“You think so? Then ask me again how dear Cousin Madelaine died.” Vic turned, about to ask, but the man stopped him. Waving his lace hankie and almost grinning in his excitement at being the bearer of such shocking news, he squeaked, “No, no, no! Don’t bother to ask. I’ll tell you. Your Madelaine died in childbirth!” He leaned over his belly and chuckled. “And her bastard was as black as his pa.”
Vic felt pain twist his heart. “Poor Madelaine,” he said with a deep sigh. “What did I do to you?”
“It’s your fault, all right, Navar. If you’d been a proper husband, she’d never have come to such an end.”
“And the child?” Vic asked quietly.
“Down in the quarters. I gave him to young Sakie to wet-nurse. She lost her girl-child about the same time.”
Vic rounded on the man in a fury. “You mean to make a slave of Madelaine’s son?”
“What else would you have me do with a motherless black bastard? He’s strong. He’ll be a prime field hand by and by.”
“My God, man!” Vic cried in disgust. “The boy’s your own flesh and blood!”
Roche chuckled and raised his glass for a refill. “So are a lot of the others down in the shacks. Besides, I see the boy as payment. Cousin Madelaine owed me something for all the trouble she caused—she and that young hellion you spawned.”
“Pierre!” Vic exclaimed. “My son is here? I want to see him at once.”
“Oh, you’ll see him, all right, Navar. I mean to send the both of you packing at first light tomorrow. I’ve had my fill of your family. If you weren’t such a loser yourself, I’d swear the boy had the devil’s own seed in him. But, knowing you as I do, I suppose Pierre comes by his wickedness honestly.”
Just then a high-pitched shriek split the twilight stillness. Herbert almost sprawled on the floor trying to lift his vast bottom from the chair.
“It’s Josepha!” he shrilled. “Mother of God, what’s happened now?”
Vic dashed out of the room and down the hall toward the back of the house. The screams grew ever louder with each step he took. He found frail Josepha standing on the back gallery, sobbing and wailing.
“My Tom! My Tom! Oh, look! He’s ruined!”
A fat servant with a dirty tignon on her head stood at the foot of the stairs, holding up a dripping turkey carcass by the feet. The creature was obviously dead, probably drowned by the looks of him.
“What’s going on here?” Vic asked, putting his arm around Josepha’s thin, quaking shoulders.
“My Tom!” she wailed again. “He’s ruined!”
Vic turned his gaze back to the servant. “What happened?”
“This here’s Miz Josepha’s pet tom turkey. He all the time strut around the yard behind of her, picking up the corn she throw down. Come time to make new feather dusters, ole Tom he allow Miz Josepha to pick him’s tail clean ’cause he know if he do that she won’t wring his neck for dinner. Now, he done gone and got hisself drowneded.”
“How could such a thing happen?” Vic demanded. “I know turkeys are stupid creatures, but that one looks as if he tried to go swimming.”
The turkey-bearer rolled her eyes. “Young Marse Pierre throwed old Tom down the well.”
“Dammit, Poke, you told!” Vic heard the youngster’s voice from around the corner of the house. Then the sound of fists pounding flesh and shrill cries of pain reached his ears.
Taking the steps two at a time, Vic dashed into the yard and toward the sounds of the ruckus. He found two filthy little boys scuffling in the dirt. He grabbed each by the back of the shirt and tugged them apart.
“What’s going on here?” he growled, first into one black face and then into the other.
“I didn’t tell, suh. I didn’t tell nobody nothing! Young Massa Pierre, he got no cause to give Poke a lickin’.”
Vic dropped Poke—the boy he’d seen when he first arrived—but kept a firm grip on the other struggling rascal. “Pierre?” he asked, trying to see through all the dirt and spit all over the boy’s face. “Are you Pierre Navar?”
“Yeah! What’s it to you, mister?” Still swinging his fists, Pierre landed a solid blow on Vic’s chin. Vic gave the boy a good shake.
“Stop that and listen to me. I’m your father, Pierre.” Vic set the boy on the ground, expecting a hug. He got only a blank, surly stare.
“I got no father—no mother, neither.”
“I’m sorry about your mother, Pierre.” Vic said the words gently, compassionately, trying to get through to his son.
Tears welled up in Pierre’s eyes, but he scrubbed them away with his fists, leaving smeary white circles on his dirt-blackened face. “She didn’t care about me. She just wanted that other baby—that black baby. She said it’d be my little brother or sister.” He paused and spat on the ground. “Damned if that’s so!”
Groping for some way to change the subject, Vic finally asked, “What happened to Cousin Josepha’s pet turkey, Pierre?”
For an instant, Vic thought he glimpsed a pleading, frightened look in his son’s dark eyes. But it was gone in a blink. “Turkeys, they can’t swim,” Pierre said matter-of-facdy. “Poke said they could. But I proved they can’t.” He turned and pointed innocently, almost proudly, toward the limp bird. “You can see for yourself, mister. That ole turkey gobbler’s dead. He couldn’t swim a lick.”
“You shouldn’t have thrown Tom down the well, Pierre. You must apologize to Cousin Josepha.”
Vic—forcing a straight face—was trying desperately to be a proper father, something he knew absolutely nothing about. Pierre was too quick for him, though. The boy caught the suppressed humor in Vic’s tone and noted the merry twinkle in his black eyes.
Pierre laughed, thinking correctly that Vic was amused by his high-spirited antics. Then the boy called toward the gallery, “Hey, Cousin Jo, it’s too bad about your sorry ole turkey—that he couldn’t swim. I know you was real fond of him. But you’ll like him, too, stuffed with oyster dressing and greens, and now you won’t even have to wring his scrawny ole neck, since I drowned him in the well for you.”
At Pierre’s mention of eating her pet, Josepha fainted dead away and tumbled down the gallery steps.
“Why, you little…” Before Vic ever thought what he was doing, he acted instantaneously on his rage. Dropping the boy across his knee, Vic jerked down Pierre’s britches and beat his small, white bottom until it was beet-red. Pierre kicked and twisted, but not a sound escaped his lips, not a tear dribbled from his eyes.
When Vic set Pierre on his feet again, the boy glared at his father with hate in his eyes. Then he turned, and with all the quiet dignity a dirty, beaten, motherless boy can muster, he marched up the stairs and into the house. Vic uttered a weary sigh, knowing that by losing his temper he had lost the first round with his son.
Pierre refused to come down to supper that night. He remained in his room, nursing his wounds.
After supper, Vic took a plate up to the boy. He knocked softly. No answer.
“Pierre? It’s your father. I know you’re in there.”
“Go away!”
“I brought your supper.”
“I ain’t hungry.”
“You need to eat, son, to build up your strength for the trip. I’m taking you with me when I leave tomorrow.”
A long silence followed, then slowly the doorknob turned. Pierre, his eyes red-rimmed, peered out. “Where you going to, mister?”
“New Orleans. You’ll like it there.”
Pierre made no comment. His deep-brown eyes strayed to the plate in Vic’s hand, heaped high with ham, corn-on-the-cob, sweet potatoes, turnip greens, and cornbread. Seeing the boy’s hungry gaze, Vic offered him the plate. Pierre grabbed it out of Vic’s hand and immediately stuffed a whole wedge of buttered cornbread into his mouth.
“May I come in, son?”
“Suit yourself,” Pierre said, spewing buttery crumbs with his words.
Vic eased inside and sat down on the foot of h
is son’s bed. Silently, he watched the boy eat. Pierre, Vic noted, had his mother’s fine-boned face, her brandy-colored eyes. There was something about his mouth that reminded Vic of Madelaine when she was sad. That look tugged at his heart. Didn’t Pierre ever smile?
“How is it?” Vic said at length.
Pierre shrugged and went on eating.
“I’m sorry about this afternoon.” Vic really was sorry for whipping his son, but he had to force the words to get them out.
“It ain’t the first lickin’ I ever had. Won’t be the last, I reckon.” Then he looked up, accusing his father with an angry, hurt stare. “Still, you had no right. I don’t even know who you are, mister.”
Vic felt a lump rising in his throat. Pierre was correct. He did not know his father and that was Vic’s fault.
“I told you who I am, Pierre. Your mother was my wife. We were your parents. I’m afraid I haven’t been much of a father to you, but I hope to change that. We used to be happy—a long time ago. When you were born we lived at a great plantation called Golden Oaks. We had horses and boats and carriages and peacocks that strutted about the wide lawn. You’d like it there.”
“Do you still live there? Is that where we’re going tomorrow?”
The hopeful tone in Pierre’s voice made Vic shy away. He looked down at his hands. “No, I’m afraid not. You see, I lost Golden Oaks. But someday…”
Pierre laughed, but the sound was filled with sarcasm. “Yeah, right!” he answered. “Mother told me all about you and your ‘somedays.’ She said you were a dreamer, a man who’d make all kinds of promises, but never make any of them come true. She called you shiftless.”
Vic nodded sadly. “She had a right to say that about me, I suppose. I disappointed her. But I mean to do better by you, Pierre. If only you’ll give me a chance. Come with me tomorrow, son.”
The boy shrugged. “Reckon I ain’t got much choice in the matter. Cousin Herbert says I’m no damn good. He sure don’t want me around. Nobody does.”
Vic felt himself choking up again. “I do,” he murmured. He opened his arms to the boy, but Pierre turned away.
Slowly, Vic rose from the bed. “Good night, son. I’ll see you in the morning, bright and early.”
Pierre refused to look at his father.
Black Vic’s sleep was troubled by dreams that night. Bits and pieces of his whole life returned to haunt him. He relived the day of his father’s death, his marriage to Madelaine and their wedding night. Then his wife’s form, trembling with a virgin’s fear, turned into Cami’s pale, sweet body. And then Cami became someone else—a woman with eyes that shifted color, short-cropped hair, and a passion that fired his own. Who was she, this stranger? It seemed he knew her, yet he didn’t.
Cami and Vic… Carol and Frank… His own name and his lover’s mingled and mixed with the names of two strangers. Yet that other pair of names struck some vague chord in his memory. Who were they? Why couldn’t he think? Why couldn’t he understand?
His emotions ranged as widely as his nightmares during the long, turbulent hours of that hot night. When, in his dreams, he was with Cami, he felt whole and calm and loved, while visions of Madelaine brought only pain and guilt.
Vic woke himself at dawn, calling Cami’s name. He sat up in bed, wiping a hand over his sweat-stung eyes. His heart was pounding. He’d had an awful nightmare. He’d dreamed he returned to New Orleans only to find Cami gone.
“Wait for me, my little love,” he whispered. “I’m coming back to you. Please wait!”
But even as he and Pierre—sullen and anxious—packed up to ride out, the feeling that he had lost Cami continued to nag at Vic. He simply couldn’t shake the dreams.
With a deep sigh, he mounted up. Turning to Pierre, he asked, “Ready, son?”
The boy shrugged. “I reckon, mister.”
Mister. His son’s title for him cut Vic to the quick. But, perhaps in time…
Vic waved goodbye to Madelaine’s cousins, then they were off. But fear rode with him—fear of what he would find when he returned to New Orleans.
Chapter Nineteen
Victoine Navar had simply vanished from New Orleans after he left Cami that day. Now almost a month had gone by and still there was no word from him, no sign of him. Cami had practically worn a rut in the floor of his house, pacing from the bedroom to the door whenever she thought she heard a sound outside. Each time she convinced herself he had returned, her heart would race, her grim expression would brighten to a smile, and she would feel alive once more. Then when she realized Vic was not there, all the agony would return, doubled and redoubled. She would go back to the music room, to the golden harp, her only solace. For hours on end, her sweet-sad music drifted through the empty house.
On the day Vic went away, Cami had waited for him, sure that he would have a change of heart and return. She’d given him a second day for good measure. When still there was no sign of him, Cami had hurried to Fiona, hoping she would have some idea where Vic might be.
“So, he has left you,” Fiona said that day in a voice that hinted she feared all along this might happen. “It is only a shame he did not go sooner, if he meant from the start to desert you. I should never have trusted fate to keep you safe, ma chere, since I certainly did not trust Victoine Navar. I had hoped that fear on your part or conscience on his might save you.”
“None of this was Vic’s fault, Fiona, it was mine,” Cami confessed. “I set out to make him love me and I succeeded. Because of that success, I felt I could wait no longer. I told him my true identity.”
“You what?” Fiona, who had been standing by the front windows of her cottage, sank to the settee at hearing this news.
Cami would never forget Fiona’s shocked tone or how her golden eyes went wide, staring in disbelief.
“Why on earth would you do such a thing, Camille?”
“Oh, Fiona, we are in love,” Cami had answered as if that explained everything. “I thought it would make him so happy to know that we were free to wed.”
“You may be free, but he isn’t. Camille, Victoine is a married man.”
“I know,” she answered quietly. “But he could end his marriage. Surely, that’s what his wife wants. Then life for us would be so wonderful, Fiona.”
“And how did he respond to finding out who you truly are, Camille?”
“Confusingly!” Cami admitted, pacing the room. “Although he saw nothing amiss with taking Cami Le Moyne as his placée, the very thought that he had made love to Edouard Mazaret’s daughter seemed deeply disturbing. I don’t understand, Fiona. Am I not the same person, no matter the name I use?”
“Not in a Creole gentleman’s eyes. He saw you for what you told him you were—a young woman of color looking for a protector. As such, I’m sure he did everything he could to make life pleasant for you.”
“Oh, he did!” Cami murmured dreamily, tears threatening as she recalled his tenderness and concern.
“But!” Fiona’s sharp voice snapped Cami back to the painful present. “What he did to you as an innocent Creole maiden is totally unacceptable and unforgiveable in his society. Poor Edouard must be turning in his crypt and Victoine knows that.” The woman paused and shook her head sadly. “I share no small amount of the blame in all this. I should never have taken you to the Orleans Ballroom and I should have put my foot down regarding Victoine Navar. In fact, we would all be far better off today if I had sent you right back to Mulgrove and your Cousin Morris the very minute you showed up here.”
“No!” Cami cried. “I’ll never go back there. I couldn’t marry another, loving Vic as I do.”
A grim expression passed over Fiona’s face. “You need have no fear of that, child. Victoine has taken that matter completely out of your hands. Even the promise of Elysian Fields and all Lafitte’s golden treasure could not buy you a respectable husband now.”
Fiona’s words sent a shudder through Cami. “You mean, as Vic said, I’m ruined? Oh, Fiona, what will I do?�
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“It’s a bit late for that question, child.”
Cami gripped Fiona’s hand desperately. “You must help me find Vic. I know he loves me, and, more than that, he needs me. He’s known so much pain and sorrow in his life. If we were together at Elysian Fields, I’m sure we would both be gloriously happy. I told him as much before he left. I said it didn’t matter to me that he had no fortune. I assured him that I have enough for both of us.”
Fiona rolled her eyes and moaned softly. “I’m sure that pleased him!” she said sarcastically. “Camille, my dear, you are still such an innocent. No self-respecting man would allow himself to be kept by a woman.”
Tears trickled from Cami’s indigo eyes. “That’s what Vic said,” she whispered mournfully.
Fiona rose and caressed the weeping woman’s dark hair. “I am sorry for you, Camille. But I’m afraid I don’t have any answers. As for Victoine’s whereabouts, I haven’t the slightest idea where he has gone or when he will come back—if ever. He told me he was going to find his wife and try to get an annulment. That isn’t likely to happen, I’m afraid. All you can do is wait and hope.”
Patience, Cami learned, was not one of her virtues. After two weeks of waiting and hoping, she made up her mind what she must do.
“I’m going back to Elysian Fields,” she told herself with finality. “If I must wait, I will do it in my own home.”
Determined to have her way, Cami dressed in a fine new traveling suit of bronze bombazine, had Vic’s servant hitch the horses to the carriage with the Navar crest on the doors, then ordered the man to drive her out to Mulgrove.
It was a fine day for the trip—late summer, with the first hint of fall in the air. Soon the plantation families would be returning to New Orleans for the social season. She would have to face Cousin Morris then anyway. No need to put the confrontation off any longer, she told herself.
Cami felt like a new woman as she rehearsed her speech for Cousin Morris. She would tell him that she had decided not to marry, but to take up her role as mistress of her own plantation immediately. She would keep Vic’s name entirely out of the conversation. Once she was in possession of Elysian Fields, she could make her own, quiet plans with Vic. She would agree to giving Cousin Morris a portion of her profits, if she was forced to, in order to have her way. She knew the Pinards to be greedy people, not above bribes. Nor was she above paying them, if it meant her happiness.
Whispers in Time Page 33