Whispers in Time

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  “The bastard!” Vic raged. Then he took Cami tenderly into his arms. “You needn’t worry, my little love. After tomorrow, you’ll never have to deal with Morris Pinard again.”

  “Oh, Vic, you won’t kill him? What of my cousins? Morris may not be much, but he’s the only man they have to take care of them.”

  “Don’t worry, darling. I plan to fire over his head. Were it up to me, I would call the whole thing off, but…”

  “I know—the Creole code of honor,” Cami sighed.

  As they talked, Vic was leading Cami down the hall, toward his bedroom. With every step, his urgency grew. He had ached so for Cami these past lonely weeks—dreamed of the moment when he could once more make love to her. He drew off her cape, her hat, and was working at her bodice by the time they entered the chamber, ready at once to take her to their bed.

  But, eager as she was, she stopped him. “Vic, what now?” she asked.

  He was kissing her cheeks, her neck, tugging at her gown to get to her breasts. “Now, my little love, I mean to love you within an inch of your life.”

  She laughed softly and nibbled at his ear. “I know that, and I approve. What will happen after the duel, though? Will we be married right away?”

  Vic drew back and stared at her. He shook his head ruefully. “I still can’t support you—not in proper style. But soon. I’ve taken a position on the cotton exchange. I’ll invest every picayune and in time I’ll be able to ask for your hand.”

  “‘In time’ is too far away,” Cami moaned, tearing at his shirt, her own need at a dangerous peak. “I want you now! We’ll marry and live at Elysian Fields. I have things running smoothly already.”

  “Hush!” he told her, kissing her to silence. “I don’t want to talk or even to think. I only want to love you, Cami.”

  With his hands on her breasts, plucking at her erect nipples, Cami conceded defeat, surrendering to desire. Still standing beside the bed, she watched as Vic leaned down, letting his tongue take over his hands’ sweet labors at her breasts. Wet fire raged through her as he sucked and licked. It seemed as if all her feelings were centered just over her heart.

  Then Vic stepped away. For long moments, he stood before her, staring at her heaving breasts. The bodice of her gown hung limply over her hips.

  “You are more beautiful than I remembered,” he whispered. “So beautiful that I thought I would die with wanting you. And now you are here. Are you real, my Cami, or only a vision?”

  “I am real enough to burn for you, my darling.” Her words were low, throaty, laden with invitation and desire.

  Vic reached out and placed his palms on either side of her waist. With one fierce downward motion, he shoved gown and petticoats to the floor. Slowly, savoring every inch of her body, he kissed her until she was almost senseless. She swayed against him.

  “Take me, my darling,” she moaned. “Take me now!”

  Cami never knew when or how they got into bed. Out of the hot dark night, he was suddenly there, poised over her. She felt his tip nudge at her moist, swollen lips, and then came the exquisite sensation she had dreamed of so often. A slow, hot, throbbing slide of flesh into flesh. She was filled to bursting with his love, with his body.

  The powerful feeling rose within her so quickly that she tried to hold it at bay, to enjoy it longer. She held her breath and dared not move. But when Vic eased almost out to plunge deeper yet, all was lost. Cami’s hips rose to meet his thrust and in the next moment she was lost in a swirl of bright color and passion and love so intense that she had to gasp for breath.

  Afterward, they clung to each other, as if time or fate or the very night itself might wrench them apart once more.

  “I want to stay this way forever,” Cami whispered. “I don’t ever want to spend another night out of your arms, my darling. Marry me tomorrow! Please!”

  Vic gave her no answer, but she could feel him tense against her.

  “What’s wrong?” she begged, terror suddenly gripping her.

  “I told you before, Cami, I can’t live on your charity. You wouldn’t want a man who could.”

  “I only want you, Vic. I’ll live any way you like.”

  “It’s not just myself I have to think of now, Cami. There’s my son. He knows about Golden Oaks. Even if he doesn’t remember the place, he expects me to buy it back so we’ll have a real home.”

  “But Elysian Fields is a real home, Vic,” Cami insisted. “It will be a wonderful place for Pierre to grow up. Why, I’ll even take him on expeditions into the swamp to search for Lafitte’s treasure. We’ll have grand times there, the three of us.” She wanted to say, “the four of us,” but she had a feeling that now was not the time to tell Vic about the child she was carrying, the child she thought of already as their little daughter, Janie.

  “Pierre respects me little enough as it is. If I went back on the things I’ve promised him, he would turn from me completely.” Vic rolled away from her. “We’d better get some sleep now. Dawn will come early.”

  Dawn! Cami had almost forgotten. Before she knew it, they would be on their way to a terrifying appointment with fate. For the first time a black thought crossed her mind.

  What if Cousin Morris should kill Vic?

  Chapter Twenty

  Despite the oppressive heat and humidity the next morning, Cami kept her identity well hidden beneath a heavy black gown, cloak, and veil. Moments after dawn, she sat alone in Vic’s closed coach at the edge of Les Trois Capelines. The sun had yet to rise high enough to burn away the thick mist that hovered over the dueling field. Straining her eyes to see through veil and fog, she could barely make out the cluster of men—Vic, Cousin Morris, their seconds, the surgeon—as they stood together beneath the oaks, discussing the polite details of the coming bloody battle.

  “Pistols for two,” she murmured under her breath, “coffee for one.” The words sent a shiver through her. Somewhere she had heard these matters of honor described in such a fashion. A grim thought! Hardly as grim, though, as the thought that Morris Pinard might be the only combatant left afterward to drink his cup of coffee.

  Again, a shudder ran through her. It was difficult being alone at such a grave moment. She wished suddenly that she had demanded that Pierre be allowed to accompany them. Vic had not wanted either of them here, but Cami had insisted on coming, even if she had to ride bareback all the way. Vic had finally relented after she promised to conceal her identity and remain in the closed carriage. But at Pierre’s pleading, Vic had put his boot down firmly, saying to his son, “Dueling is a ridiculous and outdated manner of settling disagreements. You have no reason to feel proud that your father is involved in one. I refuse to let you witness supposedly intelligent men indulging in such bloody insanity. You shall wait for us here, Pierre, until we return around midday.”

  “And what if you don’t return?” the boy had asked petulantly, obviously trying to cover his fear. “What should I do then?”

  “I will return!” Vic had answered. “You have my word on that, son.”

  Cami had added her reassurances, hoping to lighten Pierre’s glum spirits. Now, as she sat alone, watching her kinsman and the man she loved pace off the steps before turning to fire, she wondered if Pierre might have had a premonition that all was not well.

  In the terrible stillness of that morning, Cami heard the counting off of the paces. She saw Vic and Morris Pinard turn to face each other—Vic tall and erect, Cousin Morris short and round, his shoulders slightly stooped. Both men were dressed in formal death-black.

  She watched a vulture circle, glide, then come to light on a branch of one of the oaks to watch the proceedings.

  “Ready!” came the call. Both men raised their pistols into the air. Then only deafening silence.

  “Aim!”

  When Cami saw the two shooters point their guns at heart-level, her own heart all but stopped. Silence again. She waited for the dreaded command to fire.

  Suddenly, the fog over the field thicken
ed. Or was it a mist over Cami’s eyes? A soul-deep chill possessed her. She grew dizzy and weak. Someone was screaming inside her head. Then the sound turned into distinct words. She heard a voice—a woman’s voice: “Frank, look out! He’s got a gun!”

  She glimpsed a strange scene. A man—tall and dark like Vic, a woman with close-cropped brown hair. Behind the pair loomed the unmistakable facade of St. Louis Cathedral, but it seemed much older than the church she knew so well, weathered by time and the elements. A crowd of strange-looking people in peculiar clothing milled about in the gathering twilight. Cami tried to figure out exactly what she was seeing. It made no sense at all.

  Suddenly, the man named Frank yelled, “Where the hell is he, Carol? I don’t see any gun.”

  At that instant, Cami’s perspective changed. She seemed to be inside the woman named Carol, looking at the scene through her greenish eyes. And what she witnessed sent a chill down her spine. She never saw the gunman’s face, only his right arm, his grisly tattoo, and his weapon.

  “Frank, there!” Cami cried.

  Carol glanced about frantically, then whirled toward Frank. How on earth did they get here? They were in a crowd of tourists in Jackson Square. New Orleans, 1992! But only a moment before, she had been outside the city, sitting in a carriage, watching Frank—no, Vic—under moss-shrouded oaks, a dueling pistol in his hand. Now, suddenly, the time and place had changed—Cami and Vic had changed, too—but the threat of death remained as strong as ever.

  “We’ve been thrown forward again, back into the present,” Carol muttered aloud with a sinking feeling. The late afternoon sun flashed once more on the gun barrel. “Frank, look out!”

  Everything seemed to happen in slow motion. Frank turned. Carol saw his eyes go wide as he spotted the pistol aimed at his heart. He ducked. She ran toward him. Then a sound like the crack of a whip split the air. Carol watched the bullet tear into Frank’s chest, watched the blood spurt from the gaping wound. She knew she was screaming, but she couldn’t hear the sound. The only thing she heard was a dull roar inside her head. As she neared Frank, she saw his face register shock. He clutched at his shoulder, staggered, went down.

  Carol was beside him then, cradling his head, calling his name.

  His lips moved and his eyes flickered open as he stared up at her. “Cami? Carol? What are we doing here?” he whispered between gasps. “Why did we come back?”

  Clutching him frantically, Carol moaned, “I don’t know, darling. I don’t know. But I’m taking us away right now. You’ll be okay, Frank, I promise. None of this will have happened once we get back to 1840. Just hang on. Hang on, my love.”

  Carol closed her eyes and mentally kicked in every psychic power she had ever known. She had to get them out of here. She had to do it now!

  A short distance away, two cops wrestled the tattooed gunman to the ground. The panicked crowd swirled like a wave around Frank and Carol, threatening to trample them.

  “Anybody hit?” yelled a burly, red-faced policeman.

  “Yeah, a guy over here,” a tourist in a flashy Mardi Gras tee-shirt shouted back. “Frank somebody. I heard his girlfriend holler to warn him just before the shot.”

  The crowd parted to make way for the husky cop. When the tourist pointed to the spot where Frank had fallen, they found a pool of blood on the cobbles. Nothing else.

  The heavy mist cleared, leaving Cami shaken and confused. Where was she? What had happened?

  At the very instant that the strange vision faded, a loud shot rang out. Pandemonium broke out on the field—men shouting, cursing, hurrying to and fro beneath the oaks.

  Cami stared, unblinking, uncomprehending. “No one gave the command to fire,” she told herself with false serenity, sure that the shot was only an echo of the one she had heard during her vision. Yet something told her that someone on the field had fired as well.

  “Everything’s all right,” she murmured, trying to calm herself. “A misfire, that’s all it was. They will simply retreat and begin again.”

  An instant later, she knew otherwise. When the crowd parted only one of the duelists remained standing. The other lay stretched on the ground, the surgeon kneeling over him.

  “Vic?” Cami said in a small, uncertain voice. Then his name tore itself from her throat in a high-pitched scream. Cami wrenched the carriage door open and flew across the field. She fell to the wet ground beside Vic’s still form and cradled his head in her lap.

  “Madame, please!” barked the surgeon. “Give him air. He may be dying.”

  She stared wildly at the gray-haired physician, her indigo eyes mad with grief. “No!” she shouted. “He is not dying! We came back here so this wouldn’t happen.” She paused, wondering at her own words. “How can he die when the signal was never given to fire?”

  “Pinard stole the advantage by firing before the command,” she heard someone say. She didn’t turn to see who had spoken. Her eyes remained on Vic’s ashen face. His eyes were closed. His breathing was shallow and labored. A gaping wound near his heart oozed blood onto her gown.

  As she stared down—silent with shock and grief—her vision again blurred. When her eyes cleared, she was staring into another man’s face. He looked much like her own lover, yet his cheek bore no scar. He was dressed in odd clothing—a bright shirt, no coat, and what looked like heavy blue work britches. He wore soft white shoes that were laced and tied. Yet his blood, too, flowed from an identical wound. He stared up at her, his dark eyes glazed with pain. “Carol,” he murmured. “Carol, please don’t let it end this way.”

  “I won’t, Frank,” Cami heard her own voice reassuring the stranger. “We’ll go back. We should have stayed. I knew it!”

  “Cami?” Vic’s eyes flickered open. His voice was faint. He seemed confused. “You looked so different.”

  “Sh-h-h, my love,” Cami cautioned. “You’ll be all right. We’re both safe now. I promise.”

  The surgeon frowned at her, admonishing her silently for making promises he couldn’t guarantee.

  “Can he be moved?” she asked the physician. “If I can take him home, I know I can make him well.”

  “The shot missed his heart, but only barely,” the doctor told her. “He’s lost a great deal of blood and he shouldn’t be moved, but we have no choice. I need to get him somewhere so I can clean the wound properly, otherwise it will go septic. I’ve done all I can for him here. At least I’ve been able to stanch the flow of blood for the time being.”

  Cami turned to the others who were milling about. Only Morris Pinard stood back, looking properly shamefaced at the gravity of his cowardly deed. She gave him a hard stare. He would pay for shaming himself on the field of honor. From this day on, he would be cast out by Creole society. Taking only a moment’s satisfaction in that thought, Cami quickly motioned to the seconds. “Help us get him to the carriage.”

  The ride back to New Orleans was a horror. Every bounce and bump brought a moan of pain from Vic. By turns, Cami wept and prayed and murmured words of encouragement to her lover. Finally, the carriage rolled into Condé Street.

  “Thank God, we made it!” Cami breathed.

  For a moment, she wondered what had happened to the other man who was shot—the man named Frank. Then she banished the curious vision from her mind. This was no time for fantasy, she reminded herself sharply. She would have her hands full dealing with painful reality.

  September crept toward October in a welter of heat and misery as Cami worked herself to near-exhaustion tending her less-than-cooperative patient. To add to the suffering inside the Condé Street house, another outbreak of yellow fever had the city in panic. Cannons boomed at all hours, and the heat and humidity seemed far worse with the smoke from smudge pots polluting the already fetid air. Cami’s morning nausea only added to her discomfort and ill temper. Pierre proved to be the final straw. Feeling neglected by both his father and Cami, the boy took to slipping out of the house at night, roaming the streets with a gang of young toughs. Cam
i threatened, but there was little she could do to stop him and Pierre knew it.

  One particularly scorching morning in late September, Cami woke soaked with sweat and immediately reached for the china chamberpot beneath her bed. After several minutes of retching, she stumbled over to the washstand to bathe her face. Glancing out the window, she saw an officer of the law hauling Pierre up the street by the scruff of his collar. The boy was wriggling, cursing, and spitting.

  “What now?” Cami moaned, pulling on her wrapper to meet them at the door.

  She opened up to find the tall, grim-faced officer and Pierre with a black eye and a bloody nose.

  “Bonjour, madame,” the man said coldly.

  Cami recognized him immediately. He had brought Pierre home one morning last week after some foolish mischief.

  “What now, officer?” she asked, giving Pierre her sternest look.

  “It is more serious this time,” the policeman said. “He and three others were caught attempting to break into a store in Royal Street. They tried to fight us when we arrived. The older boys—all past offenders—were taken immediately to the calaboose. Knowing this lad’s father and M’sieur Navar’s present poor state of health, I thought it best to bring the young hellion home. But this is your last warning,” he said pointedly to Pierre. “Next time, you go with your friends.”

  “Thank you,” Cami said. She took Pierre by the arm and drew him inside. “I assure you, sir, this will not happen again. We are going away this very day.”

  “Away where?” Pierre growled. “I like New Orleans. I got pals here.”

  The boy was as bull-headed as his father, Cami fumed irritably.

  “Those pals are better left behind,” she said firmly. “We are going to my plantation, to Elysian Fields. The fresh air and quiet will do your father good, and I’ll have my overseer find so much work for you to do, young man, that you won’t have time to get into any more mischief.”