by Pamela Morsi
Aida danced and laughed and giggled with Ruby through several sets. She was nearly breathless and glowing when Ignace Granger, a young man of not quite twenty, led her to the food tables.
If there was anything that Acadians appreciated more than music and dancing, it had to be food and coffee. Monsieur Granger passed her plate along the table and it was soon piled high with rice and roux and vegetables.
Aida's eyes widened with delight as it returned to her.
"Oh monsieur," she scolded playfully. "Do you wish to fatten me like one of your fine cows?"
"Impossible, mamselle," he assured her. "Such beauty as yours could never be marred."
On the other side of the table Estelle LeBlanc snorted in disgust. "Never heard yet of a woman who didn't get fat when she married or loose her looks with old age," the woman declared.
Young Granger was momentarily struck dumb by the comment.
"A bright young man would pick a woman for her worthiness as a helpmate and housekeeper," Madame LeBlanc continued haughtily. "Aida, your poor father declared earlier at this very table that you forgot completely to cook for him today. And he confessed to us that he often finds dishes half-washed and beds half-made, and claims that since the death of your mother, no pot of beans has ever been cooked in your home without scorching."
Aida flushed. The teasing of the young men, the outrageous compliments were fun and a frivolous pleasure. The reality of her featherbrained ways was forever her cross to bear. She tried to remember things, to do things right, to stay with one task until it was done. But always her mind would wander and her work would be left unfinished and her beans burning over the fire.
"I feel very badly about Poppa," she admitted, accepting a huge slice of bread from the woman. "I wish I were a better daughter. He deserves better, I know."
The woman huffed, still disapproving. But Aida knew that it was difficult to continue a disagreement if one person resisted the impulse to disagree.
At that moment Father Denis approached the table, in the middle of what seemed to be a heated argument with Oscar Benoit and Clerville Pujal.
Aida welcomed a chance to slip away from the table and Madame LeBlanc. Plate in hand, she headed for the leafy overhang of the lilas. Her eyes searching the crowd for Laron, she was startled when she bumped into a figure in the tree's shadow.
"Oh pardon!" she cried, startled.
"It is my fault," he apologized.
Aida turned to find herself eye to eye with Armand Sonnier. Like nearly everyone else on this prairie, she had known Armand Sonnier all her life. They had grown up together. Aida remembered him being ill much of the time as a boy.
"Any day that child could sicken and die," she had once heard one of the old women say.
Aida had been stunned and frightened at the prospect. Her mother had died, though Aida hardly recalled it. One day she was there and the next not. Father Denis said that her mother had gone to a better place, and at four years old Aida had accepted that. But when the little brown-faced calf had been killed in a drowning bog, she had been inconsolable. She'd cried for a week. How much more it must hurt, she surmised, to lose a friend than an animal. From that day forward, she had always run to Armand first, eager to assure herself that he was well and strong and that she would see him again tomorrow.
After he grew out of his poor health and joined the other young men in fun and frolic, Aida had tagged behind and pestered him. He was clever and funny and patient with her. Although she was rather silly and not smart, he treated her kindly, as if he really liked her. He was not big and brawny, but he always took up for her when she was teased. He was quietly her champion. Her smile brightened at the sight of him.
"Monsieur, I did not see you here," she said.
He nodded. "I'm sure you did not."
Armand Sonnier, looking fashionable and elegant in black Creole trousers and a long blue coat, stood privately in the darkness of the chinaberry tree. He had once been her hero. Now he was only the best friend of her fiancé.
"Are you avoiding your escort?" he asked.
"What? Oh no, I mean ... I forgot about Monsieur Granger," she admitted as she raised her generously laden dish, offering him samples of the dinner fare. "Would you care to join me? I am hiding from the matrons at the table. They find fault with me tonight."
"And why is that?" Armand asked, taking only a tasty corner of roux-soaked bread.
Aida shook her head shamefully. "My poor father arrived here hungry once more. I cannot seem to remember to cook for him."
"Perhaps each morning you should tie three strings upon your fingers," he suggested. "And when all are gone at the end of the day, you will know that you have fed your father adequately."
"That might work," she agreed with a little giggle. "If only I could remember where I keep the string."
They ate together companionably for several minutes. Armand devoured the crawfish and cabbage while Aida merely picked at the capon pasties. It felt strangely intimate; his long, sun-bronzed hands choosing juicy tidbits from her plate, the warmth of his nearness, the scent of soap from his hair. Aida began to feel a sort of vague discomfort, as if her bodice had suddenly become too small. She glanced over at the man beside her. The familiar blue eyes were not recognizable in the dim light of the distant torches, but Aida could feel the heat of them upon her. Her heart seemed to catch in her throat. There was something distinctly disconcerting about being able to look a man straight in the eye. There was something distinctly disconcerting about standing this close to Armand Sonnier.
Thankfully he stepped away and Aida released the breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
"Are you enjoying the fais-dodo, monsieur?" she asked, suddenly desperate to fill the gaping silence between them.
"Of course, mamselle," he answered. "Although no one ever seems to enjoy themselves as much as you."
The words were slightly sharp, hinting at disapproval. Armand Sonnier had once been her champion, but he was that no more. Four years ago he had changed, or rather she had. She had stopped being a child. Her waist slimmed down and her figure blossomed. And the people of Prairie l'Acadie all began to look at her.
The boys who had formerly ignored her were suddenly drawn to her presence like flies. The men shook their heads appreciatively and chuckled. The women clucked and whispered behind her back. Aida had changed. And when she did the world changed around her, including Armand Sonnier.
He decided that he no longer liked her. She knew the exact day, the exact hour when it happened. It had been at the Tuesday Ball when she had just turned fifteen. Armand and Laron had both been cavaliers masques and had spent the day running Mardi Gras from house to house collecting chickens, guineas, and provisions for a supper of rice and gumbo. The food was "purchased" by the singing of songs, and payment always included a "glass of encouragement" for the riders. By the time of the ball the two young men were tired, laughing, and more than a little inebriated.
Aida had been excited about the ball. She had a new dress in vivid blue with bright rose piping. It was a woman's dress and Aida felt like a woman for the first time. She had laced her vest corset as tightly as breathing would allow. That made her small waist appear incredibly narrow and her new budding bosom seem positively robust.
She could hardly wait for Armand to notice her. In fact she didn't wait. She caught up to him on his way to the barn.
"Good evening, monsieur," she called out to him. Aida was delighted to be "too grown up" to use his given name.
She placed her hands on her hips and raised her shoulders slightly. She'd discovered in her glass that such a pose showed off her new figure to best advantage.
Armand turned, a smile already on his face, as if he had recognized her voice. Then the smile faded. As a silly scatterbrained girl, he had thought her amusing. But in that moment, he had seen her as a woman.
And clearly a foolish one. Aida had frozen in embarrassment.
It was as the old women said. A sil
ly brainless woman did not appeal to a serious man. Aida had flaunted her body at him, thinking to impress him with her feminine curves, to capture the attention from him that she so easily drew from others. She deserved his punishment, which was the loss of his friendship.
He looked at her now as he had then. And she felt his rejection just as keenly. It was as if she had offered herself and been found wanting. His cold words chilled her. Humiliation darkened her cheeks.
"Yes, mamselle," he said. "You seem always to enjoy yourself more than anyone else."
"There is no sin in laughing and dancing, monsieur, even Father Denis does not believe it so," she said, raising her chin in challenge before firing back. "But perhaps you are more priest than he."
She watched his jaw harden and knew her shot had wounded. "I am no priest."
"Then why do you never dance?"
His gaze narrowed with displeasure.
"Perhaps there is no one with whom I'd care to dance."
It was a direct cut.
"I love to dance no matter the partner," she retorted, lightly. "I am always willing to have fun with my friends and family."
"So I see," he said. "Another woman would save such frolic for her fiancé."
His criticism was unfair and she did not like it. Laron was the one reluctant to dance, not she. She would stay on his arm all night long if he permitted. But he showed no inclination.
"Monsieur Boudreau does not mind that I enjoy myself," she said.
"No, he does not," Armand agreed. "But a young woman who is so silly-minded that she can lose her shoes, her gloves, her hair ribbons, even her prayer-book, might discover that with such behavior, she can lose her fiancé as well."
Aida's pride was crushed at his words, she felt her eyes well with tears, and she turned her back to him.
"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."