10

From a distance, New Orleans shimmered in the morning sun like the fabled city of Atlantis. As the Rebecca drew closer to its bustling wharves, Catherine realized the city sat below river level, shielded from Atlantis’s fate by thick levees.

A rush of sentiment for Staffordshire washed over her. The familiar fields and hills. She knew the song of the thrush and skylark. She could name most wildflowers. Not so here. Everything was unfamiliar. Even the sun did not appear the same. It blazed white, searing the flesh like iron from a forge. She did not know New Orleans, and nothing Maman had told her could prepare her for this day.

“Where will we go?” she whispered.

Tom stared at her. “You don’t know where the plantation is located?”

“I do, but where will I hire a carriage? The wharves are so crowded.”

A portly gentleman in an expensive suit cleared his throat. “If your plantation is upriver, it’s best to take a ferry rather than a carriage.”

Catherine swallowed, not exactly certain why a boat would be better.

Tom latched on to the suggestion at once. “Do they run regular?”

“Like clockwork. My wife and I aim to be on the first one, providing the porters get our trunks off the ship in a timely manner.”

He and Tom further discussed schedules and where to find the boat.

“I’d give the porters some extra coin, if you know what I mean,” the man told Tom with a nudge. “Unless you got your own darkies waitin’ for you.”

Catherine bristled at the derogatory term. “We do not.”

Tom gave her a look that made her flush. Her uncle must have many Negro slaves on the plantation.

The man didn’t notice. “Mind my suggestion then,” he said before walking away to join his wife.

“Insufferable!” Catherine muttered. “To speak of human beings in that manner.”

Some standing within earshot cast her a sharp glance.

Tom shook his head. A low whistle came from his lips as the ship thudded to a stop alongside the wharf. “Welcome to Louisiana, Miss Haynes. I hope we won’t be run out of the state before we’ve even disembarked.”

Even without bribing the porters, Catherine got her trunks loaded on the small paddle-wheel ferry before it cast off for points upriver. Her stomach roiled, though she wasn’t certain if it was from excitement or fear. Would Chêne Noir be as different from Deerford as Louisiana was from England? The ache for home returned, but she squared her shoulders. Home was family, and Chêne Noir offered an abundance of that. It would become home.

She clung to the railing and sent a prayer heavenward.

“I won’t leave you until you’re safely in your family’s hands.” Tom instinctively knew her thoughts. He squeezed her hand. “And you’re certain you no longer need me.”

Catherine could not imagine when she would not need Tom. He’d become a steady presence in her life.

They watched the shoreline pass. The riverbanks were both muddy and lush. The trees lining the bank, the clouds, and even the flies seemed languid in the midday heat.

Catherine waved a fan before her face, but it did nothing to thin the thick air or ease the perspiration running down her brow. “It’s even hotter here than Key West.”

“We have the trade winds.” Tom scanned the shoreline and then took out his spyglass. After staring intently at something on the riverbank, he put it away.

“What did you see?”

“Nothing much.” He affected an overly carefree stance that she’d begun to realize was his way of warding off unwelcome questions. “I’ve never been here and wanted to see what the piers and boats look like.”

“Well, there is no shortage of those.”

Landings appeared frequently on the shore. As for boats, she couldn’t count the number plying the waters, not to mention those anchored and tied to the shore. Tom had taken out his spyglass only once before.

“Are you looking for something specific?” she asked.

His shoulders stiffened slightly before he leaned his elbows on the railing. “Just curious. The river is incredibly wide. It seems slow moving, but perhaps that’s an illusion.”

The illusion was the way he’d ducked out of answering her question.

“Black Oak and Titchwood coming up,” announced the man who’d taken their fare.

“Black Oak?” Catherine asked, then realized that was English for Chêne Noir.

The man must not have heard her because he moved right past.

“That didn’t take long,” Tom said, extending his arm for her.

Catherine accepted it. Several people moved toward the spot where the gangway would be lowered. Might one of them be a relation? Most were simply dressed, of modest income, but an older couple boasted tastefully reserved Paris fashion.

Catherine urged Tom toward them.

The woman wore a burgundy silk gown and bonnet with matching ribbons and trim. The gray-haired gentleman wore a dark gray suit. The attire must be oppressively hot, unlike the light fabrics Elizabeth wore, yet neither showed the slightest sign of perspiration.

Catherine blotted her face before approaching them. “Pardon me, but I wondered if you know of Chêne Noir.”

The woman shuddered and looked to her husband, whose expression tightened.

“I haven’t heard it called that in many a year,” the man said.

“It goes by Black Oak now?”

“Indeed.”

“Then you are familiar with the place.”

The wife tugged on her husband’s arm, as if urging him to abandon the conversation. “We are nearing the dock.”

“One moment, dear.” He patted her hand before turning his attention back to Catherine. “I haven’t been there in years.”

“Then there are no balls or soirees?”

The woman’s eyes rounded, and she shook her head.

The man cleared his throat. “Times have changed at Black Oak.” He then let his wife drag him to the rail.

What had happened? Was the plantation no longer in family hands? Catherine caught her breath. That could not be. Surely Maman’s family would have broken the silence about something that momentous.

The echoes of Papa’s final words sounded in her head. Forgive me for losing what was yours. Had he meant that Chêne Noir no longer belonged to Maman’s family? If so, then she was in terrible straits. She hadn’t enough money remaining for passage back to Key West, least of all England.

Bile threatened to rise, but Catherine fought it. She came from strong stock, able to endure any setbacks. She would persevere—if indeed the worst had happened. But she did not know that at all, and there was no sense leaping to conclusions.

She rejoined the older couple. “I’m sorry to bother you, but might I ask if Black Oak is still in Lafreniere hands?”

The woman looked startled. Again she glanced to her husband and waited for him to explain.

“Pardon the personal question, but are you by chance British?”

Catherine nodded, though she had no idea what that had to do with her question.

“I thought as much.” His gaze held a measure of added compassion. “Then you might not have heard that Henri Lafreniere passed on this summer.”

She gasped and pressed a gloved hand to her lips. “Then who . . . ?”

“I believe his oldest son, Henry, is overseeing the plantation. He lives in the city as far as I know. The younger son, Emile, is in the Army up north somewhere.”

“Grand—his mother?” She did not yet want to reveal her identity to utter strangers.

“Passed on some years ago, not long after her husband.”

A wave of sadness rolled over her. She would never know Grandmama. “Are any of the family there?”

The gentleman’s wife found her voice. “Not a one.”

“The elder Henri’s wife?”

“Gone. There hasn’t been a woman in the place in years.”

Catherine stared. “Then who runs it?”

“The plantation manager, of course,” the gentleman said.

“Do you know his name?” Tom interjected.

The woman clucked her tongue. “You don’t want to go there. Not with DeMornay in charge.”

A chill ran through Catherine, but she could not be deterred. “But I have come so far, all the way from England.”

The woman peered at her. “The Lafrenieres are French.”

“They’re American,” Catherine corrected, “though one member of the family settled in England.”

“Impossible,” the woman exclaimed.

“A fact. Lisette Lafreniere.”

The woman gasped. “But she’s dead.”

“Yes, she died eleven years ago.”

“No,” the woman insisted, “she died immediately after arriving home from her grand tour of Europe, back—oh, it must have been twenty-five years ago. A tragedy, losing such a young life.”

“That’s not possible. My mother died when I was twelve years of age.”

“Your mother?” The woman looked again to her husband.

Though he said nothing, his kindly gaze took on distinct interest.

His wife’s brow had furrowed. “Are you saying that you’re Lisette Lafreniere’s daughter?”

“I am.”

The woman shook her head. “But there’s a tomb for her in the family crypt. I’ve seen it myself.”

Catherine’s ears began to ring, and her vision narrowed. Could this be true? The family had not only blotted Maman from the record but had buried her fourteen years before she actually died. Who was in that tomb?

“It must be empty,” Catherine insisted.

“We attended the funeral,” the woman informed her. “The body was too mutilated for laying out, but there was a casket. Why go to such expense if there wasn’t someone to bury?”

Catherine’s throat constricted, and she struggled to draw a breath. Someone was clearly mistaken. It must be this couple. Catherine could not believe Maman had misled her and Papa all these years. Had Maman not told her endless stories of Chêne Noir filled with minute detail? Surely she was a Lafreniere. Uncle Henri could confirm it.

Except he was dead. Catherine gripped the rail. Everyone who knew Maman was gone. None of the family was at the plantation. She could not expect a joyous reception.

The boat bumped against the dock. They’d arrived.

Though Tom asked if Catherine wanted to return to the city, she refused. She must at least see Black Oak.

The Grahams, as the couple was named, took Tom and Catherine by carriage as far as the plantation outskirts, but Catherine had to pay a man at the landing to deliver the trunks later. At first the wagon driver refused, but then Judge Graham pressured the man to take the trunks to the end of the carriage drive in front of the plantation house. The ornery driver finally agreed, but at a steep price. His reluctance made Catherine wonder.

Something was wrong at Black Oak, and no one would tell her what it was. Unless she asked.

“Why are people afraid to go on Lafreniere land?”

Mrs. Graham looked away and kept her gaze fixed on the passing scenery.

The judge took his time to answer. “You’ll discover soon enough that visitors aren’t welcome. Use caution and keep Mr. Worthington close at hand.”

“I won’t leave her side,” Tom assured the judge.

Catherine drew in a shaky breath. This was not what she’d imagined. Even if the family was surprised, they would surely erupt with joy as they hugged and kissed the cousin they’d never met.

Tom took her hand in his. The gesture bolstered her confidence. With Tom at her side, she could withstand anything. Perhaps the judge and his wife were mistaken. Surely things were not as bad as they’d portrayed. Though with none of the family there, she might not be invited into the house, least of all asked to stay.

The judge seemed to read her mind. “If the need should arise, you can find us in the town of Titchwood, down this road to the right a mile or so. We’re in the white house next to the courthouse.”

Catherine thanked them, though she hoped she would not need to accept that offer.

The carriage rolled to a stop.

“This is the edge of Black Oak. You can see the namesake tree there, marking the property line.”

Catherine looked in the direction he was pointing. A huge, gnarled tree overshadowed all others. “That’s a black oak?”

“Look close and you’ll see where a fire took out part of it years ago, before my time here. The scar remains.”

Catherine bit her lip to still the trembling.

“Which direction do we go?” ever-practical Tom asked.

“Follow the river road until you reach the carriage drive heading away from the river,” the judge said. “It’ll be the first one. That will take you to the house.”

After Tom helped Catherine from the carriage, she offered to compensate the Grahams. They declined.

“I wish you well,” Mrs. Graham said, crossing herself in the Catholic manner. “And may God protect you.”

“He will,” Tom answered, “as will I.”

Catherine had never been so grateful for his presence. Since he’d been involved in a duel, he must know how to use a pistol or a blade, though she’d seen no sign of either on his person or in his meager belongings. Moreover, those belongings would not arrive at Black Oak for a couple of hours. Tom’s help was welcome, but she would also need God’s protection.

After thanking the Grahams and watching their carriage roll inland toward Titchwood, she and Tom continued on the rutted road that paralleled the Mississippi. The early afternoon sun beat down relentlessly. From the road, she could not see a house. Sugarcane towered high on the right. Lafreniere sugarcane. She took some satisfaction in that. It was tall and thick. To her untutored eye, it looked robust. Perhaps a profitable harvest could be reaped this year. It had been many years since Deerford had turned a profit on its acreage.

On the left, trees offered occasional shade from the sun, so that was where they drifted. Tom strolled nearby, and Catherine couldn’t help wishing he would offer her his arm. She had not worn sturdy shoes, and her feet began to ache a short distance down the road. They walked awhile in silence. Catherine mulled over the judge’s comments and everyone’s reluctance to set foot on Black Oak land. She would erase those apprehensions.

“A ball would do.”

Tom started. “A what?”

“A ball. A dance. You have heard of them.”

“Of course I have. I’m not a bumpkin just because I hail from Nantucket. Before that we lived in Boston, the very center of the Northeast.”

It took Catherine some time to understand. Geography had never been an interest, but it was clear he’d taken affront and was boasting about the cultural prominence of his birthplace.

“You were born in Boston?”

He nodded, his expression suddenly somber.

Odd reaction. She couldn’t help but wonder what had happened there. Something must have driven him away from the seaport. “But you left. Did you go to Nantucket for whaling?” Catherine did recall that island was known for its whaling industry.

“No.” He plodded on without further explanation. “I don’t see a house yet. Did Judge Graham say how far it was?”

“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.”