She shook her head. "It is not your vows or your bride that I am thinking about," she told him. "It is my children."
"Your children?"
Helga dropped her gaze, not wanting to face him. She purposely and deliberately kept her mind blank, her thoughts free, and her voice calm.
"Karl ... the boys that he met, the Acadian boys, told him . . . they have told him."
"They are just boys, Helga," he assured her. "They swap stories and smoke tobacco. They know nothing of what is between us."
"They know the words, Laron," she said. "They know the words and they have taught them to my son, in French and German. To my face my son called me whore."
Laron's jaw hardened angrily. "That is too much! I will take a belt to his hide!"
He turned as if to go, but she grabbed his arm. "No, you will not. He is not your son. And I am your whore."
"Helga, no."
"You must go, Laron." She could not bear to look at him, she could not meet his eyes. "My own shame I could bear. But I cannot put it on my children. You must go and never come back."
He didn't answer. He didn't speak a word. Helga continued to stare at the stubble of rice at her feet and the silence stretched unbearably until she could stand no more. She raised her head to look at him.
Laron's young handsome face was now wretched with pain. He hurt as she hurt. As in so much together they were totally attuned. His eyes were bright with tears. When he finally spoke grief distorted his tone.
"I am sorry," he said simply. "Helga, I am so very, very sorry."
She nodded.
He turned from her. He walked away.
"I caught the frog! I caught the frog!" she heard Jakob say as he hurried in her direction. "Where goes Oncle, Mama? May I go with him?"
"No darling." Helga's voice was almost a whisper. "He's going away."
"Going away?"
Helga nodded. She stood another moment, silent. Her child was at her side but she felt at once so very alone. In the heat of a late Louisiana afternoon she was chilled.
Chapter 7
At Mass the sounds of Latin had a distinctive Acadian cadence, flavored with a French so old that it almost seemed a different language.
Armand mumbled the responses, but his mind was not on them. And his eyes were not on the priest as he blessed the cup. His eyes were on her. Her. Aida Gaudet. Men often looked at_ Aida Gaudet since she was beautiful. Truly beautiful. Any man who ever looked at her knew her to be so. And she was even more so when a man believed himself in love with her.
Armand believed he was in love with her. Selfishly he had allowed his careless words to undermine her betrothal to Laron Boudreau. And now the fates had levied a price. A high one indeed, since it seemed it would be paid by his brother and his brother's family. And Armand had no one to blame but himself.
As Father Denis read the sacred words, Armand and the rest of the congregation knelt. Sunday Mass was an obligation. Armand was a man who lived up to his obligations. His obligations to God, to his community, to the land, and to his family.
Over the top of his prayerfully clasped hands he studied the smooth, alluring curve of Aida Gaudet's neck as she gazed toward the heavens in supplication. When she was little more than a girl he had fallen in love with her sunniness, her sweetness. But now, grown up, she was beautiful. She was magical. And he feared that she was almost irresistible. Armand's jaw tightened.
It was not his obligations to God or to the community that troubled him now. The obligations that concerned Armand this morning were those to his brother, Jean Baptiste.
Deliberately Armand took control of the direction of his thoughts. Jean Baptiste and Aida Gaudet. On the slippery slope of disillusion, a man could go way too far, too fast.
His brother was still sleeping in the garconniere, and still singing the praises of the lovely Aida.
"How any woman can manage to look fresh and pretty in the dust and heat of branding day is a wonder," he'd commented. "And wasn't it charming the way she brought out food to us in the middle of the morning."
Armand's eyes had narrowed. His brother, his beloved brother, was entranced and ensnared, and Aida was now voicing her admiration and praise of a man who could never be hers. It had all the makings of a prairie tragedy.
A marriage could not be thrown over just because a husband developed an attraction to another woman. If the fair Aida succeeded in luring Jean Baptiste away from his wife, the sinful couple would never be able to live in Prairie l'Acadie. The two would have to relinquish friends and family. They would have to flee to a place where none would know them. Aida would never see her father again. And Jean Baptiste would have to walk away from his home and his farm. But that was nothing in comparison to walking away from his wife and three, soon four, children.
Armand surreptitiously glanced sideways toward his sister-in-law sitting near the end of the pew. Of course he would always take care of her, and he was sure Jean Baptiste knew that.
Armand prayed for wisdom. So far nothing had happened between his brother and Aida Gaudet. He was as certain of that as he was of his own name. The voices on the river had given him fair warning. But as certainly as winter followed autumn, if he did not take action, something would.
He glanced up to see the beautiful dark-haired girl, her hands clasped prayerfully and her chin lowered in submission. Emotion clutched at his heart.
Armand must keep his brother safe. To do that he must ensure that Aida Gaudet was not even tempted to look his way. She must marry Laron Boudreau and she must do it soon. Armand had set this course adrift, he would have to shore it up once more.
"Amen," he whispered in response to the benediction. If his tone sounded more determined than those around him, it was not really surprising.
The congregation began filing out of the pews and heading for the door. Armand also headed that way, helping to usher his niece and nephew as he went. The noise level in the small brick-between-timberframe building rose tremendously as they neared the open entryway. The naturally high-spirited Acadians managed the quiet reverence of the churchhouse with difficulty and only for short periods. By the time they stepped out into the open air, most could have easily followed the example of their children, who whooped, hollered, and ran in celebration of their freedom.
Armand relinquished control of the children, set his palmetto frond chapeau upon his head, and began to walk toward Aida Gaudet. He had not yet formulated a plan of action, but he knew that speaking with her privately would be a good first step.
It was a beautiful day in late fall. The sky was as blue as blue could ever be. The light breeze in the air was cool, but held not even one hint of a chill.
Somehow it was easy to spot Aida Gaudet, even in a crowd. Her skirts of indigo-dyed blue homespun cottonade were little different from those of any of the other ladies. The contrasting upper portion of the dress was vivid red and trimmed in yellow striping. The same yellow adorned her broad-brimmed bonnet with its shoulder-length sunshade. Her clothing was similar to that of all the women around her. Still she appeared distinct, unusual, exemplary. As if somehow her beauty did not contain itself upon her person, but radiated out around her.
Armand sidestepped a question here and a greeting there as he followed in her wake. He wasn't sure exactly what he was going to say, but it felt necessary to do something.
The light trilling of her voice sent shivers down his own spine. Shivers that had nothing to do with his brother. Armand turned his gaze toward the sound. Aida Gaudet.
She stood near the two large cape jasmines near the walkway to the churchyard cimetiere. He immediately set his step in her direction. He had not yet decided what he was going to say. But he had to speak to her.
Perhaps there was a way to restore her previous destiny and save his brother's family.
A private word with the beautiful Mademoiselle Gaudet, however, proved to be difficult. Placide Marchand and Ignace Granger stood on either side of her, both calf-eyed and flir
ty. A beautiful woman, even one betrothed, was most often the recipient of the attention of single men. It was the pattern to practice one's wit and charm upon the unattainable until a man set his goal on the woman with whom he wished to share his life.
"Mademoiselle Gaudet," Armand said, tipping his hat to her politely. "You are looking very lovely today, as usual."
Aida smiled, appearing inordinately pleased at his words, and managed an attractive little cursty.
"Thank you, Monsieur Sonnier," she said in the low sweet voice that was somehow both innocent and enticing.
The two gentlemen at her side kept the conversation moving. The young beauty mostly smiled and giggled and flirted behind her fan. Armand watched her with interest. It was no strain. He had been watching her most of his life. She was exceptionally beautiful. It was easy to understand why Laron thought to marry her. It was easy to see why his brother would feel attracted to her.
But Aida Gaudet was out of the reach of his married brother. And out of his own reach, literally as well as figuratively. In the back of his mind lurked the temptation to win her for himself. Laron did not want her. Jean Baptiste could not have her. She should be his. He pushed the thought away as unworthy of him. It was unlikely that a woman such as her would come to love a man like him. She was bright and beautiful in all the ways that he was dull and ordinary.
They had once been very close. Now Armand treated her with deference and distance. Even before she was promised to his best friend, he had known her to be singularly unsuited to the life he would have to offer a bride, the life of a quiet, conventional scholar. And if in the darkness of some lonely night he imagined the soft curve of her breast against his hand or the plump, pinkness of her lips raised to him in a pretty pucker, he had never nor would ever, give evidence to those dreams.
His brother's marriage was in danger and he must do what he could to save it. There was no time to waste upon his own foolish fantasies. Aida Gaudet was not for him. It would take a miracle or a magic spell to capture her attention.
But she already cared for Laron. She already wanted to marry him. Armand had to make sure that she did.
"Will you be holding court upon your porch this day?" he asked her directly, referring to the accepted practice of receiving gentlemen callers on Sunday afternoons.
She lowered her lashes. It was a pretty gesture, one that on another female might indicate shyness, but everyone knew that with Mademoiselle Gaudet it was flirtation. "I do hope so," she said. "A young lady would be bereft should she sit Sunday upon her porch alone."
"As if such a calamity could ever befall you, mamselle," Granger piped in effusively. "I intend to spend a pleasant hour in your company, if you please."
"And myself also," Placide added. "I would not enjoy Sunday did it not include you, Mademoiselle Gaudet."
Aida blushed prettily. "You are always welcome," she told them. "I will be there and my dear friend Ruby has agreed to come and sit with me."
"Ah Ruby!" Granger exclaimed. He glanced toward Armand. "Dear Ruby, she is such a sweet thing and so devout."
Marchand was also gazing pointedly in Armand's direction. "Yes, Ruby is not so tall as some of the ladies and would make a fine wife for any man."
Armand felt his face flame with embarrassment and humiliation. Did they think he was setting a tendre for Ruby? Armand would readily admit that he was shorter than any man on Prairie l'Acadie, but lack of height did not mean desperation.
"I assume that Laron will be there," Armand explained quickly. "I need to speak with him about a personal concern."
"Of course my fiancé will be there," Aida assured him. "I should be quite put out if he were to neglect me."
"And he would be quite the fool to do so," Granger said.
"But he is already quite the fool to have delayed the wedding for so long," Placide blurted out.
Aida visibly paled.
Guiltily, as it were more his fault than his friend's, Armand came to her rescue. "You are the fool, Marchand, if you think it is Laron who puts off this wedding. Of course it is Mademoiselle Gaudet who hesitates to tie herself to such a knave as Boudreau."
Placide shifted his feet.
Aida glanced at Armand, grateful. He smiled back broadly. "I admit my friend is a knave," he told her. "But I speak highly of him just the same." Armand gave the other two men a long look. "He is the best of knaves at least."
Aida giggled out loud.
Armand found himself more than a little pleased that he'd eased over Placide's gaffe. Now if he could only undo the thoughtless words that he himself had spoken, the much more serious ones that put the happiness of his own brother and this lovely young woman in jeopardy.
The porch at the home of Aida Gaudet was crowded. Ignace Granger and Placide Marchand were in attendance, each trying to outdo the other with gracious compliments and clever conversation. Pierre Babin had brought both Ruby and her mother and seemed to be enjoying himself.
Hippolyte Arceneaux and his wife had been poling by on their way to visit their grandchildren when Madame Arceneaux spotted Madame Babin on the porch. Nothing would do but for her to drop in for a bit of gossip. Hippolyte had been sent ahead to tell his daughter-in-law why they were late. He returned shortly with the young Madame Arceneaux, her husband Francois, and her two little sons.
The older women were interested in the babies. Francois was interested in Jesper's grain mill. Jesper was interested in explaining its operation at great length. And Hippolyte had no hesitation about offering his two cents' worth of advice on any subject.
The younger men, Placide, Ignace, and Pierre, were chagrined by the topic of conversation and tried valiantly to turn it to more frivolous banter suited for
Sunday afternoon. When that proved impossible, the two merely commenced a rival conversation.
That worked for a while, but ultimately in order to be heard over Jesper Gaudet, the younger men spoke up a bit. Then Hippolyte, fearing that Francois and Jesper would not concede his point, raised the level of his voice also. That caused Placide and Ignace to speak even louder. The babies began to wail and the mother and grandmother began to coo. The crying woke Jesper's old dog, who set up a howl. Within minutes the Gaudet front porch became as noisy and confusing as the Tower of Babel.
Aida sat beside Ruby on a long wash bench, smiling occasionally at Ignace and Placide. Their attempt at conversing about more simple subjects was certainly commendable when compared to the behavior of Armand Sonnier. He sat on the steps, serious and silent, his back propped against the porch, gazing out at the river.
He was obviously disgruntled. Aida watched him out of the corner of her eye with distress. He was not one of her admirers, that was clear. Unlike younger, less learned fellows like Marchand and Granger, he undoubtedly found her silly and boring. Everyone knew he was the smartest man on the river, and he had come there to speak with Laron Boudreau. She had told him that her fiancé would be there, but he was not.
Sitting amid the near-deafening clamor, Aida pretended that she was not concerned. She pretended she was not embarrassed. Or even humiliated. She pretended that a fiancé’s failure to appear on Sunday afternoon was not unusual.
Deliberately she smiled her little half-smile at the young men. She was dressed as prettily as was permitted for a Sunday on the porch. And she had managed, after nearly a half-hour of struggling, to get her hair to hang in one long thick black curl down her shoulder. It was not altogether proper, but so far none of the women had commented on it. Of course they had another juicy bit of gossip to chew upon. Laron's absence.
Aida held Ruby's hand, as much to give the other girl courage among the company as to take some for herself. She flirted, tittered, and giggled at moments that seemed appropriate. Purposefully she tried not to think about the only thing that she could think about. Laron had not shown up.
This was not the first time that he had failed to sit Sunday on her porch. There had been other Sundays, however rare, when he had failed to a
ppear. She had not been happy then. And she was not happy now.
She knew her father would be asking questions later. Madame Arceneaux and Madame Babin would be whispering the fact to anyone willing to take a half-minute to listen. And somehow Father Denis would find a way to blame her. But worse than his mere absence was the gossip, brought to the Gaudet porch with some embarrassment by Francois, that Laron Boudreau was down on the river somewhere. And that he was drinking. Unusual behavior indeed—and especially for a supposedly besotted bridegroom.
She smiled. She laughed. She entertained her guests. But inside, Aida Gaudet's stomach twisted and churned. She surreptitiously laid a soothing hand against the raw, burning pain. It wouldn't do to show her discomfort. Young ladies took to their beds when they were not feeling well. But if she took to her bed, everyone would think she was wretched over Laron. They would all think that she was sorrowing and fearful that he no longer wanted to marry her. They would all think that she suspected him and the German widow.
Aida laughed lightly and shook her head, casually calling attention to the one long thick black curl hanging down her shoulder.
"Oh you silly farceur! What a joker you are!" she exclaimed, tapping Ignace lightly on the sleeve with her fan. "How can a woman know when you are telling her the truth or when you are fooling her?"
Ignace didn't get a chance to answer.
"Walk out with me."
The words came abruptly from the mouth of Armand Sonnier.
Every voice on the porch was suddenly silenced.
For a moment Aida eyed Armand with disbelief. Armand Sonnier wanted to walk out with her? Then reality set it. It was a poor choice of words. She cast a quick warning glance to her father. Please don't say anything, her eyes begged silently. Please, please.
Armand, of course, hadn't meant he wanted her to "walk out with him" as in walk alone so he could sweet-talk her, but simply that he wanted a private word. Belatedly he realized what he'd said and appeared almost as dumbstruck as those sitting on the porch.
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