by Pamela Morsi
"You have compromised 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 Fifteen
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.
"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 was wringing her hands 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.
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?"