Pamela Morsi (29 page)

"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."

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 swallowed 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.