by Pamela Morsi
"I'll take care of this," Armand assured them, indicating the now empty cook pot, old tablecloths, miniature sabots, and sack of spare clothing, diapers, and needments required for traveling with little ones. "You two get the babies to bed."
His brother and sister-in-law made their way up the planking toward the house. Jean Baptiste carried Gaston and Marie, who hung like rag dolls from their father's broad shoulders. Felicite carried the baby, Pierre, who was squalling now in earnest. Armand
suspected that it was near time for the little fellow to be put at his mother's breast.
He watched their retreating backs for a moment and then returned his attention to collecting the cargo of the pirogue. The evening had been a long one. He could not quite shake the worry and concern he felt at his godmother's words, despite talking with many other people through the course of the evening. At one point Armand had sought the solitude of the big chinaberry tree and allowed his gaze to wander around the crowd.
As always his attention settled upon Aida Gaudet. He watched her from afar as she laughed and giggled and flirted with every male still breathing.
Madame Landry had said that Armand's words were destined to change Aida's life. She would not marry his friend Laron. But then whom would she marry? Clearly she and Laron were perfectly paired. They were equally matched in grace and good looks, and he was head and shoulders taller than she. Her dainty feminine charms enhanced the appeal of his masculine strength. Anyone looking in their direction would note immediately what a handsome couple they made. They looked as if they belonged together.
Were his careless words about to drive them apart? Was his unsolicited opinion about to cause upheaval to people he cared about? And, most disturbing of all, was it his own selfish, unrequited passion that had caused him to speak?
Laron Boudreau was the closest friend he had in the world. Armand wanted what was best for him.
Armand had been thinking himself wise and helpful when he'd given his opinion on marriage without love. Wise and helpful. But now . . . now . . .
Armand shook his head furiously at his own conceit. He had urged his friend to give up a genuine opportunity to wed in order to continue an illicit union with a strange foreign woman of low morals. A woman Laron could never marry because she was still the legal wife of another man.
And Aida Gaudet would soon be seeking a new beau.
At first he'd thought this could be a good thing. When she had found her way to his tree-shaded hiding place, his heart had taken up a hurried pace. She was beautiful, of course. But there was more about her, more about Aida, almost a glow that surrounded her. It was what drew men to her side, Armand was sure. Many women had fine figures, handsome hair, and shy beckoning smiles. But Aida Gaudet had some unique indefinable something that seemed always to cheer the heart and brighten the day. And Aida was so guileless and uncomplicated, she remained unaware of the real source of her attraction.
Armand was not unaware. She was like the warm glow of an autumn fire, hard for any man to resist.
"Someone I'm sure you would never suspect."
Orva Landry's words, when he'd asked whom Aida would set upon for a new romance, now had an ominous ring. Aida Gaudet was a beautiful and desirable woman. But if she were not safely bound to Boudreau, she would surely seek out another man. And because she was not very bright, her choice might well be an unwise one.
It was just as he had told Laron; Aida would choose a man the same way she chose cloth, for the prettiness of its aspect rather than the durability of the fabric. Laron was the best-looking young man on the river, but here in Prairie l'Acadie, Armand knew what man might well come in second place.
The image of his brother Jean Baptiste kneeling at her feet helping with her shoes came to his mind.
"It was nothing," Armand muttered to himself. A still, frightening coldness settled about his heart. "It was nothing." And indeed it was nothing, helping her with her shoes. A public gesture with much joking or teasing; no one present took it seriously. But then no one present had heard Orva Landry's warning. No one present had heard his brother's dissatisfied complaints about married life.
And with any luck at all, no one present had seen the two of them sneaking back from the privacy of the woods.
With fear distorting his reason, Armand thought of poor Felicite swelled with child. He thought of Gaston and Marie. He thought of little Pierre, gurgling happily as was his nature.
He closed his eyes and swallowed hard against the fear that filled his throat. "Please God," Armand prayed into the quiet stillness of the Louisiana night. "Please don't let this be happening."
Armand hadn't seen them leave. He'd turned away from the sight of the festivities when Laron had swept her into the dance. They were such a handsome couple. It hurt him to look at them. He made his way to a group of men swapping hunting stories, telling jokes. Hippolyte Arcenaux had warned him that Father Denis wanted to speak with him and Armand quickly made himself scarce.
He was near the edge of the woods when he heard the familiar tinkle of laughter. It had surprised him. Although, as an engaged couple, Laron and Aida would have undoubtedly been allowed an occasional private walk in the moonlight, his friend virtually never took advantage of that privilege.
A movement from the corner of his eye caught Armand's attention. In the distance, out on the river, he spied a man poling his pirogue upstream. He didn't even need to squint to recognize Laron Boudreau. His friend, as on every Saturday night, was on his way to visit the German widow.
Immediately Armand's heart began to beat faster. The man in the trees with Aida Gaudet could not be Laron. It might well be the new man, the man Orva spoke about. The man whose arms Armand's careless words had sent Aida flying to.
As footsteps grew nearer Armand thought to himself, surely it must be Granger. Granger or Marchand, it really didn't matter. He didn't care if it was young Babin or even old toothless LeBlanc.
He saw her first. Aida Gaudet, dainty and dazzling and desirable.
Holding her arm in his own and gazing down at her, blue eyes wide as a lovesick calf's, was his brother, Jean Baptiste Sonnier.
"Please God, don't let it be," Armand said to the silent night.
"Well, it is already Sunday, but don't you think you ought to save that for church?"
The words came from behind him. Startled, Armand turned to face his brother.
"I figured you were already abed," Armand told him.
"Thought I'd sleep up in the garconniere," Jean Baptiste said. "If you don't mind me invading your territory."
"You're not sleeping with your wife?"
Jean Baptiste shook his head. "She's so big now and restless. She gets up a half-dozen times a night. I'll get more sleep upstairs in one of the extra beds."
He started up the stairs at the far end of the porch, but turned back toward Armand. "Are you coming up?"
Armand felt momentarily rooted to the spot.
"Yes," he said finally. "Yes, yes, I'm coming."
He hurried up the stair behind his brother. The so-called garconniere was merely the floored space under the eaves of the roof. It was generally used only by young men because it was accessed by the stairs from the porch. The steep pitch of the roof made standing a thing done only in the middle, but the space around the edges was well-utilized by low-lying rope sprung beds.
Normally the room was Armand's alone. Laron stayed with him frequently, as did other young men, neighbors and cousins, when they visited. Even little Gaston had spent a night or two up there. But Armand could not recall his brother spending the night with him since his marriage.
Jean Baptiste picked a bed across the room from his brother. Armand was thoughtful as he readied himself for the night.
"You made quite a scene with Mademoiselle Gaudet," he said finally.
"Helping her with her dancing slippers?" Jean Baptiste chuckled. "It was a bit of fun, wasn't it?"
"It's a good thing that you're married," Armand pointed out
. "Otherwise she might have gotten the wrong idea."
His brother laughed as if the thought were a pleasant one. Stripped down to his smallclothes, he stretched out on the bed and stared up at the roof beams.
"Her feet are just as tiny as you'd expect them to be," Jean Baptiste said thoughtfully. "Dainty and pretty, just like the rest of her. And the scent,” Jean Baptiste took a deep breath as if he were breathing it in once more. "I couldn't quite place it. Was it was lilies or roses or ... or something else?"
"Well," Armand pointed out, "most women smell good."
Jean Baptiste sighed and offered a noise of agreement as he rolled over on his side, punching at the moss-fill pillow to get it just right. Yawning and sleepy, just before dozing off he added, "Felicite smells like milk. I swear she's not going to get the last baby weaned before the next one is here."
Armand lay awake a long time.
Chapter Four
The rough dark gray bark of the tupelo scratched Helga's backside, but she paid it no notice. Her arms and legs were wound tightly around Laron, but her passion was spent.
They held their position for as long as they could. Eventually the strength of his legs gave way to the waves of relaxation that settled upon him and he eased her feet to the ground.
"Your drawers, Madame," he said, finding them on the ground and shaking them out before he handed them over. His teasing tone was typical. Acadian women wore no such garment and Laron had declared them to be a needless, silly affectation of clothing.
"Drawers are the fashion now everywhere," she had assured him. "Only the most poor of peasant women would go around with their buttocks unsheathed."
Laron had laughed at that. "With all of the skirts you women wear, I hardly think that you are very close to nakedness."
He had not convinced her to give them up. Instead he teased her relentlessly about wearing them.
"So when did the smoking start?" he asked. "And why on earth is Karl so unwilling to go to bed?"
Helga hesitated momentarily. "The smoking began on Wednesday, I think," she answered. "He came home from fishing and was green as duckweed. The smell of supper had him puking off the back porch."
Laron chuckled and shook his head. "I remember that first time myself," he said.
"I didn't see the tobacco until Friday," she continued. "We had a bit of a row. Or at least he did. I refused to discuss the subject and he lit up very defiantly, as if he were trying to force me to lose my temper."
"You and Karl argued?" Laron seemed surprised.
"He just . . . well, there are things ... we do not always agree."
His expression slowly changed from confused to amused as he gazed down at her discomfiture.
"We do not always agree," he quoted her. "So you have made your home a democracy these days, Madame? The influence of consorting with the Acadian men, no doubt. And I have always thought of you as a very autocratic German empress."
Helga was grateful for his humor. "I still say what goes on under my own roof and you had best not forget it," she told him.
He grinned. "You may have total dominion of the roof, Madame, if I may have an equal say under the bedclothes."
She smiled back at him as they reached the porch. "Nothing will go on under those bedclothes tonight, monsieur," she told him. "As long as my son lays in the chair by the hearth, you and I will lie as chaste as nuns."
"As nuns?"
They stepped in through the back door. Young Karl was where they had left him, still sprawled uncomfortably in a chair that was never meant for sleeping.
"Maybe I could carry him upstairs," Laron whispered.
Helga looked up at him. "And if he wakes are you ready to sit until dawn continuing your history lesson?"
Laron made a disagreeable face. Helga stifled a giggle.
Stalling, she silently straightened the items stowed on the kitchen shelves as Laron divested himself and hung his garments on the hook beside the bed. There was virtually no light within the cabin and she couldn't see the man across the room from her, but she didn't need to see him. She knew the width of his back, the length of his thigh, and the breadth of his shoulders with more familiarity than she knew her own life. He was her man and she loved him. She had never meant for that to happen but it had.
The creak of the ropes sounded as he crawled into the bed. She moved toward the sound. He had scooted to the far side and held the blanket open welcomingly. She leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead.
"I must look in on the little ones," she whispered. "Go on to sleep."
He didn't argue as she made her way across the room and up the ladder to the loft. In the dim light seeping through the shuttered window she checked on her son. He slept peacefully on his mat, his sweet blond curls tousled around his head. She squatted
down beside him and gently removed the thumb that was tucked so securely in his mouth.
Quietly she made her way to the larger sleeping mat. Elsa, too, was lost in dreamland.
Helga began removing her own clothes and hanging them beside her daughter's. She loosened and undid her braid. Finding Elsa's brush, she began drawing it through her hair, not bothering to count the strokes.
"I know why Monsieur Boudreau travels all this way."
In her heart she heard Karl's words once more. She had never meant for her son to know. She had never meant for it to go on this long. She had never meant—but what had she meant? A simple thank you. That should have sufficed.
Helga put the brush aside and lay down with her daughter. She was eager to sleep but knew it would not come easily. She listened intently, hoping to hear the snores of her lover. Laron expected her to come to bed. If he fell asleep he would not know that she had not.
She hadn't meant to fall in love with him. She hadn't meant to take him as a lover. She had only been saying thank you to the man who had saved them after her husband deserted her.
Helga closed her eyes, willing sleep, but none came.
She had seen him first on the day Jakob was born. She had been far along in labor when a very frightened Karl had brought him into the house. By his manner of dress she recognized him immediately as one of the Acadians that lived on the river.
"Lazy, worthless people!"
That's what her husband had called them. And Helmut certainly should know lazy and worthless when he encountered it, they were so much his own personal traits.
But this Acadian had proved his value when her child came into the world and into his arms. She remembered those first moments watching him hold her son, cooing to the child and speaking to him in French. She wondered tiredly if the Acadians were like the Gypsies she'd heard stories about. Did they perhaps steal children? Might being stolen possibly be the best thing for Jakob? She wanted what was best for her baby. She wanted what was best for all her children.
It had been less than a year before Jakob's birth that Helmut had dragged them to this place. He had said it was a farm, but it had been only a decrepit hut in the wilderness.
She knew that they must be hiding out. Not she and the children, of course, but Helmut. He must be hiding out again from a judge or a posse or an angry citizen whom he had cheated. Helga had spent much of her life with Helmut hiding from someone. They had lived in a half-dozen places in the strange new country. Helga would settle in, try to start a life, and then it would all be over. Someone would be robbed or cheated and they would hurry away in the dark of night.
But never again. With two small children and one on the way she had said, "No more!" And Helmut Shotz had taken his gun and their stores and merely rowed out of their lives.
It hadn't taken long for Laron Boudreau to realize that they were hungry and destitute. He began to provide for them. He brought salt and flour, meat and game. He taught them to fish and forage and get by in the wet inhospitable climate that was Louisiana.
But she had had things to teach also. He had been an innocent, inexperienced young man of barely twenty. She had taught him to be her lo
ver.
Chapter Five
Fall was branding time in Prairie l'Acadie. Traditionally all herds, cattle and hogs, were set free on All Saints' Day to winter as they would. For this reason careful marking would ensure that all animals would be returned to their rightful owners when spring was upon them.
Armand loved working the cattle. The horses were well trained to turn and cut the cows from the herd. As drover, Armand sat high in the saddle, letting the fine bay gelding do the work of separating the animals out one by one.
Then all that was left to do was to throw a lasso around the cow's neck, a skill at which Armand excelled. Once it was roped, Jean Baptiste or Laron or one of the other men who were larger and stronger than he would throw the animal to its side, tie up the legs, and endeavor to keep it still while the white-hot metal of the brand was sizzled into the tough hide of its flank.
A half-dozen men had come at dawn to help with the branding, with more joining them as the day wore on. Friends, neighbors, those who had just needed or would soon need help themselves. The women, as expected, were cooking up a feast to reward them. And children cavorted and played as if the day were a celebration rather than merely hot, hard work.
The Sonnier brothers were considered highly successful cattlemen with a combined herd of nearly a hundred head. They had always worked together since the day their father had gone off to fight with Andrew Jackson to liberate New Orleans. The two boys had stood together at the dock as he packed his pirogue. Jean Baptiste had been twelve, already lanky and tall, his skinny legs still clumsy for him. Armand had been nine, very small and thin, but sturdy, his father insisted. Armand had grown sufficiently sturdy.
Sonnier kissed them goodbye and spoke to them as men.
"It is duty that bids me go," he said. "A man must always follow his duty."
The boys nodded, too young to fully understand.