Aida dropped to her knees and opened the lower store below the tank. There in that cool damp shelter she kept those roots, herbs and preserves that required such storage.
In a near corner on a small shelf sat a sturdy cedar-lined box. She pulled it out on the ground in front of her and opened it up. Inside, packed in small earthen jars with wide cork stopper lids were the fruits of her labors, her harvest of herbs.
Aida had always been interested in plants and flowers. Practically from babyhood she had kept a little garden of her own. There was something so purposeful, so reassuring in seeing the tiny green sprouts force themselves out of the dark earth to grow strong. Not content with cannas, zinnias, and marigolds, Aida had soon been planting lavender and rosemary and verbena, the fragrances of pretty girls.
She had become seriously interested in herbs when a bee stung her cheek. Her face had turned red and raw and swelled badly, temporarily disfiguring her. Aida had been frightened. And her father, very worried himself, had poled her down to see Orva Landry.
The old woman had been calm and self-assured. She'd crushed fresh savory and rubbed it over the injury.
"You'll be fine in a few days," Madame Landry had said with complete confidence.
She had been right. Within a week all evidence of the horrible sting vanished. Aida was impressed with that. But even more, she was impressed by the old woman's confidence. She envied the certainty that a person could have if she held knowledge within her grasp.
It sparked an interest in the medicinal herbs. Gradually she had come to plant them in her little garden. She would pretend that she was a famous hoodoo woman, blending them together for make-believe charms and cures.
Little by little she learned about the herbs used to treat her or her family or friends. She grew a little hyssop to ease her father's breathing when the scent of elm was in the air. And a plot of dill that soothed the ache in her tummy when she got overset. She raised lemon balm for headache and licorice to make the bowels move. Each season she added something new and the portion of her garden set aside for herbs had enlarged and spread until there was little room left for the pretty flowers that she once cultivated.
She sifted delicately among the contents of the herb box. Each bunch of blossoms, bundle of leaves, or stash of seeds had been carefully dried or crushed or mashed into paste to keep it until the spring arrived.
Aida easily found the catmint jar. The pale violet flowers inside were now faded to bluish-gray. The scent was pungent, almost spicy. The jar was completely full, Aida did not suffer often from female difficulties and holding water. She would send it all to Felicite, she decided quickly. If the poor woman's limbs were so swollen that her husband complained about them, then she was certainly in need.
She held her crisp white apron out by the corners and emptied the jar into it. Folding back the corners, she ensured that unless she tripped and fell upon her face, she could transport the herbs without fear of losing any.
She closed the chest and put it back on the cistern safe shelf. As she began to shut the door she spied an arrowroot tuber. After a moment's contemplation she placed it, too, within the folds of her apron.
Aida shut the door and carefully reset the raccoon-proof latch. She hurried back down the woods path. The Sonnier brothers were waiting. They undoubtedly had not had a meal since breakfast and she should not hold them up unnecessarily.
A meal? She glanced down to see two strings still upon her fingers. She must hurry to finish with her laundry. Her poor father must be famished already. She hoped he didn't show up at the water's edge and tell the men that she had forgotten him once more. Armand would truly be disapproving.
Her brow furrowed once more as she considered the younger Monsieur Sonnier's incessant insistence that she and Laron marry as quickly as possible. If she did not know better, she would wonder if he was speaking for her own father or the parish priest. But Armand was supposed to be Laron's best friend. If that was so, why would he push so rigorously for a quick wedding? It was a troublesome question.
"Here you are, monsieur," she called out as she came through the trees and spotted the men waiting on the pirogue.
The little boy had awakened and he waited excitedly.
"Bonjour, Mademoiselle Gaudet," he called out.
Aida couldn't help smiling back at him.
"And a good day to you, young sir," she replied.
The boat was pulled in as close to shore as the Sonniers would dare with such a load. Since Aida was dressed in her laundering clothes and already wet, it made perfect sense that she should wade out to them.
She was barely ankle-deep in the water when she heard Jean Baptiste speak up. "Stay where you are, Mademoiselle. I will come to you."
Aida opened her mouth to tell him not to bother, but didn't have time. With a hearty splash, Armand Sonnier was standing in the water.
"I'll do it," he said to his brother.
Aida watched with disbelief as Armand Sonnier made his way through the waist-high water toward her. When he reached her side he was dripping wet.
"I was going to bring it out to the pirogue," she told him by way of apology.
"I didn't want you to have to lift your skirt again."
From his face, the reply seemed to have escaped him unexpectedly. Aida's jaw dropped open in shock.
"I mean I—" He fumbled for an explanation.
Aida felt as disconcerted and uncomfortable as she had ever felt in her life. Hurriedly she unhitched the apron from her belt and handed it all to him in the bundle.
She chattered quickly. "The catmint will make a fine tea, but tell Madame Sonnier not to overboil it or it will be bitter to the taste."
Armand nodded. He appeared unhappy and discomposed. And somewhat irritated to be feeling that way.
"She needn't concern herself with straining it too carefully," she continued. "Even consumed whole, it's not dangerous."
He was standing too close to her, she thought. Well, maybe not too close, he was at least an arm's length away. But there was something distinctly intimate about being able to look directly into a man's eyes. It made her feel as if he could see right inside her. As if she had nowhere to hide.
"I've put an arrowroot in there, too," she said, trying to cover her discomfort. "It's good for thickening a roux or a stew and it is said to build up the strength."
"I will tell her," he said.
"That's all the catmint that I have. If she needs more, perhaps Madame Landry will have some," she said.
Armand raised an eyebrow at her. "Yes, and perhaps it is Madame Landry who should be prescribing teas and roots."
Aida felt the heat of embarrassment flame her cheeks. "Of course Madame Sonnier should follow the dictates of Madame Landry," she agreed quietly. "I ... I only thought to help."
Her modesty seemed to check his annoyance and he appeared visibly to force his rather angry expression to soften.
"Yes, well, I'm sure you did," he admitted finally. "When you showed me your herb garden, I had no idea that you had such a talent."
"It is, as I said, just a pass-a-time."
"But it is an admirable one," Armand said. "Laron will be pleased to hear that his bride-to-be has such interests."
Aida secretly doubted that statement. She chose her next words carefully.
"I am not altogether certain that pleasing Monsieur Boudreau is any longer my concern," she said.
She saw his eyes widen.
"Whatever do you mean, Mademoiselle Gaudet?" he asked.
"Not having seen or spoken to the man in some time, I have no knowledge of whether he is even alive or dead," she told him.
"He is very much alive, mamselle," Armand said. "Although he has not ... he has not been feeling quite himself. I expect him to be paying you a visit any day now. Perhaps you can make up a tea from your herbs to treat him, too."
Chapter 9
The last of the year's cotton crop had been too late and shaded for the sun to open it white and fluf
fy on the stock. Before the rain and cold could set in and the hulls rot unopened, the men gathered them in baskets and stored them to dry.
Now, with chill and wet and cold in the air, the women gathered together for a hulling bee—a party of sorts to break open the bolls and retrieve the last of the cotton that might have been lost.
Because Felicite was so close to her time, the bee was held in the Sonnier house. Great woven frond baskets filled the room as the women sat around in a gossipy circle. The little ones were sent up to the loft. The older ones watched the younger as they played and allowed their mothers the privacy to share secrets and talk woman talk.
The house was dark and gloomy as the rain drizzled outside. The fireplace popped and crackled, more for the sake of illumination than warmth. The bright yellow lantern hung down from a chain in the center of the room, but could not dispel the bleakness of the afternoon.
Breaking the hard spindly bolls and picking out the fine fibers of white and ecru contained inside required dexterous fingers and was hard on the hands. The women all wore sturdy gloves for the occasion. The fingers were straight and well-fitted for painstaking work, the palms were padded with moss to protect even the roughest and most work-hardened feminine hands from the sharp, slicing hulls that surrounded the cotton.
Aida, of course, had been unable to locate her work gloves that morning. Felicite had allowed her to borrow a worn pair of Jean Baptiste's. The extra padding kept her hands safe, but made her clumsier than usual in working with the cotton. She worked half as fast as any woman present and she was more than mildly embarrassed by the fact.
"And so I simply told him," Madame Doucet related to the group in general and Felicite specifically, "a healthy girl and a pair of sons, twins no less, that should be enough for any man." Madame Doucet's florid face was stern in expression. "I said, you, monsieur, just take yourself up into the garconniere for nightly rest. And don't you come back down to my bed until I'm past my prime."
Yvonne Hebert, Laron's sister, leaned close to Aida and whispered into her ear. "He must be back down by now, don't you think?"
Aida disguised her giggle with a cough and covered her smile with her heavily gloved hand.
She had felt a little uncomfortable when Yvonne sat down next to her. Although she had yet to make her decision, as each day passed she became more and more certain that Laron Boudreau would never be her husband.
"Father Denis says that a woman should bear every child she is able," Madame Benoit said.
There was a murmur of concern among the women.
Orva Landry snorted. "What does a fat man with no family understand about feeding a houseful of empty bellies every winter?"
The women of Prairie l'Acadie were devoted to Church and faith, but they also were pragmatic. The lines between the secular and the spiritual were not always clearly defined, but the practical solutions to problems inevitably won out in their lives.
"Are there not herbs or charms that ward off pregnancy?" young Madame Pujol asked.
"There is pennyroyal," Orva answered. "Though it's not a thing I would recommend. It will kill you just as likely. The only certain way is to keep to yourself."
The older women nodded in agreement.
"Well there must certainly be something," Estelle LeBlanc suggested. "Something perhaps the Germans know. The veuve allemande has borne no children since her husband left."
Beside her Aida heard Madame Hebert gasp. With great care she put an expression of studied curiosity upon her face. She glanced around and, as she expected, every eye was looking her way. Aida smiled at them. Being known as slightly scatterbrained and forever flighty did have its advantages.
"I hope you are not asking me!" she said with a little giggle. "It is true that I do grow a few herbs and flavorings, but I don't even try to keep in my head what they are or what they are for."
There was no audible sigh of relief, but Aida could feel the tension within the room ease. Of course they would believe that she was too dumb to know. Too silly to realize what every person on the river knew; that her fiancé was involved with another woman.
She glanced across at Ruby, who was gazing at her with a puzzled expression. Fortunately she had the good sense not to speak what was on her mind. Of course it was certain that these women would think Ruby even more stupid than Aida herself.
"Yes Aida, I heard you sent catmint for Madame Sonnier," Orva said with a gesture toward Felicite.
Aida was partially grateful for the change of subject, but shriveled slightly under the scrutiny of Madame Landry. The older woman, who routinely spoke with the voices and could probably see right into a person's mind, was giving her a serious, lengthy perusal.
"Monsieur Sonnier told me of her troubles. I thought it might help the swelling," she said gently. She clasped her hands together in the heavy men's gloves to keep them from shaking. "And I sent arrowroot to build up her strength. I ... I thought that would be what you would do."
"Indeed it is," Orva answered. "I arrived here this very morning with a parcel of catmint, some arrowroot, a dripping of holy water and birthing sachet." The old woman leaned forward a bit more, continuing to gaze at Aida. "It was good to know that dear Felicite had already begun her treatment."
"Poor Jean Baptiste," Felicite said, shaking her head. "I have been so uncomfortable and disagreeable with this one." She rubbed her heavily rounded belly lovingly. "You would think I would be used to it by now. The fourth one should be as easy as snapping beans. But I have been so cross and grumbling. I declare that my husband has been nearly a saint to put up with me."
Orva spoke evenly. "Each birthing is different. Nothing from the last can prepare you for the next. From each child we are taught different lessons. Some things can never be taken for granted."
"Yes, of course you are right," Felicite agreed easily. "I will just be grateful when it is over. Undoubtedly Jean Baptiste will be, too. I'm so puffed up, I wonder that he can recognize me!"
Orva patted Felicite's hand. "His eyes may not, but his heart always will," she said.
Then, surprisingly, she turned the attention toward Aida once more.
"I am pleased that you have an interest in herbs, young woman," the old treater said. "Why am I just now to know of it?"
"I never thought it worth mentioning," Aida said.
Orva huffed with disdain, then added with wry humor, "Must I wait for the voices to tell me everything?"
The other women stared askance, none daring to find amusement in anything about the voices.
Aida flushed with embarrassment. "There is nothing to tell, Madame Landry," she said. "Herbs are merely a pass-a-time for me."
"Merely a pass-a-time?"
"Yes, Madame."
Nervously Aida tried to occupy her hands with the cotton but continued to fumble. One boll shot out of her hand as she tried to crack it and hit Madame LeBlanc squarely upon her ample bosom.
"Oh I do beg your pardon” Aida apologized, horrified.
Orva gazed at her intently. "Do you know how old I am?" she asked.
Aida was startled.
"Why no," she answered, wondering if she should hazard a guess. "No, Madame, I do not."
"And I am not about to tell you," Orva replied tartly. "It's almost a sin against God to be able to count that high."
There was a titter of laugher around the circle.
"I am old enough, young lady, that it would not be an unholy expectation to anticipate seeing me laid out in a shroud."
Aida swallowed nervously. Surely she was not supposed to respond to that.
"And when I am cleaned and wrapped and put to ground," she continued, "who among these women will treat the ills?"
The room was suddenly very quiet. To Aida's dismay, every eye now looked upon her with both skepticism and hope.
"Not me, Madame," Aida assured her hastily.
"I have been waiting forty years for a woman to take an interest in the herbs," Orva said. "I admit that I would never hav
e thought that woman to be you." Madame Landry shook her head in wonder. "But the ways of grace are mysterious."
"Aida Gaudet as a treater?" Madame Doucet whispered the words in shocked disbelief.
The rustle of murmurs went through the group as the women sought to accustom themselves to the idea. Orva Landry's gaze on Aida never wavered.
"I ... I could not do it, Madame Landry," she said.
"And why not?"
"It is a calling, not a pursuit," she said.
Orva waved that away. " 'Many are called but few are chosen,'" she quoted.
"The ... the voices have never spoken to me." Aida hesitated to even mention them aloud.
"And why should they with me still living?" she asked.
Aida felt her anxiety and embarrassment growing.
"I am not smart," she admitted, lowering her eyes. "It shames me to say it, but you all know the truth. I could never be trusted with such a responsible task."
Orva hooted with laughter. The sound brought Aida's head up sharply. She was not alone. Every occupant in the room was staring startled at the old woman.
"Heaven does have a sense of humor," Madame Landry said, still chuckling. She directed her comments to those around her. "Here sits the most beautiful female this old woman has ever beheld. And what does she feel?" Orva continued to chuckle. "She is distraught because she is not much for wit. Around her the rest of us, all prideful in what we perceive, would trade, each and every one of us, for a fraction of this young woman's beauty."
There was a sputtering of high-minded dissension among the group. But not one woman contradicted Madame Landry's words.
"Heaven has disguised you from me," Orva said. "I am not the only one who has need of a lesson in humility."
No one knew to whom she referred, but there was no ignoring the inference of her words. Aida continued to shake her head in disagreement.
"I could never do it," she insisted with certainty.
"You have done it," Orva said. "You have done it for Madame Sonnier and I will teach you to do it for others."
Aida's heart was pounding with wild anxiety. "As long as you are here for me to ask," Aida agreed. "Then I could follow your orders. But after you are gone? Oh, Madame, how could I remember? I cannot remember where I left my gloves or which day is Wednesday or even to cook supper each night for my poppa!"
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