Pamela Morsi

by The Love Charm

  "You are in a foul mood, monsieur," she said. "Perhaps I should take my leave."

  A moment of uncomfortable silence fell between them.

  "My humble apologies, Mademoiselle Gaudet," he said at last, sounding sincerely regretful. "Indeed, I am cross and unkind. You look lovely and have every right to enjoy yourself."

  He thought she looked lovely.

  "Thank you, monsieur," she replied. "I will leave you to your privacy then."

  He gave her a slight bow.

  Without another word she hurried away from him and into the crowd. His words disturbed her. His anger hurt her. Why did she feel so wonderful and comfortable with him and so miserable and uneasy at the same time? Why could they not be friends as they once had?

  Aida did not seek her laughing companions or the gentlemen with the lavish compliments. She was looking for Laron Boudreau, the man to whom she was promised to wed.

  He did not love her. She knew he saw her as only a trophy that he had won. But he wanted her, he admired her, and she would make him love her. She had to. She wanted love so much, and she was going to put her mind to getting it, starting now.

  Laron was standing alone near the dance floor when she found him. It was all she could do not to throw herself in his arms.

  "Good evening to you, mamselle," he said with vague formality. "Would you care to dance?"

  She nodded and felt a little better. Her fiancé liked and approved of her. And it was her fiancé that she had to please—no one else.

  Laron was a perfect partner for her. Tall and strong, he stood handsomely beside her. Work in the hot Louisiana sun had hardened his thick, masculine chest and darkened the tone of his skin. His jet-black hair was pulled tightly into a queue that hung down in back in one thick, perfect curl.

  Gratefully Aida took his arm and he led her into a forming set.

  She noted that as usual his manner of dress was as unstylish as her father's. Rather than the trousers and bretelles popular with many of the younger men, Laron dressed in traditional knee-length culotte and Acadian shirt and jacket. She would have preferred more fashionable costume, but at least the man's bare leg was well-curved and attractive. She glanced toward him as the circle joined hands. His dark eyes shone brightly in the torchlight and his smile gleamed pearly and white. He was big and handsome and darkly masculine. Exactly the sort of husband that she should wed. And as he led her through the steps of the dance, he smiled at her with appreciation, but nothing more.

  Unlike his friend Armand, Laron had never paid her much regard as a child. And even when courting her and since they became affianced, Laron showed little interest in her habits or even her interests. Perhaps he thought she had none. But that would change, she assured herself. Once they were wed and living together, he would grow to appreciate her, to love her. Surely he would. Especially if she could remember to cook three times a day. Maybe she would try the string trick.

  As the set completed and he took her arm to lead her from the floor she whispered to him under her breath, "I must speak with you."

  "Certainly," he answered. "I will bring you coffee."

  "No, I must speak to you privately," she insisted. "Let's walk away from the light."

  He raised his eyebrows. "You cannot leave the dance with me." His tone was scandalized. The Boudreau family was known to be sticklers when it came to rules and conventions. But, Aida thought to herself, a man who would carry on a not-so-secret affair with a married woman should be a little less rigid.

  "We are engaged, Laron," she told him firmly. "No one will think anything of a moment alone."

  Truthfully, Aida could think of little she wanted to say to Laron; her mind was whirling with the sound of Armand's words in her ears.

  "We will slip away quietly," Laron agreed, but he didn't look happy about it.

  They walked silently toward the riverbank and then disappeared around a curve. Most of those present did not even notice.

  Aida walked beside him in silence and tried to gather her thoughts. All she could think to say were the benign phrases that she always said. Oh monsieur, you are too kind. Oh monsieur, you flatter me so. Oh monsieur. Oh monsieur. Giggle. Giggle. These words were not conversation and they were not what she needed to say.

  Laron stopped abruptly. She looked up at him in question.

  "This is my pirogue," he said. "If someone finds us here I can say that I was bringing you here to see it."

  His concern with the proprieties miffed her slightly. It was almost as if he was afraid that through some breach of etiquette he would be forced to actually marry her. Another man might be trying to get her alone so that they would have to hurry to wed. Even Armand Sonnier didn't shrink from talking to her in the solitary shadow of a tree.

  Deliberately Aida reminded herself that his hesitation to be alone with her, trying to kiss her or flatter her, was a quality that she liked. It meant that he was not completely overwhelmed by her beauty. It meant he might appreciate her.

  "Poppa and Father Denis told me to speak with you," she blurted out.

  He stared at her for a long moment. "And?" he said finally.

  "They are ready for us to set a wedding date."

  He nodded slowly. "And when would you like to wed, mamselle?" he asked softly.

  "Oh, I... I am ready when you are ready," she insisted quickly.

  "Yes, well then we should do it soon."

  "Soon? How soon?"

  "You are hesitant?" he asked, seeming surprised.

  "I was hoping that we would . . . that perhaps we would have time to get to know one another."

  Laron chuckled. "I have known you all of my life, of course. You are no different today than a week before, are you?"

  "Certainly not." She had no idea what further to say. Fortunately, he did.

  "But like yourself, I am much in favor of long engagements. It has only been two years and you are still so young."

  "Yes," she agreed quietly. Her heart was hammering like a drum. "What should I tell them?" she asked.

  "Tell them . . . tell them you wish to wed in spring," he said.

  "The spring?" Aida was stunned. The spring was not soon at all. "Should . . . should we wait until spring?"

  "I think that we must," Laron said. "Do you not want a pirogue decorated in flowers for your wedding procession?"

  "Oh that would be lovely," Aida agreed.

  "Flowers are only available in the spring. All women want a pretty pirogue. It is a thing a woman remembers her whole life long," he said. "Surely the most beautiful of women must have the most beautiful pirogue."

  She didn't want a decorated pirogue, she didn't need a memory of it her whole life long. She wanted to be married, to simply be Madame Boudreau. To be valued for herself as a person. But she didn't know how to tell him that. She thought of the German widow.

  "Nothing will have to change in your life when we marry, monsieur," she said. "Nothing."

  He looked at her curiously, puzzled.

  "Of course nothing will change," he answered. His words softened and he took her hand in his. "I will still be the lucky young man who captured the heart of the most beautiful woman on the Vermilion River."

  Aida's heart sank and the taste in her mouth was bitter.

  "We should—" she began.

  A sound in the brush behind them startled them both. Laron pushed Aida protectively behind him. Bears and wolves were rare on this prairie but not impossible. Pirates, wild Indians, and escaped slaves were just as rare, but equally dangerous. And Laron was not carrying his gun.

  Both sighed with relief that was close to laughter as Jean Baptiste stepped onto the bank.

  Sonnier was almost more surprised to see them than they were to see him.

  "Pardon," he said hastily. "I was . . . taking a walk."

  Obviously embarrassed at being caught by a female on his return from answering nature's call, he moved to make a hasty retreat. Laron called out to him.

  "My friend, could you
escort Mademoiselle Gaudet back to the dance," he said.

  Aida looked up at him, surprised.

  "I must travel upriver tonight," he told her. "It is late already. I have only stayed this long that I might dance with you."

  "But—"

  "I will dream every night of the sight of you, my bride, riding in a pirogue of flowers," he told her, laying a feather-light kiss upon her knuckles.

  She nodded slowly. "It must be spring then." Her tone was flat.

  "Good, then that is settled," Laron said. "It is time that I head out. Monsieur Sonnier, if I might trust this lady's safety to your arm."

  Jean Baptiste bowed with such enthusiasm that Aida managed a natural smile at him. He was safe. She didn't mind taking his arm.

  As they walked toward the sounds of music in the distance, Aida heard, rather than saw, Laron boarding his pirogue. He had dutifully danced his one dance with her. He didn't want to marry her. He wanted to be married to the most beautiful woman on the Vermilion River. And he didn't even want to do that until spring, he said. In spring he would be suggesting the fall. In fall, the spring once more.

  He was heading upriver. As he did every Saturday night, for a no longer so secret rendezvous.

  He hadn't said, and she would never admit that she knew. But without question, he was heading upriver to see the German widow.

  Chapter 3

  The distance between the fais-dodo at the Marchands' and the homestead of the German widow was significant. But Laron poled the pirogue with enthusiasm. Up the wide Vermilion to tiny Bayou Tortue, guided by the light of the moon on the water to the lonely, desolate outpost of the woman he loved.

  The spring, Laron thought to himself. He would wed in the spring. He hoped the good father and Aida's poppa would accept that. He could hardly blame them if they did not. Two years was a very long engagement indeed. If he was very lucky he could hold off his marriage until spring. But no later. In spring he would be the husband of Aida Gaudet.

  Aida Gaudet. He shook his head as he thought of her. She was so pretty, too pretty. It was that prettiness that had originally attracted him. That, and the sense of challenge. All the men on the river wanted her, but Laron had been the one to make the catch. And what had he caught? He wasn't sure that he knew.

  Laron had no illusions about the beautiful Mademoiselle Gaudet. He had no real interest in her, either. But she was to be his wife. He knew appealing to her vanity was the way to delay the wedding. She couldn't resist the image of herself in a pirogue bedecked with flowers poling to the church, with every man, woman, and child on the river watching with awe from the bank. In the spring, almost certainly, he would be forced to go ahead and wed her. And in the spring when that happened, he was also certain that he would no longer be welcome on this bayou.

  Up ahead he could see the glow of light from the Shotz cabin. It was a welcoming sight, one he was hoping for. He hadn't told her to expect him, of course. He never said when he was coming or going. It was not their way to speak of it. But then perhaps that was because in the beginning, it was not their way to speak. In fact, in the beginning, they could not speak. Helga's French had been minimal and Laron knew not one word of German. Some things did not require talk.

  Laron eased his pirogue next to her dock in the darkness without even bumping against the wood. However, the minute his foot creaked upon the cypress boards, he heard stirring from inside the house.

  The curtain covering the doorway was thrown back and a pair of small bare feet hurried down the planking.

  "Oncle! Oncle!" a tiny voice called out in French. "You are home at last."

  Jakob Shotz threw himself in the direction of Laron Boudreau, confident that he would be caught, and he was.

  "Tout-petit! You should be abed already," he told the child.

  The little boy rewarded him with a wet baby kiss right on the mouth.

  "I was in bed," the little one said in flawless French. "But I was not asleep. I'm a big boy and don't get sleepy."

  "You are getting big," Laron agreed as he secured the child upon his hip. "I'm not sure if I can carry you and these provisions as well."

  The little boy's eyes widened appreciably as Laron retrieved the heavy weighted sack from the pirogue.

  "What did you bring me?" he asked excitedly.

  Laron feigned confusion. "Bring you?"

  "What did you bring me? What did you bring me?"

  Laron laughed as he began walking toward the house, sack over his shoulder, child in his arms.

  "What did I bring you?" Laron repeated the question. "Hmmm. Muskrat hide?"

  "No, no." The little boy shook his head. "Something else."

  "Haunch of venison?"

  "No, no, something else."

  "A pound of coffee?"

  "No, no Oncle, it must be for a boy," Jakob explained.

  "Oh for a boy!" Laron exclaimed with the appearance of sudden understanding. "Then it must be the sweets I brought."

  "Sweets?" The child's eyes were wide as he licked his lips.

  "Pralines," Laron answered. "My sister made them, and she makes the best ones on the river."

  "Pralines!" the little boy called out. "He's brought pralines!"

  Laron laughed at the child's enthusiasm. He glanced up to the porch. In the doorway stood a young girl of eight. Her long blond braids hung down on either side of her head; her blue eyes were bright with excitement.

  "Bonsoir, princesse," Laron said to her, bowing low and feigning a threat of dropping the little fellow in his arms. "How is Her Majesty on this lovely moonlit night?"

  Elsa giggled and offered a curtsy in reply. "As well as any girl might be when she has two brothers," she answered as she drew aside the doorway curtain. Laron followed her into the cabin. The interior was fragrant with the scent of tarragon, thyme, and burning tobacco. "One of my brothers is a baby and the other a brute," Elsa announced.

  "I am not a baby!" Jakob protested loudly.

  The twelve-year-old brute sitting on the floor next to the smoldering hearth did not dispute her. He was looking faintly bored and tapping a corncob pipe.

  "Hello, Karl," Laron said. "Have you taken up smoking?"

  The boy didn't get a chance to answer; his sister did it for him.

  "He's smelling up the whole house with that thing. It makes me sick!" she complained.

  "Dumb girls get sick at everything," he replied.

  "I never hardly ever get sick!" his sister shot back.

  "Then my smoking shouldn't bother you."

  "Men usually smoke on the porch," Laron told him in a tone so factual it was free of any hint of reproach or even suggestion.

  Laron turned his gaze to the far side of the room and made immediate eye contact with the lady of the house. Helga Shotz stood before the table, which was piled high with cowpeas being sorted for drying. Her dark blond braids were twisted like heavy ropes across the top of her head. The plain blue dress of Attakapas homespun she wore matched her eyes. The bell-gathered skirt, which only partially disguised the width of her hips, was covered with an apron of sunbleached cottonade. Helga was a large, sturdily built woman of thirty-one years. With strong features, broad shoulders, ample proportions, and an abundance of feminine curves, she would never have been described as pretty or dainty by any man. Laron Boudreau knew her to be beautiful.

  He nodded to her slightly in greeting. She replied likewise.

  "I have brought you supplies, Madame Shotz," he said.

  "We are very grateful, Monsieur Boudreau," she answered. Unlike that of her children, Helga's French was heavily accented with the guttural sounds of her native tongue. Some might have found the sound harsh. To Laron it was an intriguing, exciting sound. He found this woman endlessly intriguing and exciting.

  Laron crossed the room and moved beyond her to the larder and began stowing the items from his sack. The children near the fireplace were arguing. Elsa was now insisting that her brother should smoke outside. Karl was loudly informing her tha
t he was not her hired man. And little Jakob was warning both that the pralines were meant for him and him alone.

  Squatting to reach the lower shelves, Laron turned slightly and surreptitiously patted the ample backside of Madame Shotz.

  She slapped at his hand and blushed furiously as he grinned up at her.

  "Missed you," he whispered.

  "I missed you, too," she answered. "How was the fais-dodo?"

  "Lonely."

  She shook her head as if she didn't believe him. "There must have been lots of pretty girls there."

  Laron shrugged. "None of them was you."

  Helga blushed with pleasure.

  The sounds of the children's disagreement increased in volume. Laron gave a nod in that direction.

  "Difficult week?" he asked.

  "One of the worst," she admitted.

  "Your son is growing up," Laron said.

  Helga nodded solemnly. "More than you know."

  He finished his unpacking, stowing all the goods he'd brought in their rightful and familiar places. Finished, he stood, taking a long leisurely stretch, his hands nearly high enough to touch the ceilings before he nonchalantly took his place beside her.

  "Thank you for the supplies, Monsieur Boudreau," she said. "I do hope you remembered to bring the salt. I am out completely."

  "I brought it." Laron leaned forward slightly as if to get a better look at the abundance of pale green legumes with their very black nubs. He whispered quietly into her ear. "Sweet Madame, I have also brought something else, much more exciting."

  Helga covered her giggle with a hand to her mouth.

  Any more conversation was lost as the children's disagreement increased in volume.

  "You are mean and hateful!" Elsa declared loudly.

  "And you are stupid and ugly!" her brother shot back.

  "Mama make him—"

  Elsa was not allowed to finish her complaint as her mother held up her hand for immediate silence.

  "Enough!"

  The three quieted immediately, but her elder children were still looking daggers at each other.

  "I think it is time that you went to bed," Helga told the three of them in German. "Monsieur Boudreau is probably tired and he did not bring his boat this long distance to hear children quarrel."