“He didn’t.” Catherine sighed. “I wish I could have persuaded the wagon driver to take us as well as the trunks. I can feel every stone through the thin soles of these slippers.”
“He would have charged even more.” Tom returned to her side and offered his arm, which she accepted. “That man was taking advantage of us. Why? Because of some superstition or unnatural fear?”
“Everyone seems to be afraid of Black Oak.”
“You heard what the judge said, that visitors aren’t welcome. I almost expect to be greeted by a gunshot.”
Catherine stared. “Surely they wouldn’t shoot at us, not in the middle of the day. If you ask me, it’s simply fear of the unknown.”
“And you don’t subscribe to such fear?” The humor had returned to Tom’s voice.
“Why should I? Most often a ready explanation will soon reveal itself.” At least she hoped that would be the case. “I don’t believe the family would have wiped away all memory of my mother. That part must be rumor. Family ties run deep in Lafreniere blood. Uncle Henri wouldn’t deny his own sister.”
Tom had the courtesy to wait for her to get her thoughts out.
“True, she eloped with Papa against family wishes,” Catherine continued. “They cut off contact, but it seems preposterous to claim she’d died after her grand tour.” She stopped before revealing to Tom what Papa had confessed to her. To what purpose? She didn’t understand it yet herself.
“If your mother died years later in England, then who is in the tomb?”
Only one explanation came to mind. “Perhaps the casket is empty. The Grahams did say that there was no viewing.”
“But why?”
That was the question. Why claim Maman had died years before she did? It made no sense, unless . . .
Tom finished her thought for her. “They wanted to ensure she had no claim on them.”
“Surely not.” Yet she was beginning to think that might have been their reasoning. With a funeral and grave, few would believe an Englishwoman’s claims. That did not bode well for Catherine.
Perhaps it was the heat or fatigue, but her legs had grown weak and the land seemed to pitch and sway like the deck of a ship. Tom directed her into the shade and suggested she rest on a stump.
She shook her head. “I feel better now. It’s just that the memories came flooding back. I remember Maman laid out in the casket, looking like one of Madame Tussauds’ wax figures. Mrs. Durning insisted I touch her hand.” She shuddered. “I was afraid, but I did as I was told. Her hand was cold. At the time I hated Mrs. Durning for making me do it, but I came to understand why. She wanted me to know without a doubt that my mother was dead. The mind can be a terrible thing.”
He gave her a quizzical look. “How so?”
“It makes up all manner of deceits in the night.” She began walking again, still with one hand on Tom’s arm. “I used to think I could hear Maman in the wind or feel her when I came near her writing desk. All nonsense, of course.”
“You missed her.” Their stroll was languid, taking into account the heat and patchy shade.
“I did.” Catherine sighed. “I still do, but I won’t find her in a tomb, either here or in England. She’s with Jesus.” She noticed him flinch slightly and wondered why. Sorrow or discomfort? “Maman always told me that a Lafreniere is strong and can stand on her own.”
“And a Haynes?”
“Even more so.”
“Then you’re prepared for whatever we find. If it comes to the worst, we can beg a night’s lodging with Judge Graham and his wife.”
“And send the poor wagon driver back to the landing with our trunks.”
Tom laughed. “That’s my Catherine.”
His Catherine? The words caught her off guard, but not nearly as much as the carriage drive that opened to their right. Long and straight, it led away from the river and was shaded by large oaks. At the end stood a two-story house elevated on large piers. Wrapped around the house was a veranda, much like those on the homes in Key West, but this house was larger and the veranda was anchored with thick columns rather than elegant spindles.
“This must be it,” Tom said. “The judge said it was the first carriage drive.”
No sign marked the entrance, but she had to believe this was Chêne Noir. It would have fit Maman’s description except that the trees and grounds were overgrown and the house did not gleam white in the sun. It looked . . . dilapidated.
Her hand shook as she pressed it to her mouth. This was not the proud family plantation she’d envisioned. No hum of activity buzzed in the fields. She saw no one at all. Yet this is where the judge said they must turn.
She stared ahead, shocked, yet knowing the truth. “It must be.”
11
For ten years Tom had dreamed of finding the man who destroyed his father. Now he was mere minutes from discovering if that villain was Catherine’s DeMornay. Never in all his imaginings had he dreamed Mornez would live on a plantation in ruins. The sugarcane wasn’t well tended. The house was in shoddy condition.
For a moment he doubted they would find anyone here. As they drew closer, it looked more and more like the place had been abandoned. The whitewash had peeled and faded, leaving splotches of grayed and weathered wood. Gauzy curtains fluttered between some of the veranda pillars. They must be there to shade from the sun or protect against insects, but for whom? He had yet to see a single soul.
Tom needed only an instant to know if the plantation manager was Mornez or not. The scar beneath his eye would broadcast the truth. If this was the villain who had destroyed his father, what would he do? It would depend on what he found. If Mornez was as broken and ragged as this plantation, then Tom might be able to pity him. If not . . . The hilt of Tom’s blade bit into the small of his back.
He’d intended to demand restitution, by knifepoint if necessary. He hadn’t considered that the man might have fallen into madness or disappeared entirely. Either would account for the poor state of the plantation. Neither would help Catherine.
She stumbled, and he caught her before she fell. “Are you all right?”
“Yes. Of course.” But she did not sound well. She sounded worried.
He was anxious too. This day might be his last, but it would be worth it if he took Mornez with him. That’s what he’d drummed into his head the past ten years. Now that a resolution was mere steps away, he wasn’t as confident.
“Promise me,” she whispered. “Promise you will let me do all the talking.”
Her? She’d paled so much she looked like she would drop into a dead faint at any moment. They’d reached the main house, still without seeing anyone.
“All right, but at the first sign of trouble I’m getting you out of there.”
“There won’t be trouble.” She stood a bit taller. “They’re family.”
“Who buried your mother years before she died.”
“They didn’t bury her alive.” Her voice strengthened, rising to the challenge.
“They might not welcome your arrival.” The first step creaked under his weight.
She paused.
No one came out to greet them. No one worked in the yard. Unusual for a plantation that must have hundreds of slaves. The place seemed deserted.
The long flight of stairs led to what must be the main story. Beneath the broad porch, a carriage was parked out of the sun’s glare. Its leather seats were cracked and it looked gray under a coat of dust, but it appeared serviceable. Above, the curtains swayed as if someone was watching their approach. He half expected the muzzle of a rifle to appear from behind a curtain.
“Good afternoon,” Catherine called out. “Is anyone here?”
The hum of grasshoppers was the only response. Tom slid the dagger to his side and fingered the hilt. It wouldn’t do any good against a gun, but he could defend Catherine in hand-to-hand combat.
They ascended a few more steps.
“Hello? It’s me. Catherine.”
Tom tu
gged on her sleeve. “They might not know you exist.”
Her face flushed. “Lisette’s daughter,” she added.
Still no response. Nothing but the creaking of the steps and the overpowering hum of insects.
They’d reached the top step. Before them, the deep veranda boasted all manner of chairs, benches, and tables from one end of the house to the other. Many double doors stood wide open, allowing what breeze there was to flow into the house. The contrast between midafternoon sun and shadow made it impossible to see into the rooms.
Catherine stepped toward the first open door.
Tom touched her arm. “Let me go first.”
She didn’t protest.
He stepped ahead one stride. Catherine grabbed the crook of his arm. He gently moved her to the other side so his right hand was free to grasp the dagger. He stepped forward again.
“Halt!”
They both jumped at a woman’s voice.
“Who done come here? Git away wid you,” the woman said stridently.
Gradually Tom’s vision adjusted so he could see into the room directly in front of them, a parlor from all appearances. A tall Negress stood just inside the open doors. Wild, gray-streaked hair sprang out from under her head kerchief, but her jaw was set. She would never let them pass.
“Git away.” The woman waved a broom in his face. “Massa ain’t seein’ no visitors.”
“But he must.” Catherine let go of his arm and stepped closer to the woman. “I’ve come all the way from England to meet my family.”
“Yo’ family?” The woman hesitated only a moment. “Ain’t no family here. Git away.”
“But the journey was long. A storm dismasted my ship, and I had to weather over in Key West for weeks.”
The woman lowered the broom a little. “Key West?”
“Yes,” Catherine continued. “I’ve come a long way to meet my family. I understand Uncle Henri passed away. I regret never meeting him, but surely my cousin Henry would like to meet Lisette’s daughter.”
“He not here,” the woman shouted. “Now git out.”
“Wait, Aurelia.” The deep masculine voice came from shadows too dark to penetrate. “I will meet them.”
The woman lowered the broom and slipped away as a short yet brawny man stepped before them. His hair gleamed black, and his skin was the dark mahogany of those from Havana. A hat shaded his eyes.
Tom squinted, trying to make out his features.
The man stepped out of the shadows. “Tell me your business.”
Catherine froze, her mouth agape. Tom followed suit, for beneath the man’s eye was a scar in the shape of a question mark.
DeMornay?
Catherine had begun to believe the name meant nothing, but here stood a man who fit her memory of the one who had visited Deerford ten years ago.
She stared at his black eyes and dark skin. He had a muscular build yet wore the fine clothing of a gentleman of means. His hair was neatly trimmed around ears that had almost no lobes. When he stepped into the sunlight, the small scar beneath his eye became more prominent.
“You are . . . ?” she whispered, unable to get more out.
“The plantation manager,” he said with a dazzling smile and a bow. “Mr. Louis DeMornay. And you are not American.”
“I’m English. You visited England once?”
“Alas, no. I have lived in the great state of Louisiana all my life.”
She felt Tom tense and glanced over at him. His jaw was set. He looked upset. Yet she was confused.
“But—” she began. The estate records had listed a DeMornay but no first name. Moreover, fine lines webbed this man’s face, and his hair was peppered with gray. Perhaps this DeMornay was a relation of the man who had visited Deerford. “Then you have family here.”
“Not any longer, but please do come in out of the hot sun, Miss . . . ?”
“Haynes. Miss Catherine Haynes. Henri Lafreniere was my uncle.” But she had a feeling he’d heard everything she had told the housekeeper.
“Welcome, Miss Haynes.” DeMornay ushered them into the salon.
A large fireplace dominated the room, which was sparsely furnished. The once-elegant settee and chairs were gathered in such a way as to facilitate conversation near the fire. On this hot day, none was lit. The room, plastered and whitewashed with crown molding and chair rail, recalled Maman’s stories despite the tinge of gray that hugged every corner and crevice.
“The current master, Henry Lafreniere, is away at present,” DeMornay said, “but I’m certain he would not want me to turn away his cousin. Aurelia!” He clapped his hands.
The Negress slid into view. This time her head was bowed and shoulders drooped, all defiance gone. If not for the wild, gray-streaked hair, Catherine would have thought her a different woman. Aurelia. It was an exotic name for a woman caught in slavery.
“We will take refreshments on the loggia,” DeMornay ordered. “Then prepare the mistress’s room for Miss Haynes. Supper will be served on the gallery at the usual hour.” His gaze drifted back to Catherine. “I trust you will stay.”
“Of course.”
When he spoke her name, she watched for any sign of recognition, the slightest twitch of a muscle or flutter of an eyelid, but saw none. If this DeMornay had transacted business with Papa, he was not the one who’d left Deerford with a strongbox under his arm. In spite of the scar. Or had that merely been a figment of her imagination?
DeMornay fixed his gaze on Tom. “And this man is your fiancé?”
It was a reasonable assumption, considering the distance she’d traveled. Would her cousin think the worst of her for traveling with an unmarried man? Without a doubt Mr. DeMornay would pass this information to her cousin.
Tom looked DeMornay in the eye. “Miss Haynes hired me for protection during the journey from Key West.”
That was not strictly true. She had given him no money, though she intended to buy his return fare. But it did seem to appease DeMornay.
“Then you do not require a room.” DeMornay’s pleased expression told her just how happy he would be to see Tom leave.
“He must stay tonight at least,” she interjected. “Until he can secure return passage.”
DeMornay stared at her for some moments before nodding curtly. Turning to Aurelia, he instructed a second room to be prepared. “Put him in the garçonnière.”
Maman had told her of that separate building for housing the boys and guests. Catherine had a distinct impression that DeMornay wanted to put Tom as far from her room as possible. The idea of being separated from him left her decidedly anxious.
“He may stay in the house. We are friends.”
DeMornay did not budge. “The garçonnière.”
The housekeeper looked at Catherine, her expression urgent as if she was trying to convey something without words. But what?
“Go!” DeMornay demanded.
The Negress flinched as if struck.
Catherine got a sick sensation in her stomach. What was going on here? The housekeeper’s pleading look and DeMornay’s strong reaction told her all was not well at Chêne Noir.
“Thank you, Aurelia,” Catherine said to the beleaguered housekeeper.
DeMornay frowned. Once Aurelia had departed, he reprimanded Catherine. “You clearly have no experience with darkies. They require a firm hand. I suggest you leave their administration to me.”
Tom joined her. “I suggest you speak with respect around your mistress. You are just the overseer, Mister DeMornay.”
His gaze never flickered. “I am the manager. As such, I am in charge of the entire property, including the house.”
That brought yet another question to Catherine’s mind. “I was surprised we saw no one working the fields. It is harvesttime, isn’t it?”
“There is no need to trouble yourself with the operations of the plantation. That’s why I’m here.” DeMornay smoothed the lapel of his coat.
“Since I am of Lafreniere blood, I
cannot help but be concerned. I understand accounts, Mr. DeMornay. I managed my father’s estate during his decline. I would appreciate an answer.”
“Of course.” His smile was cold. “As is usual practice, the harvest begins at the farthest extent of Lafreniere land, near the sugarhouse and not visible from here.”
“I see.” Yet something about his manner raised her hackles. “Then we shall tour those fields tomorrow.”
“There is no need.”
What was he hiding? “I cannot remain idle. I must see every aspect of the operation.” She looked around the quiet room. “Is none of the family here?”
DeMornay shook his head. “In the city. Your cousin runs his business as well as the plantation from there.”
Though the Grahams had inferred as much, she still found it peculiar.
Tom put her thought to words. “Don’t you find that unusual? I wouldn’t want to entrust my entire livelihood to someone else.”
DeMornay’s smile froze. “You are outspoken for a hired man, Mr. . . .”
“Worthington. Tom Worthington.” He spoke it with undue force, and Catherine feared he would come to blows with DeMornay.
“From Key West,” she said, hoping to defuse the tension.
“You’ve been there?” Tom asked.
DeMornay examined his fingernails. “Can’t say that I have.”
“My father has. Many times.” Tom’s color had heightened. “He was also named Thomas. His ship was the Rachael Deare.”
“Ah, then you come from a maritime family. Perhaps a sailor yourself?” DeMornay’s smile carried no warmth.
Tom clenched his fists. “That’s right.”
“Then you understand how a ship’s owner might remain ashore while his captain and crew sail the vessel. Some plantations are the same.”
Catherine didn’t understand. “But Maman described the family living here.”
DeMornay turned his attention back to her. “That might have been true at the time. I was not here then.”
“Where were you?” Tom interjected.
Catherine held her breath. From the moment they’d arrived, Tom had displayed animosity toward Mr. DeMornay. Why? What was this man to him? She was the one searching for the man who had left Deerford with a strongbox, yet Tom seemed to have taken her quest upon himself. He couldn’t know that she was not certain the plantation manager was the man she sought. Though many details fit, especially the scar, others did not. Tom, in his misguided gallantry, seemed ready to battle the man. She tried to ease his concern with a smile.
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