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 tugged 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.
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.
Tom didn’t stop glaring at the manager.
DeMornay’s smile showed a set of even teeth, slightly yellowed. “As I said, I have lived in Louisiana all my life. Most recently in New Orleans.”
His gentlemanly manner stood in such contrast to the Grahams’ fear of even setting foot on Lafreniere land that Catherine felt a prickle of concern. Something was off, but what? Or rather, who?
Someone passed outside the room, dark as a shadow. Catherine turned to look but saw nothing.
DeMornay motioned toward the back of the house. “Tea and lemonade are served. Would you prefer to freshen up first? I assume you have trunks?”
“They are coming by wagon,” Tom snapped.
Why was he being so impolite? To make up for Tom’s bad manners, Catherine tipped the scale in the other direction. “They will arrive by the end of the afternoon. I’m certain Mr. Worthington would be willing to help unload them. We are ever so grateful for your hospitality.”
DeMornay’s smile still lacked warmth, and when it was followed by an unbridled assessment of her attire and figure, the hairs on her arms stood on end.
“Your journey has been long for your skirts to have gathered that much dust,” DeMornay said. “I will have Gibson and Walker bring the trunks to your room so you might change. Until the baggage arrives, we will rest in the shade of the loggia.”
Cousin Roger could not have done a more thorough and concise job of setting her in her place. She was to look pretty and not voice opinions or ask questions. She must remember that DeMornay was simply the plantation manager. She was a blood relation.
“I prefer to see the house. Perhaps a tour?”
He hesitated. “I will show you the house later. For now, we will get to know each other a bit better.”
Tom inconspicuously squeezed her elbow. She looked up at him. He shook his head ever so slightly. Was he congratulating her on standing her ground or warning her not to follow DeMornay?
She was no good at deciphering unspoken thoughts. Neither could she give voice to the fact that her stomach had knotted. So she took Tom’s arm and followed DeMornay through the back of the salon, through a dining room, and onto a rear-facing veranda. Cups, glasses, and small plates already adorned a dining table there. Below and to each side of the house stood two pigeonniers, while directly behind were the remains of the parterre garden.
“It’s overgrown,” she cried out. “The beautiful parterre. Maman loved it so.” The moment of heartbreak was followed by Haynes resolve. “I will bring it back to its glory.”
“A worthy goal for another day.” DeMornay pulled out a chair facing the ruined garden. “Please sit.”
She reluctantly sat. Tom selected the chair at her side. DeMornay sat at the head of the table, a place of honor that ought to have gone to family. Judging from Tom’s frown, he’d noticed also.
Rather than stir up a fuss, she guided the conversation in another direction.
“My uncle did not leave a widow?” Though the Grahams said she’d passed, Uncle Henri might have remarried.
“She died many years ago.”
“Then he was the only family here?”
“Excepting visits from his sons—your cousins—and their families.”
Tom leaned back, his gaze never leaving DeMornay. If Catherine had been in her Season, she would have taken offense at his utter lack of attention toward her.
Aurelia arrived with a pitcher of lemonade and another of tea, both sweetened to perfection. The cool liquid soothed Catherine’s dusty throat and jangled nerves.
DeMornay scooted his chair slightly so he had a direct view of her. “We did not receive word of your arrival, or we would have had a room prepared for you.”
“I did write, but the letter must have gotten waylaid or slowed by the storms.” Since he didn’t appear to believe her, she added, “The decision was sudden. My father died.”
“Ahhh.” DeMornay ran his finger around the rim of the glass, making a high-pitched ringing sound. “Your mother did not travel with you?”
“She died some years ago, but you must know that. I understand there’s a tomb for her. Lisette.”
“Of course. I forgot.”
Tom looked like he was going to scoff aloud. She gestured for him to stay quiet, though she’d had the same reaction. If the judge and his wife knew of the grave, so should the plantation manager. Moreover, he alone hadn’t questioned her claim to be a Lafreniere. Why not? If her letter had not arrived, as he’d just stated, he should question her, especially since Lisette Lafreniere’s tomb here listed a date of death that would make it impossible for Catherine to be her daughter.
“How long have you been at Black Oak?” she prodded.
DeMornay’s gaze swept over the grounds. “It must be fifteen years at least. Perhaps closer to twenty.” He closed his eyes briefly. “Ah yes, I began working here after the panic of 1837 put me out of work.”
Catherine wasn’t familiar with American history, but Tom seemed to accept the explanation.
Again DeMornay ran his finger around the glass rim. The eerie sound rang in her ears.
“Miss Haynes, you have not said how long you plan to visit.”
There was the key question, the one she’d been avoiding. “I-I-I hoped to stay.” She hated that her voice trembled.
DeMornay’s eyebrows shot up. “Stay? But this is no place for a belle like you. You need the liveliness that the city can offer. I can have Walker take both of you downriver so you can visit with your cousin.”
It was a perfectly logical response, though a bit too eagerly offered. “Not quite yet. Maman spoke often of Chêne Noir.” She hesitated, waiting to see if he reacted in the same way the Grahams had.
He did not. No puzzlement. No questions. No sign of fear.
“I fell in love with the plantation from a tender age,” she added. “I must see it in its entirety, from the pigeonniers to the sugarhouse.”
“Ah, the tour you mentioned.” DeMornay did not appear pleased.
Tom must have noticed, for he cast her a knowing look when DeMornay took a sip of his tea.
“Perhaps morning would be best,” she suggested. “Surely it’s not as hot at an early hour. Once I see the plantation, I will know what needs to be done to bring it back to glory.”
DeMornay stiffened ever so slightly before his guarded smile returned. “You have lofty dreams.”
“After handling the accounts during my father’s illness, I learned how to wring water from a rock, so to speak.”
DeMornay’s eyebrows rose. “A helpful skill, but your cousin might have something to say about it. He is the owner.”
“With his brother.” She stopped short of adding her own name to the list of heirs. If Maman was right, she should have a share, but that needed to be discussed with her cousin, not the manager.
“Of course.” DeMornay suddenly rose. “We will contact Henry, but at present I have something to show you, something that could affect your plans. Follow me.”
Part of her hesitated at this sudden change of direction, but the greater part wanted to learn more about the plantation. Tom shot her a concerned look. She ignored him. She had come all this way to reclaim her family. She couldn’t let a wayward feeling and an overprotective man dissuade her.