Whispers in Time

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  “Tasty wine,” he whispered. “Tasty lady, too. Smoky and mysterious.”

  Carol took another sip and raised her face toward his. “Want some more?”

  He closed his arms around her and murmured against her hair, “I want it all!”

  Frank eased Carol back toward the bed, his mouth covering hers, tongue licking at her winey taste. She slipped her arms around his shoulders and held him tightly as they kissed. Once more Carol felt as if she were traveling through time and space. But it wasn’t Choctaw’s boat that swept her away.

  For a long time, they lay on the bed in each other’s arms. Carol was conscious of Frank’s desire. It fed her own. It had been too long for both of them. Right or wrong, they needed each other. And it seemed that need could be held at bay no longer.

  Their lips still joined, their tongues doing velvety battle, Carol felt Frank’s hand slip between them. Slowly, he undid the buttons on her shirt. A moment later, she felt the warmth of his palm pressed to the throbbing flesh of her bare breast. A hot flood rushed through her body, cresting and intensifying at her very center of longing.

  “Frank?” she murmured. “What’s happening to us?”

  “I’m not real sure,” he whispered back, his voice husky with passion. “But I sure as hell mean to find out. I have a feeling this has been waiting to happen since the beginning of time.”

  Afterward, Carol could never remember exactly how or when they undressed. It didn’t matter. Moments after their last coherent words to each other, they were lying naked in each other’s arms—hot, hungry flesh pressed tightly.

  Carol’s mind swam with a rainbow of bright colors as Frank kissed and caressed her breasts. His lips passed lightly downward, ever downward. Far off somewhere Carol heard a harp playing and a sad little voice calling Cami. But these sounds proved no distraction to either her need or her pleasure. Right now, Frank filled her whole consciousness. He possessed the very essence of her being. He was, she realized suddenly, the eternal soul-mate she had searched for all her life—perhaps through many lifetimes.

  “Oh, my darling!” Carol gasped when his body moved into place over her writhing form. The long-awaited thrust came at that very instant. She had given her virginity long ago to a boy in college she’d thought she loved. But the lack of pain only enhanced the pure, sweet joy of the moment. He whispered soft words of love to her as he transported her to the very pinnacle of passion.

  Carol couldn’t think where she was the next morning when the alarm clock woke her. Before she opened her eyes, she knew that the bed felt comfortable, but unfamiliar. Then, too, there was the odd warmth next to her. She sniffed the air—shaving cream, the lingering aroma of chicory, and the distinct, wonderfully male scent of Frank. She smiled and reached over to touch him. He roused and snuggled close.

  “No time for that this morning, love,” she warned him. “We have a boat to catch. Remember?”

  “Damn!” he cursed softly, pulling her toward him.

  As much as she was tempted to stay and give him what he so obviously wanted—what they both wanted—Carol leaped out of bed and pulled the covers off him.

  “Got to get up!” she ordered. “Now!”

  “Aw, hell! Why does this guy have to come so early?”

  “I don’t make the rules,” Carol said. “I just play by them. Now, are you coming with me or not?”

  Carol noted as they got dressed and quickly downed mugs of coffee that Frank’s mood was different this morning. The “blue funk” she had expected after last night’s ecstasy had yet to take hold of him. She crossed her fingers and said a silent prayer that she had somehow managed to break this dark spell of his.

  A short time later, they were both dressed warmly, ready to leave for the dock. “Oh, wait a minute!” Frank said as he was about to lock the door. “The gold coin. I picked it up at the station yesterday, just in case.”

  He dashed back inside and came out patting his shirt pocket. All set at last, they headed for the river.

  The morning was chilly, dark, and foggy. As they made their way toward the Barracks Street dock, Frank continued protesting the early hour and the fact that he’d been rousted out before he could enjoy a leisurely repeat performance of last night’s lovely love-making.

  Carol, delighted and relieved that he was in such a good mood, laughed at his complaints. “If you hadn’t kept us both up so late last night, you wouldn’t have had such a hard time getting out of bed this morning.”

  “A hard time!” Frank growled. “Boy, you hit the nail on the head, darlin’. Things are about as hard as they get right now.

  “Fra-ank!” Carol protested, feigning virginal modesty.

  They reached the end of the dock. Choctaw was nowhere in sight.

  “Well, where the hell is this guy?” Frank fumed. “What does he expect us to do—stand out here in the cold and freeze our buns off?”

  Carol pressed his arm. “Take it easy, Frank. You aren’t having a change of heart, are you? You do still want to go along?”

  “Hell, yes!” he snapped. “I just want to get on with it.”

  “Sh-h-h!” Carol cautioned. “Listen. I’m sure we’ll hear him coming any minute now.”

  Sure enough, a moment later they both heard the movement of water and the soft splash of oars as a boat approached. Suddenly, Choctaw’s tall, skeletal form emerged from the thick river fog.

  “I’m here,” Carol called.

  They both heard and felt the soft thud when the bow of the pirogue nudged the dock. Choctaw reached his long arm up to steady Carol as she descended the ancient ladder. “Mam’zelle, be careful, you,” he cautioned.

  “It’s okay, I won’t let her slip.” Frank’s deep voice came like the crack of a pistol on the still air.

  “Wait, you!” Choctaw answered in a threatening voice.

  “This is my friend, Frank,” Carol explained quickly. “He’s coming with us.”

  “Sez who?” Choctaw countered.

  “Sez me!” Frank answered. “I saw the woman in the red tignon the same as Carol did. And here…” He thrust the doubloon toward the scowling ferryman. “Here’s your gold coin.”

  “I’m pretty sure he’s supposed to come along this morning, Choctaw,” Carol said in a placating manner. Then her tone and her attitude turned stubborn. “If Frank can’t come, then I won’t either.”

  The boatman seemed to consider the matter for several minutes, then he motioned them both to come aboard, but with a sound deep in his throat that let them know he was permitting this only grudgingly.

  Carol glanced toward Frank, her heart suddenly in her throat. Now that she knew she loved this man, she was more afraid for him than she had been before. What was she getting him into? What if he could go back, but had to remain there? Wild, terrifying scenarios flooded her mind. She was about to cry out to Choctaw not to go when she realized it was already too late. Carol’s heart sank and fear gripped her troubled soul.

  Chapter Nine

  From the moment Frank settled in the boat next to Carol, he felt odd. It was almost as if the fog formed a wall around him—shutting him off from the world, even from Carol. His gaze focused on the gaunt ferryman, who loomed in the stern of the pirogue like some specter rising from the grave.

  Carol remained silent and nervous. Frank could feel her tenseness as her hand gripped his. He wanted to talk to her, to try to comfort her. After all, wasn’t that the reason he’d come along? But it seemed that some unseen force kept him from speaking. He could only sit quietly, waiting…

  Waiting for what? he wondered.

  Murky light shone around them. Frank could see that they had left the river, following a narrow, twisting bayou into the swamp. Still held by Choctaw’s dark, fixed gaze, Frank watched the man raise one arm and point off to the left. Frank turned his head slowly.

  Like a spotlight, a ray of sunlight suddenly brightened one area of the swamp. In that brilliant setting, Frank spied a handsome lad astride a fine bay gelding.
The boy of ten or twelve was dressed in an immaculate riding costume down to his shiny black boots. As young as he was, the child handled his mount with expertise. While Frank remained mesmerized, a second rider entered the scene. The coal-black hair and jet eyes of the older man mirrored those of the boy. Father and son, Frank assumed correctly.

  As the man reined in beside the lad, Frank noticed for the first time that they were at the edge of a cane field. Suddenly, the man stood in his stirrups and blew one long, sharp note on a conch shell. The tall, waving cane parted here and there. Black faces, gleaming with sweat, peered out at the father and son.

  “Come closer, all of you,” the man’s voice boomed in the humid stillness. The slaves—fifty or more—crept nearer.

  Satisfied that he had an attentive audience, the dark-haired gentleman spoke. “You all know my son, my heir, the future master of Golden Oaks. From this day forward you will obey him as if his words came directly from my mouth. You will help him learn the ways of this great plantation.”

  Frank glanced toward the boy. He sat straight and tall in the saddle, his young face as serious as his father’s. Frank sensed neither fear nor embarrassment in the lad. He seemed remarkably bright, composed, and mature for one so young.

  Again, Frank tuned in to what the father was saying to his field hands. “The British Dragon is threatening our land, indeed, our very way of life. We may soon be called to defend New Orleans against those accursed lobster-backs. If that time should come, I shall heed the call. Should I fall in battle, my son will be your master in my stead.” He turned toward the boy, who showed the first sign of any childish emotion. His father’s speech had brought an unmistakable brightness to the lad’s eyes, although not a tear escaped to betray him. The handsome father—proud and erect—said softly, “Victoine, invite them to pay their respects.”

  “Oui, Papa.” The boy raised his hand, beckoning to the slaves. One by one, they hurried forward to press young Victoine’s hand, stroke his boot, or simply bow. Over and over Frank heard their murmured words: “Bless you, Massa Vic… We be yours now, young massa… We work hard for you, little squire, make good cane.”

  The line of slaves was still coming toward the boy and his father as the scene faded. Frank gripped Carol’s hand more tightly. He tried to turn to her to tell her what he’d seen, what he now knew. But before he could say a word, another bright spot gleamed among the tall cypresses.

  An eerie sound caught Frank’s attention before he could distinguish anything within the bright light. The wailing made his skin crawl, his hair stand on end. Then, suddenly, he recognized the high-pitched scream—bagpipes! Smoke swirled through the bright patch in the swamp. Frank saw that he was viewing a battlefield, and out of the thick haze marched the entire British army, their white cartridge belts forming perfect targets across their red-coated chests. They marched in regulation, gentlemanlike fashion across the marshy reaches, straight for the American lines.

  Frank had read all about this in history books. Every child raised in or around New Orleans knew the story well. This, he realized immediately, was the final day, the final conflict of the Battle of New Orleans. He even recalled the date: January 8, 1815.

  Two men just behind the American lines came into sharp focus before Frank’s eyes.

  “Damned if Lord Pakenham hasn’t provided us with his whole army to use as target practice.”

  From museum portraits Frank had seen, he recognized the tall, craggy-faced officer who spoke as General Andrew Jackson. The man next to him seemed familiar, too—black hair, dark eyes, large frame, but his features were lost in the shadow of his broad-brimmed hat. However, the moment the officer spoke, Frank knew him. Not his name, but the fact that he was the master of Golden Oaks.

  “This should be a fine day’s work, General, and an end to it. Why, this time tomorrow, I fully expect to be home at Golden Oaks with my wife and son, telling them all about our triumph over the British.”

  Somehow, Frank knew that the man’s hopes were destined not to come to pass.

  Just then, another startling sound filled the air. It was a growling swoosh that sent a chill down the spine. Following the awful noise, the battlefield erupted with bursting red glares. The Americans might have panicked had not General Jackson spread the word down the lines: “Easy, boys. It’s the Brits’ new Congreve rocket. Scares the hell out of you, I know, but it can’t hurt you unless the eight-foot shaft catches you on the way down. Keep your eyes peeled.”

  The master of Golden Oaks moved among the terrified men, trying to calm the ranks, spreading Jackson’s consoling words. As Frank watched and listened, he heard the wail of one of the monster-rockets as if it were coming straight for him. He ducked. He looked up again in time to see the blood-red flare of an explosion, then the fatal impact at the moment the deadly rocket shaft struck young Victoine’s father full in the chest. Frank could tell the man was dead before he hit the ground. The bloodied shaft writhed off through the underbrush like a demented snake, then burst with an ear-splitting bang and a great puff of black smoke. Frank looked back to the man. He lay in the mud, his eyes wide, staring at nothing. His chest was laid open to the backbone. Frank wanted to weep. It was as if he had watched his own father die.

  Carol’s trip this time had been less eventful than the last one. She watched the swamp glide by. She saw nothing out of the ordinary, only the duckweed, the cypresses, the water oaks.

  She noted that Frank remained silent and tense all the way, no doubt wishing he’d stayed home in bed. From time to time, she was tempted to say something to him, but he seemed to be so deep in thought that she quelled the urge. They drifted on in total silence except for the water rippling against the sides of the pirogue and the occasional scream of a swamp creature.

  The sudden bump of the boat against a wooden dock made them both jump.

  “We be here,” Choctaw informed them.

  “Where?” Carol asked.

  Before she received an answer, she noticed that the fog was rolling in again. She’d never seen it this thick. Why, she could hardly make out Choctaw’s tall form at the other end of the boat.

  “Come on, Frank,” she urged. “This is where we get off.”

  Carol scrambled out of the boat, then turned back to urge Frank to hurry. To her horror, all she could see was his hand, reaching out to her through a narrow hole in the fog. She could hear him calling her name, but the sound seemed to come from far away.

  “Frank, for God’s sake, grab my hand!” she cried, leaning out over the water. “Hurry, Frank!”

  Sudden terror gripped Carol. Something had gone wrong. Frank wasn’t going to come with her after all. She could only watch, helpless, as he desperately tried to grab hold of her hand. She lay down on the dock, straining to reach him. The hole in the fog had narrowed until only the very tips of his fingers showed through.

  “Frank!” she screamed. “Take my hand!”

  For an instant, their fingertips touched. But it was no use. The next moment, the fog closed in completely.

  “Frank?” she wailed. “Frank, where are you?”

  She cried his name over and over again until her throat ached from calling. Nothing! He was gone—she was forced to admit—vanished, sucked into some black void in time.

  Carol’s voice and her will ebbed away. She stood on the lonely dock, stunned. She was still staring at the spot where she had last seen the boat, Choctaw, and Frank. Nothing remained any longer except a swirly gray curtain of mist. Frank was really, truly gone!

  A tremor ran through her. Waves of cold closed in around her heart. Then the hysteria began. Great, awful, wracking sobs threatened to strangle her. Hot tears blinded her eyes. Her heart pounded until pain burned in her chest. Through it all, she fought the heavy haze that had taken Frank and was even now trying to whisk her away. She struggled on, hoping to fight her way out of the blackness, but it was no use. At last, she crumpled to a heap on the dock and lay there, weeping miserably. She closed her eyes.
If she couldn’t see Frank’s face, she had no desire to see anything at all.

  “Do as I say, immediately!” A woman’s heavily accented voice issued the stern command.

  Carol caught her breath and her eyes shot open. Gone was the fog of the damp morning, gone the bayou and the swamp. She was conscious only of the hard glitter of the woman’s golden eyes, like twin doubloons shining coldly.

  “Fetch a gendarme this moment, Prospere!”

  In the blink of a startled eye, Carol forgot all about Choctaw, the strange swamp, and the frightening fog that had engulfed her. Even Frank slipped from her memory. In that fraction of a heartbeat, she forgot completely that Carol Marlowe existed or that she ever would. Once again, she was Camille Mazaret. And Cami was every bit as frightened and miserable as her counterpart had been moments before… every bit as frightened and miserable as she had been when Carol last left her to face Fiona alone.

  “Please, wait!” Cami cried, stretching pleading hands toward her reluctant hostess. “Won’t you at least hear me out, Fiona?”

  Prospere was at the door, ready to carry out the woman’s order to bring the authorities. Fiona hesitated, then made a slight sign for him to stay.

  Cami exhaled a pent-up breath. “Thank you,” she murmured.

  “You have nothing to thank me for yet,” Fiona countered, her beautiful amber eyes still narrowed in suspicion.

  “But I truly am Edouard Mazaret’s daughter,” Cami insisted, spreading her hands before her now in a gesture for mercy.

  Fiona remained unmoved. “I do not believe your tale for an instant, girl. The man who came here looking for you said that you are a runaway slave. Only because I believe him have I not sent Prospere for the law. If you need help to escape from your master, to run to the North and freedom, then I may be of some assistance to you. But, I warn you, do not sully the name of Edouard Mazaret with your wicked lies.”

  “I am not a slave! I told him that. He merely believed what he wanted to think.”