Chapter 4 - The Archive in Beaufort
The next morning, the sun broke over the coastal oaks of Beaufort in brilliant ribbons of gold and amber.
I had taken the day off from my non-profit job, driving down Route 17 to visit the Beaufort County Historic Archives on Carteret Street.
I hadn't gone there to help Madison; I had gone to finalize research for a maritime heritage grant I had been managing for eight months.
The cool, quiet archive room smelled of aged parchment, leather bindings, and cedar sawdust.
I sat at a long oak table beneath high arched windows, cross-referencing nineteenth-century plat maps with county deed registries.
Near the front desk, an elderly gentleman with silver hair and an impeccable linen suit was having a quiet, heated argument with the chief archivist, Mrs. Gable.
"I understand the regulations, Mrs. Gable," the gentleman said, his deep, cultured voice carrying across the quiet room.
"However, Vance Commercial acquired the Riverland parcel forty years ago. The original trust deed must be indexed somewhere in these vaults."
"I've searched every drawer in the 1920 index, Mr. Vance," Mrs. Gable sighed, pushing her spectacles up her nose.
"Unless you have the surveyor's private ledger number, state law prohibits me from pulling uncataloged colonial land grants."
My head snapped up from my notes at the name Mr. Vance.
Standing at the counter was Arthur Vance, Tyler's father, the legendary Charleston real estate patriarch whose approval Victoria had spent twelve months desperately pursuing.
Beside him stood Tyler, looking exhausted, wearing an untucked dress shirt, running his hands nervously through his hair.
"Dad, the tent company arrives at noon," Tyler muttered, checking his watch in sheer panic.
"If the county inspector red-tags the lawn, Victoria and Madison are going to lose their minds."
"Victoria Blake does not dictate state property law, Tyler," Arthur replied coldly, his jaw tight with executive frustration.
"If this parcel carries an unrecorded public easement, erecting heavy structural staging is a federal civil liability."
I looked down at the open map in front of me.
By sheer, unbelievable coincidence, the maritime parcel I had been researching for my non-profit grant bordered the exact northern boundary of Riverland Plantation.
I knew that land better than almost anyone in the Lowcountry; my late mother, Eleanor, had spent fifteen years working as a restoration botanist on those very grounds.
I hesitated for three seconds, remembering my father’s navy blazer and my aunt’s cruel dismissal.
I didn't care about Victoria's social climbing, but Arthur Vance was a respected preservation trustee who had funded three public libraries across the state.
I closed my folder, stood up from the oak table, and walked over to the front desk.
"Excuse me, Mr. Vance," I said, my voice steady and professional.
Arthur Vance turned slowly, his sharp, piercing blue eyes taking in my tailored slacks and simple silk blouse.
"Yes, young lady?"
Tyler turned too, his eyes widening in sudden, awkward recognition as he saw his fiancée's cousin standing before him.
"Allison?" Tyler stammered, his face flushing crimson. "What are you doing in Beaufort?"
"Doing my job, Tyler," I replied coolly, before turning my attention entirely back to his father.
May you like
"Mr. Vance, you're searching in the wrong archive drawer. Riverland wasn't platted under the Vance Commercial trust in 1920."
"It was deeded under the Eleanor Vance Maritime Conservancy in 1912, cross-indexed under the Lowcountry Botanical Preservation Charter."
