Frank walked her to the door of her room, a first-floor suite that had once been part of the servants’ quarters. But the minute he unlocked the door and opened it, Carol realized that no servant had ever enjoyed such opulence. The canopy bed was draped in wine-colored damask. Marble-topped tables held Gone-With-the-Wind-lamps, their pale satin-glass globes decorated with handpainted roses. Oil paintings in antique gilt frames adorned the walls.
One of these paintings in particular caught and held her attention. It was a gloomy portrait of a handsome, dark stranger, yet there seemed something almost familiar about the angular planes and strong lines of his face. She caught her breath, feeling the cold stare of the man as if he were alive within his ornate gold frame. His dark eyes seemed to follow her as she moved about the room. A chill shivered down her spine when her gaze met his head-on. For what seemed a long time she stood before the painting, examining its every detail. In the background, over each shoulder, the artist had painted small scenes. On the right was a miniature depiction of what appeared to be the Battle of New Orleans. To the left was a detailed interior—a music room, perhaps—and two figures, a dark-haired woman seated at a golden harp with a young boy standing beside her, his head resting on her shoulder.
Carol gazed fixedly at the images in the painting until they seemed to come alive. She could almost see the woman’s fingers moving on the delicate harp strings, almost hear the sad whisper of the music. She ached to know who they were, when and where they had lived, what had happened to them.
Frank cleared his throat, interrupting her thoughts. “Do you reckon you’ll be comfortable here?”
“Oh, yes, Frank! It’s a wonderful room.” She sighed, her eyes still on the portrait. “I’m sure it will be perfect.”
She turned to find him lounging against the doorframe, a lazy smile curving his lips. “I hoped you’d like it.”
“Like it? I love it!” she assured him. “And the little courtyard outside with the bubbling fountain, why, it’s my own private sanctuary.”
“Well, if you’re all settled, I suppose I’d better go on and let you get some rest. Don’t worry about getting up too early. I have a meeting first thing that I couldn’t postpone, so I’ll pick you up at noon and we can get started. I guess you’ll want to see her first thing.”
As Frank turned to leave, Carol stopped him.
“Thank you, Frank, for everything. It’s been a lovely evening.” She smiled a bit nervously. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Frank took a step closer and grinned down into her eyes, his own dancing with dark lights. For one breathless moment, Carol thought he meant to kiss her. Then she chided herself for such girlish foolishness. This was business, pure and simple. Besides, Frank would be the first to admit that he was a very married man, even if he hadn’t seen his wife in over ten years.
“’Night, ma’am, and thank you kindly,” he said, smiling wistfully. “Sweet dreams now!”
Then he was gone, leaving Carol staring after him into the night. Something odd was happening here. She’d known Frank Longpre for only hours yet it seemed that they had been friends for years… forever! There was a strange familiarity drawing them together that, even with her psychic powers, she didn’t quite understand.
She walked over to the window and pulled the drapes aside to see if she could get a final glimpse of him. What she saw instead gave her a heart-thumping start.
Standing there in the dark courtyard, the old woman in the scarlet tignon stared back at Carol. Carol’s heart raced and her palms went sweaty. She blinked. She looked again and the woman was gone.
“Cami… Cami… Cami,” the sad little voice wailed inside Carol’s head. “Come back… back to Elysian Fields…”
In that instant, Carol knew that she would be at the foot of Barracks Street the next morning before dawn.
Chapter Three
A heavy mist rolled in off the river that morning. The sorrowful moan of a distant foghorn carried on the thick, chilled air. Carol had dressed in corduroy slacks, a wool sweater, and her fleece-lined trench coat before heading for Barracks Street, but nevertheless her teeth chattered uncontrollably as she stood in the cold on the deserted wharf.
“This is crazy!” she muttered between dental clicks. “What ever possessed me…”
Just as she was about to turn and head back to her snug hotel room, she heard the unmistakable sound of oars splashing water. Then a deep, male voice called, “Ah-llo!”
A new kind of chill froze Carol where she stood. Her fear gave way quickly to a thrill of excitement. Anxious anticipation engulfed her. If anyone had asked why, she could never have explained the feeling. She was cold, weary, frightened, yet at the same time some inner part of her welcomed the thought of this bizarre, predawn foray into the unknown. She remembered how Granny Bess used to tell her, “Curiosity will be your downfall, child, sure as anything.”
On an intellectual level, Carol fully agreed with her grandmother. But she knew from experience that she lived to satisfy her own curiosity. Once she heard the ferryman’s call, she could no more have turned back to the safe sanctuary of her hotel than she could have jumped into the cold, muddy Mississippi to swim to the far bank.
She had done elaborate mental scheming from the time she met the old woman at the airport, thinking she would have to convince Frank that she had personal business to take care of alone this morning. Then Frank himself had provided her with an out. As eager as she was to pursue his case, at the moment she was even more anxious to clear up the mystery of the curious stranger who had given her the gold doubloon and the ferryman who would take her to Elysian Fields. Wherever that was! No way could she turn back now.
“Hello!” she called back. “I’m here.”
She heard the boat bump the dock and a moment later a shudder ran through the old boards beneath her feet.
“Be careful, you, mam’zelle.” The voice was still disembodied. It drifted to Carol eerily, as ghostly as the foghorn moaning out over the water.
She edged toward the end of the dock, testing every step before she put her full weight on each board. As she moved closer, the man standing below in his pirogue materialized into a dark, indistinct shape. He raised his hand to help her down the ladder.
“You the one. Yes, mam’zelle?”
She was perched halfway down to the small boat when he asked his question. Suddenly, Carol realized he wanted to see the gold coin that she had in her pocket.
“Here,” she said, thrusting it toward him.
“Merci,” he replied, taking the gold piece.
Once Carol was settled on a damp blanket in the bow, he took up his task at the oars. She could feel the surge of water against the thin hull. She clung to the sides, trying not to think of the river, running swift and cold only inches away.
The ferryman remained silent. A hint of dawn lifted one edge of the curtain of night. Against the purple-gray sky, Carol could see that her ferryman was extremely tall and lean with a mad tangle of long, dark hair falling about his stooped shoulders. He sang a wordless song to himself as he plied the oars—a deep, throaty, unmusical dirge.
“Where are you taking me?” Carol asked at length.
“Champs Elysées,” he answered. “Elysian Fields.”
“How far away is this place?” she asked, thinking suddenly of practical considerations. “I have to be back before noon.”
He seemed to think about her question for a time before he answered. “Too far, mam’zelle, to be told. Still, not too far to see. Choctaw show you.”
“Is that your name? Choctaw?”
He nodded silently.
“My name is Carol Marlowe,” she offered, hoping he might open up if she started the conversation.
At this, he gave a negative shake of his head. “Cami,” he said simply.
Cami—there was that name again. But who was she? And why did Carol keep hearing the voice in her head, calling Cami to come back? She lost herself in thought, trying to remembe
r the first time she’d heard the pleas of the weeping child. For some time, she forgot where she was, whom she was with as she drifted in her own memories—recalling bits of dreams and visions all mixed with the kaleidoscope of long-ago reality.
When she snapped out of it, the sun was coming up, but still the fog lingered, distorting the world around her. They were no longer on the wide expanses of the river, but gliding slowly through a swamp of tall cypresses and twisted, bearded oaks.
“Where are we?”
“The knowing place,” Choctaw answered cryptically.
“The what?” Carol wasn’t sure she’d heard him correctly.
“Where all things come in time, to be remembered evermore.”
“What things?” Carol demanded, weary with the man’s riddles.
“You have special powers, mam’zelle. No? You see sometimes into the future. Do you not also see the past?”
“Yes,” she said. “Bits of the past—tiny vignettes from time to time.”
“You know all the past. Your past. It is time you confronted it.”
Choctaw’s words only confused her more. Carol simply shook her head at him.
“Look there, mam’zelle. Look there—to the knowing place—and face what was… what could be again.”
Carol turned her head to see where he was pointing. Before she saw anything, however, the sun faded, plunging them once more into darkness. She cried out in shock.
“Sh-h-h!” Choctaw cautioned. “Make no sound. Only listen. Only see.”
Her heart pounding in her breast, Carol did as her guide commanded. Her emotions were doing furious battle. She wanted to believe that Choctaw and his “knowing place” could somehow allow her to see back in time. But this experience was totally foreign to anything having to do with her psychic powers. The golden-eyed woman, the riddling ferryman, the murky swamp all seemed so strange. She was curious; she was also afraid.
Carol strained her eyes, trying to peer through the shadows. Before light seeped back into the scene, she heard the voices. Men’s voices. Angry voices.
“Damn you, Lafitte! This is insane! You bury the booty in the middle of this swamp and how will we ever find it again?”
“Perhaps I don’t wish you to find it again, Ortez. The swamp seems the best place to keep my wealth out of the hands of my enemies. But maybe I would be wise to do as they say Blackbeard did, eh? Kill those who helped him hide his treasure and bury them with it. How does that strike you, Ortez?”
“No, Boss! Please! This spot, she is fine. You will know, but I will never tell because I am lost like a blind man in the bowels of this dreadful swamp.”
“Lost, are you?” Lafitte gave a hearty laugh. “Then perhaps I should leave you here. If you can’t find your way out, you can’t tell anyone where my treasure is buried.”
Carol’s skin crawled as she heard the pirate’s threats. The very thought of being lost in this swamp made her feel weak and ill with fear. It seemed almost as if she herself were the one being threatened. An image of Frank’s mummified corpse floated before her eyes. Was that why Choctaw was showing her this scene between the pirates? Had the woman lost her way in these regions while searching for Lafitte’s buried gold?
For an instant, enough light filtered through the thick canopy overhead for Carol to see the men. Jean Lafitte was tall, handsome in a swarthy way, but with more than a touch of cunning in his smile. His companion, Ortez, was a short, barrel-chested man with narrow, scheming eyes all but hidden by his rampant black beard and shaggy brows. Between them on the marshy ground sat an open chest filled with jewels and gold coins like the one she had given to Choctaw. She glanced toward the ferryman. He stood in the stern of the boat—silent and motionless, as if he were carved of darkness.
When Carol looked back the scene had faded. Where the pirates had stood a moment before, she watched a snowy egret spread its wings lazily, then swoop in a graceful arc toward the water.
“Did Lafitte kill Ortez?” she asked Choctaw.
He shook his head. “No murderer, Jean Lafitte,” he answered. “Yet the greedy Ortez died here. Came back for the gold, him.” Choctaw paused and gave a deep chuckle. “Swamp got that one for good.”
Carol shivered. What did all this have to do with her? She knew little of Jean Lafitte, other than what Frank had told her the night before, and nothing of his treasure.
“In time, understanding will come, mam’zelle,” Choctaw whispered.
Was he reading her thoughts? Carol wondered.
As they pushed on slowly through the swamp, Carol trained her eyes ahead, almost fearing what she might see next. Off in the distance, half-shrouded in deep shadows, she thought she saw a house—at least, the shell of a once-great mansion. As they drew nearer, she realized her eyes had not deceived her. The sad, roofless structure sat in ruin at the edge of the bayou. Vines snaked through its paneless windows and climbed its crumbling columns. The once-lovely home looked heart-wrenchingly sad—abused by time and elements, forgotten by civilization.
“Who lived there?” she asked.
“Still lives,” corrected the ferryman before he answered her question with a single, sharp word: “Cami!”
Confused, Carol blinked, then looked again. When she did, the place had righted itself. Years of decay had fallen away in the wink of an eye. The mansion was suddenly as lovely as the day it was built, with its pristine columns, wide stairs to the gallery, and perfectly manicured gardens.
“Cami?” she repeated in a whisper.
Just then, she spied a big, robust horseman gallop up the circular drive. “Cami!” he called out with a boisterous laugh. “Camille Mazaret, you come out here right now! See what Papa has brought you.”
The front door flew open and a young girl of perhaps nine or ten scampered out onto the veranda, wide petticoats swaying beneath her yellow dimity skirt to offer a glimpse of ruffled pantalettes and dainty kid slippers. Her perfect, heart-shaped face beamed with joy at the sight of her father. Raven-black sausage curls danced about her shoulders as she hurried down the stairs to greet him.
“Papa!” she cried, hugging his boot before he could dismount. Carol actually experienced the little girl’s excitement. “I missed you so. What did you bring me from New Orleans?”
The Creole gentleman leaped from the saddle and swooped his beautiful daughter into his arms. “A kiss first, little lady. Then you get your surprise.”
The two stared at each other for a moment—the girl’s glittering indigo eyes a paler, more startling blue than those in her father’s tanned face. Then quickly she snapped her lids shut and pursed her lips for his kiss.
Carol’s heart went icy cold when she heard another voice. “Put her down at once, Edouard!”
Father and daughter turned their heads as one to stare at the cold-faced beauty standing in the open doorway. She was gowned in black as if for mourning, and the pallor of her porcelain skin seemed even paler against the harsh color of her high-necked frock.
“Adele,” Edouard Mazaret called to his wife, “what ails you? Of course, my girl must give her papa a kiss to welcome him home.”
“She will not!” The woman answered in a deep, fierce tone for all her diminutive size. “Come back inside, Camille, this minute!”
Carol experienced a mingled sense of fear and anger at Adele Mazaret’s command. Cami obviously shared those feelings.
“But, Maman…” the girl tried to protest.
“Do as I say!”
Cami looked to her father. His broad smile had vanished; his eyes had taken on a stormy hue. “Mind your mother, child.”
Gently, Edouard lowered his daughter to the ground. But, seeing the tears brimming in Cami’s eyes, he caught her shoulder and turned her back toward him. “Your surprise,” he whispered, pressing a gold coin on a chain into her hand. “A piece of Lafitte’s treasure that I found in the swamp. I had two doubloons done up by a jeweler in New Orleans. You can wear this one around your neck.”
“Oh,
Papa!” she cried, but he warned her to silence with one finger to his lips and a nod toward her mother.
“Keep it to yourself, my little darling.”
At this point in the scene, Carol experienced an odd phenomenon. She was no longer an outsider viewing three strangers from the past. Suddenly, Carol was Cami. She was ten years old again and torn, with a child’s pain, between her love for her father and her fear of her mother’s wrath.
Avoiding Adele Mazaret’s scornful gaze, Camille hurried up the front stairs and into the house. Once out of her mother’s sight, she went to the parlor window so she could spy from behind the drape to see what would transpire between her parents.
Her mother advanced only as far as the head of the stairs, demanding with her stern gaze that her husband come to her. The stiffness of her back, the slight quiver of her shoulders, and the angry jut of her chin were enough to tell Cami that all was not well between her parents. As Edouard climbed the stairs, his head drooped as if he feared what he might read in his wife’s eyes.
Cami held her breath and watched as her parents came face to face. Her father had stopped two stairs short of the top so that he and the much shorter Adele stood at eye level. For several moments there was only silence. Then, quicker than Cami could blink, she saw her mother’s small hand flash up like an angry bird of prey to strike her husband full across the mouth. Cami—Carol gasped. Edouard’s head snapped back, not so much from the force of the blow as from sheer shock at his wife’s deliberate action. Cami gave a sharp cry, but it went unnoticed, muffled by the heavy velvet drapes.
A wintry smile curved Edouard’s full lips. “Thank you, my dear,” he said sarcastically. “And may I say that it is indeed a pleasure to be home again. Now I’ll just go on in and give my daughter that kiss.”
Whispers in Time Page 5
