Freedom's Price Read online

  © 2017 by Christine Elizabeth Johnson

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  Ebook edition created 2017

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

  ISBN 978-1-4934-0714-9

  Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  “Johnson initiates another swoon-worthy historical series with this emotionally charged romance in which passions run high and things are not always what they seem.”

  —Library Journal on Love’s Rescue

  “The first in Johnson’s inspirational romance Keys of Promise series sails off to a strong start with a sweet love story that skillfully incorporates fascinating facts about the nineteenth-century salvage and wrecking trade into a quietly moving plot about the importance of family, faith, and forgiveness.”

  —Booklist on Love’s Rescue

  “This action-packed tale is one to keep readers engaged and rooting for the heroine from the first page to the last.”

  —RT Book Reviews on Love’s Rescue

  “Once again author Christine Johnson demonstrates her impressive mastery of the romance genre with Honor Redeemed, a deftly crafted and riveting read from beginning to end.”

  —The Midwest Book Review on Honor Redeemed

  For the mothers and fathers who sacrifice

  so much for their children.

  I love you, Mom and Dad!

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Endorsements

  Dedication

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Christine Johnson

  Back Ads

  Back Cover

  Prologue

  Staffordshire, England

  Catherine Haynes pressed her ear to the study door. A girl of thirteen knew better than to eavesdrop, but how could she not? She had never seen the stranger before. He appeared Arabian or East Indian. Exotic. A tiny scar beneath one of his black eyes. His gaze had swept over her as he passed her in the hallway. In that instant, he’d claimed her imagination.

  She must know why he had come to Deerford.

  She listened to the conversation as best she could. Alas, Papa’s voice did not carry through the thick oak door, and the stranger’s was muffled.

  “Get away now.” Mrs. McCready, the housekeeper, tugged her from the door. “Your father’s business is his alone and not for young lady’s ears.”

  Catherine obliged her by going to the library and then returned to the hallway the moment the stranger burst from the study. Again, his gaze raked her. She could not breathe, could not move. He smiled, nodded, and then strode past, carrying a small strongbox.

  Papa followed, his smile dimming when he saw her. “Go to the drawing room, child.”

  She bristled, ready to object that she was not a child, but he and the man hurried past. She raced to the library window and followed their progress from the house. Papa shook the man’s hand. Then the stranger stowed the strongbox in a saddlebag, climbed onto his black steed, and raced away without a backward glance.

  Early June 1856

  “Miss Haynes!”

  A rude masculine voice pulled Catherine from that long-ago memory. For months she’d dreamed of the stranger’s return and had romanticized him as a conquering knight. Ten years later, all such fantasies had come to a halt. Dreams were for children. She must deal with reality.

  She set her jaw and returned her cousin’s glare. By very subtly lifting her gaze above his piercing gray eyes and fixing it on the portrait of her mother hanging behind Papa’s desk, she could maintain the illusion of control.

  “Well?” Ugly red suffused Mr. Roger Haynes’s neck. “I am waiting for an answer.”

  In the months since he and his family first arrived at Deerford, she had learned one important trait about her cousin. He expected compliance. This time she would not bow. Nor could she find words of refusal.

  The mantel clock ticked off the seconds.

  Cousin Roger braced his hands on the desktop, leaning forward like a snarling lion eager to capture its prey. “Your reply.”

  Not a question.

  Catherine drew an imperceptible breath and imitated Maman’s calm. “I cannot.”

  “You cannot?” The sentence exploded with unspoken threat.

  He would force her into this marriage.

  Again the ticking of the clock filled the silence.

  What would Maman do? Faced with similar prospects upon her return from the grand tour all those years ago, Catherine’s mother had abandoned her chaperones in the dead of night and eloped. Catherine had no such escape available.

  Cousin Roger’s smile menaced. “If you continue in this stubborn refusal, you will lose what is left of your family.”

  Meaning him. She had no one else. Not here. Maman’s family was in faraway Louisiana, and the decision to elope had cost her all contact with them. No letters. No word of any kind. How the separation must have hurt, for Maman often regaled her with stories of plantation life, of balls and soirees and golden days running between the tall rows of sugarcane. Catherine had begged her mother to take her there, but Maman said it was not possible. Then she’d died.

  Only the portrait remained. Maman’s rose-colored gown flowed from her waist like that of an empress. At her throat rested the ruby brooch Catherine had often run her finger across when she was very young. She had not found it with Maman’s jewels. Papa must have buried it with her.

  Dear Papa. Catherine tugged at her heavy black sleeves to hide the welling of tears.

  “I suggest a different answer,” cousin Roger said.

  Catherine brushed away the past. It could not solve this dilemma. She chose her words with care. “Mr. Kirby does not suit me.”

  “Does not suit? You act as if you would bring an heiress’s fortune to your marriage. May I remind you that the terms of your father’s estate leave you but five hundred pounds?”

  “And fifty pounds per year.” Eight months had not changed that fact. The passing of time had only increased her cousin’s urgency to be rid of her.

  “Until you wed.”

  That was the crux of it. Once she married, the annual payments would cease.

  Her cousin settled into Papa’s chair.

  She clenched her jaw against a wave of revulsion. He might have gained the estate through settlement, but he did not belong in her father’s place.

  “I do not intend to wed. Allow me to manage the estate�
��”

  He snorted derisively. “Is that what you call your playing around in the accounts?” He filled a pipe from Papa’s tobacco jar.

  Angry words rose to the tip of her tongue and stopped there. Very few men considered a woman intelligent enough to manage accounts, least of all an estate. Cousin Roger was not one of them.

  “If you examine my entries—”

  “I have.” He slammed shut the ledger before him. “Some might consider them adequate, considering your gender, but I found them entirely insufficient.”

  “Insufficient! Compare my skills to any man—”

  “Use those skills to benefit your husband.”

  She choked. “I am in mourning and cannot consider marriage.”

  “You have worn black long enough. It’s time to move on. I suggest you change into something more cheerful.” His cold gray gaze, fixed above fashionably long sideburns, bored into her. “That would be welcomed by our guests.”

  Mr. Kirby and Mrs. Durning, whose husband had just left for Liverpool to provision his ship for the crossing to the West Indies, were expected. Neither cared about her attire, but at least it gave her an excuse to leave this unbearable interview.

  “If you will excuse me, then.” She reached for the doorknob.

  “Not quite yet.” He drew a breath on the pipe and exhaled a cloud of rich smoke.

  If she closed her eyes, she could imagine Papa sitting there, his spectacles resting on the tip of his nose, where they would slide after his hours of agonizing over the accounts. Papa had been a kind and generous man, often excusing debts and allowing rents to remain in arrears far too long. Of course, she hadn’t known that until he fell ill and she had to take on the accounts.

  Her cousin cleared his throat. “At three and twenty you will soon slip from a marriageable age.”

  “Apparently not, if Mr. Kirby is still calling.”

  His jaw tightened. “His long association with the family places him in a rather fortunate position.”

  “Fortunate? That is a matter of perspective, is it not? As you just stated, I bring a pittance into any marriage.”

  “Precisely. Few would consider a wife who brings only five hundred.”

  She could not resist poking at his unstated desire. “You might continue the fifty pounds per year. We are cousins, after all.”

  “Let me spell out what you could never have gleaned from your pitiable scribbling in the ledgers. Your father’s estate is in ruin.”

  She opened her mouth to protest, but he lifted a finger to silence her.

  “Even if I manage to collect the arrears, which I fully intend to do, it will not offset the losses.”

  Catherine would not be set down so easily. “Then how do you intend to pay the dowry?”

  His lips twitched, signaling triumph. “I will sell the estate.”

  “Sell Deerford?” The words barely escaped her constricted throat. “You can’t!”

  “As you well know, I can. In fact, a buyer is at hand.”

  “A buyer?” She clawed at hope. “Mr. Kirby?” Perhaps she would agree to marry him if it meant saving Deerford.

  He laughed. “Certainly not.”

  “Then who? Will he continue the tenants’ leases? Will he keep planting the land as always?”

  “This clay soil was never suited to farming, dear cousin. It will fare much better in the hands of the pottery manufacturer that is buying it.”

  “A factory?” Her head spun. “But . . . the house.”

  “It would have been too costly to maintain.”

  “What will happen to the tenants? You must take care of them. They have worked Deerford land for generations.”

  He leaned back and blew out a plume of smoke. “They can apply for employment at the factory.”

  “But they’re farmers.” Each face flashed through her mind, from old widow Evans to the two-year-old Herring twins. “They don’t know anything else.”

  “Then they can move elsewhere.”

  His cold statement sent shivers down her spine. She must help them, but how? The few guineas in her possession wouldn’t feed them long. They needed lands to tend.

  “You must find them new homes,” she pleaded.

  “Sometimes progress demands change. For them and for you.” He paused. “Deerford is extinct. You have nowhere to go. Perhaps a husband—especially one as charitably minded as Mr. Kirby—would find a place for your tenants on his father’s or future patrons’ lands.”

  Her throat closed. How carefully he had crafted the snare. If she hoped to help the displaced tenants, she must marry Eustace Kirby.

  Cousin Roger seized his advantage. “I suggest you give full consideration to Mr. Kirby’s suit.”

  She sank into the closest chair. “But he’s a clergyman.”

  His brow quirked. “Do you harbor resentment against that noble profession?”

  Her cousin would not think so highly of the ministry if he had been forced into it as Mr. Kirby had been.

  “I wouldn’t make a good minister’s wife.”

  “Let us hope Mr. Kirby doesn’t see that fault before the blessed event. I shall give him my blessing.”

  “But I did not agree to marry him.”

  “You would destroy your father’s hopes for you and leave your beloved tenants without a future rather than commit to a life of serving the Lord?”

  Put that way, it did sound rather selfish, but she could not marry Mr. Kirby. The mere thought of kissing him made her stomach turn. Having children? Settling into a country parish? Impossible.

  “There must be another answer.” Yet she could not see it.

  Cousin Roger leaned back with a contented smirk and puffed his pipe. “Make no mistake, dear cousin, fifty pounds will not go far. Once you have no home . . .” He let her imagine the result.

  She clawed at the pit that was swallowing her. Above her cousin, Maman’s portrait smiled placidly at the terrible scene unfolding below. She would never have agreed to this manipulation. You have my wits, Maman had often told her, and your papa’s compassion. What to do?

  She tried to breathe, but the strictures of both garments and circumstance made it difficult to draw in enough air. Papa’s halting words on his deathbed echoed in her mind. Forgive me for losing what was yours. Now she knew what he meant.

  “So you can see,” her cousin was saying, “Mr. Kirby has presented a most opportune offer. I suggest you accept.”

  He had left her no escape. Her head spun, and spots danced before her eyes.

  “Are you unwell?” He rose.

  She shook her head rather than admit weakness. Several short breaths restored her vision, though her stomach still quaked.

  He moved toward her, a glint in his eye, and brought to mind again the shadowy memory of the stranger, dark as tea. He had cast her the same look when he passed her in the hallway outside Papa’s study. The dark stranger’s victorious smile, like that of a king, had claimed her imagination. She’d peppered her father with questions, but he would tell her nothing, only that it did not concern her.

  But perhaps it did. What if this dark stranger had come from Maman’s glorious plantation? What if contact had not been cut off forever? His glance toward her had not borne malice. No, it seemed to say that she belonged elsewhere.

  The study door opened.

  “Excuse me, Miss Haynes, Mr. Haynes.” The housekeeper dipped into a slight curtsy. “Mrs. Durning has arrived, and she says that Mr. Kirby will be here shortly.”

  “Good,” cousin Roger said. “Tell Mr. Kirby to join me in the study. We have business to discuss while Miss Haynes entertains Mrs. Durning.”

  The housekeeper bustled off.

  Cousin Roger drew again on the pipe. The set of his jaw meant the decision had been made. With or without her permission, he would give his consent to Eustace Kirby’s suit. He believed he had trapped her.

  Well, he could give all the blessings he wished. He was not her only family, and Mrs. Durning could very wel
l give her the escape she desperately needed.

  She stood, reinvigorated. “I request the annual sum due me.”

  He set down the pipe with a thud. “What?”

  “The fifty pounds specified in Papa’s will.”

  “You will waste it on the tenants?” he sneered.

  She could no longer help them. Unless . . . “And an additional ten pounds per tenant family.”

  He guffawed. Then paused, surprised that she didn’t waver before him. “You are jesting.”

  “I am not.”

  “It’s not in the terms of the will.”

  “I propose new terms. In exchange for the ten pounds per tenant, I will waive all future annual payments.”

  “You will anyway, once you marry.” The smirk was back.

  She drew in a deep breath, never more certain. “I do not intend to marry. I am rejoining my mother’s family in America.”

  He stared, struck silent for the moment, but soon she saw the gleam of self-interest as he calculated the benefits of her plan. This would spare him not only the continued fifty pounds per year but also the five hundred upon her marriage, for she would have difficulty claiming it from America.

  She assumed all the risk, leaving intolerable security for the unknown. Surely her mother’s family would welcome her, if not with open arms, then at least with sympathy for her predicament. Surely they would not hold Maman’s sin against the next generation.

  1

  August 27, 1856

  Off the Bahama Banks

  Catherine shot to her feet at the loud crack that shivered through the Justinian. The sound, earsplitting as cannon fire, overpowered the winds that screamed around the ship. The vessel, heeled hard to larboard, shuddered and righted for a moment. Then the roof of their cabin shook under a sudden barrage of something very hard and weighty.

  Mrs. Durning held on to the frame of the bunk so tightly that her knuckles turned white. “Are we under attack?”

  “Who would attack us?” Though Catherine had never traveled by sea before, she suspected a source other than cannon fire, one that could prove much more dangerous in this tempest. Since the vessel had begun to pitch and roll wildly, she sat heavily on her bunk.

  “The Spaniards might have declared war in the time it’s taken to cross the Atlantic,” Mrs. Durning suggested.