Legacy, page 3
Teag raised an eyebrow. “Privateers—or pirates? There’s a difference—at least technically.”
Alistair chuckled. As curator of the Lowcountry Museum, Alistair knew his way around old houses and interesting antiques. He had a trim build and a full head of gray hair despite being in his early sixties, as well as a penchant for bow ties. “There’s supposed to be, in theory. In practice, that dividing line could be subjective.”
Alistair didn’t know the full extent of everything we did at Trifles and Folly, or that for more than three hundred years, the shop had been a front for a secret coalition of mortals and immortals who kept the world safe from supernatural threats. What he did know was that my touch magic and Teag’s weaver magic had taken care of some problem items. Alicia’s ghost whispering had come in handy as well since museums and haunted objects went together like PB&J.
Teag glanced at me. “You up for this?” He wasn’t doubting my abilities; he’d been my wingman long enough to pick me up off the floor more than once when the images I saw through my psychometry put me flat on my butt.
I nodded. “Yeah. I’ll be fine.” I’d gained more control of my gift over the years, which included learning to protect myself. The agate necklace I wore helped deflect dangerous magic, as did my silver and onyx bracelet, the woven scarf Teag had made for me, and the ancient agate spindle whorl in my pocket. They wouldn’t stop every threat, but together they worked against most.
“As you can see,” Alistair narrated like a tour guide, “the house has a commanding view of the ocean. The original owners planted the land around it thickly with holly, bamboo, rowan, and ash trees. Closer in, there’s a hedge of juniper and hemlock that surrounds the house on three sides, leaving it open to the sea in the front.”
“Interesting choice of plantings,” I observed. Every single plant he mentioned had strong protective magic.
“Around back, there’s a kitchen garden with fennel, mint, ginger, sage, and basil,” Alistair went on. “And the plantings closest to the house have nettle, rue, alyssum, gardenia, geranium, and agrimony. The deed and will specify the plantings must be maintained and are never to be cleared away. Lots of iron fencing and custom wrought-iron gates with some interesting symbols too.”
“So Sullivan planted a defensive magic garden,” Teag said. “And I’d love to take a look at the sigils in the wrought iron. Wouldn’t be surprised if they’re the same kind of thing. What was he afraid of?”
Alistair shook his head. “No idea. But he had to have thought something powerful was after him, to put that kind of effort into a passive defense.”
I glanced at Alicia. She probably didn’t fit most people’s idea of a powerful ghost whisperer in a pair of jeans and a twin set that flattered her curves in colors that set off her blue eyes and shoulder-length dark hair. While she looked more PTA than paranormal, I knew how skilled she was, and more importantly, the spirits recognized her abilities. “Are you picking up on any ghosts yet?”
Her eyes narrowed as she regarded the mansion. “Not yet.”
“Why would anyone think Sullivan made a deal with the devil?” I asked.
“People said he could control the waves in a storm and turn them against attackers. You’d think that would be a good thing, but you know how people can be,” Alistair said with a shrug.
A car roared up the driveway at a reckless speed, sliding to a stop on the gravel.
“McKinnon! You’ve got no right to be here, let alone taking strangers into that house.”
The man looked to be in his late thirties, dressed with the expensive blandness that usually indicated a career in banking or investments. With his blond hair, regular features, and broad shoulders, he might have been handsome, but the hard set to his mouth and the entitlement in his manner told me he would be trouble. My mind dredged up a name from the social page pictures of a local magazine. Carter Etheridge, a hedge fund manager who liked to be seen with all the right people in all the right places.
“We’ve been through this before, Mr. Etheridge,” Alistair said, with the chilly politeness that is the Charleston equivalent of telling someone to go to hell. “The lawyers have reviewed the paperwork. It’s all in order.”
I recognized the name. The Etheridges were one of Charleston’s old families, known for their wealth—and the questionable magic they used to give themselves an unfair advantage. Even if his arrogance and entitlement didn’t make me recoil, my intuition picked up a darkness that I knew better than to ignore.
“I have lawyers too, McKinnon. We will challenge the disposition of the property,” Etheridge threatened.
Alistair looked unaffected by the threat. “You can certainly try, although it won’t look good in the news, wasting the museum donors’ money on legal costs. Your family has no claim on the property, and the bequest is more than sufficient to sustain the mansion without being a drain on the museum’s finances. The fact that you want to force us to sell so you could flip the property for a huge profit isn’t likely to win sympathy.”
“This isn’t finished!” It didn’t take much to see that Etheridge wasn’t used to losing, and his barely controlled fury had as much to do with ego as profits.
“It is for today,” Alistair said in a no-nonsense tone. “You’re trespassing, and if you won’t leave, I will have the police remove you.”
Etheridge flushed with anger, dropping the affable country club vibe and showing the red-meat predator beneath the mask. “I’ll be in touch with your board of directors.”
“They’re well aware and have passed a unanimous resolution in favor of accepting the bequest,” Alistair replied in a cool tone. “Good day.”
Etheridge turned on his heel and stalked back to his sports car, peeling out with a spray of gravel that would have pelted us if we’d been closer. As it was, some of the stones pinged disturbingly against our cars, earning sour looks from all of us. Alistair sighed as Etheridge roared out of sight.
“Now, where were we?” He managed a wan smile.
I felt certain down to the marrow of my bones that the Etheridges were the worst people to acquire the old mansion. It crossed my mind that it would be bad if they found out about the missing spirit bottle. Whoever stole it might not have plans for world domination, but I wouldn’t put that kind of thing past the Etheridges. Recognizing the new potential threat made me even more determined to find the missing djinn—or whatever it was.
We followed Alistair up the wide front steps of the mansion. As we walked inside, I sensed a frisson of something strangely familiar and shot a glance at Teag, seeing the same recognition in his eyes.
Magic.
My house, Teag’s house, Maggie’s apartment, and the shop were all heavily warded with magical protections, a necessity given the types of bad guys we went up against. We inconvenienced and angered people and creatures who were a lot more powerful and a lot less mortal than we are and who could accomplish their plans more easily if we were out of the way. The magic tilts the odds of surviving a bit more in our favor, although nothing is ever guaranteed.
“You said Sullivan never left the mansion grounds once he came back from the sea for the last time?” I asked.
Alistair nodded. “So the stories go. It’s always made me wonder if he was disfigured or maimed in a way that he felt ashamed of. We’re hoping that we’ll find information in the house to tell a more complete story. Gideon’s not just historically important for his own deeds, but he comes from a very prominent family. When we eventually open the house to the public, we want to do right by him.”
Maybe he didn’t leave because he had the property magically locked down to keep him safe. Personally, I had my doubts about opening the house any time soon, but until I had evidence to back up my misgivings, I stayed quiet.
“How did the mansion end up with the museum?” I asked. “I know the museum’s trust runs a couple of historic homes. Does this happen a lot?”
Alistair shook his head. “This was definitely a strange one. Apparently, Sullivan set it up a very long time ago—when the museum was founded.”
Teag gave him an incredulous look. “That was in 1773.”
Alistair grinned. “I told you it was strange. Gideon Sullivan was a founding benefactor of the Lowcountry Museum. He arranged it so that the mansion would pass to the museum’s protection when it was no longer lived in by one of his direct blood relatives. That last descendent was Elizabeth Sullivan, who died a few months ago at the age of ninety-seven.”
As he talked, Teag, Alicia, and I turned in slow circles, taking in the impressive foyer. The woodwork alone was magnificent, not to mention the cantilevered grand stairway, parquet floor, and plaster ceilings with ornamental moldings.
High on each of the foyer’s walls was an odd cross. Instead of just the plain ‘T’ of the regular Christian symbol, this had an extra, shorter crossbar, a style called a “patriarch cross.” Every inch was carved with letters and sigils I couldn’t make out from this distance. Teag spotted them as well, tapping me on the shoulder and pointing upward.
I nodded. “Plague crosses. Interesting—given all the witchy plants outside, I didn’t figure Sullivan for a very religious guy.”
“With as many outbreaks of Yellow Fever as Charleston had during his lifetime, maybe he believed in hedging his bets,” Teag replied.
I paid close attention to the mansion’s details, spotting a few modern upgrades, like electric lighting. No doubt the home had added an updated heating and cooling system as well as indoor plumbing over the years to make it comfortable for more recent residents. I’d been in enough historic homes to know that those modifications could be made so skillfully that they were nearly invisible.
Sullivan’s sanctuary had an understated elegance which made me think the sea captain built the home to suit himself, not to impress anyone. Its location would have been considered remote at the time. Those who wanted to be seen and admired built their grand homes along the Ashley River or south of Broad Street. Edisto Island had been almost wilderness when Sullivan chose his location.
“Why here?” I asked. “He was born to Charleston society, raised in a wealthy family, and made his fortune. He could have built anywhere. This is almost a hermitage.”
Alistair shrugged. “I don’t know for sure what his reasons were, although having grown up at the top of the social heap, he knew what he was leaving. Maybe his interests changed after all that time at sea. Perhaps he didn’t want to be bothered. After all, when he finally came home to stay, it was after an accident that put an end to his career.”
I knew that part of the story, although the details were sparse in any of the sources I’d checked. Gideon Sullivan had escaped numerous close calls with pirates, sometimes thanks to the help of a friendly privateer.
But his luck ran out in a fatal battle that destroyed his ship, the Resilient, and while Sullivan had survived, his injuries meant that his sailing days were over. He came home to his mansion, and for fifteen years Sullivan never left the property. Rumors said a handful of very loyal, free servants and a nurse took care of him and the mansion, staying in his employ for decades. In his later years, Sullivan built a large, elaborate, fortress-like mausoleum on the far end of the property, where he was buried.
“Was the mausoleum part of the grant to the museum?” I asked.
Alistair shook his head. “No, oddly enough. The building, the land, and the road to get there were specifically carved out. His fortune provided an endowment that should keep the taxes paid and maintenance handled for a very long time.”
Gideon Sullivan clearly didn’t build the house to one-up his social rivals. Charleston has a lot of grand homes. I’ve toured most of them, and while they are picture-perfect, few of them feel homey. They’re stiff, formal, and expensively decorated, but not comfortable. They’re showpieces meant to announce and solidify the owner’s social position with their location, size, and opulent extras. Even the personal rooms feel contrived, self-conscious, and sterile.
Everything about Sullivan’s house celebrated life. Large windows and wide porches looked out on the sea he loved and brought light and air into the interior. Handmade Killim and Mashad rugs were even more beautiful, worn by age. Fireplaces with elaborate surrounds spoke of warmth and comfort. Most of the wood was old-growth cypress, the color of clover honey.
Some of the furnishings were old enough to have belonged to Gideon, while much of the rest reflected the tastes of subsequent generations. I knew antiques, and it was clear that Sullivan had a good eye for quality and timeless design. Leather chairs invited guests to linger. The paintings and knickknacks reflected decades traveling abroad. Everything told me that Gideon Sullivan had gathered the best memories of his seafaring days to blunt the loss of his ship and his freedom. And every room had a plague cross somewhere in it.
Most of the artwork had a Caribbean or Central American feel—not surprising considering where his ship spent its time.
“There are a lot of pieces that look Dominican to me,” Teag murmured. “Maybe also from Hispaniola?”
I nodded. “Some Cuban too. And he obviously liked Bermuda.” Paintings of the British island’s rainbow-hued buildings and pink sand beaches were a common thread as we walked through the well-appointed rooms.
“No hiding that he was a ship’s captain,” Teag commented, and I followed his gaze to the brass sextant, armillary, and compass on shelves around the library. A telescope on a stand stood beside one of the nearly floor-to-ceiling windows.
“And a book lover,” Alicia added. The walls were completely covered with bookshelves filled with leather-bound volumes. A wide desk with drawers no doubt held maps. The chairs were overstuffed and perfect for reading, with ottomans and side tables to accommodate a quiet day. Decorative items on the shelves ranged from wood carvings to unusual shells to ceramic figures. Most were painted bright colors and struck me as the sort of thing bought from street hawkers rather than purchased in a store or gallery.
Despite all the generations that had lived here since Sullivan’s time, the home still had a distinctly masculine feel with wood paneling, massive fireplace surrounds, and brass fixtures. Walls painted hues of deep blue and green were so much like a ship’s interior that I wondered how desperately Sullivan missed the sea after his injury.
Leather high-backed chairs flanked a fireplace featuring hand-painted tiles from the islands beneath a heavy, hand-carved cypress surround. Old, delicate sweetgrass baskets and elegant Catawba pottery graced the mantle. Above the fireplace hung two very different oil paintings.
“I’m guessing that Gideon Sullivan is on the left,” I said. The large painting was formally posed, showing a wealthy man in his thirties wearing a dark blue jacket with brass buttons over an ivory vest and a ruffled white shirt. The man’s blond hair was caught back in a queue—a fashion rebellion against the powdered wigs of the era—and a tricorn hat with a jaunty cockade. Unlike the portraits of many men of his station and age, Sullivan did not look soft. High, sharp cheekbones, a square jaw, and a stubborn glint in his blue eyes suggested strength and character.
“Who’s the other man?” Teag beat me to the question. “He looks like a gentleman pirate.”
Alistair chuckled. “You are looking at the eighteenth-century equivalent of sending someone a selfie. The man is Ramon Montero, and he was a legendary privateer. He and Sullivan struck up an unlikely friendship over the years, having the opportunity to rescue each other on several occasions.
“Legend has it that Montero commissioned the painting as a joke and gave it to Sullivan, who returned the favor with one of his own. Supposedly, they embellished the paintings a bit before they gave them back again and then started the cycle all over.”
Montero’s painting showed a rakishly handsome man in his late twenties with fiery black eyes, tawny skin, a mane of wavy dark hair that fell shoulder length, and features that suggested a combination of Spanish and Caribbean heritage.
His fitted black waistcoat showed off broad shoulders and a muscular chest. Leather belts crisscrossed around his waist, holding daggers and a spyglass, while a wicked cutlass hung at his hip. High leather boots and a black cloak with a red satin lining completed the badass buccaneer look, and the knowing smirk on his full lips radiated cocky confidence.
“At some point I guess they just stopped trading them back and forth?” I asked.
Alistair shrugged. “I don’t know. Given their long-standing joke, I wouldn’t be surprised if they each had a copy made when Sullivan’s sailing days were through. A reminder, perhaps, of better times.”
The paintings held my attention, two men so different in circumstances united by the sea and an unlikely friendship. I loved when something humanized the past, making those long-ago people real and relatable.
“Are you picking up anything?” Teag looked from me to Alicia.
“There are ghosts, but I don’t sense danger,” Alicia replied. “They’ve been here a long time, and I think they see themselves as guardians, like the mansion’s name said.”
“Guardians of what?” Alistair asked.
Alicia gestured vaguely toward everything around us. “This house. Sullivan’s history. They’re protectors, and as long as they don’t think someone is trying to cause harm, I don’t think they’ll hurt anyone.”
Teag’s gaze flicked to me.
I found myself drawn to a piece of scrimshaw on one of the bookshelves. Teag followed as I walked over, hanging back to spot me if I needed help. Intricate carvings decorated the yellowed conch shell, and their delicate lines were inked black to stand out.
The moment I touched the shell, I felt a connection to its owner.
Moments from a long-ago lifetime flashed in my mind’s eye. I saw a large sailing ship and the endless ocean and felt a sense of belonging. Images of a woman and a young boy flashed and faded, replaced by a dark-haired man with a dangerous glint in his eyes. I saw sunny tropical islands and rainbow-hued bungalows, as well as black thunderclouds and lightning striking the open sea.
