Freedom's Price

by Christine Johnson

  Tom didn’t stop glaring at the manager.

  DeMornay’s smile showed a set of even teeth, slightly yellowed. “As I said, I have lived in Louisiana all my life. Most recently in New Orleans.”

  His gentlemanly manner stood in such contrast to the Grahams’ fear of even setting foot on Lafreniere land that Catherine felt a prickle of concern. Something was off, but what? Or rather, who?

  Someone passed outside the room, dark as a shadow. Catherine turned to look but saw nothing.

  DeMornay motioned toward the back of the house. “Tea and lemonade are served. Would you prefer to freshen up first? I assume you have trunks?”

  “They are coming by wagon,” Tom snapped.

  Why was he being so impolite? To make up for Tom’s bad manners, Catherine tipped the scale in the other direction. “They will arrive by the end of the afternoon. I’m certain Mr. Worthington would be willing to help unload them. We are ever so grateful for your hospitality.”

  DeMornay’s smile still lacked warmth, and when it was followed by an unbridled assessment of her attire and figure, the hairs on her arms stood on end.

  “Your journey has been long for your skirts to have gathered that much dust,” DeMornay said. “I will have Gibson and Walker bring the trunks to your room so you might change. Until the baggage arrives, we will rest in the shade of the loggia.”

  Cousin Roger could not have done a more thorough and concise job of setting her in her place. She was to look pretty and not voice opinions or ask questions. She must remember that DeMornay was simply the plantation manager. She was a blood relation.

  “I prefer to see the house. Perhaps a tour?”

  He hesitated. “I will show you the house later. For now, we will get to know each other a bit better.”

  Tom inconspicuously squeezed her elbow. She looked up at him. He shook his head ever so slightly. Was he congratulating her on standing her ground or warning her not to follow DeMornay?

  She was no good at deciphering unspoken thoughts. Neither could she give voice to the fact that her stomach had knotted. So she took Tom’s arm and followed DeMornay through the back of the salon, through a dining room, and onto a rear-facing veranda. Cups, glasses, and small plates already adorned a dining table there. Below and to each side of the house stood two pigeonniers, while directly behind were the remains of the parterre garden.

  “It’s overgrown,” she cried out. “The beautiful parterre. Maman loved it so.” The moment of heartbreak was followed by Haynes resolve. “I will bring it back to its glory.”

  “A worthy goal for another day.” DeMornay pulled out a chair facing the ruined garden. “Please sit.”

  She reluctantly sat. Tom selected the chair at her side. DeMornay sat at the head of the table, a place of honor that ought to have gone to family. Judging from Tom’s frown, he’d noticed also.

  Rather than stir up a fuss, she guided the conversation in another direction.

  “My uncle did not leave a widow?” Though the Grahams said she’d passed, Uncle Henri might have remarried.

  “She died many years ago.”

  “Then he was the only family here?”

  “Excepting visits from his sons—your cousins—and their families.”

  Tom leaned back, his gaze never leaving DeMornay. If Catherine had been in her Season, she would have taken offense at his utter lack of attention toward her.

  Aurelia arrived with a pitcher of lemonade and another of tea, both sweetened to perfection. The cool liquid soothed Catherine’s dusty throat and jangled nerves.

  DeMornay scooted his chair slightly so he had a direct view of her. “We did not receive word of your arrival, or we would have had a room prepared for you.”

  “I did write, but the letter must have gotten waylaid or slowed by the storms.” Since he didn’t appear to believe her, she added, “The decision was sudden. My father died.”

  “Ahhh.” DeMornay ran his finger around the rim of the glass, making a high-pitched ringing sound. “Your mother did not travel with you?”

  “She died some years ago, but you must know that. I understand there’s a tomb for her. Lisette.”

  “Of course. I forgot.”

  Tom looked like he was going to scoff aloud. She gestured for him to stay quiet, though she’d had the same reaction. If the judge and his wife knew of the grave, so should the plantation manager. Moreover, he alone hadn’t questioned her claim to be a Lafreniere. Why not? If her letter had not arrived, as he’d just stated, he should question her, especially since Lisette Lafreniere’s tomb here listed a date of death that would make it impossible for Catherine to be her daughter.

  “How long have you been at Black Oak?” she prodded.

  DeMornay’s gaze swept over the grounds. “It must be fifteen years at least. Perhaps closer to twenty.” He closed his eyes briefly. “Ah yes, I began working here after the panic of 1837 put me out of work.”

  Catherine wasn’t familiar with American history, but Tom seemed to accept the explanation.

  Again DeMornay ran his finger around the glass rim. The eerie sound rang in her ears.

  “Miss Haynes, you have not said how long you plan to visit.”

  There was the key question, the one she’d been avoiding. “I-I-I hoped to stay.” She hated that her voice trembled.

  DeMornay’s eyebrows shot up. “Stay? But this is no place for a belle like you. You need the liveliness that the city can offer. I can have Walker take both of you downriver so you can visit with your cousin.”

  It was a perfectly logical response, though a bit too eagerly offered. “Not quite yet. Maman spoke often of Chêne Noir.” She hesitated, waiting to see if he reacted in the same way the Grahams had.

  He did not. No puzzlement. No questions. No sign of fear.

  “I fell in love with the plantation from a tender age,” she added. “I must see it in its entirety, from the pigeonniers to the sugarhouse.”

  “Ah, the tour you mentioned.” DeMornay did not appear pleased.

  Tom must have noticed, for he cast her a knowing look when DeMornay took a sip of his tea.

  “Perhaps morning would be best,” she suggested. “Surely it’s not as hot at an early hour. Once I see the plantation, I will know what needs to be done to bring it back to glory.”

  DeMornay stiffened ever so slightly before his guarded smile returned. “You have lofty dreams.”

  “After handling the accounts during my father’s illness, I learned how to wring water from a rock, so to speak.”

  DeMornay’s eyebrows rose. “A helpful skill, but your cousin might have something to say about it. He is the owner.”

  “With his brother.” She stopped short of adding her own name to the list of heirs. If Maman was right, she should have a share, but that needed to be discussed with her cousin, not the manager.

  “Of course.” DeMornay suddenly rose. “We will contact Henry, but at present I have something to show you, something that could affect your plans. Follow me.”

  Part of her hesitated at this sudden change of direction, but the greater part wanted to learn more about the plantation. Tom shot her a concerned look. She ignored him. She had come all this way to reclaim her family. She couldn’t let a wayward feeling and an overprotective man dissuade her.

  12

  Tom did not trust DeMornay, not one bit. When the man took Catherine into the study, Tom attempted to follow and was blocked by a firm hand to the chest.

  “This is a family matter,” DeMornay had the gall to say.

  What hurt worse was that Catherine didn’t contradict DeMornay. She allowed the man to escort her into the study and close the door in Tom’s face. What hold did DeMornay already have over her that she would agree to such a thing?

  Tom paced outside the room. One cry from her and he would smash down the door. Or he could climb in through a window. The room must have windows. He headed toward the veranda. Since it wrapped around the house, any windows would open onto it. Fingerin
g his dagger, he made his way through the interconnected rooms to the front of the house.

  Regardless of what DeMornay had said, he was the fiend who’d stolen Pa’s ship. The scar proved it. According to Pa, Mornez—or DeMornay, as he now called himself—had coerced the crew to mutiny. They broke into the gun locker and took the ship. Pa had no weapon to defend himself. DeMornay then set him adrift in the ship’s boat. Pa’s survival was a testament to his fortitude, but it took a terrible toll on his health. The courts then awarded creditors everything Pa had left. The shame and struggle broke him until he simply gave up.

  Tom gripped the hilt of the dagger. He would avenge his father, even if it cost his life.

  “Psst.”

  The shrill sound pulled Tom from thoughts of revenge. He looked around for the source and saw nothing.

  “Here.”

  He saw the gauzy curtain sway slightly. Someone—a female, judging by the voice—wanted him to join her. He ripped back the curtain.

  No one was there.

  The hair rose on the back of his neck. Everything about this house was unsettling.

  “Come,” the woman urged.

  This time he realized the whisper came from the opposite direction—inside the house. Double shutters, such as those common in Key West, were open to allow the breezes inside. Each room had at least one shuttered door. This voice came from the room beside the main salon.

  DeMornay said that none of the family was here. It must be a slave or servant. Servants knew things, heard things.

  Tom slipped into the room. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the lower lighting. It was a simple bedchamber, made up for guests. Perhaps for Catherine. Standing on the other side of the room was the speaker. Aurelia, DeMornay had called her. When not in the manager’s presence, she stood as tall and proud as Anabelle.

  A shiver ran through him. Aurelia couldn’t be Elizabeth’s nurse, even though the woman had been sold to a planter in Louisiana. It was impossible.

  “What’s your full name?” he asked, recalling that Elizabeth’s nurse should bear the Benjamin name.

  “Aurelia.”

  “Mammy?” he whispered.

  “I ain’t yo’ mammy. I ain’t nobody’s mammy.” Her eyes darted back and forth. “I tole you to leave. Git her and git out.”

  “Only when I get proof.” He would not seek vengeance until he was certain.

  “Proof of what?”

  “Proof that DeMornay stole my father’s ship.” This was Tom’s chance. “Ten years ago. The Rachael Deare. Did you ever see it?”

  “I ain’t seen no ship.”

  “She was a schooner with clean lines and full sail and a cargo of stoves, copper kettles, and household goods. Did you hear of it? She was bound for Mobile but likely ended up in New Orleans.”

  “I ain’t never been to New Orleans.” Aurelia’s gaze darted toward the doors opening to the rear.

  “I need to know,” he urged in a whisper.

  Her gaze didn’t meet his. “Won’t get nothin’ more’n trouble if you stay. Take her and leave.”

  Tom refused to retreat. His father must be avenged, but there were many ways to see justice served. Tom need not end up on the gallows if he could prove that DeMornay was the thief. A scar was not enough. He needed proof that the theft had occurred. Finding the ship or some record of its arrival would be enough to bring to Judge Graham.

  If the ship had been sold, which was likely, then he needed to find record of the goods arriving. Stolen goods would not have passed through the customs collector or any official. They would have been sold to unwitting parties. The stoves had serial numbers. He had copied the bill of lading from the shipping office, but it was in his bag, which had not yet arrived. If one of those stoves had ended up here or he could find record of their sale and could match it to the bill of lading, then he would have his proof.

  “Where are—?” he began to ask, but Aurelia had vanished, slipping away as silently as the breeze.

  He would have to find proof on his own. That meant staying. Somehow. Catherine and DeMornay would fight it, but he could convince her. Perhaps it was time to tell her the other reason why he’d come here. She had lost a father. She would sympathize with him, provided DeMornay hadn’t already convinced her that Tom was a villain.

  The man had recognized the Worthington name. DeMornay managed his reactions well, but Tom had seen the brief widening of the eyes. He knew who Tom was. He would suspect Tom planned vengeance. No doubt this private meeting with Catherine was intended to convince her that Tom was dangerous or untrustworthy.

  Danger did lurk, for if Tom could prove that DeMornay had stolen Pa’s ship, he could wrest control of Black Oak from the man’s clutches and get it back where it belonged—in Lafreniere hands. That would win Catherine to his side.

  It could also push her to stay here the rest of her life. Though a river coursed nearby, Tom was no river pilot. He was never more alive than on the open seas. A plantation felt like prison. Cursed dilemma!

  Muffled voices broke into his consciousness. They had left the study and were headed his way.

  He slipped onto the veranda.

  DeMornay’s low voice carried through the rooms. “You will have everything your heart desires.”

  Don’t believe it, Tom wanted to cry out. It’s all lies.

  He must protect her.

  Pa was dead, but Catherine lived. He could not allow another light to be snuffed out by Louis DeMornay.

  Oh, Mr. DeMornay had a silver tongue and a gentlemanly manner, but something about him left Catherine unsettled. Perhaps he smiled too much and was too solicitous. Certainly his claims were unbelievable. He opened account books before her that showed a tidy profit, far more than Deerford had ever turned.

  Yet her childhood home had always looked well-kept. Their housekeepers had kept it meticulously clean. Her parents had filled the shelves and walls with beautiful things—vases and paintings and figurines. This house was barren. It looked . . . picked over. Perhaps her cousin had taken everything to the city. That would make sense if the family had abandoned the plantation house like DeMornay said. Even the study was severe. Half-empty bookshelves. No portraits. Nothing to tell the visitor that the home had a legacy. The only peculiarity was an empty birdcage, its gilded door open as if waiting for a bird to arrive. This was not the house Maman had described.

  “As you can see, my oversight has benefited your family quite handsomely.” He closed the ledger. “And now it benefits you. As manager, I am at your disposal. Your wish is my command.”

  That was a ridiculous assertion, given Henry Lafreniere owned the plantation. “My cousin might object.”

  “We will send word to him that you have arrived. I’m certain he will want to meet you.”

  It was Catherine’s dearest hope. “He has children?”

  “A handful.”

  His vague answer unsettled her. As manager, he should know everything about his employer’s family. Unless they never came to Black Oak.

  “My cousin owns Black Oak.” Speaking the words aloud cemented their finality. “To remain here beyond a few days, I must secure his permission. Do you expect him to visit during the harvest?”

  “No.” DeMornay steepled his fingers.

  It was so reminiscent of cousin Roger that she flinched.

  DeMornay misinterpreted her reaction. “I’m sorry to disappoint you. I will send word, of course, but there’s no need to wait. I can have the carriage readied to bring you and Mr. Worthington to the city before nightfall.”

  Why did she get the impression he was trying to get rid of her?

  “Thank you, but not tonight. Aurelia has already prepared our rooms, and I look forward to the tour of the plantation.” Catherine moved to the door. “We could begin now.”

  She twisted the knob. It did not move. Was it jammed? She tried again.

  Nothing.

  DeMornay rose. “As you wish. The grounds first, before nightfall.”
>
  He approached the door and snapped back the latch. What had he meant by locking the door? Chased by shapeless fears, she hurried through the doorway.

  He followed. “Rest assured, under my guidance you will have everything your heart desires.”

  The words rang hollow. She fled before them, through the dining room and the salon. Maman had described these rooms so well that she knew where each one lay in relation to the other. DeMornay trailed after her.

  “My heart desires to tour the plantation.” She stepped onto the front veranda and drew a deep breath. “We shall begin at once, as soon as I find Tom—that is, Mr. Worthington.”

  That proved an easy feat, for Tom appeared before her, hand at his hip, as if grasping a pistol or knife. He had been prepared to defend her. That knowledge filled her with a warm affection that shook away the lingering dread.

  She smiled with relief. “Mr. DeMornay has agreed to show us the grounds and house.”

  DeMornay approached from behind and placed a hand on the small of her back. The intimate gesture sent a jolt up her spine and drew Tom’s brow into a scowl.

  She stepped to Tom’s side and took his arm. That touch raised an entirely different reaction, one of confidence and security combined with anticipation—the very same reaction she’d felt at their first meeting. She trusted him. The realization stirred something inside. She did trust him. More so than anyone since her father.

  “You may lead, Mr. DeMornay, and we will follow.”

  The manager didn’t betray disappointment that she’d left his side, though his smile grew a bit more rigid. “Of course. However, if Mr. Worthington wishes to return to the city tonight, I can have Walker bring him to the landing. There should be a down-bound ferry yet this afternoon. Just wave and they will stop for you.”