Freedom's Price

by Christine Johnson

  She stepped back, and her breath was shaky. “Speaking of family, if you go to the city, will you find Henry Lafreniere and tell him I want to meet him? I’m beginning to doubt that DeMornay has any intention of contacting him.”

  “Of course I will, but will you be safe?” His pulse pounded, highlighting the threat.

  “He won’t harm me. He wouldn’t dare. Perhaps I can be of use to you in your quest. You said you need proof. What are you looking for?”

  It took effort to bring Tom’s mind away from Catherine’s soft lips and back to avenging his father. He drew in a deep breath and let his thoughts settle. “Look at the plantation accounts if you have a chance. See if there is anything unusual—a large amount received, for instance, within the last ten years.”

  “Such as for the sale of a ship?”

  “Or its cargo. Stoves and other household goods. I have a list of serial numbers.” He pulled from his pocket the list he’d copied from the bill of lading.

  She took it. “You expect him to keep a list of stolen merchandise?”

  “Check the stoves on the plantation. See if any of these items are in the house or on the grounds.”

  “You think my family would harbor stolen goods?”

  “No.” He sensed the outrage in her voice. “Not intentionally. I suspect DeMornay lied to your uncle and everyone else.”

  “And the crew from your father’s ship?”

  “Likely long gone.” Tom hoped they weren’t dead.

  “Is that why you must leave?”

  The whispered question trembled slightly. This time when he reached for her, she fell into his arms.

  “Only for a short while,” he whispered into her hair, drinking in the scent of her. “I must search for Pa’s ship and ask questions. Moreover, DeMornay won’t open up until he’s certain I’m gone. He knows my name.”

  “He knows you’re here to hurt him.”

  “He suspects it. I must appear to leave, but I won’t be far.” He kissed her cheek and tasted salt. She was crying. “Don’t worry. He won’t hurt you. I’ll make sure of it.”

  She leaned into him. “I hope you’re right.”

  So did he.

  14

  In Tom’s arms Catherine felt secure, something she hadn’t experienced in a long time. His story unsettled her, though. If DeMornay was capable of stranding a man for his own gain, what would he do if he found her looking through the ledgers? He’d seemed open enough when he showed her the accounts, but he hadn’t let her peruse them. Had he carefully selected which pages to show her?

  Tom left after breakfast with a great show. He begged her to join him for the voyage back to Key West. Even though she knew the plea was made up for DeMornay’s benefit, her heart yearned to do just that.

  A sleepless night had not improved her perception of the plantation. The servants—few as they were—moved silently through the house. No laughter or chatter anywhere. The yard was empty save for the girl, Angel, who’d hidden in the sugarcane yesterday. Today she carried a pail of milk to the cookhouse, trailing after her mother. Aurelia unnerved Catherine, perhaps because of her wild eyes and fearful manner.

  Catherine idly sipped tea and stared at Tom’s empty chair.

  “There is no need to regret Mr. Worthington’s departure,” DeMornay said. “You are home now.”

  Then why didn’t it feel like home? Perhaps because she had nothing to do. She took another sip. Perhaps it was time to make a purpose for herself, regardless of Mr. DeMornay’s feelings.

  “Where are the harvesters working today?” she asked. “Can we see them from the loggia?”

  “Doubtful.” He stood. “There’s no need to trouble yourself with such matters. The sun is shining too brightly here. You should go indoors so your complexion isn’t ruined.”

  Catherine hated the way he and her cousin Roger treated her, as if she was fragile or addlebrained.

  She made no move to leave. “Since my cousin isn’t here, I will take charge of seeing that the family lands are properly maintained.”

  DeMornay’s lips thinned. “Your cousin might disagree. He has placed full trust in me. I suggest you do that also.” The ingratiating smile returned. “If you wish to discuss this with him, there is still time for you to reach the ferry landing. I can have the carriage readied.”

  He wished her gone also. Perhaps Tom was right, and DeMornay had something to hide.

  She did her best to appear as naive as he thought her to be. “That won’t be necessary. I shall occupy myself with embroidery and reading until the midday meal—unless I can be of service managing the household.”

  “Aurelia has been in charge of the house for ten years. She can manage quite well.” He swept a hand toward the interior. “The house is at your disposal.”

  But not the study, as she learned later when attempting to enter the room. The door was locked and the shutters latched from the inside. DeMornay did not trust her. She would have to think up another way to see the accounts. In the meantime, her only avenue of exploration was to search for items on Tom’s list. The list included serial numbers, but where did one find such a number on a stove? She had never used a stove.

  Just like in Key West, the kitchen was located in a nearby outbuilding to keep the oppressive heat from overwhelming the house. At all hours, smoke curled into the thick air. The stoves must operate all day long. To find a serial number, she would have to search the stove in the dead of night without arousing anyone’s suspicion.

  It was impossible. She blew out her breath.

  This was not her quest. She had come to Black Oak to find family, not resolve Tom’s need for revenge. She would make a reasonable attempt to find something on his list and consider her duty done. Then she would go to the city to see cousin Henry. Perhaps he would give her authority to manage the plantation. She could bring it back to prosperity.

  She spent the remainder of the day looking through every room. Not one item on Tom’s list was located in the house. Either Tom was wrong or DeMornay had sold everything elsewhere.

  After supper, she retired to the task of unpacking her trunks. The gowns fit beautifully in the ornate mahogany armoire. All the items of her personal toilette found a place on the dressing table. But there was nowhere to hang Maman’s portrait or the daguerreotype of her family.

  “Papa,” she whispered as she cradled the image, “why couldn’t you have stayed with me longer?”

  But then she would not have met Tom and Elizabeth and all the good people in Key West. She also would not be here alone in an unwelcoming place. If only Tom had stayed. She sighed at the memory of his touch. The whisper of his breath against her cheek had sent a delightful fluttering through her. He insisted he would protect her, but that was not possible from the city. She rubbed her arms against a sudden shiver.

  “Tom, oh Tom, where are you?” she whispered.

  The evening breeze tickled her skin, but it didn’t delight like Tom. She closed her eyes, dreaming of him. But dreams could only go so far.

  “Lord, watch over him. Keep Tom safe, and bring him back to me.”

  The prayer made her feel better.

  After she propped the daguerreotype on top of the dressing table, Aurelia arrived and prepared her for bed. A glass of warm milk would send slumber her way.

  Still, sleep refused to settle over her that night. Restless, she paced the veranda outside her bedroom. The house was silent and dark except for the slatted light from the back room on the opposite side of the house. The study. DeMornay was awake.

  She could ask if he had any connection with Tom’s father, but that would only put Tom in peril.

  Instead, she slid on her calfskin slippers and padded around the veranda to the lit window. The unfamiliar hum of insects rent the air with a shrill cacophony. No light emanated from the cookhouse or slave quarters. All slept except her and DeMornay.

  She shivered, though it was not cold. She sought the garçonnière, wishing Tom was there.


  After waiting long minutes beside the window, she dared to look through the narrow space between the two shutters. Perhaps a quarter-inch gap gave her a slender glimpse of the room. DeMornay sat at the desk, making entries in what appeared to be a ledger. He would make a few random strokes with the pen and then blot. A stroke here or there and then blot. The pattern repeated, and he turned the page. This time he made but two strokes before blotting and turning the page. Peculiar. He was not writing. He must be adding information.

  Then she recalled his unwillingness to let her turn a page. What if he was changing the entries? What if cousin Henry only thought the estate was prospering when in fact it was in ruins? She shook her head. The thick air must be addling her brain. Anyone with eyes could see that the plantation was not prospering. If Henry Lafreniere ever visited, he would realize it too.

  She rubbed her arms.

  All was not well at Black Oak.

  She stepped to the other side of the double shutters. The veranda wrapped around the entire house, so to return to her room, she could follow it around back and enter the house from the loggia. First she took one last look at the shutters. Here the edge gapped half an inch from the wall. She could see the shelves clearly as well as the empty birdcage.

  Something caught the corner of her eye.

  She peered through the gap again. Centered on a shelf was an object she hadn’t noticed the first time she was in the study. Had it been there, or did DeMornay bring it out afterward? Memories raced through her mind.

  Could it be? She pressed closer to the opening. The edge of the shutter partially blocked her view. Even so, she could not mistake the presence of a strongbox. Was it the one the stranger had carried from her father’s house ten years ago? If so, it doubly confirmed that DeMornay had lied to her.

  Did the lies stop there? Her heart pounded.

  What if she was wrong? She’d been able to see only part of the strongbox through the narrow gap. She edged a little to her left, trying to get a clearer view. By slowly pulling on the shutter, she eased the opening a tiny bit wider. There . . . yes, there it was—the strongbox!

  Something on the shutter clunked. She sprang back, and the shutter popped open. Lamplight spilled over her.

  “Who’s there?” DeMornay was at the window before she could flee.

  His gaze landed on her.

  Caught!

  “I could not sleep,” Catherine told DeMornay after he ushered her into the study.

  He acted oddly unconcerned at finding her outside his window. “You should have knocked on the door. I would have relished the chance to converse with someone as lovely as you.”

  Though the words extended grace, the glitter in his eyes and his steepled hands reminded her too much of her cousin Roger.

  “I did not want to disturb you.”

  “This is your home.” He swept wide his hand, encompassing the entire width and length of the house. “I am simply the plantation’s manager. If you have questions about anything, you only need to ask.”

  That was not what he’d said yesterday. What had brought on this change? Tom’s departure?

  She decided to test DeMornay and wandered about the room, taking in every item. Yes, that strongbox looked very much like the one she recalled the stranger carrying from Deerford. Of course, it did not have any identifying marks on the exterior. She would have to examine it carefully, inside and out, to see if there was anything in it to tie it to Deerford. That, however, could wait.

  She faced him. “I would like to see the account books for the past year.”

  Unlike cousin Roger, he did not respond with shock or dismay. “They are not yet complete. I was just adding some figures that are now finalized.” He turned the open ledger so it faced her. “Have a look.”

  At once she could see that this method of accounting bore little resemblance to what she was accustomed to at Deerford. Cryptic column headings gave her little indication of what the scratched numbers beneath referred to.

  “FNS?” she asked.

  His smile grated on her. “Female Negros.”

  The S stood for slave, she presumed. “Then MNS are the men. FIN? And FCN?”

  “Female infants and children.”

  She ran her finger down the columns. The numbers for the children remained fairly steady, but the numbers for the women and men rose and fell over and over.

  “Why the change in numbers?”

  His smile hardened. “An English gentlewoman couldn’t possibly understand the complexities of American plantation labor or the record keeping involved. We must report all servants to the federal government.” The last was stated with marked distaste.

  “Servants?” She couldn’t help noticing his choice of word.

  “Planters, harvesters, grooms, housemaids, cooks. The full range. Depending on the season, the number of field hands will change dramatically.”

  Though that made sense, it wasn’t what she’d expected or understood about slaveholding plantations. “You lease field hands from other planters?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Is it less expensive than housing your own?”

  He laughed. “How perceptive you are! I can’t help but wonder why such a bright mind is here rather than managing your father’s estate.”

  “He passed away, and it was bound by prior settlement to fall to my cousin.”

  “Ah. So you came here while another manages your childhood home. Your father did not provide for you?”

  That was getting too personal. “He did, but I longed to rejoin Maman’s family. She spoke so often of the plantation.”

  She did not tell him that Deerford had been sold. By now, the house—her house—was likely razed. In place of the elegant country house, a hideous factory would rise. The tenants had been thrown out. Her father had poured his lifeblood into them. She closed her eyes against the memories.

  “Forgive me. I did not mean to raise a painful subject.” He stood close. Too close.

  She took a breath and stepped back. “It is over. This is my home now.”

  Again, he did not betray surprise. Instead, he bowed slightly. “It has never known a more beautiful mistress.”

  Unpleasant prickles danced along her spine, and she took another step back. DeMornay left her unsettled, as if she were on the shifting deck of a ship. She could not judge from what direction the next wave might strike. She wanted to run, to seek refuge. If only Tom were here. But she was alone with only God to protect her.

  She feigned bravado. “I shall retire now. Sleep presses in upon me at last.”

  “As you wish, mademoiselle.”

  Maman had been the last person to use that term. Her playful voice tugged at the back of Catherine’s memory, light and filled with happiness as she pulled Catherine into one Paris shop after another. The voyage had been a grand adventure, just Maman and her. Mother and daughter flitting from one delight to the next. It had been their last. The dreams of Chêne Noir had proven just as fleeting. Only Maman had the right to call her mademoiselle.

  She squared her shoulders. “Miss Haynes, please.”

  Again the little bow. “As you wish.”

  Once he was in New Orleans, it didn’t take long for Tom to learn enough about DeMornay to wish he’d never left Catherine in the man’s hands, but none of it got him one bit closer to finding his father’s ship. For two days he searched but could find no hint of the Rachael Deare.

  On the third day, he stumbled upon an old salt whose penchant for rum loosened his lips. When Tom bought the spirits, Mr. Boyce admitted he’d seen the stolen schooner.

  “The black ship,” the sailor stated. “That’s the one ye mean. Whatever ye do, steer clear o’ the black ship.”

  Tom had found this balding salt by passing on word he was looking for a ship. Most took it to mean he wanted to join a crew. Boyce understood that Tom wanted to find a particular clipper ship, faster than the wind.

  “She moves by night,” Boyce continued, his words remarkably
clear in spite of the rum. “Lies hidden by day.”

  “Where?”

  “Somewhere upriver.” A wave of his hand indicated a generous stretch.

  “Where upriver?”

  The man whistled through the gap caused by the loss of a front tooth. “That’d be the question now, wouldn’t it?”

  Tom leaned close so no one else could hear. Most were reluctant to speak of DeMornay or claimed not to know the man while not once meeting Tom’s eyes. Lies. And fear. These men feared DeMornay, as well they should. Cunning deception clung to the man like a well-fitted coat. Even now he was likely wooing Catherine to his point of view. Tom had left the list of goods from the bill of lading in her hands. If DeMornay discovered it in her possession . . . Tom swallowed. He didn’t want to think what the man would do to her. He must finish this search so he could protect her.

  “Where upriver?” Tom glared.

  Boyce tapped his cup, and Tom ordered more grog, though he hated what spirits did to a man. He would never put himself in that position again. The ill-conceived duel had been borne from the fruits of drink. Rourke had rescued him from certain death and taught him never to succumb to that temptation again.

  The tavern girl filled Boyce’s cup and once again asked if Tom would be joining in.

  “No, thank you.”

  She looked disgruntled until Boyce asked her to leave the bottle.

  Tom saw nothing good coming from that much liquor. “A cup is enough.”

  “I gots a mighty thirst, son,” Boyce said. “Can’t seem ta find my voice without somethin’ ta wet the pipes.”

  Tom grudgingly paid for the bottle and gave the tavern maid a bit extra for her trouble. This time she smiled and winked at him. In years past, he would have talked with her, but no woman came close to Catherine.