Whispers in Time

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  Carol did a double take, he sounded so much like Black Vic. Had the scoundrel once more slipped into Frank’s soul?

  Seeing the shock on her face, Frank laughed. “No need to worry, honey. It’s just me—ole ever-lovin’, ever-horny Frank. Come here!” He grabbed her by the jeans and began tugging at them once more. Carol wriggled her bottom, trying to help him get them off. Then, suddenly, she froze.

  “Listen, Frank!” she whispered, straining to hear the music.

  “Aw, that’s nothing,” he answered, giving her jeans a final yank. “Probably just some entertainer playing the harp at brunch.”

  “You hear it, too?” She turned to stare at him.

  “Sure, it’s been playing for quite a while now. Ever since you came in. I heard it when I first opened the door.”

  “That’s it!” Carol cried. “That’s the music I’ve been hearing for weeks. Do you know what this means, Frank?”

  “It’s real hard getting this shirt off you when you don’t cooperate,” he said distractedly.

  She raised her arms over her head to help. “It means we’re going back, Frank. Maybe right away. Why, we might not even have to wait for Choctaw!”

  He finally had her undressed and was snuggling close, kicking off his own jeans. “Aw hell, honey, I don’t want to go back right now. Just give me a little while longer. I’d look right silly showing up back there with a hard-on.”

  “Frank, stop a minute and listen to me.” She tried to bat his hands away from her breasts, but without success. “Frank, are you paying attention?”

  “Uh-huh,” he whispered.

  “As soon as I get back, I’m going to make Cami tell Vic who she really is. You have to make sure that he accepts what she tells him. Otherwise, Vic might do any kind of crazy thing when he finds out she’s lied to him. Do you understand, Frank?”

  “Jesus!… Yes!… I understand! Now, will you do something nice to me with that mouth of yours so it’ll stop making so much racket?”

  Carol did as instructed, and it was ever so much nicer than talking.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Cami… Cami! Come back, Cami!

  The child’s eerie wail suddenly pierced through the silence. Carol heard it, and she could tell that Frank did, too. Their love-making, at a fever pitch the moment before the sound, slowed to a tense pause when the voice cried for Cami.

  “Oh, God, it’s happening, Carol!” Frank strained against her, trying to resume their measured rhythm, but it was no use. “Carol, did you feel that?”

  “Yes, darling! Oh, yes!” Clutching him tightly, she neared the brink.

  “No, that’s not what I mean. I can feel him—Black Vic. He’s here, Carol. He’s tugging at me, trying to take me back.” Frank gripped her tighter. “Don’t let me go,” he begged, “not without you.”

  “I won’t, Frank,” she gasped, caught up in the throes of orgasm.

  Suddenly, Carol’s eyes shot open. She had reached the heights, then the wondrous wave of pleasure had receded only to begin building to the crest all over again.

  “Frank, what’s happening?”

  He only moaned in answer. But as Carol stared at him, she saw his features change. His brows grew thicker and straighter—a bold slash above his night-black eyes. His hair seemed longer, wavier. His face looked more tanned. When he raised his head from the pillow, she gasped. There was a scar down his right cheek.

  He smiled at her—a slow, lazy, seductive smile. “So, you have come back to me, ma chére.”

  Wildly confused, Carol glanced about. The room was the same, Frank’s room. The bed was the same, Frank’s bed. But the man himself was no longer Frank.

  “Vic?” she asked cautiously.

  “Oui, my little love. Your very own.”

  In that instant, Carol realized that she was being given the opportunity she had prayed for. She was with Victoine Navar—very much with him at the moment—and he thought she was Cami, yet she was still herself.

  “Vic, there’s something I must confess.”

  He moved inside her—slowly, deeply. “Must we talk now, Cami dearest?”

  She found herself fighting another orgasm. Clenching her teeth, she tried not to move. She had to hold onto her senses until she could tell him what he needed to know.

  “Please, Vic, hear me out. I am not Fiona’s niece. This has all been a masquerade. My real name is Camille Mazaret. I am heiress to Elysian Fields—daughter of Edouard Mazaret.”

  He pulled out immediately. “You are what?”

  Carol closed her eyes, dreading to face the anger she heard in his voice. “It’s true,” she whispered.

  “Impossible!”

  Carol felt him leap from the bed. She opened her eyes to see where he was going, then she gasped. Gone were Frank’s clothes, which had been tossed haphazardly about the hotel room. Gone were the familiar electric coffee pot and Frank’s hotplate. Gone was the Hotel Dalpeche itself. She was lying in Vic’s bed, in his house on Condé Street. She glanced toward the bureau mirror. Gone, too, was Carol Marlowe. Wide, indigo eyes stared back at her from Camille Mazaret’s perfect, heart-shaped face.

  She turned back to Vic. “It seems nothing is impossible,” she replied. “Remember the night of the ball at Mulgrove?”

  He nodded, looking stunned.

  “You saw me just before you left my cousins’ house. I had been hiding and listening while you argued with Cousin Morris. The moment you looked at me, Vic, I knew you were the only man I could ever love, even though I did not yet know your name. That same night, I ran away so that Cousin Morris couldn’t force me into marriage. In truth, I set out to find you, Vic. Little did I suspect that you were so near. You followed me, taking me for a runaway slave.” She reached out for his hand, brought it to her lips, and kissed it. “I’m sorry I bit you, my love.”

  “You?” he cried. “You were the wench on that devil-horse, riding through the night all alone?”

  She smiled sweetly. “But I wasn’t alone. You told me you followed me all the way from my cousins’ plantation, right to Fiona’s house on Love Street.”

  Carol had to hurry and finish everything she meant to say. She could feel her own will slipping as Cami’s grew stronger by the second. And Cami was afraid.

  “Vic, I’m sorry I’ve been so distant of late. I never meant to turn from you. I do love you. I should have told you the truth from the start. You see, I want to be your wife. And now that you know everything about me, little stands in our way.”

  He groaned as if he were in pain, then turned away from her. “The whole world stands in our way, Cami, more now than before. You see, I have a wife already. And I certainly can’t keep an heiress—my own friend’s daughter—as my placée.”

  “I know you’re married, Vic.”

  She wondered suddenly how she knew. Had Fiona told her? She couldn’t remember. In truth, Carol Marlowe had managed to speak one last line before Cami eclipsed her totally.

  Willing herself to remain clam, Cami continued, “But your wife left you long ago, Vic. Surely, you can find her and set things right so that we can be together forever. If we can’t marry, I would gladly remain here with you as I am now. What difference does marriage make when we share love?”

  “Even if I were free to marry you, I could offer you nothing.”

  “You could offer me your love, Vic. That’s all I need. I have Elysian Fields. It’s for both of us. We would be so happy there.”

  He glared at her. “Do you think I would stoop to being kept?”

  She avoided his angry gaze. “I would. I have. None of that matters, my darling. Our love is the only thing.”

  Without answering, Vic hurriedly pulled on his clothes. He seemed to ignore every word Cami had said. When he turned back to her, fully dressed now, his face was dark with pain. “You may stay here, if you wish, Cami. I will leave immediately.” He rolled his dark eyes heavenward. “I wish to God Edouard would come down to strike me dead on the spot! To think that I too
k his own innocent daughter. I have ruined you, mademoiselle. No other man will have you now.”

  Cami reached out for him. “Vic, my dearest, I want no other man. You are my one, my only love.”

  “Stop!” he commanded in a voice filled with pain. “Don’t ever say that again! Edouard Mazaret’s daughter could never love the man who destroyed her reputation. If your father were here now, he would run me through. And I would gladly give up my life on the field of honor to restore your virtue.”

  “Vic, what are you saying? You love me; I know you do. We were meant to be together.”

  Slowly, he shook his head. “That doesn’t matter now,” he whispered. Tears glistened in his eyes, making them look larger and darker than ever. The lines of anguish etched in his face made Cami ache for him—and for herself.

  “I bid you farewell, Mademoiselle Mazaret. Never again will I darken your door. I wish you could forgive what I have done. But how can I expect that? I know that I will never be able to forgive myself.”

  “Vic, wait!” Cami cried.

  Again he shook his head. “Adieu, my little love!” He turned quickly and was gone.

  Cami sat in the middle of the bed, her breasts heaving, tears streaming down her cheeks. An emptiness like death had settled over her heart. What would become of her now? How could she live without him?

  Black Vic left New Orleans that very day. In spite of what he had said to Cami about never seeing her again, he knew that he would move heaven and earth to have her for his own. In order to clear the way for their marriage, he had to find Madelaine. If she would agree to an annulment, he could then take Cami to Paris—beyond the reach of scandal—and they could be married.

  He headed out of town and up the River Road. He would stop at every plantation, ask every traveller he met. Sooner or later, someone had to have heard the whereabouts of his estranged wife and his little son, Pierre.

  “My ‘little’ son,” Vic reminded himself as he rode through the late-afternoon heat, “will be ten years old by now. Nearly a man!” He sighed, then urged his mount faster.

  A week later, Vic was still in the saddle. So far, his search had proved fruitless, but now he had a definite destination in mind. Madelaine had distant kin who owned a small plantation called Espérance. Several times in the past, he had contacted these relations, Herbert and Josepha Roche. They had been coldly polite in their letters, telling him nothing of his wife’s whereabouts. When Vic had asked after his son, Herbert had said, “My wife is barren. Do you think, sir, that I would be cruel enough to harbor another woman’s child under my roof and have poor Josepha suffer the guilt of her own failings every time she looked at Madelaine’s son?”

  Vic knew he wasn’t likely to find Madelaine and Pierre at Espérance. Still, it was at least a starting point.

  He arrived at sunset. The fading light almost, but not quite, hid the poor condition of the place. Tall weeds along the lane wanted cutting. Potholes in the dirt road made the going slow and rough. Up ahead, he could see the main house through the avenue of tall oaks. One shutter hung askew and a new coat of whitewash was past due. The Roches were an elderly couple, no longer able to oversee their slaves properly; hence, the poor condition of their home.

  Vic shook his head sadly, thinking that if only he had the money to buy back Golden Oaks, he would make his own home shine. He’d purchase sheep to crop his lawn, slaves to work his fields and serve at table. He would tend the place almost as lovingly as he would care for Cami, if only she were his. But there was no need dwelling on such futile thoughts at present. First, he must find Madelaine and Pierre.

  A gaggle of geese announced Vic’s arrival long before he rode into the yard. Hearing the racket, a small black boy in tattered shirt and britches scurried around the side of the house and peered at Vic with great, fearful eyes.

  “You there, boy!” Vic called. “Is your master to home?”

  “Me, suh?” the child asked nervously, pointing a finger at his own bony chest. “I wasn’t doin’ nothin’. I ain’t up to no mischief, suh. ’Twasn’t me stuffed the turkey gobbler down the well, massa. ’Twas him!”

  “No one’s accusing you of mischief,” Vic answered. “I merely want to see M’sieur Roche. Is he here?”

  “And who wants to know?” a surprisingly high-pitched male voice called from the gallery.

  Vic squinted against the glare of the setting sun. “Herbert? Is that you? It’s Victoine Navar, passing through on the way up the river from New Orleans.”

  “I suppose you’ll be wanting to stay the night.” Roche’s statement hardly sounded like a gracious invitation.

  “If it won’t be a bother.”

  The master of Espérance muttered something about all uninvited guests being a bother, but he motioned Vic toward the house with a half-hearted flap of his fleshy hand.

  Herbert Roche had changed a good deal since Vic last saw the man several years before. He was completely bald now and stouter than ever. His sturdy cane and rag-bound foot seemed to indicate that he’d contracted gout. However, his dour expression certainly showed that his disposition had changed not a whit.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve eaten, either,” Roche said in a tone that let Vic know that both his appetite and his presence were a great burden to the folk at Espérance.

  Vic pretended he misunderstood. “Ah, how nice of you to invite me to supper, Herbert. Josepha, as I remember, never fails to set a bountiful table.”

  With a deep sigh of resignation, Madelaine’s obese Cousin Herbert showed Vic into the front hall. “You’ve arrived too late, you know. I sent my man downriver weeks ago to find you and give you the news. If you wanted to be here for the funeral, Navar, you should have pried yourself away from your gaming table long ago. In this heat, she simply wouldn’t keep.”

  Vic frowned at his reluctant host. “My God, man! You don’t mean Josepha’s gone? I’m so sorry.”

  “Indeed not, sir!” a woman’s thin voice trilled down from the head of the stairway. “Why, I’m right here, Cousin Black Vic, and fit as the proverbial fiddle, thank you kindly.”

  “Josepha?” Vic shielded his eyes, trying to make them adjust more quickly to the inside gloom as his gaze followed the wraith-like figure of Madame Roche down the stairs.

  The sparrowish woman flitted toward him to plant a wet, toothless kiss on Vic’s scarred cheek. She murmured a welcome, then scurried off into another room before Vic could even thank her.

  “I’m happy to see Josepha’s well,” he said to Herbert.

  “As well as a woman can be who is unable to give her husband sons,” Herbert growled. People had long said that poor Josepha’s feathery wits had been made so by her husband’s constant harping on her failure as a Creole wife.

  “Back to what you said a moment ago, Herbert. I thought you meant someone had died.”

  “Indeed!” M’sieur Roche replied, brushing at the tip of his bulbous nose with a delicate, lace-edged hankie. “Didn’t you read the letter I sent by my man?”

  Vic shrugged and opened his palms toward his host. “Your servant never found me. I’ve seen no letter. What message did you send?”

  “The bleeding black scoundrel!” Roche blustered. “He probably took himself off upriver and is over the border by now.” He leaned forward and squinted a small, brownish eye at Vic. “You can’t trust them, you know, not a one of them. They’ll run off the first chance they get. We pay good money just so we can give them a decent home and an honest day’s work, then they bite the very aristocratic hand that feeds them! Bastards, the lot!”

  Vic tried to bear with his ill-tempered host, but he wanted desperately to get an answer to his question. “The letter, Herbert! What was in it?”

  Brought abruptly out of his tirade, Herbert Roche looked blank for a moment. “The letter? Oh, that letter, of course. Well, ‘she’s dead’ was the message I sent you.”

  “Who is dead?” Vic could feel his face growing as red as Cousin Herbert’s.

&nbs
p; “Why, Madelaine, of course—your wife.” The man stated the words matter-of-factly, as if any fool should know such news.

  Vic was struck dumb. He stood there, mouthing the words silently, his emotions churning. He and Madelaine had barely known each other when they married. Although true love had never flourished between them, theirs had been a good marriage by Creole standards. They had both rejoiced when she gave him a strong, healthy son on her very first try. But everything had changed that night Vic carelessly gambled away his birthright. He had never blamed his wife for leaving him, although he had come to despise her for taking Pierre when she left and for keeping father and son apart all these years. Still, to hear that Madelaine was dead…

  “When? How?” Vic finally managed.

  “Nearly two months ago, it’s been.” Herbert motioned Vic into the library. “Come, my boy. A dram of brandy might do us both a world of good.”

  A manservant hovering nearby poured each of them a pony of brandy. Vic and Cousin Herbert settled themselves in the dark room that smelled of camphor, mildew, and mice.

  Once Herbert had caught his breath after the exertion of settling his bulk and propping his old, gouty foot, he launched into his tale. “It’s best for all she’s gone.” He clucked his thick tongue. “What a scandal we would have had on our hands otherwise!”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Roche? No one has ever spoken Madelaine’s name and scandal in the same breath before. She was a fine and proper Creole lady.”

  “Ah, how noble your defense, sir!” Roche leaned forward and squinted at Vic, his shaggy white brows almost covering his eyes. “She changed, you know. Ah, yes!”

  “Changed how?”

  “In many ways—in every way.” The elderly man paused and licked at a drop of brandy that had dribbled out of the corner of his mouth. “She took a liking to one of the stable hands—black as your ace of spades, the boy was.”

  Vic shot out of his chair and paced to the windows. “I don’t believe a word of this. You’ve gone as soft in the head as you are in the belly.”