Freedom's Price

by Christine Johnson

  Father in heaven, help me.

  She drew a shaky breath. “Of course not. Forgive me. I lost my head in the excitement. I am so relieved that you preserved it for me. Shall we greet our guests?”

  He withdrew his hand and offered his arm. “You are learning quickly. Continue in this manner, and your life will be filled with every delight.”

  Lies. All his promises were lies.

  Yet she placed her hand on his arm and fixed a smile on her face as they swept from the room. No one must know the truth. Not until she could find a way out. Not until she got Tom and Aurelia and the children to safety.

  The first buggy passed while Tom was still on the lawn. Its lanterns bobbed as it navigated the ruts on the river road and carriage drive.

  So, guests were expected. Even more astonishing, at least one invitee had accepted in spite of the general fear of Black Oak plantation. Tom could think of only one explanation. DeMornay held something against them. Blackmail, perhaps. It might have to do with Pa’s ship and the illicit cargo smuggled into or out of the area. Perhaps others profited from it, and those others must leap when DeMornay called or face exposure to the authorities.

  If that was the case, the judge most likely was not invited, making Tom’s trek that much longer.

  A second carriage followed the first. The open box and lanterns revealed husband and wife in resplendent finery. Two more followed at an interval, but none of the carriages belonged to the judge.

  Tom walked along the edge of the road and hopped into the shadows whenever another carriage lamp appeared ahead of him. The next had twin lanterns that illuminated the occupants. Tom’s heart quickened as the carriage drew near.

  “Judge Graham!” He waved down the carriage and then ran to meet it.

  “Who is it?” Mrs. Graham asked with trepidation. “A robber?”

  “Why, it’s Mr. Worthington.” The judge peered at him. “What are you doing out on the road in the dark?”

  “Hoping to find you,” Tom said, panting. As much as he wondered why the judge had accepted an invitation to Black Oak, time was short. “Can you spare a moment?”

  “Of course.” He said something to the driver, who pulled the carriage to the side of the road. Judge Graham exited. “Good to see you again, Tom. I thought you might be gone by now.” He sniffed at the air, and Tom realized he must smell dreadful after days cooped up in the pigeonnier.

  “Forgive my appearance, but I’ve been held captive.” That sounded fantastical, but Tom had to trust the judge would believe him. “I fear Catherine is in danger.”

  “I see.” The elderly judge stroked his long sideburns. “Give me a moment, and then we’ll take a little walk.”

  Tom waited impatiently while the judge issued instructions to his wife and the driver. The former did not look pleased at all. She did not understand that lives could hang in the balance.

  At last Judge Graham left the carriage and strolled toward him. “Now, let’s head back a pace, and you can tell me what’s going on.”

  Where to begin? “I believe DeMornay has designs on Catherine.” When the judge didn’t express surprise, Tom continued, “He threatened to drown me but instead locked me in the pigeonnier. I don’t know what he’s planning for Catherine.”

  “Hmm. That explains a great deal.” The judge steered him in the other direction. “Walk.”

  Tom did as requested.

  “I gather Miss Haynes did not go to New Orleans then.” The judge strolled at an easy pace.

  “No.” Tom regretted that he hadn’t insisted more forcefully that she follow Rourke and him back to the James Patrick the first time he proposed the idea. By the time she had warmed to the idea, it was too late. “We were waylaid en route by DeMornay.”

  “I see, and that’s why you suspect he has designs on her.”

  “That and the way he looks at her, as if he owns her.”

  “That explains the invitation. If she does not object, there is nothing to be done. Not in a legal sense.”

  “But she couldn’t possibly agree.” Tom didn’t believe one word of the charade she’d given DeMornay. “What if he’s forcing her or holding her captive?”

  “He would not invite guests if he has her locked up somewhere.”

  Tom had to admit that made sense. “And if he’s forcing her to agree to a liaison?”

  “She can refuse.”

  The judge didn’t understand. DeMornay was ruthless. Somehow Tom had to convince him. Perhaps telling of DeMornay’s dealings with his father would sway the judge.

  “Ten years ago, Louis DeMornay stole my father’s ship and set him adrift in the ship’s boat.” Tom told the entire story, not leaving out a single detail. “I came here to seek justice. DeMornay knows that.”

  “If this happened ten years ago, how do you know this ship you’ve found was the one stolen from your father?”

  “I can prove it, if I can find the ship. But he’s painted it black and moored it out of sight.”

  “Black, you say?” The judge halted. “The hull?”

  “The entire ship, even the sails.”

  The judge shook his head. “Then the rumors might be true.”

  “What rumors?”

  “I’ve never cared to pass on rumors when they can’t be proven.”

  Tom took a shot. “He’s smuggling, isn’t he?”

  The judge drew in his breath, telling Tom that his shot had hit true.

  “Like I said,” the judge said slowly, “I haven’t wanted to speculate. Since you already suspect, I will allow that the rumors center on trafficking slaves from Cuba.”

  “Everything now makes sense. The lack of servants, the fear in their eyes.” His imagination ran wild. “What if Catherine refuses him? What would he do? He nearly murdered my father.”

  “Murder is a grave accusation.”

  “We must get Catherine away from him. I think he’s using her to get Black Oak for himself.”

  “Of course.” The judge shook his head. “I should have seen it. It’s as obvious as the nose on my face, especially if he knows the terms of inheritance. It would also explain the missing transfer of deed.”

  “What deed? What terms?” Tom couldn’t forget her insistence that she owned part of the plantation.

  “She is the rightful heir.”

  “To a portion.”

  “To nearly all of it.”

  A shiver ran down Tom’s back. “Not her cousins?”

  “An eighth each to Henry and Emile. Her uncle was only entitled to a quarter, but he sent DeMornay to England to purchase the three-quarter share that had belonged to Miss Haynes’s mother. Apparently that sale took place but was never recorded. In effect, Miss Haynes still owns three-quarters of Black Oak plantation.”

  Tom thought back to his visit to Henry Lafreniere. “Does her cousin know this?”

  “I don’t think so. His father didn’t appear to know, even though he had me make a bequest to Miss Haynes shortly before his death. Only after speaking with her did I think to check. That’s when I discovered it wasn’t recorded. Henri believed he was awarding Miss Haynes an eighth share of the plantation.”

  “An eighth! That’s nothing.”

  “Remember, Henri Lafreniere believed he was sole owner of the plantation after legally purchasing his sister’s share. That’s what he would have told his sons.”

  “The sale. When did it happen?”

  “About ten years ago.”

  “The same time my father’s ship was stolen. DeMornay must have returned from England by way of Boston.” Tom pieced together the puzzle. “It does explain why Catherine’s uncle went to great lengths to convince everyone that Lisette Lafreniere was buried in the churchyard long before she actually died. Until he got legal ownership, he could make everyone believe he owned all of Black Oak.”

  “But he did not know of Miss Haynes at that time.”

  “DeMornay must have told him about her when he returned.”

  The judge s
hook his head. “Are you suggesting that he’s been planning all along to seize control of Black Oak?”

  “Exactly.” The last pieces fit together. “But to do that, DeMornay would have to . . .” The rest was too unpalatable to speak.

  “Marry her.”

  “But she would never agree to that.” Catherine loved him, not DeMornay. Her kisses told that truth.

  “Then you have nothing to fear.”

  “DeMornay is a master of manipulation.” In that instant, Tom realized Rourke was right. He needed to make a choice between avenging the theft of his father’s ship and saving Catherine. The choice was clear. “I need to get Catherine out of there at once, but I need your help.”

  “I’m no help in a fight.”

  “Not combat.” Tom had considered this while inside the pigeonnier. “Legal help.”

  “In what way? I won’t destroy proper legal documents.”

  “I understand, but the only way I can get her to leave is if she can bring Aurelia and her children with us to Key West.” Tom explained the situation. “She will need written proof she owns them in order to bring them into Key West. You can do that for us.”

  The judge nodded thoughtfully. “Very well, I’ll get the documents to you in the morning.”

  “We might not have that long. Tonight.”

  The judge pondered that for several moments. “Perhaps we can take care of a great many questions tonight. Let’s return to the carriage. We’ll need to go back to Titchwood so I can draw up the papers for Miss Haynes. I’ll also speak to the sheriff. We might have enough information to issue a warrant to search Black Oak.”

  A thrill ran through Tom. At last justice might be served. DeMornay might suffer for the pain he’d caused Pa and others. A thought popped into his head. “How long will it take? DeMornay might get suspicious if you don’t show.”

  The judge chuckled. “Perhaps, but my wife will be delighted by this turn of events. If not for Miss Haynes, we would never have come tonight.” He raised his hand, and the carriage turned slowly.

  Before long, they were headed back to Titchwood. Tom hoped the delay wasn’t too long. What could DeMornay do in one evening? Surely not marry her.

  The salon had been turned into a gleaming display. A candelabra highlighted Maman’s portrait over the fireplace. Chairs had been pulled to the perimeter and were occupied by a dozen and more people, none of whom Catherine knew. She searched for the judge and his wife. They had not yet arrived.

  A tall, slender Negro youth, dressed in the black of a servant, carried a tray of drinks that were offered to the guests. Through the open doorway, she noted the dining table set in fine china and silver that she had never seen.

  Tonight this house looked like the one Maman had described to her. If Catherine did not look too closely in the corners or at the molding, she might imagine it in its heyday, instead of the tattered reflection of what used to be.

  DeMornay hung at her side and smiled imperiously at each person who came forward to greet them.

  The guests’ nerves were readily apparent. No one was at ease.

  Catherine complimented each one on something—style of hair, cut of cloth, jewelry, even eye color. Anything to break the tension in the room.

  But they approached cautiously and backed away with relief.

  Maman, what has become of your grand plantation? Nothing here was how she’d portrayed it. Had the schism over her elopement caused this decline?

  “Good evening, honored guests.” DeMornay’s voice boomed across the room.

  All conversation, whispered though it was, stopped.

  “News travels fast in these parts, especially when it is good news. You no doubt have heard of Miss Haynes’s arrival.” He smiled at her, and her skin crawled.

  She forced a smile. “Welcome to Black Oak.” Though Maman had always used its French name, she’d learned that most now preferred the English. “My mother would be pleased.”

  “Yes.” DeMornay lifted his glass of port, which had been refilled several times while they greeted guests. “To Lisette Lafreniere, who has risen from the grave.”

  Catherine shivered.

  DeMornay took another deep draft of the spirits. “She would welcome this day heralding her daughter’s future.” He handed the glass to a servant and grasped her arm.

  Catherine gasped softly and smiled to cover her distress.

  “Though Catherine and I have known each other a very short time, we soon recognized a similarity of purpose and an affection for each other that could not be denied. I am pleased to announce that she has agreed to become my wife.”

  A couple soft gasps issued from the ladies, and as one the guests turned to look at her. On their faces she saw pity, sympathy, and something else. Fear. Not for themselves but for her.

  Catherine’s legs trembled. Her hands shook. Only by pressing her lips into a tight smile could she prevent them from quivering.

  This was not how it should be.

  She must pretend for this moment and find a way out the next. If only Judge Graham had been here tonight, she might have sought him out for help. He might have had a suggestion. But she was alone.

  “Come now, dearest.” DeMornay pulled her close and planted his lips on hers. Though she was able to move her face slightly to the side, he pressed hard and then held his mouth close to her ear to whisper, “No errors, or Worthington dies.”

  Tears rose. She blinked them back.

  “To Catherine!” DeMornay lifted his glass in a toast. “To my bride.”

  Polite applause and muted congratulations filled the room. DeMornay left her side to accept handshakes from the other gentlemen. The women surrounded Catherine. One by one they embraced her. No one said a word, but each embrace carried a note of sorrow.

  They knew.

  25

  Catherine walked through the remainder of the evening in a daze. The meal was sumptuous, but she couldn’t recall one item. She managed only a few bites of food and declined the wine. She must keep her head tonight.

  Judge Graham never appeared. Perhaps he had not been invited. The guests left immediately after supper, there being no musicians or inclination to dance. DeMornay had achieved his goal at the very beginning. Though he acted the perfect host the entire evening, danger lurked beneath the surface. Everyone felt it. Catherine could barely get a simple response out. Conversation lagged. She smiled when necessary but could not summon joy.

  “I expected better,” DeMornay said when he returned to the salon after seeing off the last of the guests. “The mistress of Black Oak must be the perfect hostess. I expect you to treat each guest’s remarks, no matter how mundane, with avid interest.”

  He poured a glass of port and downed it in a single gulp. Then he directed the servants to leave the house for the night and return to their quarters. Each silently obeyed. That left Catherine alone with him.

  “We are resurrecting Chêne Noir.” He turned to face her. “Together we will make it great again.”

  “It was once great. Maman spoke of it thus. What happened?”

  “Neglect.” He poured another glass. “Your uncle cared only for profit.”

  “Did he not live here?”

  “Part of the year, but he preferred the city, like your cousins. The plantation house was too old, too far removed from society. Once he died, none of the family visited. If they had, they would have found the house as unpalatable as they’d long claimed. But they never came, content to simply take in the profits.” His lips curled into a sneer. “They never suspected what I was doing. A small profit for them, more for me. And the source? None of them wanted to know. Fools! So easily misled.”

  The discourse had taken a boastful turn, one that she could use to her advantage.

  “Then you always wanted control of Chêne Noir.”

  “I have control,” he scoffed before draining his glass. “I wanted it to be mine. Ours.”

  The possessive, hungry way he looked at her sent chills down
her spine.

  “I am tired after such an eventful day.” She stepped back, toward her room. “You will forgive me.”

  He caught her wrist. “Not so quickly. Our night is not done.”

  He pulled her close, and she wilted under the strength of his grip. His breath reeked with the overpowering smell of spirits. Surely he would not force her into anything else. Already this day had soured beyond imagination.

  “My head aches,” she said.

  “Ah no, dear Catherine. There will be no excuses, not after all I have done for you. I have made you an heiress.”

  “Grandmama and Grandpapa made me an heiress.”

  His grip tightened. “Your uncle would have taken it away if not for me. I paid the recording clerk to tell him that the papers were properly filed. You owe me everything, dear Catherine. Everything.”

  Lust burned in his eyes. Her stomach turned. Surely he would not . . . Yet he did not release her. She could barely breathe, couldn’t possibly escape him.

  “Come, my beauty, we have much to discover of each other tonight.” He ran his thumb down her jaw.

  She trembled. No force of will could stop it.

  “Don’t be afraid.” He gripped her jaw, still holding her wrist with his other hand. “Tonight will be the beginning of a new dynasty. You will be remembered forever.”

  She drew a shuddering breath, attempting to stall until she could figure some way out of this. “Immortality?”

  “Precisely.”

  “There is no such thing except through God.”

  He slapped her across the face. “You will never mention religion again.”

  Truly he was the devil that Aurelia had called him.

  He dragged her across the room toward the master bedroom.

  She twisted her arm. “Stop! You have not upheld your part of the bargain.”

  He laughed. “Never bargain when you do not have the upper hand.”

  “We are not wed.” She attempted to stop their progress with her free hand. “We must do this properly.” She grabbed onto the door frame.

  “We are.” He yanked her free.

  She cried out at the sharp pain in her shoulder.