Freedom's Price

by Christine Johnson

  “Thank you for your consideration,” Tom said with a great deal more politeness than she would have shown, given DeMornay’s obvious attempts to get rid of him, “but I wish to remain with Catherine until she no longer needs me.”

  He squeezed her hand, and she felt a surprising thrill at the consideration he’d shown her. He could return to Key West at once, but he would stay until he was certain she was all right.

  DeMornay persisted. “There might not be a down-bound ferry tomorrow.”

  “I will take that chance.”

  She looked up to see Tom gazing at her. His look echoed what she’d already felt. He would not abandon her.

  “I am grateful for Mr. Worthington’s presence.” She beamed at him. “He is a dear friend.”

  That clearly did not make DeMornay happy, and this time he didn’t bother to hide his displeasure. “With the harvest under way, we will be too busy to entertain.”

  “Of course,” Catherine said. “We will occupy ourselves throughout the day and join you for supper.”

  Instead of soothing DeMornay’s concerns, that deepened his scowl. “In England, do you often receive unexpected guests?”

  “In England it is usual to extend hospitality to travelers, whether friend, family, or stranger. Often my father invited those passing through to spend the night with us.”

  “Perhaps that is why you are here, Miss Haynes,” DeMornay said, “and not home in Staffordshire.”

  The blow was precisely executed and sent Catherine reeling. Had she truly been the cause of Deerford’s demise? Cousin Roger had implied it. DeMornay now echoed that. But she had done all in her power to wring a profit from the leases—without burdening the tenants. Mr. DeMornay might claim financial superiority, but at what cost? He paid no wage to his labor. He did not care for the estate. He knew nothing of Deerford or indeed of Staffordshire.

  She caught her breath.

  Staffordshire. She had not once mentioned where Deerford was located. There was only one way DeMornay could know it was in Staffordshire. He’d been there.

  13

  Naturally the tour of the house and grounds revealed nothing. Tom stuck close to Catherine’s side, doing his best to keep some distance between her and DeMornay. The man brushed past many of the structures, casually pointing out the pigeonniers and garçonnière along with the necessary buildings like the cistern, washhouse, and cookhouse. The stables and the overseer’s house were separated from the main grounds.

  “That’s where you live?” Tom asked.

  “I did until Mr. Lafreniere asked me to move into the main house.”

  Tom had to admit the man could easily explain away anomalies. “And the servants? Do they stay in the main house also?”

  Catherine shot him a sharp look.

  But DeMornay revealed no surprise at his question. “Their quarters are just beyond the overseer’s house. You can make them out through the trees.”

  Though dusk was beginning to fall and obscure the views, Tom could pick out the low, weathered wood building.

  “How many servants on the plantation?”

  Catherine squeezed his arm as if he was being the impertinent one.

  DeMornay didn’t hesitate. “Only essential household servants stay here at present. The rest have joined the field workers at the quarters situated near the sugarhouse. That’s where we’re harvesting right now.”

  Catherine craned her neck, looking upward at a dovecote. “Does the plantation keep pigeons?”

  “Not for some years.”

  “It also appears the garçonnière hasn’t been used for a long time.” She squeezed Tom’s arm again. “It was used for guests and to sequester the boys when they got near manhood. Maman said the boys always managed to make mischief, and they would often sneak out to secretly meet with their loves.”

  Tom imagined sneaking out to meet Catherine tonight, and his pulse raced. Was she hinting that they should plan this?

  DeMornay lifted an eyebrow. “I trust Mr. Worthington is grown enough not to attempt such a thing.”

  Catherine grinned. “If Tom were still in his youth, he would find a way. He is resourceful and will let nothing stop him.”

  Her smile melted the anger that had been building in his heart. Catherine admired him. She was willing to vouch for him in front of the enemy, though she did not yet realize that DeMornay was the enemy.

  The man found no humor in Catherine’s statement. Instead, he guided them to the nearest pigeonnier. She left Tom’s side to take a closer look.

  “The entrance is narrow,” DeMornay pointed out, “and the interior is likely filthy. Even though it hasn’t been formally used as a dovecote, some birds do still nest there.”

  She drew back. “Then we shall skip it.”

  DeMornay placed Catherine’s hand on his arm. “We should return to the house. The sun is getting lower, and you will want to freshen up before supper. Your trunks might have arrived by now.”

  Tom’s scowl did nothing to pry Catherine from the man’s clutches. He suspected the only time and place he could meet with her in private was by moonlight, like those boys of old. Catherine had been trying to tell him that, but now DeMornay would be on the watch. They must act carefully, and that meant getting away from the man long enough to make plans. If they could explore the plantation without DeMornay’s constant presence, Tom would find the evidence he needed to go to Judge Graham.

  But first he needed to get her alone.

  Thankfully the house tour revealed where her room was located. Though DeMornay did not point out where he stayed, Tom suspected the man had chosen a bedroom near his study, which he had carefully avoided during the tour. Likewise he had kept the door to the master bedroom closed, saying it was where her uncle had passed and thus was not fit for exhibition.

  Tom didn’t know how the natural end of life on earth turned a room into a mausoleum, but Catherine didn’t question DeMornay’s omitting it from the tour. With each room Tom looked for a way to get her alone. At each step he ran into DeMornay.

  The man clearly didn’t trust him. DeMornay would never be put at ease—and thus prone to make an error—until he thought Tom gone. But that put Catherine in harm’s way. Not that Tom thought DeMornay would do her bodily harm, but he would have full opportunity to work his persuasive skills without Tom to contradict him.

  When they returned to the salon, the long-sought opportunity arrived.

  Aurelia stepped from the shadows. “Massa, Angel and Hunter done disappeared.”

  DeMornay frowned. “You’re supposed to keep track of them. What sort of mother are you?”

  “I fears dey fall into some kinda trouble.”

  Catherine’s eyes widened. “We must find them. Can’t we send someone?”

  DeMornay’s gaze narrowed. Apparently he did not like anyone to step into what he considered his business, something Catherine did not recognize.

  “I can help search,” she offered.

  Aurelia sucked in her breath and cowered, as if fearing a blow from DeMornay.

  Irritation and even anger built beneath DeMornay’s calm surface.

  Tom couldn’t resist putting another gaping hole in it. “I will join you. Let’s go, Catherine. Where were they last seen, Aurelia?” He took Catherine’s hand.

  “Dey likes to play in de cane.”

  Naturally. The tall sugarcane would completely hide them and anyone else who wandered into it.

  Tom tugged on Catherine’s hand, but she hesitated.

  “There’s a lot of sugarcane. Do they have a favorite spot?”

  Aurelia hesitated, her eyes turning briefly to DeMornay. “Out back. Past our room.”

  “I’ll send Walker,” DeMornay said stiffly. “We will not impose on our guests for two misbehaving darkies.”

  Catherine tensed, and Tom saw the revulsion on her face. She didn’t like this any more than he did. After working with the captain of the Windsprite, Tom had come to respect the former slave’s skill and
knowledge. Moreover, Anabelle was as educated as any woman in Key West. The common refrain that the Negro didn’t possess the capacity for learning was contradicted by those two. He shuddered at the thought of them under the control of someone like DeMornay.

  “Shouldn’t we send more than one man?” Catherine asked. “Everyone should search.”

  Aurelia looked at the floor, at the wall. She wrung her hands, twisting her apron around them.

  Tom wouldn’t have thought that odd if she hadn’t stood so tall and proud earlier when she warned him. That’s why he needed to talk to Catherine alone. That’s why he had to get her out searching the fields with him.

  “We will help Walker,” he stated.

  DeMornay darkened, and Tom instinctively braced for a rebuke. Aurelia stepped out of reach. That was the reaction of someone who feared physical punishment. Tom didn’t doubt DeMornay whipped the slaves. That he would flog a woman made him especially angry.

  “Come, Catherine.” He would not let DeMornay stop him.

  She took his outstretched hand, and he led her from the house, hoping he hadn’t just brought Aurelia more trouble.

  The pigeonnier was eerie at night, but it was the place Tom had suggested in a whisper during the moment DeMornay instructed Walker. The strapping black man had found the children within minutes and sent them off to their quarters before Catherine could pull Tom into the sugarcane. Walker then informed them that their trunks had arrived.

  Catherine would have chosen the cane for their midnight meeting, but agreeing on a location proved impossible in such a short space of time. It took only moments before DeMornay’s attention was back on them, and he did not leave her side until she retired for the evening.

  To her relief, the bedroom door had a latch. She’d drawn it at once. Then she’d spent the remaining hours until the house quieted plotting her escape. Since the veranda, or gallery as Maman had called it, surrounded the house, she could slip out of the room without walking through the interior.

  When the moon lit the landscape and the sounds of night shimmered in the air, Catherine stepped over the short sill onto the veranda. To avoid the study and the rooms that DeMornay might occupy, she took the rear steps down. Her calfskin slippers barely made a sound.

  Slight movement in the yard caught her eye. She stopped and watched, but it did not happen again. It must be Tom. Quite likely he was making his way to their meeting spot.

  She hurried to the side of the house and the pigeonnier. The half-moon gave enough light to make out her path, though she must race through several areas where the long shadows stretched.

  Before making the run across the yard, she took a deep breath to still her nerves. No one would harm her. She was of Lafreniere blood. They would honor and protect that. Still, she hurried across the open space, hoping her foot did not land in a hollow.

  Seconds later, she reached the pigeonnier.

  “Tom,” she dared to whisper.

  No answer. No human sound at all. Had she been wrong? Had the movement been a dog or servant? Had she misunderstood where he wanted to meet?

  She tested the door. It was unlocked. But it would be terribly dark inside.

  Fear could make a person give up before she reached her goal. Catherine would not give up. Tom had looked upset earlier. Something was wrong, and he needed to speak to her in private. She also needed to tell him that DeMornay had lied. He had been to Deerford. She was sure of it.

  She unlatched the door, took a deep breath, and stepped inside.

  Utter darkness greeted her, and she had to wait for her eyes to adjust. Gradually she was aware of faint light filtering from the openings near the top of the pigeonnier. This place felt foreign, even more so than Key West, which had a homey feeling with its close families and interconnected relationships. Here everything felt disjointed and vacant. Lonely. Was that why Henry had moved to the city and Emile joined the Army?

  “Tom?” she whispered.

  No answer.

  She must have arrived first.

  Unless he was deep inside. Surely he would have heard her, though. Wouldn’t he?

  “Tom?” This time she spoke a little louder.

  The door opened behind her, and she let out a gasp. A hand covered her mouth. An arm reached around her. A man’s arm. She struggled.

  “Shh. Stop it.”

  Tom. She breathed out with relief and stopped struggling. “You frightened me.”

  He released her, but she didn’t move away. His strength was a comfort in the darkness, and tonight she needed it.

  “I need to leave,” he said softly near her ear. “Come with me. Let me keep you safe.”

  Panic set in. “Leave? You’re leaving Black Oak? But you said you’d stay as long as I needed you. I need you.”

  “I know.” He stroked her cheek with his thumb. “That’s why I want you to come with me.”

  “But why can’t you stay?”

  “I need to find something.” There was a desperate edge to his voice.

  “I don’t understand. Find what?”

  “Proof. Evidence.”

  Now she truly was confused. “Proof of what?”

  His hands gripped her shoulders, and she felt the desperation in them. “Proof that DeMornay is the man who destroyed my father.”

  “What?” Was that the secret Elizabeth had sensed weighing Tom down? Tom’s father was dead. That much she remembered. Also that Tom was prone to temper. “What do you intend to do? Challenge him to a duel?”

  “No. Find proof of his crime and bring him to justice.” Tom kept his grip on Catherine’s shoulders though she pulled away slightly. “Through the law.”

  He felt her relax, thank the Lord, and released her. He needed her. In the long hours between supper and the appointed hour for their meeting, he’d realized that only Catherine stood a chance of finding evidence in the plantation’s records. Provided DeMornay had left any. It might be the smallest anomaly. Tom didn’t understand ledgers, but Catherine could read them. She’d managed her family’s estate in England.

  Something had clearly gone wrong there if she was here looking for help from her mother’s family, but he had a feeling it had nothing to do with her abilities. Catherine Haynes was quick of wit and intellect. She could find discrepancies. Yet he wasn’t quite as certain she could withstand DeMornay’s assault. The man’s sickening attentions to her were bound to wear her down.

  At supper, DeMornay had pulled out his finest clothing, the best table service, and impeccable manners. He could converse on any topic, and she’d smiled more than once. The man ignored Tom, of course. He clearly wanted him out of the way. Tom shared that sentiment, but first he needed to discover if his father’s ship was moored nearby. Most likely the man had sold it. Tom hoped otherwise.

  In the dark shadows of the pigeonnier, Catherine drew in a breath. “What did he do?”

  “Stole my father’s ship and its cargo.”

  “And that destroyed your father?”

  Tom hadn’t wanted to relate the whole tale, but to gain her assistance he spilled the entire painful story.

  “Pa was half the man he’d been before the incident,” Tom finished. “Ma nursed him back to health, though she could not revive his spirit. The courts destroyed that by taking everything, including our house, to satisfy creditors. That’s when we moved to Nantucket Island.”

  “To start anew.”

  “To escape the stares of pity. Pa worked on a fishing vessel.”

  “It was something,” she said.

  “He’d been a master, captain of his own ship.” He reached for her shoulders again but dropped his hands before making the mistake of gripping her. “Don’t you understand? He had to haul nets and gut fish. Pa. A captain.”

  “I’m sorry.” The softness of her voice showed she truly was.

  “It ruined him. He died a broken man.”

  “Oh, Tom.” Her hand cupped his jaw. “I’m so very sorry. It must have been devastating.”

>   Tom didn’t want to admit the depth of his pain. He also didn’t want her hand to leave his jaw. When she pulled it away, he grasped it firmly. “It was . . . difficult, but thanks to you I’m beginning to see that life can go on.”

  “Because of me?”

  “Your fortitude in the face of losing your parents. To travel halfway around the world is astonishing.”

  She drew in a sharp breath. “That reminds me. I’m now certain DeMornay is the man who visited Deerford when I was a girl.”

  “How?”

  “Something he said. He let slip that Papa’s estate was in Staffordshire, but I don’t recall ever mentioning that. Did you?”

  “No.” His pulse accelerated. “That could mean that your DeMornay and my Mornez are the same man.”

  “How?”

  “The scar beneath his eye. Both DeMornay and Mornez had exactly the same scar as this man.”

  She seemed ready to question that conclusion but instead returned to his story. “Do you have proof that DeMornay took your father’s ship?”

  “That’s what I need to find. Why I need to leave. Come with me. Now that you know he lied, there’s no reason to stay.”

  “But there is. First of all, this is the only family I have left.” She revised the statement. “The only family who might want to see me. My cousin Roger, who inherited Deerford, was only interested in marrying me off so I would be out from underfoot.”

  Tom had heard of such things in storybooks, but to hear that it had happened to Catherine shocked and angered him. “Such men don’t deserve positions of authority.”

  Her sigh of agreement dispelled his anger.

  “Secondly,” she said, “if we both leave, DeMornay will suspect we know his secrets and are going to warn my cousin Henry. He wants you to leave, but I believe he wants me to stay. If we’re both gone, he could vanish again, and you’ll never get justice for your father.”

  “And you’ll never get the family you crave. You’re a brave woman.” This time he cupped her chin.

  The moonlight spilled from high above, silvering her features so she looked like a marble statue. But his fingers said otherwise. This was a warm, breathing woman. One so beautiful she took his breath away. He longed to kiss her, but Catherine was not the sort of woman to stand for impulsive actions. She needed to be courted properly. His heart gave a twinge. Her suitor ought to be in her social class. He never could be.