Pamela Morsi (5 page)

"A careless word spoken is like a tree
falling into a mighty river," she told him finally. Raising her
chin, she looked him straight in the eye. "Most times the tree
merely lies to rot and be swept away. But sometimes when the water
is low and the yonder bank delicate, the river will swirl around
the tree with some force, wear away the weak side, and cause the
flow to meander in a new direction."

"What are you saying, Nanan? That a careless
word of mine has changed the destiny of Aida Gaudet?"

Madame Landry nodded as she lowered her gaze
to the boiling pot of aromatic gumbo. "She will not wed the young
Boudreau," she said quietly.

Armand was surprised. He remembered
speculating to Laron that if he married a woman he did not want,
he would be miserable. Could it be that Laron would take his words
seriously? Armand found the thought lightening his heart. But he
rallied against the wishfulness. Separating Aida from Laron would
not turn her in his direction. Aida was flighty and carefree. She
liked handsome, dashing men, and Armand was forever short and
plain. But he hoped Aida would find a husband whose heart was not
engaged elsewhere.

"I find that news not disquieting, but
welcome," he told the old woman.

She huffed in disapproval. "Well, perhaps you
should not," she said. "Altering the fate of one alters the fate of
all."

He knew the admonition was true. Laron could
never marry the German widow, of course. And they could have no
legitimate children. But he would be a good man to her, loyal and
true as any husband, and even a fine father to the little ones she
had. Those would all be positive things. Armand could not see any
bad consequences. Of course, there was the jilting.

"What about Aida Gaudet?"

Orva nodded approvingly as if she could see
his thoughts coming full circle. "Soon she will cast her heart in a
new direction," the old woman said.

"And in what man's direction will that be?"
he asked.

Madame Landry ceased her stirring and
slathered a helping of the broth and fish on a large piece of bread
in a wooden trencher. "This is for your sister-in-law, isn't it?"
she said. "She should eat, she will need her strength."

He accepted the dish, but continued to watch
his godmother curiously.

"Who is the new man for Aida Gaudet?" he
asked more forcefully.

Orva Landry raised her eyes to meet his gaze
directly, but her words failed to satisfy his curiosity. "Someone I
am sure that you would never suspect."

From the moment Aida stepped upon the
Marchands' dock, she was determined to have a wonderful time. She
did not immediately see Laron and she would not deign to cast her
glance into the crowd for him. She knew that he must be there and
that he was undoubtedly looking at her.

It was Monsieur Marchand himself who helped
her from the pirogue. Her wooden sabots scattered behind her in
the boat as she attempted to slip her dancing slippers from her
sleeve. She was certain that she had put them right there, but
inexplicably she could not locate them.

"I've been hardly able to hold my feet still
since the last bend in the river," she confessed breathlessly to
her host. "If I could just lean on someone strong like you while I
hurry into my slippers . . . where are my slippers?"

Somehow the prized kid dancing shoes had
disappeared in the sleeve of her gown, and with her other

arm completely inside the covering of its
opposite, she could not locate them.

"Where on earth . . ."

"I believe, mamselle," Monsieur Marchand said
gallantly. "That perhaps they are in the left rather than the
right."

"The left?"

She glanced down and could clearly see the
telltale bulge in the other sleeve.

"Oh, they are here!"

Aida laughed gaily, as if it were a good
joke, and amazingly, the gentlemen laughed with her.

"Indeed yes, mamselle," Emile Marchand
agreed, holding himself very tall and straight. "It is an honor to
be your champion."

Aida giggled as if the older man had said
something quite clever and then braced herself against him as she
bent to put on her shoes. To her surprise she found a gentleman at
her feet.

"Monsieur Sonnier?" Her eyes were wide with
feigned confusion. "It is very polite to bow to a lady, but it is
not necessary to drop to one's knees."

Jean Baptiste laughed delightedly. "You tease
me, Mademoiselle Gaudet. Your humble servant wishes only to offer
assistance."

He took Aida's red slippers from her and
placed one on each small foot as she leaned upon the sturdy
shoulder of Monsieur Marchand.

"Thank you very much, gentlemen," she said
when she was properly shod and standing unassisted once more. "You
are both too kind."

"I am not too kind to ask a reward,
mamselle," Jean Baptiste told her.

"A reward?"

"When the music starts up again, could an old
married man beg a dance with the loveliest lady present?" he
asked.

Aida batted her eyelashes at him. "Oh
monsieur, I do hope that Madame Sonnier doesn't hear you say such a
thing."

Jean Baptiste laughed lightly. "My good wife
would never dispute the truth."

Aida batted him lightly on the sleeve with
her guinea feather fan as if to scold him for his words. "All
right, monsieur, I must risk your lady's wrath, for I fear I have
no other partner," she told him.

He offered his arm and led her out among the
dancers. They joined three other couples in a set. As soon as they
took position, the music began once more as if Ony Guidry had been
waiting just for them.

Aida curtsied to Jean Baptiste and he bowed
to her. She turned and did the same to Pierre Babin, who was
partnering his sister Ruby. The couples and corners of the square
clasped hands and the intricate steps of the dance began.

Aida followed the well-learned steps and
spins and turns and bows with natural grace. She did not have to
think about the dance, the movements came to her as easily as a
smile.

Jean Baptiste was an excellent dancer and he
was tall and looked good beside her. But the man she expected
beside her was not. As she circled backward in a handclasp with the
other girls, she spotted Laron in the crowd. His face was visible
for only a minute, but she knew that he was watching her. When she
turned back to Jean Baptiste, she deliberately flirted with her
eyes and giggled prettily at him.

A little tinge of jealousy wouldn't hurt her
fiancé one bit.

When the music ended she laughed gaily and
applauded as if Guidry's music wasn't just exactly as squeaky and
slightly off-tune as last week and the week before.

Giving Jean Baptiste a nod of dismissal and
the little half-smile that hid her chipped tooth, Aida grabbed
Ruby's arm and pulled the girl close to her, giving her a gentle
hug.

"Comment Ca va, Ruby?" she asked. "How are
you?"

Ruby accepted the hug with enthusiasm and
smiled with shy delight at being noticed.

"I'm fine," she answered politely. "And how
are you?"

Aida answered positively and waved away
Ruby's awkward younger brother. "You go on, Monsieur Babin," she
told Pierre. "Your sister and I have lots of girl talk and gossip
to catch up on."

He gave a sigh of relief and nodded
gratefully, hurrying away as if in fear that Aida might change her
mind. She did not. She smiled warmly at Ruby.

"Don't you look sweet tonight!" she said.

Ruby's face nearly glowed.

In fact Ruby did not look sweet at all. Thin
to the point of emaciation, her features were so sharp and pointed,
they gave the appearance of meanness. Ruby Babin was one of the
least attractive women on the Vermilion River. Perhaps if she had
been witty and clever, or sweet and lovable, that would not have
been a problem. But Ruby was none of those things. At the age of
twenty-two she was an old maid. Her mother despaired of ever
finding her a mate and her

brother spent an inordinate amount of his own
youth escorting her around.

It was all so unfair, Aida thought. Ruby was
hardworking, often kind, and always dutiful. She deserved to have a
husband and family as much as any other woman.

Aida couldn't give her that, but she could
give her a bit of opportunity. Men swarmed around Aida like bees
finding the last flower of summer. She could dance with only one at
a time. And she wasn't interested in any of them. So she made it a
point to share them with Ruby.

Another women might have kindly offered a
short prayer in Ruby's name, but Aida was a young woman of action.
If another person was starving and you had bread, you did not pray
that they would get some, you shared with them what you had. Why
would having an abundance of gentlemen be any different?

"How was your week, Ruby?" It was a question
that neighbors always asked one another and Aida had found that it
often set the other person to gabbing.

"Mama's felt real good. That tea you sent her
has kept away those awful flashes of heat," Ruby answered. "And my
little hen laid for me every day. Those are the best chickens I
ever had."

Aida smiled. Ruby was no better at
conversation than she was at anything else. Fortunately the two
were both comfortable just to stand and smile at each other and let
those around them lead the talk.

The would-be beaux had gathered eagerly. They
treated Aida as what she was, the most beautiful woman present. The
fact that she was engaged didn't

deter their interest. Why should it? Her
fiancé never showed even a speck of jealousy.

As the sets began reforming, Aida was snapped
up by one of the quickest of the young gallants. One of the less
hasty brethren politely requested Ruby's hand.

Aida danced with deliberate delight, refusing
to allow herself to become annoyed. Laron always waited until well
into the dancing to claim his chance with her, and although they
were betrothed, he never danced with her more than twice. The fact
that Laron was so considerate of her reputation was noted favorably
by the old gossiping women. Aida herself would have flaunted
convention. Laron was, by far, the best dancer. It seemed grossly
unfair that she should not dance with him as long as she cared to.
At least, she told herself as she was partnered adequately by
Placide Marchand, one of the host's younger sons, Laron wasn't
dancing with anyone else.

Aida danced and laughed and giggled with Ruby
through several sets. She was nearly breathless and glowing when
Ignace Granger, a young man of not quite twenty, led her to the
food tables.

If there was anything that Acadians
appreciated more than music and dancing, it had to be food and
coffee. Monsieur Granger passed her plate along the table and it
was soon piled high with rice and roux and vegetables.

Aida's eyes widened with delight as it
returned to her.

"Oh monsieur," she scolded playfully. "Do you
wish to fatten me like one of your fine cows?"

"Impossible, mamselle," he assured her. "Such
beauty as yours could never be marred."

On the other side of the table Estelle
LeBlanc snorted in disgust. "Never heard yet of a woman who didn't
get fat when she married or loose her looks with old age," the
woman declared.

Young Granger was momentarily struck dumb by
the comment.

"A bright young man would pick a woman for
her worthiness as a helpmate and housekeeper," Madame LeBlanc
continued haughtily. "Aida, your poor father declared earlier at
this very table that you forgot completely to cook for him today.
And he confessed to us that he often finds dishes half-washed and
beds half-made, and claims that since the death of your mother, no
pot of beans has ever been cooked in your home without
scorching."

Aida flushed. The teasing of the young men,
the outrageous compliments were fun and a frivolous pleasure. The
reality of her featherbrained ways was forever her cross to bear.
She tried to remember things, to do things right, to stay with one
task until it was done. But always her mind would wander and her
work would be left unfinished and her beans burning over the
fire.

"I feel very badly about Poppa," she
admitted, accepting a huge slice of bread from the woman. "I wish I
were a better daughter. He deserves better, I know."

The woman huffed, still disapproving. But
Aida knew that it was difficult to continue a disagreement if one
person resisted the impulse to disagree.

At that moment Father Denis approached the
table,

in the middle of what seemed to be a heated
argument with Oscar Benoit and Clerville Pujal.

Aida welcomed a chance to slip away from the
table and Madame LeBlanc. Plate in hand, she headed for the leafy
overhang of the lilas. Her eyes searching the crowd for Laron, she
was startled when she bumped into a figure in the tree's
shadow.

"Oh pardon!" she cried, startled.

"It is my fault," he apologized.

Aida turned to find herself eye to eye with
Armand Sonnier. Like nearly everyone else on this prairie, she had
known Armand Sonnier all her life. They had grown up together. Aida
remembered him being ill much of the time as a boy.

"Any day that child could sicken and die,"
she had once heard one of the old women say.

Aida had been stunned and frightened at the
prospect. Her mother had died, though Aida hardly recalled it. One
day she was there and the next not. Father Denis said that her
mother had gone to a better place, and at four years old Aida had
accepted that. But when the little brown-faced calf had been killed
in a drowning bog, she had been inconsolable. She'd cried for a
week. How much more it must hurt, she surmised, to lose a friend
than an animal. From that day forward, she had always run to Armand
first, eager to assure herself that he was well and strong and that
she would see him again tomorrow.