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“I’m afraid you may have come to the wrong place,” Timothy chuckled. “You might be better off asking one of those chaps who lead Charleston’s nightly ghost tours.”
“So you’ve heard those stories, too? That Brittlebank Manor is reputed to be haunted?”
“No more than any other old building in Charleston.” Now a serious grin stretched across Timothy’s face. “At last count there were supposedly over one hundred haunted buildings in Charleston.”
“And two cemeteries,” Theodosia said. “Let’s not forget the cemeteries.”
“Have you ever heard of the color haunt blue?” Timothy asked.
Theodosia shook her head.
“It’s a special blue tint that people painted on the underside of their porches. To ward off ghosts and haunts.”
“Do you think they still do that?”
“Probably,” Timothy said. “You know how folks are when it comes to lore and legends. All of that gets passed down through the generations.” He smiled at her. “And then gets embroidered a bit. Including stories about your Brittlebank Manor.”
“There was a woman who was supposedly imprisoned in the attic. Do you…do you know anything about her? Who she was, why she was there?”
“Goodness,” Timothy said. “I’ve heard bits and pieces of that legend, but that all took place before the turn of the century. Not this past century, the one before it. But here, let us take a look in our files. See if we can tease out a few threads of information.”
Timothy Neville turned out to be a first-class researcher. After going through the card catalog, he was able to find a few books about Charleston’s history that contained references to Brittlebank Manor and to the woman, Audra Baker.
“So she did exist,” Theodosia said.
Timothy ran a finger down a paragraph he found in an old copy of a book called Charleston High Society. “Yes, in fact it says here that Miss Baker was married to Carson Brittlebank, a local shipbuilder. She was his second wife it would appear.”
“And she was the woman who was imprisoned in the attic?”
Timothy continued reading. “It looks like…yes. She was the one.”
“Was there a reason?”
“If there was it’s not mentioned here.” Timothy handed the open book to Theodosia so she could see for herself. “I can’t imagine any good reason at all to hold someone prisoner.”
Theodosia scanned the pages. “No, there’s only just a few sentences about it. Strange it was even mentioned here.”
“Things were strange a hundred and fifty years ago.”
“Then it mentions that the home was uninhabited for a decade until it served as a convent,” Theodosia said. “That was back in the nineteen thirties.” She looked up. “It doesn’t say what happened after that. Is there anything else that might shed a little light on Brittlebank Manor? Maps or old documents?”
“Let’s check our historic document file,” Timothy said. He went to an old wooden filing cabinet, pulled out a drawer, shook his head, then tried the drawer below it. His fingers flicked across several dozen files. “These are all plat maps for the Historic District. So maybe…this,” he said, pulling one out.
Theodosia crowded next to Timothy as he placed the file on a nearby desk and hastily went through it.
“Okay, here’s something,” Timothy said.
“What have you got?”
Timothy carefully unfolded several sheets of paper, all crinkly and yellowed with age. “They’re not plat maps, but would you believe—floor plans for some of the earlier, more spectacular homes.”
“Is Brittlebank Manor there?”
“Let’s see.” Timothy’s fingers scrabbled through the sheets of paper. “Um, yes.”
“Really?” Theodosia was intrigued by their find.
Timothy slid the plans closer to Theodosia so she could see them.
