“Caspian Mort,” he said as he offered his hand.
She blinked. He had a serious kind of beauty that made her want to see him smile. She clasped his hand. “Lydia Callaway.”
Callaway. The name that had haunted her all her life.
For an awkward moment they stood there. Then she took a step back. “Um, come in.”
“Thank you. I know letting a stranger in can’t be easy. I’ll try to make this as un-invasive and painless as possible.”
Lydia shut the front door. “You do this often?”
“When required. I prefer valuing for insurance, but…” he shrugged. “It’s what I do.”
For all his cool demeanor there was something going on behind his pale green eyes. His gaze flicked over her, then over the hallway. Was he imagining what had gone on in the house? Picturing the wild parties? Imagining what used to happen upstairs? “How about you show me around so I can get an idea of the scope of work?”
“Yes, I’m sure you’re just dying to dive in.” Lydia didn’t mean to sound brusque, but years of curiosity-seekers had eroded her patience. She’d spent most of her life trying to defend the family name against all the rumors of wild times in her family’s past. For generations, the Callaways had been prominent in Charelston’s social scene and state politics. Even back in the nineteenth century, the plantation house had been known as a place where the rich and famous could come to play with no repercussions.
Caspian turned to her. “You know I almost didn’t take this job?”
Lydia was taken aback. “Really. Why?”
“Because I didn’t want to be the one putting a price on a piece of history. Then I realized if I didn’t someone else would, and at least I’d get it right.”
“Modest of you.” Yet he hadn’t said it to gloat, it was just fact. There was a quiet confidence about him as if he didn’t need anyone’s approval to exist.
“Honest. I know antiques… better than I know people.” That admission drew a rueful smile from him that caused the corners of his eyes to crinkle.
He was older than she’d first thought. Over thirty. Her gaze dropped to his left hand. His ring finger was bare. Not that it mattered. He was here to do a job and nothing more.
“Let me show you around.”
She walked through the entrance without waiting for a response. But she heard his steps behind her and was aware when he paused to look at something.
“These paintings are originals.”
She turned to see him peering at the oil painting of a bridge. “Yes. Gran liked artists. She said they added to the party, and if they couldn’t pay, they’d donate a painting for the walls or a sculpture for the rooms.”
Caspian raised his eyebrows. “They’re insured?”
“Of course. My grandmother wasn’t an idiot.”
He nodded and looked at the next painting, a partially nude woman who was reading a book while lying in a bed of flowers. Obviously posed but she looked like she was about to turn the page.
“Amazing.” He touched the frame ever so delicately. “Your Gran must have known many brilliant people.”
Lydia smiled, her first real smile in a week. “She used to talk about the parties that went on in the fifties and sixties and the things they’d get up to. Sometimes some of the old girls would get together for lunch.” Those old girls had been rich men’s mistresses that had been housed here so the men could pretend to be respectable in town then come out here for a weekend of entertainment. The precariousness and lack of respectability had created friendships that had lasted a lifetime. Most of them were dead now. She turned away and opened the door to the parlor.
“When it was the mistress hotel?” he said.
“Yes. You’ve done some research?”
“Not much; call it general historical knowledge of Charleston.”
“Ah.” Well, then he probably knew that in the seventies Gran let hippies camp on the grounds and grow weed. Every so often she still found a plant in the backyard. “This was where most parties began.” She swept her hand out and tried to imagine the room full of men in suits and the women in dresses. All of them knowing that the wives were at home with the kids—and no doubt the wives knew where their husbands were too. From what she knew, Gran had been the house matron—too old to be a mistress and too in need of the money to turn her nose up at the source.
Lydia was pretty sure Gran would have sold her soul to keep Callaway House in the family. The thought made Lydia queasy. She didn’t know what she was going to do, or even if it was possible to hold on to the house. Over two hundred years of family history gone because she couldn’t afford the repairs. At least if she sold, someone would refurbish and Callaway House would go on. Maybe it would even become a tourist attraction like some of the other old places—because Charleston needed another historic house open for viewing. Or a scenic wedding location; Gran had tried that in the eighties but then decided it wasn’t worth the hassle or insurance costs. Or perhaps someone would try to market it as a haunted bed and breakfast. She wouldn’t mention the ghost to Caspian. Not yet anyway.
She walked through the parlor. The doors on the other side opened up onto the patio and backyard. In summer, the old parties used to spill outside and people would disappear into private corners of the yard. But as the years went on, men tired of their mistresses or they no longer could afford to keep them, and most of the women left. A couple had stayed on because they’d had nowhere else to go. One had been the nanny and housekeeper for years until she’d married. Her husband never suspected she’d once been the mistress of a criminal lawyer. But even that was decades ago now.
Caspian stopped in the middle of the room and looked around, turning slowly as if taking in all the details. To her everything looked dusty and neglected. Gran had let things slide as she’d gotten older, but to Lydia it was still the house she’d grown up in, a place where anything had seemed possible. What did he see?
Chapter 2
Caspian walked around the room, careful not to touch anything. He could feel the history pressing against him as if the house were bursting with secrets ready to be revealed. Keeping his talent shut down was difficult considering he wanted to reach out and run his fingers over everything. To keep his hands busy he pulled a notepad out of his jacket pocket and started writing down the details of each room. He’d use the list when determining how long it was going to take him to assess everything.
He glanced at Lydia. Despite the suit and the sleek twist of her dark blond hair, she looked brittle, as if she might crack at any moment. He wasn’t sure what he could do to give her comfort. It was never easy going in and placing a value on the things that were left after a loved one had passed on. He couldn’t even offer the assurance that the afterlife was pleasant.
Maybe the King of Annwyn would think Madam Callaway’s life well-lived and grant her peace on the other side of the river beyond the fairies. But she could just as easily be drowned in the river of damned souls or eternally trapped in Annwyn, watching the endless party but never able to participate in it—what mortals knew as purgatory. Who knew how the King judged? Guessing the mind of a fairy was a sure way to go mad. Would delving into the secrets of Callaway House have the same effect on him?
“I’ll take you upstairs, and then we can finish off in the kitchen and do any paperwork.” She didn’t wait for him to answer.
He followed her up to the second floor. His hand alighted on the mahogany bannister for only a second. A semi-clothed couple embracing filled his mind.