’s what she had found. “Hmm.” She thought for a moment. “Is it possible it was burned during the Civil War?”
“Of course it’s possible. I’m sure you know the Union troops left a blazing trail behind them. They’re kind of PC about that at the plantations now, but there’s a reason there are only flankers at Middleton Place.”
“Yeah. But wouldn’t there still be some record of it, some mention of it in one of those plantations’ archives? If I’m correct, your family moved in the first circles. There are records of them: they just haven’t made it onto the internet yet.”
There was a silence, but she could picture him sitting back in his chair in deep thought. Finally, he said, “Yeah, it just doesn’t fit. I’ll call my dad tonight, but he isn’t very interested in his family lineage,” he said with a smile in his voice. “He’s a chemistry professor.”
“Oh, right,” she said, smiling. She sat at her computer and pulled up a map of Charleston, zooming in on the river. Well, it was a fairly long river. Maybe it just hadn’t been on the big plantation row. “Thanks for your help.”
