Pamela Morsi (6 page)

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 silly
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.