Whispers in Time

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  By the time the carriage rolled up to Mulgrove, Cami felt confident that she would soon have her life in order. This part of it, at least.

  Morris Pinard spotted the carriage coming toward the house. Leaving the papers he’d been working on scattered over his desk, he walked out onto the gallery to get a better view. They weren’t expecting anyone. He wondered who could be calling this late in the day.

  The minute the carriage pulled to a stop, Pinard spied the Navar crest on the door. He bristled.

  “What’s that bastard up to now?” he grumbled.

  His shock was total when the coachman handed down a woman to the marble carriage steps. Her fashionable bonnet hid her features, but he could tell by the cut of her gown that she was someone of wealth.

  “My dear lady,” he said, descending the stairs, “may I be of assistance?”

  Cami gave him a wary smile from beneath the feathered brim of her smart chapeau. “Why, thank you, yes, Cousin Morris.”

  She watched the man pale under his summer tan. His eyes went wide, scanned her head to toe, then narrowed angrily.

  “What are you doing in that carriage, Camille?”

  She trilled a laugh. “Well, you could hardly expect a lady to ride horseback all this way. I thought you would be pleased to see me, Cousin.”

  “I thought you had gone for good.” His emphasis on that word hinted to Cami that actually he wished she had gone for good. As well he might. If she had simply disappeared without a trace, he would have inherited Elysian Fields by default.

  “I sent you a letter, Cousin Morris, telling you that I was staying with a friend for the time being. I never said I wouldn’t return. But you can rest assured I do not mean to remain at Mulgrove. Could we go in out of the sun and talk?”

  Anger still written all over his face, Pinard glanced one last time at the Navar crest, then motioned Cami to come into the house. The place was as silent as a grave. No one else was about.

  “Where are Cousin Beatrice and Lorenna?” Cami asked.

  “Gone visiting for the week.”

  Morris showed Cami into the parlor and rang a bell for a servant to bring coffee. They settled uncomfortably, facing each other across a low table.

  “I expect Lorenna will marry soon,” said Pinard.

  “Marry?” Cami cried. “But ’Renna’s only a child.”

  “She’s exactly the age her mother was when we wed. It is best for a woman to marry young so that her husband can train her properly.”

  Cami bristled at Pinard’s words, but the only outward sign of her resentment was a gently arched brow.

  “Who have you chosen as Lorenna’s husband?” Cami asked pointedly, expecting to hear the name of one of her own former suitors. The man Morris Pinard mentioned instead shocked her thoroughly.

  “Your cousin will soon be Madame Arnaud Savant.”

  “But how can that be? M’sieur Savant is old enough to be Lorenna’s grand-pére,”

  “Age matters little in affairs of the heart, Camille.”

  “The heart, indeed! Don’t you mean the money purse, Cousin Morris? M’sieur Savant may be long in the tooth, but he is also the wealthiest planter in this parish. Poor Lorenna!”

  “You have no cause to feel pity for your cousin. Save your sympathy for yourself, Camille. If you had complied with my wishes, you, too, could be anticipating your marriage very soon. I’m sure you would enjoy living in luxury at Elysian Fields once more.”

  “That’s exactly what I’ve come to tell you, Cousin Morris. I intend to move back to my own home immediately.”

  Pinard slapped his knees with great satisfaction. “Well, at last you’ve come to your senses, my girl. Now that you’re willing to choose a husband, I won’t even question your whereabouts for the past weeks. We’ll get right to the business at hand. Tell me the man’s name so that I can set the matrimonial wheels in motion.”

  Cami sighed. Here was the old question once again. “I did not say I plan to marry, Cousin Morris, only that I’m going to move back to Elysian Fields.”

  “Impossible! No woman can run a plantation all alone.”

  Cami, though quaking inside, stood her ground bravely. “I believe there is an overseer on the place, as well as a full complement of field workers and house servants. I’m sure I’ll manage.”

  “This is insane—completely out of the question, Camille. I refuse even to discuss it with you.”

  “There’s nothing to discuss. I merely came here to tell you my plans. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I want to drive over there and have a look around. I’ll inform the overseer—Mister Boggs, isn’t it?—of my intent so that he can have everything ready.”

  Her mention of driving brought the Navar crest on the carriage back to the forefront of Pinard’s mind. “That victoria you’re in, who owns it?”

  “A friend,” Cami hedged.

  “Perhaps the friend you’ve been staying with in New Orleans, Cousin Camille?”

  The incriminating crest never crossed Cami’s mind as she answered boldly, “Why, yes, as a matter of fact. I’m allowed use of it whenever I wish. Actually, all my friend’s belongings are at my disposal. I have only to ask.”

  “And, no doubt, you are at your friend’s beck and call as well.” Cami watched, horrified, as Morris Pinard worked himself into a towering rage. “You may tell your gentleman friend that my second will call on him directly. By God, no young woman under my guardianship will be tampered with by the likes of Black Vic Navar!”

  Cami set her china cup down with such force that it cracked the saucer. She fled the house and scrambled into Vic’s carriage.

  “Away!” she called to the startled driver. “Quickly!”

  How foolish she had been not to think of the incriminating crest on the carriage. Now her hasty actions had put Vic’s very life on the line.

  When they reached the road, the driver turned toward Elysian Fields. “No!” Cami called to him. “I’ve changed my plans. Take me back to New Orleans. And hurry!”

  As they sped back toward the city, Cami’s mind worked at a furious pace. She knew what she must do. She would go to Fiona and tell her to warn Vic the moment he returned that Morris Pinard knew of their relationship and meant to challenge her lover to a duel. Cami longed to stay at Vic’s house and wait for him, but she knew she must take possession of Elysian Fields immediately, now that her cousin knew her plans.

  Feeling such a great need for haste, it seemed to Cami that the drive back to New Orleans was endless. She was sure that the road had doubled in length since the morning. At long last, they reached the house in Condé Street.

  “I will be needing the carriage at first light tomorrow,” she informed the driver. She hesitated, thinking it might be best to go to Fiona’s house immediately. Then she changed her mind. She couldn’t face the woman with this new and startling news. She would take the coward’s way out. “Don’t unhitch the team yet,” she told Vic’s servant. “I want you to deliver a letter to number ten rue d’Amour.”

  She hurried inside and wrote her brief, desperate note to Fiona. Once it was on its way, Cami set about packing her things. By tomorrow this time, she would, at last, be mistress of Elysian Fields.

  Vic felt such a vast relief when he reached the outskirts of the city that he might have wept had his son not been with him. All he could think about was getting to Cami, telling her the news, then making her his own.

  He glanced toward Pierre. The boy had remained sullen during the entire trip. Vic wished he could read minds. His son told him nothing of his thoughts, but Vic guessed that they were grim. Too grim for one so young. Maybe he’d made a mistake by telling Pierre about Cami. The lad had yet to get used to the idea of having a father, so how could he be expected to accept the thought of a new mother so soon after the death of his own? But once Pierre met Cami, Vic was certain she would win the boy’s heart.

  “You’ll get to meet Cami soon now, son,” Vic ventured. “She’s a lovely young woman—high-spiri
ted, beautiful, and she plays the harp like an angel.”

  Pierre held his stony silence.

  “What do you think of New Orleans so far?”

  “It stinks!” said Pierre, wrinkling his sun-freckled nose.

  Vic sniffed the air and laughed. “So it does! I’m so used to the smell that I don’t notice it any longer. Summer’s soon over, though. The cool air of autumn will freshen the place.”

  Vic’s heart speeded its pace as they turned into Condé Street. He became aware of a sharp ache in his loins. God, how he’d missed Cami! But soon now… soon! he told himself. Already, visions of the night to come were sweetening his thoughts. He smiled.

  “There it is, Pierre!” Vic cried joyously. “We’re home!”

  “I don’t have a home,” the boy muttered under his breath.

  Vic refused to allow his son’s dour attitude to dampen his own spirits. He was sure that once Pierre settled into his own room with his new family, his temperament would improve.

  They rode through the gate into the courtyard. Vic leaped from his horse and raced to the door. Flinging it wide, he called, “Cami? Cami, I’m home, ma chere!”

  Only silence greeted his cry. But it was more than silence—there was an emptiness about the place. Vic raced down the hall, his heart thundering in his chest. Everything was in order, but nothing was right. He found the rooms empty, Cami’s bureau and armoire cleaned out. His heart sank.

  Vic did not hear Pierre when the boy came into his bedroom. The man, in his agony, stood staring down at his bed, one hand caressing Cami’s pillow.

  “Well? Where is she?” Pierre demanded in a surly tone. “She must not care much about you if she’s not even here to welcome you home.”

  Vic whirled on the boy, his eyes wild and dark. His hand drew back as if he meant to slap his son’s face. Then his rage gave way to desolation. He sank to the bed, his anguished face in his hands.

  “She’s gone,” he moaned. “Gone…”

  The sun had not yet set over the city when Black Vic, still half in shock, answered a sharp knock at his door. He found a Creole gentleman of about his own age, dressed in formal black, his thin face grim.

  “M’sieur Victoine Navar?” his visitor asked.

  “Yes. How may I be of service?”

  The man’s expression never changed. His voice remained steely calm. “I come here on behalf of M’sieur Morris Pinard, acting as his second. Owing to your defamation of his female cousin, Mademoiselle Camille Mazaret, M’sieur Pinard requires satisfaction at your earliest opportunity. You, of course, may name the place, time, and choice of weapons.”

  At first, Vic’s mind refused to interpret the words. Surely the man had the wrong residence. A duel? His reputation was such that no one challenged him any longer. His aim was far too sure and deadly. Frowning, Vic forced himself to react.

  “Morris Pinard, you say?”

  “Oui!” the second answered succinctly.

  “Could you tell me, sir, where Mademoiselle Mazaret is at this moment? Under her cousin’s protection once more?” Of course! Why hadn’t he thought of that in the first place? Old Morris had come to New Orleans, found Cami, and dragged her back to Mulgrove.

  “She is not,” the man replied with a malicious curl of his thin lips. “Mademoiselle has further disgraced herself by taking up residence alone at Elysian Fields. Be that as it may, her ruin came at your hands. And for that, you must pay.”

  Vic’s mind was whirling. Cami at her plantation? What could it mean? Why had she left New Orleans and run away from him? Then realization dawned. He had left her, vowing never to return. What other choice did she have? She had no idea that he was now free to make her his wife. He must let her know. He glanced back at the stiff-postured man. But first, he must settle this matter with Pinard. He thought the details through carefully before he answered.

  “Tell M’sieur Pinard that I will meet him at dawn, three days hence, beneath Les Trois Capelines, the oaks on the Metaire Road.” Vic paused, considering his choice of weapons. The sword was his forte, but pistols would end the matter more quickly. “I choose pistols,” he answered.

  “So be it!” the man replied.

  Vic closed the door sharply.

  “You’re going to fight a duel, mister?” For the first time, Vic heard a note of respect, even awe, in his son’s tone.

  Vic had no intention of letting Cami know about this senseless matter. He would go to her after it was over and tell her everything. Then, once he had saved enough at his newly acquired position as cotton broker to buy back his plantation, they would wed. At least, that was his plan.

  Never did he suspect that Morris Pinard would send word to Cami of the duel. Her cousin’s curt missive reached her the day before the scheduled affair of honor. She was in the midst of setting her household to rights, meeting her new servants, renewing acquaintance with those who had served her parents, and, in general, shouldering a man’s difficult task with a spunky woman’s determination. Everything seemed to be going well until the rider arrived from Mulgrove.

  Pushing her sweat-damp hair out of her eyes, Cami sank down on the broad gallery steps to read her cousin’s note.

  Mulgrove Plantation

  3 September 1840

  My Dear Cousin Camille,

  You will be pleased, I am sure, to hear that I mean to avenge the wrong done to you by that scoundrel, Navar. We shall meet on the field of honor at the oaks on the Metaire Road tomorrow morning at dawn. After I have done with this blackguard, I strongly suggest that you return to Mulgrove and my protection. Owing to your large dowry, perhaps a suitable husband can yet be found, in spite of your soiled reputation. I will send my carriage for you the moment I return to Mulgrove.

  Your servant,

  Morris Pinard

  Cami stared at the note, her mouth agape. She had no idea Vic had returned to New Orleans. Why hadn’t Fiona or Vic himself let her know?

  She jumped up and ran into the house. Her first thought was to race to the city, find Vic, and stop the duel. Halting in mid-flight, she slumped against the rosewood banister of the stairs.

  “That would be useless,” she murmured. “Utterly useless!”

  She knew enough about Creole ways and Creole gentlemen to understand that once a challenge was issued and accepted, there was no turning back. All she could do was go to Les Trois Capelines—those oaks so draped in Spanish moss that they looked like three women in mourning capes—and view the proceedings on that blood-soaked patch of earth where so many noble men had met their deaths.

  She thought suddenly of Cousin Beatrice and Lorenna. What would they do if anything happened to Morris Pinard? Surely, Vic would not kill Cousin Morris, only wound him. And that would put an end to this madness.

  Determined to be there with Vic, Cami hurried upstairs to change. She would go to New Orleans now to see Vic before the fateful meeting at dawn. She would beg him, for the sake of Beatrice and Lorenna, not to kill Cousin Morris. And while she was there, before the dawn, she would show Vic exactly how much she loved him. Halfway up the stairs, Cami was forced to pause. A wave a dizziness swept over her. This wasn’t the first time in the past weeks she had experienced the queasy feeling. She smiled, guessing its cause. Perhaps she would confide her suspicions to Vic this very night.

  The next few hours proved long, uncomfortable, and fatiguing for Cami. The swaying of the coach unsettled her stomach. The fall heat wilted her. And her anxiety increased with each passing mile. By the time she arrived at the Condé Street house, long after dark, she felt ill and exhausted. Her knock at the door brought another sharp jolt. A boy, the image of Vic in miniature, opened the door and stood staring at her sullenly.

  “M’sieur Navar, please.”

  “Who wants him?” the boy demanded.

  Just then, Vic came into the hall. He paused, froze, then rushed to her, almost knocking the boy out of his way. In the next instant, they were in each other’s arms.

  “Cami! Cami,
my sweet love!” Vic cried. “Oh, God, I was afraid you were gone for good!”

  “I went to Elysian Fields, Vic. I had to. I couldn’t bear staying in this house without you.”

  Ignored, Pierre stood by watching with a petulant look on his face as his father kissed this stranger with long, deep intensity. He was still staring at them when Vic broke the prolonged embrace.

  “I have so much to tell you, Cami. For starters, may I present my son, Pierre.”

  “Oh!” Cami cried, smiling down at the boy. “But of course. You look exactly like your father.”

  Cami bent down to hug the boy, but he shrugged away. Glaring up into her eyes, he said, “Everybody says I favor my mother, not him.” He turned his hostile gaze toward Vic.

  “Pierre, why don’t you go on to bed?” Vic suggested. “It’s late, and I need to talk to Mademoiselle Mazaret privately.”

  Pierre turned without a word and almost ran from them.

  “He doesn’t like me, Vic. I can tell,” Cami said.

  “He’ll come around, darling. The poor child has had a rough go of it. That’s why I didn’t want him here when I told you about his mother.” Vic paused, gathering his emotions before he could speak. “Cami, Madelaine is dead.”

  The words fell like a stone into a bottomless well. Cami had no idea what to say. Her joy at hearing that Vic was finally free mingled with guilt that she should feel such elation at news of anyone’s death. Death! The very thought of it turned her blood cold and her mind back to the reason for her coming.

  “Vic, I know about the duel.”

  “How on earth did you find out?” His face went dark with anger. “I meant to tell you, but only after the fact.”

  “Cousin Morris sent word. He means to kill you, Vic, then force me to return to Mulgrove to marry someone of his choice.”