Freedom's Price

by Christine Johnson

  The housekeeper didn’t answer. She simply slipped from the room.

  An answer wasn’t needed. The only person Aurelia could have meant was DeMornay. But why would a plantation manager have jewels? He received only wages. Unless he skimmed profits from the plantation. She recalled the “corrected” accounts.

  There was another possibility. The strongbox. What if the lost inheritance was Maman’s jewels? What if DeMornay had stolen them? Was that what Papa regretted losing?

  The plantation manager had not yet returned.

  She slipped onto the veranda. Bumping on the shutters the other night had opened them. She could get into the office before DeMornay returned and learn once and for all what was in that strongbox.

  DeMornay lifted her gloved hand to his lips and pressed a kiss to it. Catherine fought a wave of revulsion. She had failed to get into the study before DeMornay returned from the fields. The shutters had not sprung open this time, and before she could find something to pry at the latch, he had ridden up on horseback.

  Gibson had run into the yard and taken the horse. DeMornay didn’t even acknowledge the boy. Catherine had slipped behind the veil of a curtain and watched Gibson walk the horse to the stables. The young boy, perhaps nine or ten years of age, had a proud, erect carriage. His coloring was lighter than that of Aurelia. The younger boy, Hunt, tagged along after Gibson like a puppy. No one had called them brothers, but the resemblance was too great to think otherwise.

  Tonight the children were nowhere in sight. Neither had Tom returned or sent word in the four days he’d been gone. Had he returned to Key West? Had he fallen into danger? Why no word? She’d expected something, even a note thrown through her open bedroom window. Nothing. She was alone.

  Except for DeMornay, who at last released her hand.

  “You are more beautiful than any woman I have ever seen,” he said. “Your hair the color of a fine stallion, your eyes like emeralds.”

  The last caught her attention. Aurelia had hinted that he had jewels. “You have seen emeralds?”

  She’d hoped to catch him in a falsehood, but DeMornay was too quick.

  “An expression, my dear, though I have seen an emerald’s fire. I go often to the city and have entered jewelers’ shops on business for my employer.”

  “My cousin buys emeralds for his wife?” The plantation must be more profitable than it appeared.

  “No, but the jeweler had one on display.”

  “Oh.” Somehow DeMornay always managed to find a plausible explanation. “I have never owned an emerald.” But Maman had. The sudden memory flashed through her mind. Maman had held the pendant up to the light so Catherine could look through it.

  “Do you see the mark on one corner?” Maman had prompted.

  Catherine nodded while her mother explained that it was a flaw. “My mother, your grandmère, gave it to me when I was a little older than you are now. She showed me the flaw and told me to always remember that only God is perfect. Nothing and no one who will ever live on this earth can claim perfection except Jesus. From the first, your papa admitted his flaws, and that is how I knew he was the man destined to be my husband.”

  Catherine had measured every suitor by the same standard. If he interested her in any way, did he admit his failings? Thus far, none had. Even Tom, who made her pulse race, did not see his flaws. Not that he had many.

  Her thoughts fled at DeMornay’s next words. “Perhaps you soon will have your emerald, my dear.”

  The endearment made her shiver. How she wished Tom were here. She cast a prayer into the heavens. Bring him to me, Lord.

  “You are chilled,” he exclaimed. “Aurelia, fetch a shawl for Miss Haynes. The finest one.”

  Catherine doubted Aurelia would dare return with anything that did not match the finery of Catherine’s blue silk ball gown.

  DeMornay stepped into the unused chamber located directly off the entrance and returned with a glass of dark liquid. Spirits, no doubt. She had smelled them on him before, though he never drank enough to lose his head.

  Aurelia brought Catherine’s fine white shawl shot through with gold threads. It sparkled in the lamplight.

  “Thank you, Aurelia,” Catherine said after the housekeeper helped her put it on. Though DeMornay frowned on kindness toward the servants, she would continue, even before him.

  Tonight he did not reprimand her.

  “Shall we go, then?” DeMornay held out his arm.

  Though she hesitated to take it, she had no other choice. There was only DeMornay. Tom had not bounded to the door in answer to her prayer. She must accept that she would arrive on the arm of hired help. That was certainly not a proper escort, even if he did assume greater authority than most plantation managers. What would people think? If Titchwood was anything like home, the rumors would soon fly.

  She did not under any circumstances want to be linked romantically to DeMornay. How she longed for Tom’s presence. An ache settled over her heart and refused to leave. What would he tell her to do? Refuse to go. Lock herself in her room if necessary. But that would solve nothing. As possible heir, she must behave like the mistress of Black Oak. That sent a fleeting smile across her lips. Very well. That’s what she would do.

  Once they’d settled in the carriage and the wheels began to roll, she took command. “Naturally, you cannot escort me into the dance.”

  His black eyes stared at her, and nothing issued from his lips.

  “It is not proper when we are not in any way attached.” She spoke more forcefully than she felt. “Our stations cannot ever be considered equal, since I am of Lafreniere blood. I must uphold the standards of my upbringing.”

  His lips twisted ever so slightly. “Do you wish me to follow at a safe distance?”

  His comment made her wishes sound callous. Yet propriety was essential when one was first introduced to new neighbors. This was her chance to learn what they really thought of Black Oak and DeMornay. She did not need him hanging on every conversation.

  So she lifted her chin, determined to have this her way. “I appreciate your understanding. This is how it must be.”

  “I will not allow any harm to come to you.”

  “That would be your duty.”

  “But you wish not to be seen with me.”

  She steeled herself not to flinch. “I do not want anyone to misconstrue our relationship. I am a Lafreniere. You are the plantation manager.”

  “If you are concerned about others’ opinions, I can inform you of them now, before we arrive.”

  “I wish to determine that for myself. You will learn that I seldom take the word or opinion of others as fact.”

  DeMornay chuckled. “I have already learned that, but this time perhaps it will be to my advantage. Of course I will heed your wishes, but do not expect me to leave you to the vultures. Should anything untoward occur, I will sweep you off to safety.”

  Apparently DeMornay intended to extend the cage well past Black Oak borders.

  “I am no fragile dove, Mr. DeMornay. I have undergone my Season in London and am well acquainted with the wiles of men.” She paused, letting that thought sink into his mind. “Nothing escapes me. Nothing.”

  Hopefully he understood that arrow was meant for him.

  17

  Tom was glad to leave the city. The light winds made their journey upriver a slow one. Though the James Patrick was a swift sloop with copious sail and a shallow draft, they battled current and wind direction that forced them to tack from side to side. The relatively short distance would take until well past nightfall.

  The slow progress also gave them ample time to view the ragged shoreline buttressed by levees. The springtime river clearly flooded over the lands where the levees were low or had failed, and planters kept the houses far from the riverbanks. All manner of vessels dotted the shores. Many were steam powered and paddle wheels. They weren’t subject to the vagaries of the wind, like sailing craft.

  “Keep a lookout for a black clipper ship
,” Tom told Rourke. He itched to pull out his spyglass, but he was manning the wheel.

  “Black hull?”

  “She might even have black sails.”

  “Do you know its name?”

  Tom shook his head. “Boyce never told me that. I doubt they’d keep it the Rachael Deare. But I’ll recognize its lines.”

  Though Rourke looked skeptical, he shouted the order up to Jules, who was perched in the lookout. “But most of all watch out for snags and logs.”

  They’d already come close to hitting one of those.

  “Shoal!” Jules called down almost at once. He pointed to larboard, and Tom steered in the opposite direction.

  Rounding this shoal took them close to the starboard bank. As they drew near, Tom realized that the shoreline wasn’t as unbroken as it had appeared. A small cut led off the main waterway, creating a miniature harbor. The perfect place to hide a ship. The trees were tall there and would conceal even the mast of a sizable sailing vessel.

  He turned toward the mouth of the cut.

  “Where are you going?” Rourke demanded.

  “To that little cove. It would be perfect for hiding a ship.”

  Rourke lifted his spyglass, peered at the shore, and then collapsed it with a snap. “You think it’s there?”

  “We haven’t seen it yet, and you heard what the stevedores said, that it had come upriver earlier today. Probably while I was sitting in Lafreniere’s office.”

  “Perhaps they were wrong. Boyce did say it wouldn’t arrive for a week.”

  “He said it was due within the week. That’s entirely different. Besides, it won’t hurt to look.”

  “Unless we run aground. It’ll take a lot of work to kedge us off a sandbar.”

  Tom had helped in his share of kedging operations, usually for a stranded vessel that they’d hoped to salvage. If the master insisted on being hauled off the reef, they would use anchors and line to ever so slowly winch the ship free. On the ocean, the rise and fall of the tide had to be taken into account. If the ship had grounded at low tide, high tide might bring relief or at least an easier procedure. Here, there was no chance of rising water except due to rain. It hadn’t rained more than a smattering here and there since he and Catherine had arrived.

  Catherine. The thought of her almost made him forget his father’s ship.

  She was stuck in the house with DeMornay. Every moment delayed meant one more minute in the man’s clutches. On the other hand, Tom had waited ten long years to avenge his father. It was finally within reach. He must chance looking in the cove.

  It would take only a few minutes longer. Surely she could hold out.

  In spite of Catherine’s wishes, DeMornay stuck to her like a scratchy burr. Oh, he allowed her to enter the hall first and greet her neighbors, but he followed on her heels and made the introductions. Anyone could easily assume he was courting her. His overly solicitous manner only made things worse. Soon the glances her way had clouded or become suspicious.

  She could think of no way out.

  At first, the younger gentlemen begged a dance, but once the quartet began playing, none of them approached her. Apparently their interest had been corrected by concerned relations.

  “Would you care to dance, Miss Haynes?” DeMornay bowed ever so slightly and extended his hand.

  At least he hadn’t used any familiarities when addressing her, but she feared it was only a matter of time. Dancing together would both encourage the suit that he was apparently making and the rumors that were doubtless forming.

  “No, thank you. I don’t care to dance.”

  He retracted his hand. “I’m amazed you insisted on attending if you do not dance.”

  “It’s an opportunity to meet my neighbors.”

  If only she could speak to them without DeMornay listening to every word. She fiddled with the clasp on her bag. How could she get away from him long enough to speak to someone—anyone—in peace?

  “Shall I take you home?” he asked.

  She shook her head. That would not help her purpose. If no one would come to her, she must go to them—once she’d freed herself from her jailer. “I would like some punch, however. It is quite hot in here.”

  Since they were standing on the opposite side of the room from the punch bowl, he would have to step out of earshot.

  He must have realized that at the same moment, for his expression tightened. He held out his arm. “Of course. Allow me to escort you.”

  She gritted her teeth. Would he never give her a moment alone? She fanned her face. “I believe I shall sit.”

  An elderly gentleman drew near. “Then allow me to lead you to an open chair that my wife is saving.” It was Judge Graham.

  Catherine beamed at him. “I would be much obliged.” She took his arm. “Perhaps Mrs. Graham would like punch also. Would you fetch two glasses, Mr. DeMornay?”

  Even his stoic expression couldn’t hide his annoyance.

  Without waiting for a response, she and the judge moved to a small grouping of chairs. Thankfully, DeMornay did not follow.

  The judge, however, guided her slightly to the left. “Would you care to take a turn on the veranda? The night air is cooler.”

  “Thank you. I would like that very much.” She glanced back to see DeMornay navigating through the dancers. His back was to her.

  “Perhaps we might escape while your shadow is occupied,” the judge suggested.

  “Lead the way.”

  He whisked her through a hallway just a few steps away and out of view of DeMornay. Moments later, they exited the building onto a broad veranda populated by a few couples who hung in the shadows. A single lamp lit the doorway. None illuminated the grounds, where the carriages waited. The drivers gathered on the far side of the conveyances, laughing and jesting and sharing tales.

  “The far corner is unoccupied,” the judge noted, “if it doesn’t trouble you to spend a moment or two in the company of an older man.”

  Catherine laughed. “An older and happily married man, if my observations are correct.”

  “They are.” He directed her toward the corner of the veranda. “From here we have a view of both the rear door and anyone approaching from the front.”

  Though he named no one, she knew who he meant.

  Once they settled in the corner, she asked, “Might I ask how a manager can gain control of a plantation? Is it common?”

  “It’s not uncommon for an owner to place confidence in his manager. However, most planters live on-site.”

  “Not my cousin Henry Lafreniere.”

  “Ah, your cousin, is he?”

  She nodded. “My mother and Uncle Henri were siblings, though he was older than her by a decade.”

  “I see. Then they were not close.”

  Catherine thought back. “Maman said he was selfish and ambitious. She wanted nothing to do with him.”

  The judge nodded. “Men—and women—can change over time.”

  “I hope so, but can they change their true nature?”

  Judge Graham chuckled. “A good question that many have asked.” He sobered. “Miss Haynes, I believe I have something that belongs to you.”

  “To me? Did I leave something behind on the ferry?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that. Your uncle left a document in my care, to be given to you if you ever arrived at Black Oak.”

  Her jaw dropped. “Then he knew of me.”

  “Apparently your mother sent letters to her mother.”

  “Maman,” Catherine whispered. “Then they knew. All that charade about a tomb, and they knew she was alive.”

  “I suspect so, but the charade, as you call it, had already taken place.”

  Catherine sighed and closed her eyes against the foolishness of the situation. If only Grandmama or even Uncle Henri had acknowledged the truth, this schism in the family might never have occurred. The family would still control the plantation and would not have given authority to a man who did not merit it.


  “That’s why you invited me to the dance.”

  “It is,” the judge responded.

  “You have the document with you?”

  “It is too large for you to hide on your person—and from your shadow.” The judge glanced toward the rear entrance. “Perhaps you could come to my office.”

  “Not without DeMornay. He follows me everywhere.”

  “Then there is no time when you’re alone?”

  It took only a moment for her to answer. “In the late morning. By then he has ridden out to the sugarhouse and far fields to check on the workers.”

  “Then I will meet you at Black Oak during that time. Tomorrow?”

  She nodded. “Can you tell me now if I have any claim to part of Black Oak?”

  He shook his head. “Later. In the daylight.”

  Catherine looked into the inky blackness that surrounded them. Anyone might be listening, especially DeMornay.

  The judge stepped deeper into the darkness. “Good evening, Miss Haynes. You would do well not to mention our conversation to anyone.”

  The moment he left, DeMornay arrived. “It’s not wise to go outdoors alone.”

  Though it might have been caution from a caring relation, from DeMornay it only tightened the chains binding her.

  “This is it.” Tom perched on the gunwale, ready to jump from the James Patrick to the deck of the black ship. “It’s my father’s ship. I’m sure of it.”

  “It’s growing dark, and you haven’t seen the ship in ten years. You were much younger then.” Rourke had expressed skepticism from the moment Tom insisted they explore the cove.

  “I’d know the Rachael Deare anywhere. It’s her.”

  The James Patrick drew near. Another couple feet and Tom could make the leap.

  “Ahoy!” Rourke called out.

  Tom whipped around. “Why did you do that?”

  “What if someone’s aboard?”

  “There isn’t anyone, or they would have come on deck the moment we approached.” The crew of the James Patrick had been as noisy as a New Orleans street. Rourke’s shout sealed that the ship was unoccupied.

  Tom sprang off the gunwale and landed on the black ship’s deck.