Pamela Morsi (17 page)

"Oh I can give you some," Aida told him
quickly. "From my little garden. I grow my own herbs."

"I didn't know that," Jean Baptiste told
her.

"It's just a girlish pass-a-time," she
assured him. "I showed my garden to Monsieur Armand the Sunday he
came to my porch. I enjoy watching the plants grow and flower. And
I love the fragrances."

"Ah! So it is then no wonder that you always
smell so sweet, mamselle," Jean Baptiste said.

With a pointed nod she accepted his
compliment. "It will only take me a minute to get the catmint."

She scooted back along the plank and then
rose to her feet and dropped her damp skirts in one smooth nimble
motion that revealed nothing untoward.

"I will be right back," she called as she
turned and raced up the path into the woods.

Armand listened to Jean Baptiste's pleasured
sigh. "She is as graceful as a deer," he said wistfully. Then he
shook his head. "Poor Felicite moves like an ox."

"Poor Felicite is your wife!" Armand almost
snarled at him. "It would serve you better if you spoke of her with
greater respect."

Jean Baptiste turned to look at Armand as if
the younger brother had suddenly grown donkey ears.

"What in the world—" he began.

"Poppa, are we home?" a sleepy Gaston asked
from the top of the moss pile.

"Non, petit," Jean Baptiste answered. "We
have only stopped to chat with Mademoiselle Gaudet."

Aida hurried up the woods pathway to the back
door of her house. She wasn't sure how she was feeling—partially
elated, partially embarrassed. Ostensibly she chose her washing
site because it was close to the fence line where she hung the
clothes to dry. But the fact that she was rarely seen there and
that those who did pass by merely hailed her from a distance had
always been a substantial side benefit. Laundry was not a pretty
chore and it was difficult for a woman to look her best while doing
it.

Now today, when she was not only garbed in
her worst but splashed and spattered, the Sonnier brothers had
deliberately sought her out for conversation.

Jean Baptiste was not difficult, at least. He
was such a warm and agreeable fellow. Felicite was certainly a
lucky woman to have him for a husband.

Armand, however, appeared today rather grim
and humorless. While Jean Baptiste chatted and charmed, Armand
looked at her as if she were a rodent caught in his corncrib. She
had seen so much of him lately and it seemed inevitably when she
was saying or doing something that made her seem like a fool.
Compared to him, of course, she was not at all smart. He could read
and write and he understood all about money and governments and the
world outside. She didn't know any of that, but she did know that
her engagement to Monsieur Boudreau was on a shaky foundation and
getting more so everyday.

And she wished she could talk to Armand about
it—not only was he Laron's best friend, but as children they had
been close.

Laron hadn't so much as darkened her doorway
since that Sunday that he failed to show up on her porch. A few
days later Ruby had told her about Laron's trip to Bayou
Blonde.

She had no idea what had set him off in that
direction or what his feelings now might be. But he had not hurried
to beg her pardon. He'd apparently sent Armand to do it for him. A
half-dozen times since then his best friend had offered a
recitation of her fiancé’s virtues.

Aida's mouth thinned unpleasantly. Maybe
because she had never made demands upon Laron, he thought that he
could treat her without respect. Well, she was not about to be
publicly humiliated by him. She was not going to be made a
laughingstock. If Laron couldn't even be bothered to come speak for
himself, she seriously doubted that he would be eager to make vows
with her. And if the betrothal was to be broken, Aida knew without
question that it was she herself who was going to break it.

Skirting the henhouse and the back shed, Aida
made her way into the yard. Near the center of the cleared, nearly
grassless area, used for household tasks and chicken scratching,
was the tall circular-shaped cistern where rainwater was caught
for drinking and cooking.

Aida dropped to her knees and opened the
lower store below the tank. There in that cool damp shelter she
kept those roots, herbs and preserves that required such
storage.

In a near corner on a small shelf sat a
sturdy cedar-lined box. She pulled it out on the ground in front
of her and opened it up. Inside, packed in small earthen jars with
wide cork stopper lids were the fruits of her labors, her harvest
of herbs.

Aida had always been interested in plants and
flowers. Practically from babyhood she had kept a little garden of
her own. There was something so purposeful, so reassuring in seeing
the tiny green sprouts force themselves out of the dark earth to
grow strong. Not content with cannas, zinnias, and marigolds, Aida
had soon been planting lavender and rosemary and verbena, the
fragrances of pretty girls.

She had become seriously interested in herbs
when a bee stung her cheek. Her face had turned red and raw and
swelled badly, temporarily disfiguring her. Aida had been
frightened. And her father, very worried himself, had poled her
down to see Orva Landry.

The old woman had been calm and self-assured.
She'd crushed fresh savory and rubbed it over the injury.

"You'll be fine in a few days," Madame Landry
had said with complete confidence.

She had been right. Within a week all
evidence of the horrible sting vanished. Aida was impressed with
that. But even more, she was impressed by the old woman's
confidence. She envied the certainty that a person could have if
she held knowledge within her grasp.

It sparked an interest in the medicinal
herbs. Gradually she had come to plant them in her little garden.
She would pretend that she was a famous hoodoo woman, blending them
together for make-believe charms and cures.

Little by little she learned about the herbs
used to treat her or her family or friends. She grew a little
hyssop to ease her father's breathing when the scent of elm was in
the air. And a plot of dill that soothed the ache in her tummy when
she got overset. She raised lemon balm for headache and licorice to
make the bowels move. Each season she added something new and the
portion of her garden set aside for herbs had enlarged and spread
until there was little room left for the pretty flowers that she
once cultivated.

She sifted delicately among the contents of
the herb box. Each bunch of blossoms, bundle of leaves, or stash of
seeds had been carefully dried or crushed or mashed into paste to
keep it until the spring arrived.

Aida easily found the catmint jar. The pale
violet flowers inside were now faded to bluish-gray. The scent was
pungent, almost spicy. The jar was completely full, Aida did not
suffer often from female difficulties and holding water. She would
send it all to Felicite, she decided quickly. If the poor woman's
limbs were so swollen that her husband complained about them, then
she was certainly in need.

She held her crisp white apron out by the
corners and emptied the jar into it. Folding back the corners, she
ensured that unless she tripped and fell upon her face, she could
transport the herbs without fear of losing any.

She closed the chest and put it back on the
cistern safe shelf. As she began to shut the door she spied an
arrowroot tuber. After a moment's contemplation she placed it, too,
within the folds of her apron.

Aida shut the door and carefully reset the
raccoon-proof latch. She hurried back down the woods path. The
Sonnier brothers were waiting. They undoubtedly had not had a meal
since breakfast and she should not hold them up unnecessarily.

A meal? She glanced down to see two strings
still upon her fingers. She must hurry to finish with her laundry.
Her poor father must be famished already. She hoped he didn't show
up at the water's edge and tell the men that she had forgotten him
once more. Armand would truly be disapproving.

Her brow furrowed once more as she considered
the younger Monsieur Sonnier's incessant insistence that she and
Laron marry as quickly as possible. If she did not know better, she
would wonder if he was speaking for her own father or the parish
priest. But Armand was supposed to be Laron's best friend. If that
was so, why would he push so rigorously for a quick wedding? It was
a troublesome question.

"Here you are, monsieur," she called out as
she came through the trees and spotted the men waiting on the
pirogue.

The little boy had awakened and he waited
excitedly.

"Bonjour, Mademoiselle Gaudet," he called
out.

Aida couldn't help smiling back at him.

"And a good day to you, young sir," she
replied.

The boat was pulled in as close to shore as
the Sonniers would dare with such a load. Since Aida was dressed in
her laundering clothes and already wet, it made perfect sense that
she should wade out to them.

She was barely ankle-deep in the water when
she heard Jean Baptiste speak up. "Stay where you are,
Mademoiselle. I will come to you."

Aida opened her mouth to tell him not to
bother, but didn't have time. With a hearty splash, Armand Sonnier
was standing in the water.

"I'll do it," he said to his brother.

Aida watched with disbelief as Armand Sonnier
made his way through the waist-high water toward her. When he
reached her side he was dripping wet.

"I was going to bring it out to the pirogue,"
she told him by way of apology.

"I didn't want you to have to lift your skirt
again."

From his face, the reply seemed to have
escaped him unexpectedly. Aida's jaw dropped open in shock.

"I mean I—" He fumbled for an
explanation.

Aida felt as disconcerted and uncomfortable
as she had ever felt in her life. Hurriedly she unhitched the apron
from her belt and handed it all to him in the bundle.

She chattered quickly. "The catmint will make
a fine tea, but tell Madame Sonnier not to overboil it or it will
be bitter to the taste."

Armand nodded. He appeared unhappy and
discomposed. And somewhat irritated to be feeling that way.

"She needn't concern herself with straining
it too carefully," she continued. "Even consumed whole, it's not
dangerous."

He was standing too close to her, she
thought. Well, maybe not too close, he was at least an arm's length
away. But there was something distinctly intimate about being able
to look directly into a man's eyes. It made her feel as if he could
see right inside her. As if she had nowhere to hide.

"I've put an arrowroot in there, too," she
said, trying to cover her discomfort. "It's good for thickening a
roux or a stew and it is said to build up the strength."

"I will tell her," he said.

"That's all the catmint that I have. If she
needs more, perhaps Madame Landry will have some," she said.

Armand raised an eyebrow at her. "Yes, and
perhaps it is Madame Landry who should be prescribing teas and
roots."

Aida felt the heat of embarrassment flame her
cheeks. "Of course Madame Sonnier should follow the dictates of
Madame Landry," she agreed quietly. "I ... I only thought to
help."

Her modesty seemed to check his annoyance and
he appeared visibly to force his rather angry expression to
soften.

"Yes, well, I'm sure you did," he admitted
finally. "When you showed me your herb garden, I had no idea that
you had such a talent."

"It is, as I said, just a pass-a-time."

"But it is an admirable one," Armand said.
"Laron will be pleased to hear that his bride-to-be has such
interests."

Aida secretly doubted that statement. She
chose her next words carefully.

"I am not altogether certain that pleasing
Monsieur Boudreau is any longer my concern," she said.

She saw his eyes widen.

"Whatever do you mean, Mademoiselle Gaudet?"
he asked.

"Not having seen or spoken to the man in some
time, I have no knowledge of whether he is even alive or dead," she
told him.

"He is very much alive, mamselle," Armand
said. "Although he has not ... he has not been feeling quite
himself. I expect him to be paying you a visit any day now. Perhaps
you can make up a tea from your herbs to treat him, too."

The last of the year's cotton crop had been
too late and shaded for the sun to open it white and fluffy on the
stock. Before the rain and cold could set in and the hulls rot
unopened, the men gathered them in baskets and stored them to
dry.

Now, with chill and wet and cold in the air,
the women gathered together for a hulling bee—a party of sorts to
break open the bolls and retrieve the last of the cotton that might
have been lost.

Because Felicite was so close to her time,
the bee was held in the Sonnier house. Great woven frond baskets
filled the room as the women sat around in a gossipy circle. The
little ones were sent up to the loft. The older ones watched the
younger as they played and allowed their mothers the privacy to
share secrets and talk woman talk.

The house was dark and gloomy as the rain
drizzled outside. The fireplace popped and crackled, more for the
sake of illumination than warmth. The bright yellow lantern hung
down from a chain in the center of the room, but could not dispel
the bleakness of the afternoon.

Breaking the hard spindly bolls and picking
out the fine fibers of white and ecru contained inside required
dexterous fingers and was hard on the hands. The women all wore
sturdy gloves for the occasion. The fingers were straight and
well-fitted for painstaking work, the palms were padded with moss
to protect even the roughest and most work-hardened feminine hands
from the sharp, slicing hulls that surrounded the cotton.