Pamela Morsi

by The Love Charm

  They would be all right, Helga assured herself. They would go on, grow up, and live their lives. They would see Laron from time to time, that was unavoidable, but they would get used to not having him around. Children could get used to anything. She wondered if she would be so lucky.

  The excitement of the wrestling match was waning. Helga gave a calculating glance at the location of the sun and decided it was time for luncheon.

  "Could I interest anyone in food?" she asked.

  Whoops of approval erupted from the three of them and they abandoned their rough-and-tumble play for the food hamper. "Don't let me see one dirty hand sneaking into that basket," she told them.

  As one they hurried to the small coulee at the edge of the grove to wash up. Helga finished transferring persimmons from the gathering bins to the carrying baskets before she headed in the same direction. Elsa and Jakob met her coming back.

  "Spread out the cloth in that sunny spot," she told Elsa. "And not one bite for either of you until we've said grace."

  Jakob moaned and grabbed his belly, pretending that he was near to fainting from hunger. Helga smiled at him, remembering that because of Laron, her youngest had never once known that feeling.

  She hurried on to the water to wash up herself. Karl was hesitating there, his mind obviously on neither food nor fun. Helga suffered a momentary twinge of cowardice and wanted to turn and walk the other direction. With her thoughts so much on Laron, the last thing that she was ready for today was a confrontation with her oldest son.

  Deliberately she plastered a smile upon her face. "It's a wonderful day for gathering persimmons," she told him.

  Karl nodded, but his brow was still furrowed. He looked so German when he worried, Helga thought. He looked so much like her brother, lost to her so long ago.

  "Mama," he said. "There is something that I think that I should tell you."

  Helga almost sighed aloud in exasperation. She wanted to pretend everything was all right, if only for the children's sake and if only for one day. Apparently Karl was not going to let her do that.

  She squatted before the coulee and began to wash her hands. "What must you tell me, Karl?" she asked, purposely keeping her eyes averted.

  "It may be of no importance," the boy said. "It may be something that I should keep to myself." He hesitated thoughtfully a moment before continuing. "But I told him that I would tell you, so I suppose I must keep my word."

  I told him that I would tell you. The words echoed in her head. It had to be Laron. The other day when he'd been there on the dock, he'd talked to Karl. There had been some message for her? Her son had said nothing. In some part of her heart, she wished that his silence would continue.

  "If you promised to tell me," she said, "then you must. A man always keeps his word, Karl."

  She turned to look at him then and her son nodded.

  "It wasn't that I was trying to keep anything from you, Mama," he said.

  Helga nodded.

  "I just hate to see you cry," the boy admitted.

  "I haven't been crying," Helga insisted.

  Karl looked at her and shook his head. "Not in front of us, Mama," he agreed. "But don't you think we know why you go off by yourself so much and why your eyes look so red and sad?"

  Helga's eyes welled at that very moment. She bit down on her lip to control the emotion.

  "I'm getting better," she said. "Please try not to worry about me. I'll be fine, my darling."

  "I do worry," her son said. "I know it's all my fault that he went away."

  "No, it was not," Helga said. "You know that we . . . we were living in sin.. We were wrong to do that and once you were old enough to understand, we could not continue."

  Karl looked down at the ground and then up at her. His own eyes were glistening with moisture. "I like him so much, Mama. And he likes me, too. It's not pretend with him, he really likes me."

  "Monsieur Boudreau loves you, Karl," she said. "And he always will. Nothing that has happened between him and me will change how he feels about you and the children."

  Her son nodded, acknowledging the truth.

  "What he told me to tell you," he continued. "Mama, I want to believe it, but I just don't know how."

  "What did he tell you?"

  "He said that he was going to make it all right," Karl said. "He said for once and all time he was going to make it all right."

  Helga's brow furrowed as she stared at her son, trying to comprehend his words. How could Laron make it right? How could he make it right for them to be together for all time?

  In memory she saw once more the group of people drinking coffee. The old woman with two little children beside her in the pirogue. The shortish young man who was, she knew, Laron's best friend, stood poling the craft from shore. And the lovely woman

  who had been his intended called out to her where Laron had gone.

  The German coast.

  Helga's eyes widened in horror.

  "Oh my God!"

  "What Mama?" Karl's tone reflected the terror in her own.

  "Get the children," she ordered. "We must get help to stop him."

  Aida didn't know whether to scream or cry. She lay in Armand's arms but the true distance between them yawned like an unbridgeable chasm. She had retrieved her blouse to cover herself, but had yet to bother with the lacings of her corset vest. Modesty seemed a little enough concern at this point.

  He desired her. That she knew at least. With the help of a love charm and every feminine wile she possessed, he desired her. It was a start, she argued to herself. At least it was a start. But she was not sure that the young man's honor would even allow him to pursue the direction.

  His honor. That was what a judge was called. And with Armand it was an apt description. If only they'd gone just a little further. If only they'd managed to get past the point of no return. His honor would have compelled him to marry her. And dishonorably, she wanted nothing else more.

  "Are you all right, Aida?" he whispered close to her ear.

  She nodded, not quite trusting her voice to speak.

  "I cannot . . . cannot begin to apologize enough for what I've done to you," he said. "I can only be grateful that some last shred of sanity we possessed prevented us from going further."

  He hesitated as if waiting for her to agree with him. Aida couldn't find her voice to do so.

  "I can promise you," he continued finally. "That no word of this will ever be spoken."

  She believed him. He would never say a word. He would probably forget the incident completely. But she, Aida knew, would remember him for her whole life long.

  "We both were out of our heads," he went on. "The charm made us behave as we never would have. It made us say and do things that we would never otherwise."

  That was true, Aida realized. For him at least, it must have been true. In fact, she had not felt any strange effects of the charm. She had wanted him, certainly. But she knew that there was always a strange weightiness of the effects of drug and herb. There had been none of that for her. He must have gotten all the charm and she none. Because she knew that what she felt for him was real and true and from the heart.

  "Speak to me, Aida," Armand pleaded. "Are you truly all right?"

  She turned in his arms then and looked straight at him. Those wonderful blue eyes, so precious and familiar to her, were dark with worry. In a few moments they would sit up and then stand up and then walk away from this place. And she knew that once they did so, she would never be this close to him again. If only they had not been able to stop. If only—

  A wave of sheer slyness settled over her and gave her voice at last.

  "You must marry me," she said.

  "What?"

  He sat up immediately and brought her with him.

  "You must marry me," she insisted once more.

  He gave her a long look and then glanced away, clearly ill-at-ease.

  "There is no need for that," he said.

  "You have compro
mised me and you must make it right."

  Armand ran a nervous hand through his hair and chose his words carefully. "Mademoiselle Gaudet, you are obviously very innocent of the ways of ... of human procreation," he said. "What we did here, though unarguably sinful, was not, in total, the marriage act. You are in no danger of producing a child. I can assure you, mamselle, that there is no need to wed."

  Aida hardened her resolve and raised her chin. "So you are now back to calling me mamselle," she said sarcastically. "You used my given name, monsieur, when you touched me as no man but a husband has a right."

  Armand's mouth dropped open in shock. Aida couldn't look him in the eyes. She feared he would see the deception in her own.

  "I think you must marry me, monsieur," she continued. "And I am certain that if I described what happened this afternoon to my father, he would most likely insist on the same."

  "He would most likely kill me outright."

  "And even if I were to try to keep the truth from him," she said, sighing. "I will certainly not be able to keep it from my confession. Father Denis will not be pleased to hear this at all."

  "You would tell Father Denis?"

  "Certainly. I will have to. As will you also, monsieur."

  He looked horrified. Coming to his feet he offered his hand to help her up and then turned away. He walked around the small clearing. Finding his hat, discarded, he picked it up and began dusting and shaping it as if it were the most important thing on earth.

  Aida concentrated on doing the lacings on her corset vest. She wanted to scream, she wanted to cry. It was strange to think that love could be so closely allied with humiliation. She was having to beg, actually beg him to wed her.

  Perhaps it was a kind of justice, she thought. For years men had sighed after her so longingly and she had so casually rejected them. Now, at last, she had fallen in love herself. Would she be as casually discarded as her former swains? But none of them had ever loved her. She knew that as surely as she knew anything. They had loved her beauty, but no one had ever loved her. She glanced again toward Armand, still turned from her. Maybe no one could.

  She was not very bright; she was only pretty. That was the truth and everyone including her knew it. But, she declared to herself stubbornly, bright or pretty were not the only choices. A woman might be hardworking, like Felicite Sonnier, or she might be humorous, like Yvonne Hebert. She might have Estelle LeBlanc's tremendous pride. Perhaps she heard voices, like Orva Landry, or was a resourceful and exemplary mother like the German widow. Ruby Babin was only herself and that was sufficient. Aida was no longer willing to live with self-aspersion.

  Armand turned back to face her once more. She stiffened her back to face him.

  "Mademoiselle Gaudet, my . . . dear Aida," he said, hesitating. "I do not know what to say to you."

  She knew exactly what he should say and raised her chin, glaring at him decisively.

  "I believe I have indicated, monsieur, that a marriage proposal is in order."

  She was now completely dressed. She found her discarded sunbonnet on the ground and picked it up as she began walking away.

  "Where are you going?"

  "To the church," she answered. "If you will not marry me, then I must ... I must be a nun or ... or Father Denis will know what I must do. I am compromised. I must go to the church."

  "Aida wait!" he called out.

  She kept walking.

  He ran after her. "Wait," he called again.

  She did not.

  When he reached her side he grabbed her hand. He hesitated only a moment before dropping to his knees. His held his hat in his right hand and used both to cover his heart as he gazed up at her. He appeared more worried and anxious than ardent and lovestruck. But the words he spoke at least sounded sincere.

  "Mademoiselle Gaudet, you would show me great honor and afford me much happiness if you would consent to be my bride."

  It was an ordinary offer of betrothal, traditional and customary. The kind of proposal any man might make to anyone. A simple speech with no flowery words of praise or declarations of undying devotion.

  "Very well, then I will," she answered, wishing he had said more.

  He rose to his feet and took her hand in his; he brought it to his mouth and gently kissed her fingers. A silence settled between them that was distinctly sorrowful. To break it, he placed his hands upon her shoulders, leaned forward, and kissed her cheek.

  "I will try to make you happy, Aida," he said. "I cannot promise that you will be, but I can swear to be dutiful, faithful, and a good provider."

  "What more could I want?" she asked them both, feeling the totally unreasonable and unacceptable desire to burst into tears.

  Aida Gaudet had won the man of her choice. It had taken a love charm and a complaint of compromise, but she had won. Somehow the victory seemed hollow.

  He continued to hold her hand as she turned and walked. He walked beside her.

  "We are going the wrong direction," he said finally. "We should return to Madame Landry's place and wait for a pirogue."

  Aida raised her chin, determined. "We are on our way to church," she told him. "When I said that I wished to be married, monsieur, I did not mean tomorrow."

  Chapter 15

  Father Denis had awakened late and it was obvious to Armand the minute that he came to the door that the old priest had not yet even had his breakfast. His robe was hastily donned and his thin gray hair stood straight up on his head, bent from sleep.

  "Bonjour!" he said, surprised to find the young couple at his door. "Bonjour, Aida, Armand."

  "We did not mean to wake you," Armand told him.

  "It looks to be nearly mid-morning," the priest admitted. "I have not been sleeping well of late. The need for a school keeps me in prayer long after the last candle of evening has gutted and died."

  The statement was directed at Armand, but he let it pass without comment.

  "What brings you to church on Thursday morn?"

  Aida looked in Armand's direction, questioningly. He swallowed nervously. He was the one who ought to speak, it was customary. But he knew without doubt that if he did not, she would.

  Unwilling to be bowed in shame, he raised his head and faced the priest with a near hint of arrogance.

  "We are here to marry, Father," he said finally.

  The cleric looked momentarily confused. "To marry? To marry whom?" he asked.

  "To marry each other," Armand answered quietly.

  The priest's jaw dropped open in shock and he gazed at the two in stunned surprise.

  "You are joking!" he accused.

  "That we are not, Father," Armand insisted. "We are here to wed. And we are here to wed each other."

  He shook his head and gazed at Aida soberly. "You wish to marry Armand Sonnier?" he asked.

  She nodded mutely.

  "We all know that you have just finished your betrothal with Monsieur Boudreau," he said. "And I saw at the fais-dodo that you dance well together. But you are still young and lovely, my dear; there is no need to jump hastily into marriage."

  "I am not being hasty," she assured him. "I have thought it through a good deal."

  The old priest chuckled as if she had said something humorous. "You have thought it through. Dear, dear Aida, your pretty little head was not meant for weighty thoughts. Does your poppa know of this wedding plan? It must be he who thinks such a decision through. There must be banns read and an engagement party ..."

  "No Father," she admitted. "It . . . we . . ." She gave Armand an embarrassed glance. "I am compromised, Father. I wish to wed before I speak to Poppa."

  "Compromised!"

  The priest's expression was one of total disbelief that quickly turned to anger. Armand stood silent, guilty, his hands behind his back. He wished fervently that the earth could open and swallow him up.

  Father Denis did not even ask him to deny the accusation. The former mentor looked at him as if he were a worm, a worm beneath his feet.
r />   "You will marry immediately," he said. "Immediately!" The old priest's voice rose to a bellow.

  "Yes, Father," both agreed meekly.

  The furious cleric wrung his hands and pursed his lips in unspoken frustration.

  "Allow me a few moments to ready myself and I will hear your confession."

  "Confession?" Aida almost squeaked out the word.

  "Of course, my daughter," the priest answered. "You would not wish to wed with this sin upon you."

  Armand watched her from the corner of his eye. She swallowed nervously. He wanted to wrap his arm around her and tell her it was all right. It wasn't much of a sin, as sins go, he wanted to assure her.

  "All right, Father," she said, sounding almost frightened.

  The priest went to wash and comb his hair and ready the sanctuary. Armand and Aida were left alone, uncomfortable with each other. Aida was very anxious and fidgety. He wanted to comfort her.

  "It will be fine," he told her calmly. "Please don't worry. It will all be fine."

  She nodded, but her expression still showed concern. Armand's brow furrowed thoughtfully.

  He used his hat to fan away the dust on the step and then offered the place to her. She seated herself and gazed out at the river before them, as if too embarrassed to look at him directly.

  Hoping to offer reassurance, Armand took her hand in his own. It was a simple, tender gesture. She glanced at him but then turned away in obvious shame.

  Certainly there were explanations to be made. And with the unexpected betrothal, speculation would be rampant. But they would get through that. And Armand would see that she was protected from the mass of snide gossip or uncomfortable questions. Mentally Armand readied himself for that task.

  He knew that he should be remorseful about what happened. Aida felt compromised. The fact that she was not was no great credit to their restraint. And it could not, in total, be blamed upon the love charm. He had not felt drugged or entranced. He had known exactly what he had been doing.

  She felt compromised, but he was certain that would pass. But they would still be wed. He would have her as his own, forever. He should have tried harder to talk her out of this, but he hadn't. He hadn't wanted to. He wanted to marry her, he realized. He had always wanted to marry her.