Whispers in Time

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  The girl’s evaluation of Victoine Navar almost brought a smile to Fiona’s lips. This young woman—whoever she was—had Black Vic figured out already. He was never a man to deal well with reality or logic. But this discussion did not concern that man and his many peculiarities. Fiona remained firm and resolved to find out the truth from this ragged girl once and for all.

  “Well? I am waiting,” she said impatiently.

  Cami had feared few things in her life, but she found herself quaking with fright before this tiny woman with the eyes of an angry swamp cat. Cami hugged her arms across her chest, trying to stop her trembling. She had to get control of herself, to think of a way to make Fiona believe her.

  Cami glanced toward the handsome young man named Prospere, as if help might come from that quarter, although she sensed that was hopeless. He and Fiona were obviously very close and he would side with her. His presence here puzzled Camille. Everyone knew that her father’s placée had sworn to remain faithful to the grave. Yet here was this handsome gentleman and here was Fiona, and both were in their nightclothes. Prospere had obviously spent the night with Fiona. How long, Cami wondered, had her father’s mistress waited after his death before striking a bargain with this young replacement? His very presence made Cami nervous and resentful.

  “Have you lost your tongue, girl?” Fiona demanded. “Speak up! This instant!”

  “Please, could we talk alone, Fiona?” Cami asked, still fighting to regain her composure.

  Fiona gave a nod and Prospere left without a word.

  Alone, the two women sized each other up in silence. After a time, Fiona said, “Well? Are you going to tell me your story or are you going to leave my house?”

  Camille felt calmer now. Her determination to have Fiona as an ally returned. “Yes, I’ll tell you my story—all of it. I’ve kept you waiting while I tried to figure out how to make you believe me.”

  “I will believe the truth,” Fiona replied, her voice a bit softer. “Nothing short of it, however.”

  Glancing about the bedchamber, Cami said, “I know this place, this very room. My father told me about it, he loved it so.” She swung around and looked the older woman straight in the eye as she added, “And he loved you, Fiona.”

  “My deep affection for Edouard Mazaret goes without saying,” she answered quiedy. “As for your father, as far as I know, I have never met the man.”

  “Oh, no?” Cami moved to the window and reached out her fingertips. “Papa told me about these curtains—how he went with you to select the fabric. How you chose the most delicate blue lawn—because you said the color matched his eyes. Then you painted the tiny butterflies and flowers yourself, while he watched and admired your skill.”

  Fiona’s hand went to her throat. She reached out with the other and caught the rosewood bedpost to steady herself. “How could you know these things?” she murmured. “It is a trick.”

  Feeling confident now, sure that she could make her father’s former mistress believe, Cami shook her head. “No, Fiona. I would never try to trick the only woman my father ever loved. My mother was a cold and bitter person, a cruel wife. Had it not been for you, Papa’s life would have been a misery. He needed to be loved. He told me once that you and I were the only women in his life who really cared for him, the only ones who made his life worth living.”

  “Mon Dieu!” Fiona breathed softly, her lovely eyes suddenly brimming. “Camille? Is it really you? Can it be?”

  Remembering suddenly that she had final proof, Cami reached inside her shirt and drew out the doubloon she wore on a thin chain about her neck. “Lafitte’s gold,” she said. “I believe Papa gave you a similar coin.”

  Fiona sank to the bed and buried her face in her palms. Silent sobs racked her slender body. After several moments, when she managed to regain control of her emotions, she looked up at Camille through dark, tear-starred lashes. She raised her arms for the girl to come to her.

  “Oh, Fiona,” Cami whispered against the woman’s lime-scented hair, “I still miss him so.”

  “As do I, Camille, as do I.”

  The two women clung to each other for a long time, weeping away their renewed grief, made fresh by this reunion.

  Finally, Fiona leaned away, looking at Camille as if she were seeing her for the first time. “The only other occasion that I set eyes on you,” Fiona explained, “you were but a tiny child—two or three, perhaps—chasing butterflies under the sycamores in the Place d’Armes. I had only a glimpse of you, but even from a distance I could tell you were such a beauty.”

  Cami glanced down at her mud-spattered old clothes and laughed. “Some say I grew up quite nicely, but you’d never know it at the moment. I must look a mess, Fiona.”

  Never one to be less than honest even for the sake of tact, Fiona smiled and nodded her agreement. “That you do, my child. But we will make things better. Shuck those filthy rags this instant!” She went to the door and called, “Prospere! Please tell Ellie to heat water and bring the tub. Quickly, now, my love!”

  Camille frowned. It still bothered her that Fiona had taken another protector after her father’s death. But who was she to deny another woman the very thing that she herself had come to New Orleans in search of—someone to love?

  “Now, Camille, we shall see what lies under all that dirt.” Fiona wrinkled her dainty nose and added, “It is no wonder you were taken for a runaway slave in those old rags.”

  Cami laughed. “Well, I couldn’t very well ride Voodoo all the way to New Orleans in my satin and lace ball gown, could I?”

  “You rode your father’s wild horse all the way from Mulgrove? But why, ma chère? Why have you come to New Orleans?”

  “Cousin Morris was going to force me to choose a husband, Fiona. I refuse to marry a man I can never love. I hoped you would help me.”

  A worried frown clouded Fiona’s smooth face. “Your guardian will likely come searching for you. What then?”

  Cami thought for a moment. Fiona was right. After all, Cousin Morris had a stake in seeing that she married a man of his choice so he could keep some control over Elysian Fields.

  “Perhaps I could send a letter,” Cami suggested, “telling him that I am all right, but not telling him where I am. I could say simply that I’m staying with a friend until I make my decision regarding a husband. He meant to force me into making a choice this very morning, you see. But I can’t, Fiona. I refuse to marry until I fall in love.”

  Fiona clucked her tongue over Cami’s dilemma and quickly agreed to have the letter sent once it was written. Privately, Fiona assured herself that Camille would not be long in her care. Edouard’s daughter didn’t belong here, but Fiona couldn’t simply send her on her way. It must be Camille’s choice to return to her proper place, if she was to accept her lot in life gracefully.

  Moving about the room, Fiona took soap and oils and powder from one of the bureau drawers, lilac-scented towels from another, and a dressing gown of peach-blush silk from the cedar-line armoire. She handed the filmy robe to Camille.

  “This will be small for you, since it is mine,” Fiona said, “but never mind. Only Prospere and I will see you wearing it and we’ll not tell a soul.”

  “I brought a few things with me,” Cami said. “In the bag over there.”

  Fiona picked up the muddy satchel with two fingers, holding it away from her as if it were diseased. She opened it and dumped the contents on the bed. Then her tinkling laughter filled the room.

  “Ball gowns, ma chère?” She turned a glowing, but slightly patronizing, smile on Camille. “And where did you plan to wear all these fine silks and laces?”

  Standing in her muddy underthings, tangled hair straggling about her dirty face, Camille felt slightly ridiculous. She might have brought more sensible clothes had she had more time to think before her escape.

  Cami shrugged. “I packed in such haste.” It was the truth, after all. “I just grabbed any old thing and threw it into the bag.”

&n
bsp; “Well, dear child, we’ll have to buy you some school clothes if you plan to stay long in New Orleans.”

  “Fiona!” Camille purposely spoke the name in her most adult voice. When the woman turned to her, Cami had slipped her chemise over her head and stood before her new friend, naked to the waist. “My school days are long since behind me. I am not a child!”

  Fiona stared at the amazing sight before her. Camille Mazaret was indeed a child no longer! Her breasts were full and proud, the nipples large and darkly shaded. Her waist curved gently in above a woman’s softly rounded hips, ripe for childbearing. Fiona herself had often longed for such a lush and lovely figure.

  “My mistake, surely,” Fiona said, her cheeks tinting faintly as she smiled at Edouard’s beautiful daughter. “How old are you, Camille?”

  Blushing from the woman’s appraising stare, Cami held up her camisole to hide her naked breasts. “Old enough to be married and nursing my second or third child. I am eighteen now, but I’ll turn the calendar again in September.”

  Camille heard a sharp intake of breath from Fiona. “And never married?”

  “Never anything!” Camille answered firmly.

  “Still a virgin at almost nineteen?” Fiona muttered, as if the fact made her seriously nervous. “Mon Dieu! But, forgive me, my dear. Tell me your problem. Surely, we can figure out something, you and I. Or perhaps a doctor I know could help.”

  Cami laughed. “I don’t think so, Fiona. Not unless your doctor friend sells love potions. Marriage would be no problem. Cousin Morris would be more than happy to arrange that. Love, however, takes a bit more time and effort, it seems.”

  “Ah-h-h!” Fiona’s golden eyes glittered with understanding. “Now, I see. You are, indeed, Edouard Mazaret’s daughter.”

  The whole tale tumbled out then as Camille told Fiona about the endless balls, the endless boys, and her cousin’s demand that she forsake all thoughts of love and choose a husband immediately so that Elysian Fields would have a new master.

  “So, I ran away,” Cami finished. “I don’t want to be like my mother, my Cousin Beatrice, or any of those Creole ladies who settle for less than their fondest desires.”

  Fiona sighed in sympathy, realizing at the same time that it might be more difficult than she had imagined to convince Camille to return to Mulgrove.

  “And have you a man in mind, ma chére? Someone who stirs your passions?”

  Camille’s whole face lit with pleasure and a winsome longing when she answered. “Yes, Fiona, I have found such a man—one who completely captured my heart when first our eyes met. I mean to marry Victoine Navar.”

  For a moment, Fiona looked totally confused. Surely, Edouard’s daughter could not have fallen in love with the man who chased her through the night, the man she bit so viciously.

  “I saw him at the ball last night,” Cami continued wistfully. “Oh, Fiona, he is such a man! I’ve never seen another like him, and I know he’s the only one for me.”

  “Oh… my… God!” Fiona gasped. “Anyone, anyone but Black Vic!” she cried. Then her eyes narrowed to slits and she leaned close to Camille’s face. “You say you love Victoine Navar and yet you claim to be still a virgin? I do not believe it!”

  Cami shied away from Fiona’s piercing gaze. “It’s true! Actually, I don’t know him very well yet. That is, I didn’t exactly meet him at the ball. Cousin Morris refused him entry. But when I saw him from a distance at Mulgrove—when he looked at me—that one glance was enough.”

  Fiona moaned her relief that Edouard’s daughter had given nothing but her heart to the married man. She knew from firsthand experience what pain such a love could bring. “God has been kind to you, Camille. See that you keep your distance from that one at all times. He is not right for you.”

  “I don’t care if he has no plantation, no fortune, no standing in society,” Cami declared vehemently. “Those things mean nothing to me. I have all that. I only want the right man to share my life. And Black Vic is definitely the husband for me!” She turned a pleading gaze on Fiona. “If you understood the way he made me feel, only gazing at me from a distance. Oh, Fiona, please don’t try to discourage me. Believe me, it was love at first sight.”

  Cami felt a shiver run through her as she recalled those few moments with Black Vic. A warmth spread through her thighs and she went weak with emotion. She sank down to the bed.

  Fiona cursed softly in French and turned away.

  “Fiona, you don’t understand,” Cami whispered. “I admit that I am inexperienced with men. Still, I felt something the moment I saw Victione Navar. Something powerful. Something that will remain with me forevermore. It would be so wonderful to go through life feeling that deep glow every day and every night. I tremble just thinking about his black eyes, the way his mouth twitched as he stared at me as if he longed to kiss me. The things he seemed to be saying to me without ever speaking a word. He looked dashing and hungry and evil.”

  Fiona cast her gaze toward heaven and muttered, “Mother of God, keep this child safe.” It was one thing to be Black Vic’s friend, but quite another to trust him with Edouard Mazaret’s innocent daughter. The very thought sent a shiver of dread through Fiona’s slender body. She looked back at Camille, her eyes as sharp as talons, ready to snatch the full facts out of the girl. “Evil, you say? Well, there are many who would agree with you, most of them fathers of foolish, beautiful, once-innocent daughters. You are certain he never touched you, Camille?”

  Cami shook her head. “Never touched me, never even spoke to me, but, oh, Fiona, how I burn for him! I would be eternally grateful if only you could arrange to have us introduced.”

  “Impossible!” Fiona gasped. “Never! I do not want to hear his name mentioned again as long as you are under my roof. Do you understand, Camille?”

  “Yes, Fiona,” Cami answered disconsolately, yet in her soul she remained determined.

  A knock at the bedroom door interrupted their conversation. Fiona’s fat little maid, Ellie, scurried in, carrying a tin tub and a bucket of steaming water.

  Relieved to be done with all talk of Black Vic, Fiona helped Camille into the shallow hot-tub. “This will have to do for now. But later I will have Ellie boil enough water for you to have a real bath.”

  The hot water felt wonderfully relaxing to Cami’s tired muscles. Lilac-scented bubbles tickled her skin, and the French-milled soap felt as soft as satin. She might have fallen asleep if Fiona had left her alone, but the woman was bursting with questions, mostly about Edouard Mazaret. Did Cami remember the way he loved to sing? Had she ever seen a man with eyes so blue? Was he as sweet and kind to his daughter as he had been to Fiona herself? Did he really teach Cami to ride that devil-horse, Voodoo?

  Finally, washed, dried, powdered, and perfumed, Cami slipped into Fiona’s peach silk dressing gown. It proved a scandalous fit, but it felt wonderfully cool and smooth against her bare skin.

  “Now, for some food,” Fiona said. “You must be starving, dear. Come. We will eat in the front parlor.”

  Cami hesitated, shy at the thought of having that man, Prospere, see her in the scanty dressing gown.

  Realizing the cause of her guest’s distress, Fiona laughed and said, “Don’t mind Prospere, darling. He has been away in France, and, believe me, there is little he has not seen these past months. I assure you, the cut of your gown will go totally unnoticed.”

  Too famished to resist any longer, Cami followed Fiona to the front room of the house. There they found silver, crystal, and china gracing the table. Warm, sticky pastries, crusty French bread—hot from the oven—and café au lait awaited their pleasure.

  Camille sipped her coffee and munched on a deliciously flaky apricot pastry while Fiona and Prospere entered into a spirited conversation, mostly in French. Although Cami had spoken the language since childhood, she much preferred the English her father had taught her. Still, she had no trouble following Prospere’s exciting tales of his recent adventures in Paris.

&
nbsp; “When I go back,” he said to Fiona, “I plan to take you with me. There are no lines of color there. You would be free to live as you choose.”

  Camille felt another twinge of jealousy for her father’s sake as she watched Fiona reach over and cover Prospere’s hand with her own. “Ah, mon coeur,” the woman whispered, “I live as I choose already.”

  “That must be nice,” Cami interjected with more sarcasm than she’d intended.

  Both Fiona and Prospere looked at her, shocked by her tone. Cami felt her cheeks flush with embarrassment at her outburst.

  “I only meant,” she attempted to explain, “that some of us are not so fortunate. We are forced to follow the rules others set for us.”

  “Ah, Prospere, our Camille has a serious problem,” Fiona confided. “She longs for love, but has yet to find it. If she does not, her guardian will soon force her to marry, regardless.”

  For the first time, Cami became conscious of Prospere actually looking directly at her, appraising her. She clutched the robe to cover the swell of her bosom.

  “But Camille is a beauty, no?” Prospere observed objectively. “Even the lovely women who attend the Bals du Cordon Bleu at the Orleans Ballroom would pale beside her.

  “The Bals du Cordon Bleu?” Camille queried.

  “It is the best… the only place here in New Orleans where a respectable young woman can go to seek and find the love her heart desires,” Prospere explained. Cami noticed the merry twinkle in his sky-blue eyes, but thought nothing of it as he continued. “Young men of good family and mature gentlemen alike attend the well-chaperoned balls three times weekly. They all go there in search of love. Everyone says it is the gayest affair in all the city.”

  Cami’s eyes lit up with excitement. She had never heard of the Orleans Ballroom, but what a wonder it must be! Why had her Cousin Morris never told her about this or encouraged her to attend the soirées there?

  “I brought ball gowns,” Cami reminded Fiona breathlessly. “And perhaps I would meet someone who is perfect for me there.”