Pamela Morsi (13 page)

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 her 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.

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-spirited 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.

A private word with the beautiful
Mademoiselle Gaudet, however, proved to be difficult. Placide
Marchand and Ignace Granger stood on either side of her, both
calf-eyed and flirty. A beautiful woman, even one betrothed, was
most often the recipient of the attention of single men. It was the
pattern to practice one's wit and charm upon the unattainable until
a man set his goal on the woman with whom he wished to share his
life.

"Mademoiselle Gaudet," Armand said, tipping
his hat to her politely. "You are looking very lovely today, as
usual."

Aida smiled, appearing inordinately pleased
at his words, and managed an attractive little cursty.

"Thank you, Monsieur Sonnier," she said in
the low sweet voice that was somehow both innocent and
enticing.

The two gentlemen at her side kept the
conversation moving. The young beauty mostly smiled and giggled
and flirted behind her fan. Armand watched her with interest. It
was no strain. He had been watching her most of his life. She was
exceptionally beautiful. It was easy to understand why Laron
thought to marry her. It was easy to see why his brother would feel
attracted to her.

But Aida Gaudet was out of the reach of his
married brother. And out of his own reach, literally as well as
figuratively. In the back of his mind lurked the temptation to win
her for himself. Laron did not want her. Jean Baptiste could not
have her. She should be his. He pushed the thought away as unworthy
of him. It was unlikely that a woman such as her would come to love
a man like him. She was bright and beautiful in all the ways that
he was dull and ordinary.

They had once been very close. Now Armand
treated her with deference and distance. Even before she was
promised to his best friend, he had known her to be singularly
unsuited to the life he would have to offer a bride, the life of a
quiet, conventional scholar. And if in the darkness of some lonely
night he imagined the soft curve of her breast against his hand or
the plump, pinkness of her lips raised to him in a pretty pucker,
he had never nor would ever, give evidence to those dreams.

His brother's marriage was in danger and he
must do what he could to save it. There was no time to waste upon
his own foolish fantasies. Aida Gaudet was not for him. It would
take a miracle or a magic spell to capture her attention.