Pamela Morsi

by The Love Charm

  The Love Charm

  Pamela Morsi

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 1996 Pamela Morsi

  For Donna Caubarreaux, who opened her house to me and shared her laughter and her lovely family with me, introduced me to her four-legged clients, and was so welcoming, I forgot I was a stranger.

  And for Alma Reed, who answered my most ignorant questions, informed and entertained me, showed me the sights of Eunice, Louisiana, and made me eat a stuffed ponce.

  Prologue

  Southwest Louisiana

  Spring 1820

  The wedding pirogue that eased down the gentle current of the Vermilion River was festooned in blooming vines of honeysuckle, bright purple water hyacinths, and delicate swamp lilies. Like everyone else on the bank, Armand Sonnier shouted and waved at the young couple on board until they disappeared from sight around a bend in the river. His older brother, Jean Baptiste, was a married man now and poled the little boat home with his new bride.

  "It's so romantic!"

  The words were accompanied with a soft girlish sigh and Armand turned toward the pretty girl by his side. She was sweet and dainty in a pink pinafore, her dreamy gaze still focused upon the river. At fifteen he was no longer much interested in playtime, but for Aida he made an exception. She was an only child and Armand thought she was probably lonely. He often talked with her and found her delightful imagination and scatterbrained silliness to be funny and entertaining.

  As the rest of the crowd turned back to the churchyard, where the food and dancing and frolic would go on until dawn, Armand was drawn to his young friend sitting in the grass.

  She had gathered up a few of the scattered flower petals that had been strewn at the feet of the newly-weds. She was stowing them in her handkerchief along with a dollop of river sand, a tiny crawfish claw, a heron feather, and a piece of linen string.

  Armand took a seat beside her, watching curiously.

  "What are you doing?" he asked. "Making mud pies?"

  "Mud pies!" She frowned at him disdainfully. "That's for little girls."

  With her rosebud mouth, her round cheeks, and her shiny black curls peeking out from beneath her sunbonnet, Aida Gaudet looked to be exactly that. Armand couldn't resist the urge to reach out and give her hair a playful tug.

  She didn't allow him to draw her into the game.

  "Someday I'm going to be a bride," she declared.

  Armand shrugged in agreement. All the girls in Prairie l'Acadie married eventually. "I wouldn't be surprised," he said.

  "I'm going to be the most beautiful woman on the Vermilion River and I'll choose the most handsome man in the parish as my husband."

  "You seem very certain," he pointed out.

  "Oh, I am absolutely sure," she declared, her voice lowered with mysterious intent. "Because I am the greatest hoodoo woman in all of Louisiana."

  "Oh really?" he asked, familiar with her girlish games of pretend.

  She nodded soberly. "I make cows come fresh, keep rats from your corncrib, and can make the moon pour silver coins into the river if I so choose."

  Armand grinned. "I tremble in fear just to know you."

  "As well you should," she told him.

  "And great hoodoo women get to marry handsome men?" he asked. "It seems Madame Landry had no husband at all."

  Aida shrugged in tacit agreement. "But I will," she said. "I will have the man I most desire, because I have made this love charm and no man can resist it."

  She tied a knot in the handkerchief and held it up for his inspection.

  "Very nice," he assured her, laughing.

  "When I decide who is most handsome and deserving of me, I will bestow this gift upon him and he will be mine forever."

  "Forever?"

  "Forever."

  "Whether he wants to be or not?"

  She stuck her tongue out at him. "Of course he will want to be. I told you, I'm going to be the most beautiful woman on the Vermilion River."

  "Aida!"

  She startled slightly at the sound of her father's voice. "I've been looking all over for you," the man said. "I told you to wait for me at the church door. We are to take supper with Father Denis."

  The bright-eyed youngster looked momentarily horrified.

  "Oh Poppa, I forgot!"

  "You always forget. Now hurry! Hurry!"

  She shoved something in Armand's hand as she rushed away. Momentarily he gazed down at what he held and then shook his head. Armand Sonnier held in his grasp the love charm.

  Chapter 1

  Destiny, a divine plan and a game of chance.

  The gleam of moonlight on the dark water of the Vermilion River illuminated more than the broad expanse of Prairie l'Acadie. On the porch of the Sonniers' sturdy half-timbered house near the outside stairs, three men sat around an overturned wood-slat washtub, their faces serious and unsmiling in the yellow glare of the lantern.

  Jean Baptiste turned over the last card he dealt himself and looked into his opponent's eyes. "Trump is clubs," he said evenly.

  Armand glanced with feigned carelessness at the card and surveyed his own hand once more. He forced his insides into a deliberate calm so that his face would reveal nothing.

  Armand's best friend, Laron Boudreau, sat silently observing the two brothers. He had bourred on the last hand, requiring him to ante the value of the pot. He'd thrown in all he had, but it wasn't enough to earn him another play. The huge pile of coins and paper notes on the washtub was enough to make a man's mouth go dry and his heart beat faster. Bourre was a dangerous game for a gambling man; big losses were common even for a skilled player. Big stakes,

  however, always drew the interest of young men still in their twenties, still with plenty to learn, yet confident in their own abilities.

  The two Sonnier brothers, Armand and Jean Baptiste, were alike in many ways, the same light brown hair, the same fair complexion, the same bright blue eyes. Armand was like a miniature version of his brother. While Jean Baptiste was of medium height, stocky and broad-shouldered, his brother was a man of small stature and fine-featured. He carried not an ounce of extra fat upon him. It was only the strength of his jaw that kept his face from appearing delicate.

  "I will play," Armand announced finally, raising that prominent chin deliberately, almost in challenge. He had gambled against his brother many times and he knew well that any show of his own confidence was sure to make Jean Baptiste reckless.

  Jean Baptiste gazed back at him, his face so much like Armand's own, and nodded slowly. "Dealer plays also," he said.

  Cards were casually tossed, one at a time, toward the center of the overturned washtub. Armand took the first two tricks with the ace and queen of clubs. Jean Baptiste took the third and looked across at his brother. Armand's stern concentration wavered as a smile took over his features.

  Jean Baptiste made a sound that was almost a groan as he led his best card. Armand bested it and took the trick. Armand then led and Jean Baptiste threw in his last with a sound of disgust. "Take it, go ahead, take it," Jean Baptiste moaned. "It's only money, the root of evil, and I never have enough to matter."

  Armand laughed delightedly as he pulled the winnings toward him. "Don't worry, big brother, if your gambling gets so bad you can't feed the family, I'll always make you a small loan." He grinned conspiratorially toward Laron. "Five for ten is prime terms for this bayou."

  Laron nodded as if the suggestion seemed reasonable.

  Jean Baptiste huffed. "My own flesh and blood, devil-bent on usury!"

  "As the old men say," Laron teased, "never play against a wiser man."

  Jean Baptiste nodded. "And I can never remember that my baby brother is the wiser man!"

  The three laughed together companio
nably. Bourre was serious card playing, but once the money was lost, all could be philosophical. And it was not as if the cash would be stuck in some wily Creole's money pouch and taken down to New Orleans. Armand would hold the coins until next week's game, when he'd probably lose what he'd won this night, if not more.

  It was late, very late. Jean Baptiste set the washtub against the side of the house. Armand straightened the cards and returned them to their wooden box.

  Laron fished a small bag of tobacco out of his pocket and all three men took turns filling their long-stemmed clay pipes. They rearranged their hide-seat ladderback chairs to face the wide stretch of bayou given the auspicious name of Vermilion River. Jean Baptiste raised the chimney tin of the lantern and lit a sprig of dry palmfronde. He passed the fire to Laron and Armand before sparking his own smoke. The

  smell of home-cured tobacco filled the air around the porch with a familiar masculine aroma. They stared out into the darkness of the evening, relaxed.

  They had been friends forever. Armand and Laron were the same age and had stuck together tighter than mud on a wagon wheel since childhood. The brains and the brawn, people called them. And for good reason. With a small, almost frail, appearance, the result of childhood illness, Armand had a bright mind and a gift of speech that bordered on the eloquent. Laron was big and sturdy and muscular. He was the first man you'd call upon if you needed a stump pulled or a sunk raised. Folks said that for all the scrapes the two were involved in, the reason they never got into trouble was that if Laron couldn't bust them out, Armand would think and talk them out.

  Jean Baptiste joined them as companions as they grew older and the three years' difference in their ages ceased to matter. Now the three sat together, quietly smoking in the stillness of a late autumn night.

  The Sonnier family, Jean Baptiste's wife and children, were all abed inside the house. The peaceful breathing of a mother and children sleeping on the far side of the curtain-covered doorway was accompanied by the sounds of the night. The buzzing mosquitoes, the scratchy call of crickets, the chirp of tree frogs were punctuated by the occasional splash in the water as a big old turtle or maybe even a gator made a late-night swim.

  Contented and quiet, the talk moved from cards to crops and cattle. Cotton, they thought, would be good next year. Cattle even better. Sugar; sugar was

  too much work, they all agreed. Not a fit crop for small farmers, petits habitants, like themselves.

  Ultimately the subject turned to one often favored by young healthy men on this prairie—a subject favored by young men on any prairie or bayou or city street. The subject of women.

  "I hear that old man Breaux has a niece up in Opelousas," Laron said, glancing toward Armand. "He says she's no bigger than a minute."

  Armand shrugged with good grace and offered a fatalistic sigh. "There is not a wide selection of women on the bayous in any case," he said sadly. "But when a man's own height decrees he must confine himself to the females that grow no taller than swampgrass, the choice becomes limited indeed."

  His brother and friend chuckled.

  Armand's lack of stature was a long-time joke with the three. From a childhood of being called "shortbread" and "knee-high," Armand had developed not just a thick skin, but a confidence in himself for his other qualities. Still, when it came to courting, a man wanted a woman to look up to him. Most of the young ladies on this prairie would have to sit down to do so.

  "And so you laugh at me, my friend," he accused Laron good-naturedly. "Here I pine away for want of a wife of my own while you are affianced to Aida Gaudet."

  "Ah," Jean Baptiste commented. "Some men are forever lucky."

  The lovely Aida was almost a legend. Armand's once funny little friend was now described as belle chose, inordinately beautiful. And it was no fib. Aida Gaudet was the most beautiful woman on Prairie l'Acadie, perhaps the most beautiful girl on the Vermilion River, maybe even the most beautiful in Louisiana. Her fine figure, perfect pale flesh, and glossy black hair set pulses racing in every man still strong enough to stir a stick.

  Unfortunately, Armand Sonnier was no exception. He was in love with her. And she had promised to marry Laron Boudreau, his best friend.

  "I am a fortunate man," Laron admitted, and then told Armand, "Do not worry. The right woman will come along for you."

  Armand agreed, sighing a little. No one knew that his heart was already ensnared. And no one would ever know.

  "It must be the biggest irony ever among two friends," Armand said. "That I would marry tomorrow if I had a woman to choose. And my best friend has been engaged nearly two years and still no wedding in sight."

  "When are you getting married?" Jean Baptiste asked. "Last winter you said in the spring. In spring you said in the fall. Autumn is on us now and we haven't heard a whisper of your plans."

  "We will marry in due time," Laron assured him. "It is not a thing that a man needs to rush into."

  "I heard old Jesper is getting very restless," Armand warned. "He has asked Father Denis to intercede and press you two for the reading of the banns before cold weather sets in."

  "A Frenchman in robes is not likely to rush me to the altar," Laron told him. "And he won't be any more likely to persuade Mademoiselle Gaudet than her father has been. That young woman does exactly as she pleases. She always has, and Lord help me as her husband, I suspect she always will."

  Armand chuckled. "Do you think she will manage you as easily as she wraps that old man about her little finger?"

  "I hope not quite," Laron answered.

  "I'm surprised that Jesper even mustered the courage to ask Father Denis for help," Armand said. "He must be getting desperate."

  "I can't imagine why. Do you think he's unwilling to feed the girl another winter?" Jean Baptiste asked.

  "What is another mouth to him?" Armand replied. "He's doing so well even the priests would be jealous. That mill of his has him set up fine and proper. And his fields are as green and prosperous as any I've ever seen."

  Jean Baptiste sighed with feigned wistfulness. "Ah, beautiful and wealthy, too. It is more than a man should expect in one woman."

  The other men chuckled in agreement.

  "And no fellow in greater need than my friend Laron," Armand added, teasing.

  His friend nodded at him, conceding the point. Laron Boudreau was virtually landless, the youngest son of Anatole Boudreau's fifteen children. The law of Louisiana stated that upon death a father's property must be partitioned evenly, with every portion to have water access. Once old Anatole's moderate holding of ninety arpents was divided, Laron found his own farm to be a strip of land so narrow that a thirsty cow on its way to drink from the bayou would probably cross onto the property of his brother a half-dozen times.

  "What truly amazes me, Laron," Armand said, "is that you have the prettiest, wealthiest, most sought after mamselle on the river and yet you seem loath to marry."

  Laron took a deep draw on his pipe and shrugged. "I'm not the first man to get gooseflesh when the talk turns to wedlock."

  "Is that what it is?" Armand said.

  "Don't ride him, brother," Jean Baptiste piped in. "He is right to hesitate at the idea of marriage. A man must do it, but it is truly no bargain."

  Armand turned to look at Jean Baptiste in curious disbelief. "Is my hearing playing tricks upon me?" he asked. "Is this my brother, Jean Baptiste? Jean Baptiste who was so eager to wed that he could hardly wait for his chest to fur before he tied the knot? Our Jean Baptiste, who carved Felicite's name on a tree before he even knew how to spell it! Tell me, Laron, is this my brother who speaks ill of holy wedlock?"

  Laron quickly joined in. "Old married men are always sighing and complaining," he answered Armand. "Pay the worn-out old poppa no regard."

  The two younger men were laughing. Armand noticed that his brother was not.

  "You are serious," he said incredulously. "Whatever is wrong with you?"

  Jean Baptiste glanced back guiltily at the curtaine
d doorway behind him. He answered in low, regretful tones.

  "Marriage is different than I thought it to be," he told them in a soft whisper.

  "Different? How so?" his brother asked.

  Jean Baptiste shook his head, his brow furrowed. "I thought I was so much in love. Now I think I was just . . . I was just eager to take a woman to bed."

  "There are whores aplenty down on the Bayou Blonde," Laron pointed out. "You didn't want to take a woman to bed. You wanted Felicite."

  "Are you thinking you don't love her?" Armand was genuinely shocked. "What nonsense! Of course you love Felicite."

  Jean Baptiste shrugged. "I entered into marriage too soon. Now I am stuck for a lifetime."

  "Stuck for a lifetime?" Armand's expression was disbelief. He laughed without much humor. "You have as kind and gentle a woman for wife as any I know. Not many men would describe such a circumstance as being stuck."

  Jean Baptiste shrugged off his brother's words. "Yes, yes, of course Felicite is a fine woman," he agreed. "But having a wife is not like pursuing a woman. There is no excitement in it. No real pleasure. How I envy you both. You both have fun and freedom and anticipation. You may dance and flirt and steal sweet kisses. I have only work and trouble and responsibility. One day looks to me just like the next. Oh, how I envy you."

  Armand was shocked into speechlessness.

  Laron was confused and uncomfortable with his friend's confession. "How can you speak so, Jean Baptiste? Felicite is a wonderful wife and devoted to you."

  Jean Baptiste did not dispute him. "But you see that is the point, she is a wife," he said. "Wives, by their very nature, are neither exciting nor pleasurable."

  Laron scoffed. "She must be somewhat pleasurable, my friend," he said. "You have three children and another due to arrive before Christmas, it seems."

  "I like children," Jean Baptiste admitted. "But four in five years is too many. The woman has been fat nearly from the day we wed."

  "Fat!" Armand howled in disbelief. "She is not fat, Jean Baptiste, she is once more and again with child."