And why shouldn't he do it? Laron didn't want her and she didn't want Laron. Jean Baptiste might want her, but his vows were made and the breaking of them could only bring sorrow to everyone, including Aida. Armand did want her and he was not spoken for elsewhere.
It could all work out perfectly, he told himself. He had taken the opportunity when it presented itself. It could all work out perfectly, for him at least.
He was not at all sure that it would work out perfectly for Aida. He had taken advantage of the circumstances and of her charm-inspired passion. He should feel shame. He did feel shame. But more than that, Armand admitted to himself in honesty, he felt grateful.
"It's going to be fine," Armand told Aida, who sat so anxiously beside him.
He brought her clasped hand to his lips. It was the first kiss since they left the stand of cottonwoods.
She turned to face him. With the index finger of his other hand he gently traced the lines of worry that had formed on her forehead.
"It's going to be fine," he repeated.
Of course she was frightened, he thought to himself, noting the paleness of her complexion. This was supposed to be the happiest day of her life and instead it had been confusing and embarrassing, and if they were not lucky, they might both be still on their knees doing penance until nightfall. But then they would be together.
Silently Armand vowed that though he hadn't tried harder to talk her out of the idea, he would try hard to make her happy.
"I do vow this moment, Aida Gaudet, to be a good husband to you," he said. "I know I am not your choice, but even without Madame Landry's love charm, I will always show you the greatest respect and affection. In that there is no cause for concern."
His words seemed to upset her even more.
Of course people were going to talk. Armand knew that. The folks in the community would be certain to speculate on how the lovely Aida Gaudet came to be wed to short, ordinary Armand Sonnier, but he would never reveal the truth to a soul. Whether a bride was caught by love or guile, the wedding was just as valid.
"Armand—" Her voice broke like thin glass. "Armand, I must confess—"
The door to the church reopened. Father Denis was ready.
"You must confess what you must," he told her. "Do you wish me to go first?"
She shook her head. "I'm ready," she said to the priest.
Standing alone, he watched her go. She turned to give one last longing look at him before Father Denis closed the door.
Armand sat down once more on the church step and contemplated the future. The house he had planned to build this winter, well, he would certainly have to build it now. Aida would be a part of that. It would be her house, too. Unless, of course, she wanted them to live with her father. That is what she and Laron had planned. Armand was not so fond of that idea. But, he decided, it was better than the two of them living with Jean Baptiste and Felicite. Not that Armand was worried about his brother and Aida. Jean Baptiste might risk his own marriage vows, but he would never disrespect his brother's. That house was simply too crowded and would be even more so with the arrival of the new baby.
Perhaps they could live with her father for a while and then decide whether to build their own house or stay to take care of the old man.
Armand shook his head in momentary disbelief. Jesper Gaudet, the wealthiest farmer in the parish, the owner of the grist mill, was to be his father-in-law and his responsibility. Most men would have considered that a great stroke of good luck. As husband to the lovely Aida, he would have almost an excess of riches.
The door behind him opened and Father Denis called his name.
The old priest showed none of the ill-disguised anger of only moments before. Armand concluded that once hearing the truth about what happened from Aida's lips, he was less outraged.
He walked inside and spotted Aida kneeling at one of the pews near the front of the church, obviously offering her penance. Her head was bent in fervent sorrow. Armand felt drawn to her and wished he could grant her comfort.
In the far back corner of the church two chairs sat side by side. One was finely carved and scrolled, the other as plain as any in the parish. Between them stood an ornate frame hung with a delicate lace curtain.
Father Denis took his seat in the fine chair. Armand sat in the plain one on the other side of the curtain.
"Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned," he said in a hurried almost singsong manner, born of much familiarity. "It has been . . . ten, no eleven days since my last confession."
With clear, unhalting words Armand told of his lustful thoughts, his stolen kisses. And he told of his deliberateness, how he could have resisted the temptation to draw her to himself, but he had not.
When he had finished, there was a long thoughtful pause on the other side of the curtain.
"Is that all of it?" the priest asked.
"Yes, Father," Armand answered.
Again hesitation.
"Do you love her, my son?"
"I love her," he admitted simply.
"Ah."
It was a sigh that sounded like relief.
Father Denis forgave him and blessed him and to Armand's surprise the penance he was given was exceedingly light.
He walked to the front of the church as Aida was rising from her prayers. They looked at each other.
She was beautiful, Armand thought, beautiful and uncertain. She looked like the lovely Aida. She looked the way she had always looked. Armand realized in a flash that what he had always taken for silliness and vanity was a lack of self-assurance. He could give her that. If he had anything in great abundance to offer, it was confidence.
He winked at her.
Her expression registered immediate shock, followed by a smile. He would keep her smiling forever, he vowed.
Armand did his penance in rapid time and with a light heart. God knew how he felt about Aida. God had known it always. Somehow it would be right. Somehow it just had to be.
When he finished he headed toward the church door. Hearing voices outside, he hesitated in mid-stride. He knew from the tone that something was wrong.
Immediately, protectively, he thought of Aida and rushed to her rescue. If anyone, her father included, tried to disrupt this wedding, they would have to do over his body!
Before he even stepped outside he realized that it was Orva's voice that he heard. Momentarily he was wary. She had undoubtedly found the remains of the blueberry tart and had probably drawn her own conclusions. But Madame Landry, he declared in
silent fervency, was not going to stand between him and his marriage.
It was not Orva, however, whom he spied first from the church doorway, but Helga Shotz. She stood in the churchyard, her children all around her, wide-eyed and scared. Tied up at the end of the dock was a leaky old skiff that Armand recognized as the one Orva Landry sometimes used on her solitary night trips along the river.
"Madame Shotz? What are you doing here?" Armand asked.
The woman didn't have a moment to answer. Her youngest came hurrying toward him, eagerly running and talking at the same time.
"We come all the way from the persimmon grove to the treater woman's house," little Jakob announced. "And we left our persimmons there."
"Madame Shotz has come for our help," Orva told Armand. She stood next to Father Denis and was giving the old priest a look that was cold enough to freeze mosquitoes on the trees in July. "She needs our help and it is our Christian duty to provide it."
"Please, please, you must help me," Helga pleaded. Her tone was more heavily laden with strong German speech than Armand remembered. "I did not know where else to come."
She sounded desperate. Armand tousled the hair of the little boy who stood at his feet.
"Of course we will help you," he answered. "What is it? What is wrong?"
Glancing down at her children, Helga appeared momentarily hesitant to speak. She said something to the oldest in German and he immediately hustled the other two away t
oward the dock so that she could
speak more privately. When the three were beyond hearing distance she turned back to answer the question.
"It's Laron," she answered. "I'm frightened for Laron."
A cold chill of fear quivered down Armand's back. "What has happened?" he asked.
"Nothing I hope," she answered. "But I am afraid that something terrible might."
"Tell me."
She gave an uneasy glance toward Father Denis, Madame Landry, and Aida. "Are you aware that I have been allowing Monsieur Boudreau to visit me?" she asked nervously.
Armand nodded.
She swallowed, obviously embarrassed. "I have broken it off with him," she said. "I have . . . have no excuse for allowing it to continue as long as I did." She turned her apologetic gaze upon the priest. "But finally . . . finally I broke it off."
"Laron told me, Madame," Armand answered. "He told me both about the past and that you had broken it off."
She nodded, grateful. "It was because of the children," she said, her voice rife with self-derision. "It was not that I regained my good sense. I simply could not continue such a . . . such a sinful liaison in front of them. Not if I want to teach them right and goodness."
"Amen!" Father Denis pronounced.
"It is hard to teach a lesson one does not live," Madame Landry agreed.
"It has been so terrible without him," Helga continued. "And I know he must feel the same, missing us, myself and the children."
"He loves you very much," Armand told her honestly.
Behind him Armand heard Father Denis tutting with disapproval.
"Yes, I know. But love does not always make things right. Sometimes it is not enough to do that."
Her eyes welled with tears, but she visibly stiffened her lip and raised her chin. "We cannot be together. I have made vows. I am still married."
"God can forgive your sin," the priest proclaimed. "And as He counseled another caught in adultery, you must 'go and sin no more.'"
"That will not be enough," she explained.
Helga's expression was rife with misery, and grief choked her words. Aida moved closer and wrapped her arm around the woman's waist, offering what comfort she could.
"He came by our place last week," she said. "He talked to the children, made them laugh again. I didn't go out to speak to him. I couldn't."
Aida patted her with understanding.
"He told Karl to give me a message," she continued. "He said that he was going to make it right. That he was going to make it right for us to be together once and for all."
Armand's brow furrowed. "What can he mean?"
She turned to Aida, clasping her hand. "You said that he has gone to the German coast."
"That is what he told me," Aida answered. "The night we broke our betrothal he said he was going there. He said that he had business there."
Helga nodded. "It is that business that concerns me."
She turned to look at Armand, her tearful gaze full of fear. "I told Laron, long long ago, that the last I heard of my husband, he was in St. Charles Parish on the German coast."
Aida's eyes widened. Madame Landry tutted with worry. Helga continued to look at Armand in anguish.
"I am afraid," she whispered, as if fearing God Himself might hear. "I am afraid that he has gone there to kill my husband."
Father Denis gasped and offered up a hasty prayer to the saints.
Armand moved into action. "I must stop him," he said decisively. "I will follow him to the German coast and somehow I will stop him."
"We must stop him," Helga corrected. "You cannot go alone. You will be a stranger there. You do not speak the language. You won't be able to ask questions. And even if you find Laron, he is not thinking as himself. It may take both of us to convince him that this is not the way."
Armand nodded. He didn't like the idea of taking the woman out of the safety of Prairie l'Acadie, but he thought she might well be right. He did not know German words or German ways and he remembered how determined Laron had been, how certain and sure. If Laron had completely lost all sense of rightness it might take Helga herself to convince him murder was no answer.
"Aida, take her children to my brother's house,"
Armand ordered. "Tell them that we will return as soon as we can."
"No," Orva interrupted. "Aida must go with you."
Armand gave the old woman a puzzled look. Aida's expression was equally surprised.
"It is not the thing to travel alone with this woman," Madame Landry said. "Aida, as your wife, must be there with you."
"Wife?" Helga's question was rife with surprise. "I did not know you two had married."
"We haven't yet," Armand said.
"Then hurry up, old fat priest," Orva said, directing her words to Father Denis. "There is no time for dallying; they must find Laron before he does something he will regret all his life."
"These two need not marry today," Father Denis declared. "They can marry when Armand returns," he promised. "Then it will be a fine wedding with a full Mass and flowers and family."
"What if they do not return?" Orva asked. Her question cut raw at the moment.
"I want to marry now!" Aida declared.
Armand found himself unwilling to argue with her.
"Aida will not slow you down," she continued. "And you may need her. If anyone is hurt or injured, she will be able to help. I would go with you myself, but I have duty here that I must attend."
Father Denis might have protested, but he had learned from long experience that it was easier to give in to Madame Landry than to argue with her.
The wedding ceremony on the steps of the church was brief and to the point. Armand promised to love and cherish. Aida promised to honor and obey. Madame Landry and Helga Shotz and her children served as witnesses. It was over before Armand had time to regret the haste.
He gave her the briefest kiss on the cheek as they were pronounced man and wife and immediately turned to go.
"We must hurry," he said. "If we push very hard we can make the mouth of the river by dark. Then into the east bayous and to the German coast by late tomorrow."
"Leave the children here with me," Father Denis said. "I will take them up to your home, Armand. Your sister-in-law will care for them."
"No," Orva disagreed. "They will stay with the Heberts. Laron's sister will look after them, do not worry."
"Father Denis can take them to my brother's house," Armand said. "Felicite will be glad to watch them."
The old woman shook her head. "Not this night," she said. "They will stay with Yvonne. Hurry now, go"
"We have no boat," Armand said. "We cannot go anywhere before we find a boat."
"You will take the skiff," Orva told him.
"That old thing?" Armand's voice was incredulous. "We will be killed with the first wave of rough water."
"It's neither as swift nor sure as a pirogue, but moves across the water with no great wake. I've learned many things sitting inside it. And on this trip there will be many lessons to learn."
Laron Boudreau carefully lit the small driftwood fire on the sand-covered stretch of beach on Vermilion Bay. He was sober. As the fire blazed up he added more wood. It wouldn't be a good cooking fire until there were sufficient burning coals at its base. He eased his pot of fresh water near the edge. It would take time to get it boiling. He moved a few feet away and watched the rolling surf and colors of the late afternoon as the sun eased its way toward the sea.
He'd been to the German coast. He had traveled the length of the river and set out along the coastal passages. In his tiny pirogue he'd faced the mighty waters of the gulf. At Grand Terre he'd headed back north up into the swamps and bayous that had been the province of pirates. Through the marshes called Barataria and the fiefdom of Jean Lafitte. He had found the New Orleans backwaters claimed by the Germans. But he had not found Helmut Shotz. And he had not done his deed. He had not killed the man who stood between him and the happiness of the w
oman and children that he loved.
The place had been nothing like he'd thought it was going to be. Somehow he'd imagined it like Bayou Blonde. The people would be strange and foreign. The German coast would be dirty, ill-kept, and intrinsically wicked.
It had not been that at all. It was wet bayou country, not nearly as good for cattle as his own desolate Prairie l'Acadie, but it was cropland. And it had been populated by farmers and fishermen. They dressed different and talked different, but were, in their lives, not so very different from him.
They had a look about them that he had found oddly comforting. Neat and starched. The men in the familiar garb occasionally sported by Karl and little Jakob. The women in their pale, nearly colorless, staid dresses. Probably all wearing drawers, he thought to himself and smiled.
It was not until now that he realized that what was so comforting, what was so familiar, was that they reminded him of Helga. Their faces, their hair, their sturdiness. It was their peculiar look. He had thought of it as Helga's look. He realized that it was the look of Germans.
Only a few spoke a smattering of French, and that nearly indecipherable and liberally laced with English. Though the language barrier had been formidable, the people themselves had been generally open and welcoming. That is, until he'd mentioned the name of Helmut Shotz. Immediately he'd become suspect. It had taken only a short conversation to get the message clear. If he were a friend of Shotz, he was no friend of theirs.
Helga's husband had come to the coast three years earlier. He had wintered with them, causing more than his share of trouble and grief. He'd taken up courting a wealthy old widow, they said.
"He was courting a widow?" he'd asked, shocked. "The man is married."
The farmer had shrugged. "His wife was not with him," he said. "We are Lutherans, you know. And divorce is legal in Louisiana."
The widow, however, had seen through his fast talking and charming manners and sent him on his way. Shortly thereafter her life savings, safely tucked in her mattress tick, had been confirmed as missing.
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