"What about Aida Gaudet?"
Orva nodded approvingly as if she could see his thoughts coming full circle. "Soon she will cast her heart in a new direction," the old woman said.
"And in what man's direction will that be?" he asked.
Madame Landry ceased her stirring and slathered a helping of the broth and fish on a large piece of bread in a wooden trencher. "This is for your sister-in-law, isn't it?" she said. "She should eat, she will need her strength."
He accepted the dish, but continued to watch his godmother curiously.
"Who is the new man for Aida Gaudet?" he asked more forcefully.
Orva Landry raised her eyes to meet his gaze directly, but her words failed to satisfy his curiosity. "Someone I am sure that you would never suspect."
From the moment Aida stepped upon the Marchands' dock, she was determined to have a wonderful time. She did not immediately see Laron and she would not deign to cast her glance into the crowd for him. She knew that he must be there and that he was undoubtedly looking at her.
It was Monsieur Marchand himself who helped her from the pirogue. Her wooden sabots scattered behind her in the boat as she attempted to slip her dancing slippers from her sleeve. She was certain that she had put them right there, but inexplicably she could not locate them.
"I've been hardly able to hold my feet still since the last bend in the river," she confessed breathlessly to her host. "If I could just lean on someone strong like you while I hurry into my slippers . . . where are my slippers?"
Somehow the prized kid dancing shoes had disappeared in the sleeve of her gown, and with her other
arm completely inside the covering of its opposite, she could not locate them.
"Where on earth . . ."
"I believe, mamselle," Monsieur Marchand said gallantly. "That perhaps they are in the left rather than the right."
"The left?"
She glanced down and could clearly see the telltale bulge in the other sleeve.
"Oh, they are here!"
Aida laughed gaily, as if it were a good joke, and amazingly, the gentlemen laughed with her.
"Indeed yes, mamselle," Emile Marchand agreed, holding himself very tall and straight. "It is an honor to be your champion."
Aida giggled as if the older man had said something quite clever and then braced herself against him as she bent to put on her shoes. To her surprise she found a gentleman at her feet.
"Monsieur Sonnier?" Her eyes were wide with feigned confusion. "It is very polite to bow to a lady, but it is not necessary to drop to one's knees."
Jean Baptiste laughed delightedly. "You tease me, Mademoiselle Gaudet. Your humble servant wishes only to offer assistance."
He took Aida's red slippers from her and placed one on each small foot as she leaned upon the sturdy shoulder of Monsieur Marchand.
"Thank you very much, gentlemen," she said when she was properly shod and standing unassisted once more. "You are both too kind."
"I am not too kind to ask a reward, mamselle," Jean Baptiste told her.
"A reward?"
"When the music starts up again, could an old married man beg a dance with the loveliest lady present?" he asked.
Aida batted her eyelashes at him. "Oh monsieur, I do hope that Madame Sonnier doesn't hear you say such a thing."
Jean Baptiste laughed lightly. "My good wife would never dispute the truth."
Aida batted him lightly on the sleeve with her guinea feather fan as if to scold him for his words. "All right, monsieur, I must risk your lady's wrath, for I fear I have no other partner," she told him.
He offered his arm and led her out among the dancers. They joined three other couples in a set. As soon as they took position, the music began once more as if Ony Guidry had been waiting just for them.
Aida curtsied to Jean Baptiste and he bowed to her. She turned and did the same to Pierre Babin, who was partnering his sister Ruby. The couples and corners of the square clasped hands and the intricate steps of the dance began.
Aida followed the well-learned steps and spins and turns and bows with natural grace. She did not have to think about the dance, the movements came to her as easily as a smile.
Jean Baptiste was an excellent dancer and he was tall and looked good beside her. But the man she expected beside her was not. As she circled backward in a handclasp with the other girls, she spotted Laron in the crowd. His face was visible for only a minute, but she knew that he was watching her. When she turned back to Jean Baptiste, she deliberately flirted with her eyes and giggled prettily at him.
A little tinge of jealousy wouldn't hurt her fiancé one bit.
When the music ended she laughed gaily and applauded as if Guidry's music wasn't just exactly as squeaky and slightly off-tune as last week and the week before.
Giving Jean Baptiste a nod of dismissal and the little half-smile that hid her chipped tooth, Aida grabbed Ruby's arm and pulled the girl close to her, giving her a gentle hug.
"Comment Ca va, Ruby?" she asked. "How are you?"
Ruby accepted the hug with enthusiasm and smiled with shy delight at being noticed.
"I'm fine," she answered politely. "And how are you?"
Aida answered positively and waved away Ruby's awkward younger brother. "You go on, Monsieur Babin," she told Pierre. "Your sister and I have lots of girl talk and gossip to catch up on."
He gave a sigh of relief and nodded gratefully, hurrying away as if in fear that Aida might change her mind. She did not. She smiled warmly at Ruby.
"Don't you look sweet tonight!" she said.
Ruby's face nearly glowed.
In fact Ruby did not look sweet at all. Thin to the point of emaciation, her features were so sharp and pointed, they gave the appearance of meanness. Ruby Babin was one of the least attractive women on the Vermilion River. Perhaps if she had been witty and clever, or sweet and lovable, that would not have been a problem. But Ruby was none of those things. At the age of twenty-two she was an old maid. Her mother despaired of ever finding her a mate and her
brother spent an inordinate amount of his own youth escorting her around.
It was all so unfair, Aida thought. Ruby was hardworking, often kind, and always dutiful. She deserved to have a husband and family as much as any other woman.
Aida couldn't give her that, but she could give her a bit of opportunity. Men swarmed around Aida like bees finding the last flower of summer. She could dance with only one at a time. And she wasn't interested in any of them. So she made it a point to share them with Ruby.
Another women might have kindly offered a short prayer in Ruby's name, but Aida was a young woman of action. If another person was starving and you had bread, you did not pray that they would get some, you shared with them what you had. Why would having an abundance of gentlemen be any different?
"How was your week, Ruby?" It was a question that neighbors always asked one another and Aida had found that it often set the other person to gabbing.
"Mama's felt real good. That tea you sent her has kept away those awful flashes of heat," Ruby answered. "And my little hen laid for me every day. Those are the best chickens I ever had."
Aida smiled. Ruby was no better at conversation than she was at anything else. Fortunately the two were both comfortable just to stand and smile at each other and let those around them lead the talk.
The would-be beaux had gathered eagerly. They treated Aida as what she was, the most beautiful woman present. The fact that she was engaged didn't
deter their interest. Why should it? Her fiancé never showed even a speck of jealousy.
As the sets began reforming, Aida was snapped up by one of the quickest of the young gallants. One of the less hasty brethren politely requested Ruby's hand.
Aida danced with deliberate delight, refusing to allow herself to become annoyed. Laron always waited until well into the dancing to claim his chance with her, and although they were betrothed, he never danced with her more than twice. The fact
that Laron was so considerate of her reputation was noted favorably by the old gossiping women. Aida herself would have flaunted convention. Laron was, by far, the best dancer. It seemed grossly unfair that she should not dance with him as long as she cared to. At least, she told herself as she was partnered adequately by Placide Marchand, one of the host's younger sons, Laron wasn't dancing with anyone else.
Aida danced and laughed and giggled with Ruby through several sets. She was nearly breathless and glowing when Ignace Granger, a young man of not quite twenty, led her to the food tables.
If there was anything that Acadians appreciated more than music and dancing, it had to be food and coffee. Monsieur Granger passed her plate along the table and it was soon piled high with rice and roux and vegetables.
Aida's eyes widened with delight as it returned to her.
"Oh monsieur," she scolded playfully. "Do you wish to fatten me like one of your fine cows?"
"Impossible, mamselle," he assured her. "Such beauty as yours could never be marred."
On the other side of the table Estelle LeBlanc snorted in disgust. "Never heard yet of a woman who didn't get fat when she married or loose her looks with old age," the woman declared.
Young Granger was momentarily struck dumb by the comment.
"A bright young man would pick a woman for her worthiness as a helpmate and housekeeper," Madame LeBlanc continued haughtily. "Aida, your poor father declared earlier at this very table that you forgot completely to cook for him today. And he confessed to us that he often finds dishes half-washed and beds half-made, and claims that since the death of your mother, no pot of beans has ever been cooked in your home without scorching."
Aida flushed. The teasing of the young men, the outrageous compliments were fun and a frivolous pleasure. The reality of her featherbrained ways was forever her cross to bear. She tried to remember things, to do things right, to stay with one task until it was done. But always her mind would wander and her work would be left unfinished and her beans burning over the fire.
"I feel very badly about Poppa," she admitted, accepting a huge slice of bread from the woman. "I wish I were a better daughter. He deserves better, I know."
The woman huffed, still disapproving. But Aida knew that it was difficult to continue a disagreement if one person resisted the impulse to disagree.
At that moment Father Denis approached the table,
in the middle of what seemed to be a heated argument with Oscar Benoit and Clerville Pujal.
Aida welcomed a chance to slip away from the table and Madame LeBlanc. Plate in hand, she headed for the leafy overhang of the lilas. Her eyes searching the crowd for Laron, she was startled when she bumped into a figure in the tree's shadow.
"Oh pardon!" she cried, startled.
"It is my fault," he apologized.
Aida turned to find herself eye to eye with Armand Sonnier. Like nearly everyone else on this prairie, she had known Armand Sonnier all her life. They had grown up together. Aida remembered him being ill much of the time as a boy.
"Any day that child could sicken and die," she had once heard one of the old women say.
Aida had been stunned and frightened at the prospect. Her mother had died, though Aida hardly recalled it. One day she was there and the next not. Father Denis said that her mother had gone to a better place, and at four years old Aida had accepted that. But when the little brown-faced calf had been killed in a drowning bog, she had been inconsolable. She'd cried for a week. How much more it must hurt, she surmised, to lose a friend than an animal. From that day forward, she had always run to Armand first, eager to assure herself that he was well and strong and that she would see him again tomorrow.
After he grew out of his poor health and joined the other young men in fun and frolic, Aida had tagged behind and pestered him. He was clever and funny and patient with her. Although she was rather silly
and not smart, he treated her kindly, as if he really liked her. He was not big and brawny, but he always took up for her when she was teased. He was quietly her champion. Her smile brightened at the sight of him.
"Monsieur, I did not see you here," she said.
He nodded. "I'm sure you did not."
Armand Sonnier, looking fashionable and elegant in black Creole trousers and a long blue coat, stood privately in the darkness of the chinaberry tree. He had once been her hero. Now he was only the best friend of her fiancé.
"Are you avoiding your escort?" he asked.
"What? Oh no, I mean ... I forgot about Monsieur Granger," she admitted as she raised her generously laden dish, offering him samples of the dinner fare. "Would you care to join me? I am hiding from the matrons at the table. They find fault with me tonight."
"And why is that?" Armand asked, taking only a tasty corner of roux-soaked bread.
Aida shook her head shamefully. "My poor father arrived here hungry once more. I cannot seem to remember to cook for him."
"Perhaps each morning you should tie three strings upon your fingers," he suggested. "And when all are gone at the end of the day, you will know that you have fed your father adequately."
"That might work," she agreed with a little giggle. "If only I could remember where I keep the string."
They ate together companionably for several minutes. Armand devoured the crawfish and cabbage while Aida merely picked at the capon pasties. It felt strangely intimate; his long, sun-bronzed hands choosing juicy tidbits from her plate, the warmth of his nearness, the scent of soap from his hair. Aida began to feel a sort of vague discomfort, as if her bodice had suddenly become too small. She glanced over at the man beside her. The familiar blue eyes were not recognizable in the dim light of the distant torches, but Aida could feel the heat of them upon her. Her heart seemed to catch in her throat. There was something distinctly disconcerting about being able to look a man straight in the eye. There was something distinctly disconcerting about standing this close to Armand Sonnier.
Thankfully he stepped away and Aida released the breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
"Are you enjoying the fais-dodo, monsieur?" she asked, suddenly desperate to fill the gaping silence between them.
"Of course, mamselle," he answered. "Although no one ever seems to enjoy themselves as much as you."
The words were slightly sharp, hinting at disapproval. Armand Sonnier had once been her champion, but he was that no more. Four years ago he had changed, or rather she had. She had stopped being a child. Her waist slimmed down and her figure blossomed. And the people of Prairie l'Acadie all began to look at her.
The boys who had formerly ignored her were suddenly drawn to her presence like flies. The men shook their heads appreciatively and chuckled. The women clucked and whispered behind her back. Aida had changed. And when she did the world changed around her, including Armand Sonnier.
He decided that he no longer liked her. She knew the exact day, the exact hour when it happened. It had been at the Tuesday Ball when she had just turned fifteen. Armand and Laron had both been cavaliers masques and had spent the day running Mardi Gras from house to house collecting chickens, guineas, and provisions for a supper of rice and gumbo. The food was "purchased" by the singing of songs, and payment always included a "glass of encouragement" for the riders. By the time of the ball the two young men were tired, laughing, and more than a little inebriated.
Aida had been excited about the ball. She had a new dress in vivid blue with bright rose piping. It was a woman's dress and Aida felt like a woman for the first time. She had laced her vest corset as tightly as breathing would allow. That made her small waist appear incredibly narrow and her new budding bosom seem positively robust.
She could hardly wait for Armand to notice her. In fact she didn't wait. She caught up to him on his way to the barn.
"Good evening, monsieur," she called out to him. Aida was delighted to be "too grown up" to use his given name.
She placed her hands on her hips and raised her shoulders slightly. She'
d discovered in her glass that such a pose showed off her new figure to best advantage.
Armand turned, a smile already on his face, as if he had recognized her voice. Then the smile faded. As a silly scatterbrained girl, he had thought her amusing. But in that moment, he had seen her as a woman.
And clearly a foolish one. Aida had frozen in embarrassment.
It was as the old women said. A silly brainless woman did not appeal to a serious man. Aida had flaunted her body at him, thinking to impress him with her feminine curves, to capture the attention from him that she so easily drew from others. She deserved his punishment, which was the loss of his friendship.
He looked at her now as he had then. And she felt his rejection just as keenly. It was as if she had offered herself and been found wanting. His cold words chilled her. Humiliation darkened her cheeks.
"Yes, mamselle," he said. "You seem always to enjoy yourself more than anyone else."
"There is no sin in laughing and dancing, monsieur, even Father Denis does not believe it so," she said, raising her chin in challenge before firing back. "But perhaps you are more priest than he."
She watched his jaw harden and knew her shot had wounded. "I am no priest."
"Then why do you never dance?"
His gaze narrowed with displeasure.
"Perhaps there is no one with whom I'd care to dance."
It was a direct cut.
"I love to dance no matter the partner," she retorted, lightly. "I am always willing to have fun with my friends and family."
"So I see," he said. "Another woman would save such frolic for her fiancé."
His criticism was unfair and she did not like it. Laron was the one reluctant to dance, not she. She would stay on his arm all night long if he permitted. But he showed no inclination.
"Monsieur Boudreau does not mind that I enjoy myself," she said.
"No, he does not," Armand agreed. "But a young woman who is so silly-minded that she can lose her shoes, her gloves, her hair ribbons, even her prayer-book, might discover that with such behavior, she can lose her fiancé as well."
Aida's pride was crushed at his words, she felt her eyes well with tears, and she turned her back to him.
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