by Pamela Morsi
The two had just managed to get the belt eased in place when he glanced up to catch Aida watching him. She felt the warmth of color rush to her cheeks. He jumped to the ground and hastily donned his shirt.
"What have we here?" Jean Baptiste called out. "The ladies have brought us a reward for our effort."
Aida's father headed toward them with an eager step. "It's good you caught us before the grinding began."
To her great relief, he didn't make any joke about her failure to fix him a breakfast and no one complained about stopping to accept a bite of refreshment.
Felicite seated herself and the children in the grass near the mill shed and spread the biscuits of little Gaston and Marie with jellied mayhaw.
Aida carried the coffeepot and saw that the men's mugs continued to be full of the thick black brew.
"Mmm, Mademoiselle Gaudet," Jean Baptiste said dramatically. "These are the best biscuits I ever tasted."
"Madame Sonnier helped me," Aida responded modestly. "I usually forget either the salt or the baking powders."
"You didn't forget a thing with these," Jean Baptiste assured her. "This daughter of yours is amazing, Gaudet. Not only is she beautiful, but she can cook, too."
Aida couldn't quite disguise the blush of pride that his words brought to her cheeks. She smiled happily at Armand as she walked over to fill his cup.
The younger Monsieur Sonnier, however, was not smiling.
"My brother is quick to offer a compliment," Armand noted.
Aida nodded almost shyly. "He is very kind."
"The biscuits are good," Armand assured her.
"Merci, monsieur," she replied, gleefully dropping a little half curtsy.
He had removed his hat to wipe the sweat from his brow. The morning breeze tousled his hair attractively. Aida barely managed to resist the impulse to smooth it down. Armand was smiling at her now, smiling, friendly, but there seemed something almost troubled about his expression.
"My brother is very charming always," he said. "But he is not so attractive as some men."
Her eyes raised in question and Aida turned to glance at the older Sonnier standing with her father at the far end of the clearing. To her, Jean Baptiste appeared very familiar and in fact very dear, because he looked like Armand.
Her gaze drifted back to Armand beside her. In truth, she had never thought whether he was handsome or plain. He was simply Armand, kind, patient, and oh so intelligent Armand. Aida loved beauty. She loved beautiful things and that included people. But she was not so shallow that she could not appreciate a person for his heart and mind rather than his face. A person could be even more beautiful inside than out. That is what she thought of Armand, inside he was beautiful.
Shockingly, a saucy little thought intruded into her ruminating. Although Armand was decently covered, she could still see in memory the very masculine chest now hidden beneath a coarse homespun shirt. From what she had glimpsed earlier, some of his inside beauty had worked its way to the surface as well. She felt a treacherous warmth of humor and . . . and something else. It was that same curious excitement that his closeness had conjured up under the lilas tree.
"On the contrary, monsieur," she answered with a teasing lilt to her voice. "I think the Sonniers are very handsome men."
Armand stilled immediately and with a narrowed gaze his blue eyes avidly searched her face. Aida knew that somehow she had said the wrong thing.
She knew from her own experience that beauty was, in women, associated with foolishness. But she had never thought men to fear such attractiveness. But perhaps Armand did. Maybe, because of his sickly childhood, he worried overmuch about what other men thought of him. Aida had never noticed that to be so. But there must be some reason why he kept her always at arm's length. He was the only man on the river that failed to flirt or tease her.
"A man can be attractive," she continued, trying to reassure him. "And a woman notices that. But women do not choose a man by his looks alone."
He continued to look at her, worried. Aida sought to give him an explanation. Her first thought was of Laron. He was very handsome, yet his handsomeness was not why she planned to marry him. His poverty and need for her father's land, figured much more heavily in her decision. But she couldn't say that. It was far too private to divulge, even to a friend. A movement at the corner of her eye caught her attention and she watched Jean Baptiste hoist baby Pierre in the air, causing the baby to laugh and gurgle. Aida had her example.
"Take your brother, Jean Baptiste," she said. "He is very handsome to look at, but it is his hard work and generous nature that set him apart from other men."
Armand's expression darkened and he threw out the rest of his coffee with a jerky motion that was almost angry.
"He is also a good husband and a fine father." His words, spoken harshly, were a puzzle to Aida.
"Yes, yes he is," she agreed. "I have always dreamed to someday be as happy as Felicite."
On that same day it was very late in the afternoon before all the available rice had been cut and stacked. As Laron piled the grain into the waist-high shocks for drying, Helga and the children searched along the edges of the coulee and into the nearby woods for isolated patches that had grown up among the pickerelweed and swampgrass. One of the balancing features of providence rice was that, although the farmer expended little effort cultivating it, he had to get his feet wet trying to find it once it was grown.
Helga found and cut a small clump that had been nearly hidden by an overgrowth of mudbabies. She carried her bundle to the drier strewn piles.
Laron was there, sorting the cut rice and stacking it into shocks. His thin cottonade shirt clung to his sweat-soaked back as he bent and lifted the damp cut grain. He looked up as Helga approached, and he grinned. She smiled back at him, trying to match his mood. But he wasn't fooled.
Laron straightened and looked down into her eyes, warmly and with love. The slanted rays of the sun glistened on his hair and cast a shadow in her direction.
"I think this must be the last of it," he said as he took the bundle of cut grain from her arms. "Two weeks' drying in the shock and you'll be able to thresh out enough rice to keep those children's little bellies full all winter."
Helga nodded. "Yes," she said. "This year they will not starve. You've taught us how to feed ourselves. It has been an important lesson."
"It's about the only claim to education most Acadians would own up to," he admitted.
"We would never have made it without you," she admitted quietly. "I don't know what would have become of us if you hadn't come into our lives when you did."
Laron's smile faded and his expression became serious. "I'm glad I was here, Helga," he said. "I'm glad for your sake and the children, but mostly for myself."
Helga looked up at him, so strong and dependable and loving. She could count on him. She knew that. She could count on him for food, for shelter, for protection. She could count on him to love her and to provide for her children. She could count on him— but she could never have him.
And the whole situation was starting to hurt her oldest son.
"What's wrong?" he asked, apparently having read the sorrow in her expression.
She glanced around to assure herself that the children were out of earshot. Elsa was near the far end of the coulee. Jakob was much closer, but his attention had been captured by a small toad that was hopping through the muddy field.
"Tell me what is wrong," Laron repeated.
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing is wrong."
She'd made the statement adamantly. Not because she wanted him to believe it, but because she wanted not to have to talk about it. She wanted to delay for another day, another hour, even another minute.
But she could not.
"We should not see each other anymore," she said. "It is time you stopped these visits to me."
Laron paled visibly and his expression was stricken. He reached for her. His hands upon he
r shoulders, he held her firmly, securely, as if he feared she might run away.
"Helga, no. I cannot—"
"The time has come for this to end," she interrupted. "It has been three years. Three years that we have ignored our beliefs, ignored what is right. You know that I have always cared about you, but this liaison can continue no longer."
He was silent, frighteningly silent for a long moment.
"You have heard about Mademoiselle Gaudet, haven't you," he said finally.
Helga's brow furrowed. "Mademoiselle Gaudet?"
"I ... I am betrothed," he admitted.
She couldn't have been more stunned if he'd slapped her. Helga thought herself already sufficiently wounded to be numb, but his words penetrated painfully. "No, no I had not heard. I recall you have said that she is a rare beauty. Congratulations."
"We have been affianced for well almost two years."
Helga's eyes widened in disbelief. An angry rebuke came to her lips, but she didn't speak it. She could not complain that he did not tell her. She was his leman, his convenience. She had no right to know or intrude on his life, his plans, his future.
"I wish you happy, Monsieur Boudreau."
Her answer was as unfeeling and formal as if she were only the most casual of acquaintances.
"We are not to wed until the spring."
Helga maintained a noncommittal mask. "It is a long time for a bridegroom to wait."
"This bridegroom could wait forever," he answered softly. "Helga, I love you. Perhaps I have not said that enough. I do love you. But a man ... a man must wed. If you were free I—"
"I am not free and I have never been." Her tone was harsh, deliberately cold.
He nodded.
"Don't cast me out yet," he said, quietly pleading. "I knew you would not conscience me as another woman's husband, but I am not yet wed. Let me stay beside you until spring. Let me . . . let me love you until I take vows to promise not."
She shook her head. "It is not your vows or your bride that I am thinking about," she told him. "It is my children."
"Your children?"
Helga dropped her gaze, not wanting to face him. She purposely and deliberately kept her mind blank, her thoughts free, and her voice calm.
"Karl ... the boys that he met, the Acadian boys, told him . . . they have told him."
"They are just boys, Helga," he assured her. "They swap stories and smoke tobacco. They know nothing of what is between us."
"They know the words, Laron," she said. "They know the words and they have taught them to my son, in French and German. To my face my son called me whore."
Laron's jaw hardened angrily. "That is too much! I will take a belt to his hide!"
He turned as if to go, but she grabbed his arm. "No, you will not. He is not your son. And I am your whore."
"Helga, no."
"You must go, Laron." She could not bear to look at him, she could not meet his eyes. "My own shame I could bear. But I cannot put it on my children. You must go and never come back."
He didn't answer. He didn't speak a word. Helga continued to stare at the stubble of rice at her feet and the silence stretched unbearably until she could stand no more. She raised her head to look at him.
Laron's young handsome face was now wretched with pain. He hurt as she hurt. As in so much together they were totally attuned. His eyes were bright with tears. When he finally spoke grief distorted his tone.
"I am sorry," he said simply. "Helga, I am so very, very sorry."
She nodded.
He turned from her. He walked away.
"I caught the frog! I caught the frog!" she heard Jakob say as he hurried in her direction. "Where goes Oncle, Mama? May I go with him?"
"No darling." Helga's voice was almost a whisper. "He's going away."
"Going away?"
Helga nodded. She stood another moment, silent. Her child was at her side but she felt at once so very alone. In the heat of a late Louisiana afternoon she was chilled.
Chapter Seven
At Mass the sounds of Latin had a distinctive Acadian cadence, flavored with a French so old that it almost seemed a different language.
Armand mumbled the responses, but his mind was not on them. And his eyes were not on the priest as he blessed the cup. His eyes were on her. Her. Aida Gaudet. Men often looked at Aida Gaudet since she was beautiful. Truly beautiful. Any man who ever looked at her knew her to be so. And she was even more so when a man believed himself in love with her.
Armand believed he was in love with her. Selfishly he had allowed his careless words to undermine her betrothal to Laron Boudreau. And now the fates had levied a price. A high one indeed, since it seemed it would be paid by his brother and his brother's family. And Armand had no one to blame but himself.
As Father Denis read the sacred words, Armand and the rest of the congregation knelt. Sunday Mass was an obligation. Armand was a man who lived up to his obligations. His obligations to God, to his community, to the land, and to his family.
Over the top of his prayerfully clasped hands he studied the smooth, alluring curve of Aida Gaudet's neck as she gazed toward the heavens in supplication. When she was little more than a girl he had fallen in love with her sunniness, her sweetness. But now, grown up, she was beautiful. She was magical. And he feared that she was almost irresistible. Armand's jaw tightened.
It was not his obligations to God or to the community that troubled him now. The obligations that concerned Armand this morning were those to his brother, Jean Baptiste.
Deliberately Armand took control of the direction of his thoughts. Jean Baptiste and Aida Gaudet. On the slippery slope of disillusion, a man could go way too far, too fast.
His brother was still sleeping in the garconniere, and still singing the praises of the lovely Aida.
"How any woman can manage to look fresh and pretty in the dust and heat of branding day is a wonder," he'd commented. "And wasn't it charming the way she brought out food to us in the middle of the morning."
Armand's eyes had narrowed. His brother, his beloved brother, was entranced and ensnared, and Aida was now voicing her admiration and praise of a man who could never be hers. It had all the makings of a prairie tragedy.
A marriage could not be thrown over just because a husband developed an attraction to another woman. If the fair Aida succeeded in luring Jean Baptiste away from his wife, the sinful couple would never be able to live in Prairie l'Acadie. The two would have to relinquish friends and family. They would have to flee to a place where none would know them. Aida would never see her father again. And Jean Baptiste would have to walk away from his home and his farm. But that was nothing in comparison to walking away from his wife and three, soon four, children.
Armand surreptitiously glanced sideways toward his sister-in-law sitting near the end of the pew. Of course he would always take care of her, and he was sure Jean Baptiste knew that.
Armand prayed for wisdom. So far nothing had happened between his brother and Aida Gaudet. He was as certain of that as he was of his own name. The voices on the river had given him fair warning. But as certainly as winter followed autumn, if he did not take action, something would.
He glanced up to see the beautiful dark-haired girl, her hands clasped prayerfully and her chin lowered in submission. Emotion clutched at his heart.
Armand must keep his brother safe. To do that he must ensure that Aida Gaudet was not even tempted to look his way. She must marry Laron Boudreau and she must do it soon. Armand had set this course adrift, he would have to shore it up once more.
"Amen," he whispered in response to the benediction. If his tone sounded more determined than those around him, it was not really surprising.
The congregation began filing out of the pews and heading for the door. Armand also headed that way, helping to usher his niece and nephew as he went. The noise level in the small brick-between-timberframe building rose tremendously as they neared the open entryway. The naturally high-spirite
d Acadians managed the quiet reverence of the churchhouse with difficulty and only for short periods. By the time they stepped out into the open air, most could have easily followed the example of their children, who whooped, hollered, and ran in celebration of their freedom.
Armand relinquished control of the children, set his palmetto frond chapeau upon his head, and began to walk toward Aida Gaudet. He had not yet formulated a plan of action, but he knew that speaking with her privately would be a good first step.
It was a beautiful day in late fall. The sky was as blue as blue could ever be. The light breeze in the air was cool, but held not even one hint of a chill.
Somehow it was easy to spot Aida Gaudet, even in a crowd. Her skirts of indigo-dyed blue homespun cottonade were little different from those of any of the other ladies. The contrasting upper portion of the dress was vivid red and trimmed in yellow striping. The same yellow adorned her broad-brimmed bonnet with its shoulder-length sunshade. Her clothing was similar to that of all the women around her. Still she appeared distinct, unusual, exemplary. As if somehow her beauty did not contain itself upon her person, but radiated out around her.
Armand sidestepped a question here and a greeting there as he followed in her wake. He wasn't sure exactly what he was going to say, but it felt necessary to do something.
The light trilling of her voice sent shivers down his own spine. Shivers that had nothing to do with his brother. Armand turned his gaze toward the sound. Aida Gaudet.
She stood near the two large cape jasmines near the walkway to the churchyard cimetiere. He immediately set his step in her direction. He had not yet decided what he was going to say. But he had to speak to her.
Perhaps there was a way to restore her previous destiny and save his brother's family.