The Jewel of Lynchburg

In 1972, you could buy a pack of cigarettes for 40 cents and a house for $25,000. That’s at least how much Michael paid for the Charles Minor Blackford Mansion in Lynchburg’s Diamond Hill neighborhood. The real estate listing alone had sold him on the place:

618 Pearl Street.

“The Blackford Mansion was built in 1855 by Captain Charles Minor Blackford, CSA, and is situated on 3 parcels totaling just over an acre in historic Diamond Hill in Downtown Lynchburg – Exquisite Greek Revival Antebellum structures offer 1st floor master or guest suite with bath – Main level office, formal LR & DR, big family room, kitchen & separate breakfast room + 43’ center hall – 11’ ceilings, French doors to a 44’ side covered porch, herringbone wood floors, lovely mantles, transoms, etc. yet to be updated to perfection – 2nd Floor houses 3 bedrooms, 2 baths, laundry, 2nd master suite with private bath & an additional den / area / room & a lovely exterior balcony fronting Pearl St. – Side porch listed in measurements above + front and rear porches, patio on far lower terraced lawn area – English basement / cellar not yet finished, detached cottage w/ bath.  Consists of 5,429 square feet.  A wonderful home, and one ready for the care of a dedicated owner who will lovingly restore this extraordinary piece of architectural history.”

Michael followed the steep streets leading up the hill that jerked along the tall ridge south of downtown that provided spectacular views of the city, feeling an uneasy excitement as he pulled up in front of the imposing structure. Even in its current state of general disrepair the mansion retained its authoritative presence. But Michael had no problem imagining himself walking its hallways, or sitting on the side porch, sunning himself on a summer day. The deep smell of the ancient wood and horsehair plaster struck him upon entering the home. Michael and the realtor went about, meticulously touring each room while the tenants waited in the hall or on the porch. “Hey Honey, it’s Mike. Yeah, the house is incredible. I mean, it needs some love, but we’d be fools to not give it a shot. Ok, I’m going to go sign the papers and probably be back around 10 or 11. I’ll call back if there are any more hang ups. Ok, you too.” He displaced nineteen people with a single stroke of his pen, and the men toasted the closing of the deal with shots of tequila.

The neighborhood in which the Blackford Mansion stood took its name from the Diamond Hill plantation, established in the late 1700’s by Edward Lynch, the brother of Lynchburg’s founder, John Lynch, and was no doubt inspired by the rich deposits of white quartz dotting the local landscape. The Lynchs’ large land holdings were parceled out for residential use over the centuries and the area slowly bloomed into what could be considered a golden age of Diamond Hill. Lavish mansions housed the city’s prominent lawyers, tobacconists, businessmen, and city officials, each trying to outdo his neighbor in design, lifestyle, and number of enslaved persons owned. Towers, columns, pediments and brick walls two feet thick, covered in plaster and European wallpaper. French tiles, and crystal chandeliers to greet you into light filled rooms. And footmen to carry their masters back to their coaches and into their beds when they had passed out drunk at some social function. This was the world in which Miss Sue, wife of Captain Blackford, was brought up. A world of house servants, back stairwells, and huge keyrings clipped to the mistress’ belt. People seen, but never heard.  People who were property. 

Miss Sue was a thin, frail thing, always dressed in black from her shoes to the white lace about her neck, no matter what the weather. They say she was pretty husky in her prime and a holy terror to both the social world and her servants. After emancipation Miss Sue relied solely on Old George, the house’s butler, gardener, and coachman. George was born into slavery, and when General Hunter came through with the Union Army destroying the plantation infrastructure, George and the other freed slaves followed the Union troops to keep from starving. Here he was employed by a U.S. Army officer as a servant and learned enough to be hired as a houseboy when the war was over, eventually moving into the back cottage and former kitchen of the Blackford Mansion. George rang the dinner gong and pushed Miss Sue’s chair in before every meal. He served Lady Astor and the Emperor of Brazil in the dining room. He brought them oysters on the half shell and fine Madeira wine. And George continued to work for the family after Miss Sue died in 1916.

Even after her death, Miss Sue continued to terrorize the people working in the house. The servants claimed that she remained in the home after her death to keep watch on them. One woman fell down the stairs and broke her arm, later suing Uncle Blackford, saying Miss Sue’s spirit had pushed her. And for all anyone knows, Miss Sue is still sitting in the library, rocking in her chair, reading, or knitting. The family stories stop in the 1930’s, however, when the home was auctioned off along with much of its antique collection. And in the years following the Great Depression and World War II, the Blackford Mansion, like so many of its neighbors, became a boarding house, and then an apartment building, for the families who could not afford to leave the increasingly industrialized city center.

Michael’s plan was to slowly move his family to Lynchburg over the course of their renovation of the house. He bore one daughter with Pat and had adopted her two sons from a previous marriage. The five of them were pretty cramped in their small home in Northern Virginia, so the sooner he could get the place livable, the better. It was a three-hour drive after work most days, but Michael made the trip regularly. Driving towards the sunset in the evening, and past the sunrise of the early dawn. Up and down Route 29, in and out of the mountains. He spent most weekends out there too, scraping paint and cleaning the many rooms that were left in a rushed mess when he purchased the property. But slowly, and with great effort, the Blackford Mansion began to shine. Michael was working in the front room one afternoon, patching up holes in the damaged plaster, when he heard the knock at the door. He got off the small wooden ladder and dusted himself off before walking down the hall to the front door. 

The second knock came just as Michael pulled the door open. There before him stood a pale man with blond parted hair, corduroy jacket, and yellow silken ascot tie. He smiled with a calm nod and introduced himself. “Hello sir, I do hope that I am not intruding on your work this afternoon. It’s just that I have seen you restoring the old Blackford Mansion these past few months and thought it about time I introduce myself. My name is Randolph Gillum, and I live with my wife and children around the corner at 1415 Harrison Street. A few of us in the neighborhood have taken it upon ourselves to try and develop some public awareness of the neighborhoods architectural gems and have recently organized the Diamond Hill Historical Society. If you would like to come over, any time, we would be happy to have you and answer any questions you might have regarding the neighborhood.” Michael kindly thanked him, and Randolph passed along his card.  “Please don’t hesitate to call. We are just so pleased someone has taken it upon themselves to get this place back in order. It’s a very special house.” Michael shut the door and looked at the small business card. “Randolph Gillum – Rare Books – 1415 Harrison Street – Lynchburg, Virginia – 273-9137.” He rubbed his thumb against the textured paper of the small card walking down the hallway. His shoes echoed against the hard herringbone floors. It was starting to feel like home. 

Some weeks passed before Michael found the card again. He had placed it on the mantle in the front room, intending to call sooner. The holidays, however, had taken up much of the preceding weeks entirely. The family had been so busy packing things up for the move that Michael hadn’t had the time to make it down to Lynchburg. He thought about Randolph and his family, though. His wife and kids. Maybe they would be good playmates for his own children. It would be nice to have friends in the neighborhood, and they would surely introduce them to the rest of the society. There was still so much work to be done before they could host any visitors, but the idea filled him with purpose. Michael thought about all of this on his drive down Route 29 that day. Through the rolling hills, and into the long January sunset. And when Michael arrived at Pearl Street, Randolph was the first person he called. 

“Hello? Yes, it’s Michael over at the Blackford Mansion. Yes, I’m just down here getting ready for our move next week and I thought I’d take you up on your invitation. Tonight? Well, yes, tonight would be fine. Eight o’clock works for me, I’ll bring some wine. Alright, I’m looking forward to it.” It was cold outside when Michael left the mansion. He could see the twinkling lights of the city below as he walked down the sidewalk, and the smell of wood smoke entered his nose with every breath of sharp winter air. It wasn’t hard to find the Gillum household. It was only one block away, and it seemed they were the only place on their street currently occupied. The other four homes sat sad and vacant, but the Gillum house was lit bright with gas fixtures on the porch, with many of the lights inside fully illuminated. Michael walked up the stairs and knocked hard. Seconds later the heavy door pulled open, and he was ushered into the large central hall by Randolph. Michael handed him the wine, and the two enjoyed a sincere moment of friendship.

“This is quite the place you have here.”, said Michael. “Yes, we’ve been very fortunate to find our dream home. I hope you all will have a similar experience with the Blackford Mansion. Can I take your coat?” Randolph walked over to a large rack by the door and Michael looked around at the impressive mahogany paneling and double set of stairs straight ahead. There was a large oil painting hung at the landing. It was striking, and very large, almost eight feet tall in a gilded frame. It showed a crooked stone staircase set against a deep black background, winding its way up to an impossible height. Along the path were seven stone platforms, and at each one sat a small, hunched creature. It was exquisite. “May I ask what this painting is? I can’t seem to take my eyes off it.” Randolph turned around and walked towards Michael’s side. “Yes . . . It does have a commanding presence in this hall, doesn’t it? I had that commissioned by a very talented young man in Cologne, Germany, some years ago. It depicts the seven steps towards Satan.” Randolph smiled calmly at Michael. “Oh, well . . . well, it’s beautifully rendered,” Michael stuttered out. “Thank you very much. Would you like the tour?” 

The men walked slowly through the central hall while Randolph explained some of the finer points of the home’s history. It had been built by the leading tobacco baron of the Shenandoah Valley in the 1830s and featured many original elements of design and ornamentation. “This here is the ballroom, but obviously it suits a different purpose these days.” Michael stepped in the large door frame and saw the metal library shelving. It was packed with books from floor to ceiling, running the entire length of the huge room. “I’m a bookseller, mainly focusing on the lesser-known histories of our ancestors.” They walked the tight aisles of books scanning the spines of endless volumes. “Please, if you ever would like to borrow anything, just ask.” Michael followed Randolph out of the ballroom and across the hall into the old formal dining room. There were hundreds of children’s toys littering the elaborate parquet flooring, and towards the back of the large chamber sat two identical wingback chairs. “This is the children’s playroom. Unfortunately, my wife is tucking them into bed right now, you’ll have to meet them another time.” Michael followed Randolph towards back of the house and into the large kitchen to open the bottle. “Please, follow me. My office is far more comfortable, and we have much to discuss.” 

Randolph sat smiling as the two sipped wine out of fine crystal glass. The room was painted a deep burgundy color, and the sofa, as well as the matching armchairs they were sitting in, were covered in black shiny leather. “So, I must ask Michael, are you aware of any of the Blackford Mansion’s rich history?” Michael sipped from his wine glass and thought a little. “To be honest, no. But I have heard a few colorful tales from the Black gentleman who comes to mow the grass. Mostly hauntings and things of that nature, but I haven’t seen or heard a thing.” Randolph stroked his chin. “Yes, it seems like most of the homes on this hill have a reputation for such activity. And I would be lying to you if I said I hadn’t heard a few myself . . . I’m more referring to the history of the family there at the Blackford Mansion.” Michael paused, “No, I guess I haven’t . . .” “Well, you see, Diamond Hill had quite a reputation at the turn of the century. These fabulous homes were built by some of the richest people in Virginia at the time. Guggenheims, DuPonts, and the wealthiest bankers and politicians in the state. They held extravagant balls and parties throughout the years, even in the Blackford Mansion.” “Is that so?” Michael asked, moving around in his seat a little. “Yes, in fact they used to hold very special engagements over at 618 Pearl Street. Allow me to show you something.” 

Randolph got up out of his chair and walked over to the huge bookcases that lined the office walls. He thumbed through a small box of papers, “Ah yes, here it is.” Randolph walked over to Michael and handed him a small piece of weathered card stock, no bigger than a postcard. He didn’t know what he was seeing at first. It looked like a wedding announcement. There was a bride, in her flowing white gown, and holding her hand was an odd little fellow with a long tail. It read, “Imp Wedding – June 22, 1905 – 618 Pearl Street – Lynchburg, Virginia”. “What is this?” Michael asked, looking up at Randolph. “It’s an invitation Michael. To a party at your house.” Randolph sat on the arm of Michael’s chair, placing his hand on the chair’s back. “At the turn of the last century, interest in spiritualism was at an all-time high, and some of the families here on the hill held a special interest in some of the darker tenets of the practice. On this occasion, they performed a ritualized wedding between a young woman from the community, and the Devil. Of course, they used different language to speak about such things back then, but it really did take place. They would take some unknown girl, usually one of the mountain people around here. Someone who would not be missed. Then they would prime her for the occasion, feeding and clothing her to her heart’s content. And on the night of the wedding, all the neighbors gathered in the front room, and married her to our infernal father. Oh, it was a wonderful time.” 

Michael was stunned. The words were going through him, not seeming to make any impression in his ears. He ran his thumb over the embossed letters and images pressed deep into the invitation. His skin felt cold as he struggled to swallow. “I’d like you to have that. Consider it a housewarming gift and welcome to the neighborhood.” Randolph smiled and patted Michael on the back. The two finished their bottle of wine and exchanged pleasant conversation for the rest of the evening, though Michael had already mentally left the building. He was someplace elsewhere, thinking about the plaster he repaired in the front room, and what had happened in there. The stories the gardener had mentioned in passing, and the deep halls and empty chambers of the Blackford Mansion, currently covered in drop cloth and dust. Glowing with wine, Michael made the short walk back to 618 Pearl Street. He didn’t notice the drop in temperature, the cold winds, or the hum of the city below. He walked straight down the cobblestone street and into the front yard of the Blackford Mansion. Michael looked through the deep black windows that stared back at him from up high. He opened the door and stepped inside his house.