Glancing about the ballroom, Cami sighed. If only “second-best” were being offered. But the young men her cousins had invited weren’t nearly runner-up material.
She felt almost desperate, as if the whole world were crowding in on her, trying to suffocate her. For months now, her guardians, Cousin Morris and his wife Beatrice, had thrown marital prospects in her path as if they were lavishly strewing rose petals at a wedding—truly their fondest hope for her. Cami, who had stalled for months, knew that her time was running out. Soon her guardians’ supply of bachelors of bonne famille would be exhausted. It was clear that Morris and Beatrice Pinard meant to have Camille married and off their hands before their own daughter began her first season.
Only this morning Cami had overheard Cousin Beatrice haranguing her husband on the subject. “Our pale little Lorenna simply cannot stand up to such competition. Why, oh, why couldn’t our daughter have been blessed with the same ebony tresses as Camille? The same porcelain-like skin and dark-lashed eyes? Poor, poor Lorenna with her freckles and shyness and lackluster hair. We’ll be lucky if she isn’t forced to cast her corset onto the armoire. Maybe the convent would be best. Oh, the pain of it, to have Camille under our roof at exactly this time! It is almost more than a mother can bear. Find Cousin Camille a husband, Morris. Find her one now!”
Having finished her impassioned speech, Cousin Beatrice had taken to her bed with a wine-soaked cloth over her eyes. There she had remained, locked away with her suffering, until shortly before the first guests arrived for what Cami secretly thought of as “the viewing.”
Camille only hoped Lorenna hadn’t overheard her mother’s remarks. The last thing in the world Cami wanted was to compete with her shy, sweet Cousin Lorenna, or anyone else for that matter.
“Being left quite alone would do nicely, thank you!”
Cami was a victim of circumstance, forced by propriety to remain at Mulgrove until she was wed. Before her father’s death two years ago, he had begged the Pinards to take in his daughter until she married and could claim her inheritance. Until that time, Elysian Fields, the white-columned mansion on the river and its vast fields of sugarcane, would be held in trust, taken care of by an overseer and three hundred slaves.
“Oh, how I wish I could go home!” Cami said, blinking back an unbidden tear.
To marry and raise her children at Elysian Fields was her fondest dream. But that would not be allowed until she made a choice that would change the course of her life forever. Yet her cousins treated the momentous decision as if it were the simplest thing in the world, as if she were picking a frock for the day or deciding what she’d like for breakfast.
All Cami wanted was to live her own life and choose her own husband. Was it so much to ask? However, the traditional dictates of Creole society stood solidly against her.
“If only Papa had lived,” she murmured. But merely wishing never got anyone anywhere.
At that moment of realization, Cami straightened her shoulders and determined to set her own course. She had thought long and hard about leaving Mulgrove, but never seriously until just now.
“Papa would approve,” she said with a secret smile.
Politely declining another dancing partner’s offer, Cami slipped out of the ballroom. She had had all she could take for one evening. She would hide in the ladies’ sitting room for a time, compose herself, and make her plans. There seemed to be no way she could make Cousin Morris and Cousin Beatrice understand her feelings, so escape was the only answer.
As Cami stepped into the hallway, she heard the low rumble of male voices near the front door. “I am sorry, m’sieur,” Cousin Morris said in a tone mingling embarrassment with anger. “There has obviously been some mistake.”
Curious, Cami peeked around a bronze bust of Socrates to have a better view of the marble-floored entry hall. A giant of a man, his back turned to her, stood beside Cousin Morris. A gust of wind from the open door whipped at the stranger’s cloak, revealing evening clothes underneath. A late-arriving guest, she surmised. But who could it be? Of those who had been invited, only René Gireau was missing. Camille knew René and liked him well enough. He was a charming young man with a keen wit and a winning smile. But he was only a boy, not a real man like this stranger at the door.
“If there has been a mistake made, I assure you, it is yours, Pinard. Is this not one of your invitations?” The man spoke in a low, rasping voice, then flashed a white card from beneath his black, satin-lined cape.
Morris Pinard nodded, but stood his ground. “It is. But be that as it may, sir,” he blustered, “as I said before, your name was not on the guest list. Now, will you leave or shall I have Brutus assist you out?”
Brutus, the Pinards’ hulking butler, lurked nearby, ready to carry out his master’s orders. Tension sparked the air as the two white men jousted for position and black Brutus awaited his command.
The stranger said nothing further, but the vexed tap-tap of his ebony sword-cane echoed ominously in the stillness. For several moments, it looked as if the confrontation might generate something more serious than hostile words.
A slow, conniving smile crept to Camille’s peach-colored lips and a merry blue light danced in her eyes. This was something different. This was something exciting. Suddenly, the evening took on new promise.
Surely, Cami told herself, Cousin Morris’s high-handed tactics in trying to force her to wed deserved something in retaliation. Whoever this intriguing stranger was, he had obviously meant to crash the party. Perhaps she could help him. A novel idea with great possibilities, Cami assured herself silently. Even though she had yet to see the man’s face, she liked the overall look of him—big, broad-shouldered, with an arrogant tilt to his dark head and a swagger to his every move.
Quickly, she made up her mind. “I shall do it!” she said softly, gathering her courage.
She stepped out from her hiding place, ready to run to the stranger. She would pretend she had invited him to the party. “A dear, old friend of Papa’s,” she imagined herself explaining to her shocked Cousin Morris.
However, even as she took her first step, the man turned to leave. An instant before he crossed the threshold, he glanced back over his shoulder as if he sensed someone staring at him.
Camille caught her breath as his gaze fastened on her, pinning her to the spot. Raindrops glistened in the rampant curls of his dark hair. His eyes, too, were as black as a moonless night on the bayou. His rugged features were startlingly bold—a slash of heavy brows, a hooked nose with flaring nostrils, a cunning curl to his lips, and a livid scar down his right cheek. Taken in the whole, his countenance was disturbingly arresting, if not handsome. But most of all, the obsidian glitter of his eyes entranced her.
He stared back with such intensity he seemed to be looking right into her heart and chuckling all the while at her discomfort. With maddeningly lazy appreciation, he let his eyes travel over her, lingering for a delicious and disturbing time at the low-cut ivory lace encasing her firm, high breasts. When his gaze returned to Camille’s face, a smile of pure seduction spread over his granite-like features. Her cheeks flamed.
Cami felt utterly foolish. Childish. Her lips parted as if she meant to say something. But what? Even if she could find her tongue, she doubted she’d find words suitable to express her breathless, fluttery feelings at the moment. Deep down inside, a voice warned her that a proper young lady did not converse with such a dark rogue. She tried to turn away, but found herself unable to move. As Cami continued to stare—perfectly mesmerized—he snapped a smart bow in salute, turned, and was gone.
The hallway remained cloaked in silence for several moments after the stranger’s departure. Cami was conscious of her own heart beating. Then she heard a deep sigh of relief escape her cousin before he spoke.
“Thank you, Brutus. That will be all.”
“Cousin Morris, who was that man?” Cami asked innocently, still trying to catch her breath and calm her racing heart.
&
nbsp; Her cousin—a portly Creole planter in his late fifties—cleared his throat loudly and waggled his mustache several times before he answered. “No one!” he snapped. “No one of any consequence, at any rate. C’est de la communauté.” He frowned deeply, then added, “Well, perhaps he does not come of common stock, but he has fallen far from his beginnings.”
“He wasn’t invited tonight?” Cami asked. “But, Cousin Morris, I saw the invitation in his hand.”
“The dastardly fellow came by that invitation dishonestly,” her cousin replied sharply, “probably stole it, if my guess is correct. He thought he’d help himself to a free meal and some of my best wines. Well, I put him in his proper place.”
“But who was he? Tell me, please.” Cami was not above begging to get her answer.
Cousin Morris eyed her suspiciously. “Why should you care? He is nothing to any of us.”
Thinking quickly, Cami employed the unused lie she had invented a short time before. “He looked so much like one of Papa’s dearest old friends.”
Blanching at her words, Morris answered her in a harsh tone. “Your father was a good and honorable man, Camille Mazaret. I am highly insulted on his behalf that you would even hint that he might have associated with such a scoundrel as Victoine Navar.”
Camille hid a smile behind her lacy fan. Her tiny lie might have angered her cousin, but at least it provided her with the information she sought.
Victoine Navar. Intriguing! But who was the man? She still had no idea, but she certainly intended to find out.
Sounding all innocence, Cami asked, “Is his plantation near here?”
Her cousin’s scowl deepened. “Forget you ever saw the man. He has no plantation and no reputation. So far as I know, Black Vic hasn’t even a soul.”
“Real-ly?” Cami drawled.
“You are neglecting your guests, Camille,” Cousin Morris reminded her. Pointing to a line of partners waiting to dance with her, he ordered, “Return to the ballroom at once.”
“Yes, Cousin Morris.” She obeyed dutifully, but all the while her mind was on the mysterious stranger. “Black Vic Navar!” she repeated, smiling at the new sparkle in her eyes as she caught a passing glimpse of herself in one of the hallway mirrors.
Cami smoothed her already-smooth hair, fanned herself rapidly trying to cool her blush, then plunged back into the ballroom. Now that she had decided this would definitely be her last night at Mulgrove, she could make herself endure the rest of the evening.
The line of waiting boys, selected for their bloodlines by her father’s second-cousin-twice-removed, seemed endless, as endless as this evening had been. She sighed wearily as she accepted the arm of her next puppy-eager partner. But at least now she had something to occupy her mind as she was dragged about the dance floor. Two things, actually: her planned escape and now this fascinating stranger.
Who exactly was Black Vic? How had he come by his invitation? And would their paths ever cross again? She hoped if that happened, she would find it in herself to act in a more sophisticated manner. How amused he must have been by her silent gaping! Camille shuddered in her partner’s arms, remembering the way the man’s bold gaze had set her trembling.
One dance blended into the next. Face after face passed before Cami’s eyes to be smiled at, then quickly forgotten. Champagne, dessert ices, gossip, and then good-nights.
Finally, it was over!
The last guest had left Mulgrove. The last girlish giggle from her Cousin Lorenna had faded. The musicians were packing up their instruments. Her aunt had already gone to bed, no doubt with another wine-soaked cloth, or perhaps simply the wine. Camille herself, exhausted but excited by her secret plan, had already turned toward the stairs when Cousin Morris called to her.
“I’d like a word with you, my dear.” His smile and tone were as cloyingly affectionate and totally insincere as those of the young men she’d been forced to endure all evening and through many long, dull evenings prior to this one.
But no more! she reminded herself.
“Yes, Cousin Morris?” She expected him to tell her the date of the next event on his find-a-husband-for-Camille agenda.
Instead, he gave her a sharp look with his Creole-dark eyes and stated flatly, “It is time you chose, my girl. Your father left your fate entirely in my hands, begging me with his dying breath to see you properly wed. I’ve done my utmost to honor that request. You have been properly introduced to every suitable young man from this parish and several others. Now, it is up to you. There wasn’t a gentleman here tonight who wouldn’t jump at the chance to marry you.”
Camille’s inner voice added with silent sarcasm, Don’t you mean jump at the chance to possess my father’s holdings and search for Lafitte’s lost treasure?
“Well, Camille?” her cousin prompted. “Give me a name. Immediately! I mean to set the wheels in motion the first thing in the morning. We’ll plan a fall wedding at St. Louis Cathedral. Now, the name of the groom, please.”
“A name! A name!” His harsh voice echoed in her head as panic spread through her like wildfire. She hadn’t expected him to press the issue this very night.
“Who shall it be, Camille?” he demanded. “Arneau? Dapremont? Gravier? Peyroux? Come, come! Out with it.”
“Cousin, please!” Camille begged, thinking quickly. “At least give me the night to consider my choices.”
Actually, she’d already thought through the list of names he had suggested. Gerome Arneau was too short, too round, too awkward. Simon Dapremont was too dull. Francois Gravier was too arrogant. Peyroux? She couldn’t even place him. But not one of her cousin’s choices suited her tastes. She knew that for sure. How dare he put her on the spot this way?
“You are being unreasonable, Camille.”
“Unreasonable?” she cried. She was angry now, too angry to hold her tongue. “This is my whole life we’re talking about. I can’t simply pick some stranger out of a crowd. What about love, Cousin Morris?”
Her question brought a deep, humorless laugh in reply. “Foolish, foolish child! A Creole wife loves God and her children, in that order and exclusively. If she grows to love her husband, it is a rare situation indeed, and not very wise on her part. I’ve been most patient with you. Your father chose not to arrange your marriage before his untimely passing. He made me promise that I would let you have a hand in choosing, that you would not be forced to wed a man you had never met. But he did say you must marry. I am only following his instructions. Elysian Fields needs a new master. You have met the very best young men. Now you have but to make your selection.”
Camille, her nerves frayed, responded sharply, “Surely, you must realize that parading this odd assortment of bachelors before me is not what my father had in mind. He told me I should never agree to a marriage that didn’t please me.”
“Your father spoiled you miserably,” Morris countered.
“Yes, he did,” Camille agreed. “But be that as it may, he wanted me to know the man I marry… to love the man I marry. Papa never wanted me to settle for anything less than true love.”
A sly, spiteful grin stole over her cousin’s face. “I suppose your father meant a love as great as he had for your mother?”
A little tear of pain ripped Camille’s heart. How mean Cousin Morris could be when he set his mind to it! Everyone knew and still talked of the scandal—her parents’ loveless marriage, their horrible rows, Camille’s mother ordering her husband out of their chamber, then ranting bitterly of his unfaithfulness after she herself had all but forced him to take a lover.
Edouard Mazaret’s mistress was said to grieve for him still. That octoroon beauty had been the one and only great love of his life. Camille’s mother, who seemed to have been born terrified of men and who died in the same condition, had allowed her husband access to her chamber only long enough to produce a stillborn son and then, disappointingly, a daughter. Feeling her duty done at that point, Adele Mazaret had put aside her wifely duties forever, slowly si
nking into self-pity and near-madness. After her husband finally demanded his rights, Adele ran away. Some whispered that her death was no accident, that she actually took her own life and that of her unborn child.
Camille’s father, a dashing, gentle, romantic man, had finally succumbed to his need, seeking love outside his home. His enduring liaison with his free woman of color was whispered about in New Orleans and all up through the river plantation country. Their love affair had become legend at his death, when Edouard’s beautiful placée had sworn on his grave that she would remain faithful to him to her own dying day. Camille had never met the woman, but, through the slave grapevine, she had heard much about her. From her own father’s lips she had once heard the woman’s name.
“Fiona,” she whispered, hanging her head so that her cousin could not see her moist eyes.
“Yes, Fiona,” Morris Pinard echoed. “Your mother was a dear woman who did what was expected of her without whimpering about her fate. She married your father as their parents dictated and did her duty by him. Your own husband, like your father, my girl, will likely take a mistress after a time. So you needn’t worry about trying to make him love you, before or after your marriage.”
Camille’s tears dried up in a sudden rush of fury. “What about me, Cousin Morris? Maybe I’d like to be loved by my husband. Maybe I could give my husband enough warmth and affection so he wouldn’t require the services of another.”
The aging Creole, who for many years had kept his own quadroon placée, looked at Camille as if she had suddenly lost her wits. He squinted hard and stroked his pointed beard. “Didn’t your mother teach you anything, Camille? Why on earth would any well-brought-up young lady wish such a task upon herself? Outrageous! But you’ll learn, my girl, in time. Go to bed now. I’ll expect your answer first thing in the morning.”
Had Cousin Morris been more attentive, he might have had Cami’s answer on the spot. But she didn’t mean for him to hear her words. She spoke only to herself as he turned and headed up the stairs.
Whispers in Time Page 7
