Aurore had never fully understood devotion or sacrifice. Now, on Ti' Boo's wedding day, she understood it better. Life on Bayou Lafourche was more difficult than she had imagined. Even the youngest Boudreaux child understood that his work was important for the family's survival.

As an honored guest, Aurore wasn't expected to contribute to the well-ordered family system, but Ti' Boo's maman, Clothilde, a woman with her oldest daughter's intelligence and instincts, had understood Aurore's longing to be included. She had found plenty for Aurore to do, jobs that needed few skills other than those Aurore had come with.

Her needlework had been in high demand. She had sewn b.u.t.tons and hems, embroidered rosettes on a nightdress for Ti' Boo's trousseau and initials on half a dozen handkerchiefs. Ti' Boo, whose own needlework was extraordinary, had made her wedding dress, ivory silk with a scalloped lace yoke, from fabric sent weeks before by Aurore as her wedding gift to the bride. With Aurore in residence, the two women tucked, adjusted and gossiped unceasingly until the dress was perfect.

Some of the other preparations were less artistic. With dozens of wedding guests expected, the feast was to be lavish. Women had gathered every morning to help. At times it seemed that any woman who had ever pa.s.sed within one hundred yards of the Boudreaux house was expected to come and lend a hand.

After the first day, Aurore had given up trying to remember names. She sh.e.l.led and chopped nuts on the wide gallery with dark-haired, dark-eyed women who quickly got over the novelty of her presence and giggled when she winced at the squeals and squawks of the animals being slaughtered behind the house.

The men were just as busy. After the butchering, they came to dress the meat and to trade boasts and stories. Cafe noir, dark coffee freshly roasted and ground by Clothilde, flowed as freely as the muddy water of Bayou Lafourche. After twilight, home-brewed whiskey flowed, as well.

On the morning of Ti' Boo's wedding, the excitement reached a fever pitch. Outside, Valcour, with the help of his sons and brothers, roasted a dozen small pigs. In the kitchen at the back of the house, Clothilde supervised a work crew. Aurore had peeked in twice to see the progress. Gallons of shrimp, crabs and crawfish waited in barrels of cool water to be boiled with red pepper and herbs. Spicy jambalaya, a fragrant mixture of rice, vegetables and sausage, steamed in roasting pans.

Duck gumbo, made from a closely guarded recipe of Clothilde's, bubbled enticingly in a cast-iron kettle.

The girls' bedroom, tiny and crowded under ordinary circ.u.mstances, was a riot of colorful dresses and noise.

"You're sure you didn't break any thread when you were fixing the wedding dress?" Minette asked Aurore. "Very sure?"

"I don't think so," Aurore said. She shooed away a tiny cousin who was edging closer and closer to the dress in question.

"And there were no knots in the thread?"

"The dress looks beautiful. Perfect. Ti' Boo will be the most beautiful bride ever. What could be the problem?" Aurore c.o.c.ked her head in question.

All the girls in the room giggled in unison. "You don't know?" Minette asked.

Aurore fell to the nearest bed, a simple moss-stuffed mattress, and tucked her feet beneath her. "Tell me."

"If the thread for a wedding dress is broken, it means the marriage will end in sorrow. If there's a knot, there will be trouble!"

"Then this marriage is sure to be happy."

"Mine will be the same," Minette confided. "I already have a serious suitor. Did you know?"

"Already?"

"I'm nearly sixteen. Maman Maman was married at sixteen, was married at sixteen, Memere Memere at fifteen." at fifteen."

"Only one suitor, then? And you want to marry him?"

"Mais non! After he comes to the house, I sweep it right away, to sweep away his love." After he comes to the house, I sweep it right away, to sweep away his love."

Aurore tried not to smile. "And does that work?"

"I think so, yes. He comes less often now."

"He comes less often," Ti' Boo said, entering the room to chase out all the younger children, "because you are so rude to him."

"That, too," Minette agreed cheerfully.

"Do you love another man?" Aurore asked. "Is that why you're rude?"

"I've seen the face of my husband-to-be in our well. Now I have only to wait for him to court me."

"In the well?"

"I don't think you're learning anything you need to know in New Orleans," Minette said.

"If you look in a well at noon, and you're lucky," Ti' Boo explained, "you'll see the face of your intended."

"Did you?"

"Me, I saw nothing, and when I leaned over to search harder, I nearly fell in."

"It's almost noon!" Minette clapped her hands. "Aurore must try."

"But I don't want to get married," Aurore said. Silence fell-an extraordinary event in the Boudreaux household.

Aurore wondered how she could explain. She had never seen a happy marriage, except, perhaps, in her brief sojourn here. By society's standards, Ti' Boo's parents were poor, and despite Clothilde's poor health, they both worked unceasingly. But they were seldom cross with their children or each other, and when they had a few minutes that didn't have to be parceled out to someone or something else, they spent it together. Aurore had seen them touch hands when pa.s.sing; she had heard their contented murmurs late at night.

In contrast, there was the marriage of her own parents. It had ceased to resemble a marriage many years ago. "I don't think of marriage as you do," she tried to explain. "Look what it did to my mother."

Ti' Boo sat on the bed beside her and took Aurore's hand. "I haven't asked before, because I was afraid it would make you sad. Is Madame Le Danois any better?"

Aurore considered a lie, but the truth was a burden better shared. "I was allowed to see her six months ago. She sat at the window and murmured lists of names, like a new mother choosing what to call her baby. Boys' names, of course."

Ti' Boo's hand tightened spasmodically around Aurore's. "And you think marriage did this to her?"

"She worked so hard to please my father and hers. I don't think she ever thought about what she wanted, except on the night of the hurricane. After that, she blamed herself for Grand-pere Grand-pere's death. His name is prominent on the list she repeats."

"But she pleaded with him to leave Krantz's."

"Yes. I remember." Aurore stroked Ti' Boo's hand. She also remembered the terrible, ceaseless screaming of the wind, the miscarriage her mother had suffered that night, the horror of learning that her grandfather had been killed in the collapse of the cottage he had believed to be safe. "I didn't come to Cote Boudreaux to convince you not to get married. But there's no hope I could marry for love. How could I tell if a man wanted me, and not my money or my name?"

She was afraid to speak a worse possibility out loud. What if she mistakenly married a man like her father, a man who viewed women as ornaments, or broodmares? What if she ended up in a locked hospital room, endlessly repeating the names of babies she hadn't been able to bring into the world alive?

"Ro-Ro, do you think I marry for love?" Ti' Boo said. "I make marriage with Jules to care for his children and give birth to my own. I marry him to have a home that's mine."

"You marry him to have a man to warm your bed," Minette said. "And because he makes you laugh."

"You're too young to speak of such things!"

"Do you love him, Ti' Boo?" Aurore asked.

"I won't mind growing old with him."

Minette rolled her eyes. "He'll grow old before you."

Ti' Boo jumped to her feet and started after her sister. "I'll grow old sitting here listening to your chatter. Enough!"

Aurore didn't have much time to think about their conversation as the day progressed. She spent the rest of the morning on the gallery, helping Ti' Boo's weeping nainaine nainaine put the finishing touches on the traditional paper flowers for the church. In the early afternoon, Aurore arranged Ti' Boo's hair. The task had fallen to her after a great deal of consultation. It was decided that only Ro-Ro would know the latest styles and have the good taste not to make Ti' Boo look like a china doll. put the finishing touches on the traditional paper flowers for the church. In the early afternoon, Aurore arranged Ti' Boo's hair. The task had fallen to her after a great deal of consultation. It was decided that only Ro-Ro would know the latest styles and have the good taste not to make Ti' Boo look like a china doll.

While Ti' Boo sat on a chair before her, Aurore brushed the shining ma.s.s of waves, silky and soft from a rainwater wash the night before. She parted it in the middle, then pushed it forward before she doubled it back to the crown and twisted it into a perfect Psyche knot. Carefully she freed tiny wisps from the sides and curled them around her fingers.

"Jules is a good man," Ti' Boo said, as if their conversation of the morning had never been interrupted. "I want children of my own, and I love his children already."

"They'll be very lucky to have you as their maman."

"Don't you want children, Ro-Ro?"

Aurore did want children. But she was afraid she knew the choices she faced. A loveless marriage and much-loved children, or no marriage and no children at all. She told Ti' Boo something she had never told anyone. "I don't know, but if I ever do have children, I'll be like your mother, not mine. I'll give them my life. I won't let anything separate us. Not illness or misfortune. Nothing. Not ever."

Ti' Boo took Aurore's hand and placed it against her cheek. "You'll be a good mother, too."

When it seemed as if the day had stretched to the breaking point, Clothilde arrived to tell Ti' Boo it was time to dress. Like Ti' Boo's nainaine, nainaine, Clothilde wept, and like other Acadian mothers before her, she threatened not to attend the wedding because it would be too sad to witness. Aurore wondered if Acadian mothers were unhappy because they were losing their daughters or because they knew what awaited them in their married lives. Clothilde wept, and like other Acadian mothers before her, she threatened not to attend the wedding because it would be too sad to witness. Aurore wondered if Acadian mothers were unhappy because they were losing their daughters or because they knew what awaited them in their married lives.

Clothilde threatened, but in the end she dressed in her Sunday best and climbed into the buggy. Ti' Boo, resplendent in her dress and long veil, with her mother and father beside her, took the long ride to the church at the head of a lengthy procession. Aurore, in pale green batiste and a discreetly feathered hat, was escorted by a Boudreaux aunt and uncle.

The small church was lit by gentle, lingering sunshine. Despite a tradition that real flowers were a show of vanity, the paper flowers had been supplemented with bright blossoms from family gardens. Ti' Boo walked down the aisle to the smiles and sobs of the people who loved her best, and Aurore shed her own sentimental tears.

There were no tears after the last words were said. Ti' Boo and a formal Jules, dressed in black, climbed into his buggy to lead the race back home. The Boudreaux and Guilbeau men, who had been models of propriety, raucously fired shotguns into the air.

At home, all unnecessary furniture had been stacked against the wall to make s.p.a.ce on the floor for the bal de noce, bal de noce, the traditional wedding dance that was to begin later in the evening. Tables had been set under the trees for the feast, and honored matrons took their places in line to serve the wedding guests. the traditional wedding dance that was to begin later in the evening. Tables had been set under the trees for the feast, and honored matrons took their places in line to serve the wedding guests.

Aurore wasn't hungry. Throughout the day she had sampled tidbits, until her appet.i.te was gone. Since the meal was to be served one sitting at a time, she was happy to wait.

To the mournful cadences of a lone fiddler, she stepped out on the gallery. As she had promised her father, the Boudreaux had been as strict with her as with their own daughters. She had been watched and kept from any compromising behaviors. Her virtue was a.s.sured; at home she would resume the life of a New Orleans debutante, and nothing on the surface would be changed.

But she was changed. The days at Ti' Boo's house had awakened memories of childhood summers on the Gulf, of warm, scented afternoons at the Krantz's Place, when her mother had sat on a cottage gallery and watched her play with the other summering children. She had recalled what it felt like to be wanted, to be part of a community of people who cared whether she was happy.

No one watched her now. Clothilde was splendidly occupied as overseer of the feast, and Ti' Boo's aunts were in the serving line. Holding her skirt with one hand and her hat with the other, she crossed the buggy-lined road to stroll along the levee.

Geese flew across the twilight sky, and on the opposite bank of the bayou a heron skimmed the water, searching for its final meal of the day. From somewhere up the bayou she heard the whistle of a steamboat. She would start her journey home in the morning. Ti' Boo and her new husband would spend tonight at an aunt's, and tomorrow they would lay paper flowers on the graves of their closest departed relatives before returning to Jules's home. Ti' Boo would begin her new life as Aurore returned to her old one.

She was so immersed in that thought that she came within yards of a solitary figure before she realized she was no longer alone. "Mam'selle Le Danois." The man swept off his straw hat, and gave a little bow. With some relief, she recognized etienne Terrebonne.

"etienne." She glanced behind her and saw just how far she had strayed. "Clothilde will be furious with me for coming out here alone."

"You're not alone anymore."

"If she knew that, she'd be even more furious."

"Then better run back home before she finds out."

She laughed. "No, I think I'm safe. She's well occupied for the moment. Ti' Boo was married today. Did you know?"

"I'll be at the bal de noce. bal de noce. I'm staying overnight at their neighbor's house to build a new room." I'm staying overnight at their neighbor's house to build a new room."

"Then you're a carpenter?"

"And a trapper, a fisherman, a moss picker. An Acadian. Have you learned what that means?"

"It means hard work." She crossed her arms and stood beside him to stare at the bayou. Something more than surprise flickered inside her. She was aware of the differences that separated them, but there was also an awareness of similarities unexplored. She could almost believe he knew what it felt like to yearn for what he'd never had. She wondered at her own sentimentality. etienne was a stranger, one she wouldn't see again after tonight.

"Your life in New Orleans must be very different," he said.

"It's boring in comparison. Much more formal. Both more and less are expected."

"And you don't always want to do what's expected?"

"Oh, I'm more rebellious than you can guess. I'm not supposed to be here at all. I'm supposed to be at home, dutifully searching for a husband. If my father knew I had come to Ti' Boo's wedding..."

"Your father didn't approve?"

"There's little about me he approves of."

"Then we have that in common."

She turned so she could see him. "Do we? But you work with your father, don't you?"

"Faustin Terrebonne is not my father, not really."

His profile was strongly masculine, a bold statement against the orange streaked sky. She admired the hook of his nose, the carefully etched width of his lips. His hair curled back from his ears, emphasizing the proud set of his head. "Then who is your father?"

"My real name is etienne Lafont. I was born in Caminadaville, on Cheniere Caminada. Do you know it?"

Her pulse quickened. The coincidence was extraordinary. "Better than you might think. I was on Grand Isle when the hurricane that destroyed the cheniere cheniere struck the coast." struck the coast."

"Grand Isle wasn't hit so hard."

She couldn't let him make light of what she had suffered. "Maybe not. But if Ti' Boo's uncle hadn't rescued my mother and me and taken us to his home, I would have died, too."

He didn't look at her. "Nearly a thousand died on the cheniere. cheniere. All my family was killed. I was washed away by the wave that destroyed our house, and thrown against the remains of someone's skiff. I clung to it until the worst of the storm died. Somehow I managed to heave myself onto what was left of it before I pa.s.sed out. When I regained consciousness, I was in a cabin in the swamps. Faustin had been taking supplies to the few survivors. Apparently the skiff washed into the marsh. He found me four days after the hurricane ended." All my family was killed. I was washed away by the wave that destroyed our house, and thrown against the remains of someone's skiff. I clung to it until the worst of the storm died. Somehow I managed to heave myself onto what was left of it before I pa.s.sed out. When I regained consciousness, I was in a cabin in the swamps. Faustin had been taking supplies to the few survivors. Apparently the skiff washed into the marsh. He found me four days after the hurricane ended."

"G.o.d spared you for something, etienne."

"That's what Zelma, Faustin's wife, always said. I caught a fever before I could recover and hovered near death for weeks. When I regained consciousness, I learned I was an orphan. Zelma swore that I had been delivered to her because she had never been able to have children of her own. She nursed me back to health. She was truly a second mother to me."

"Was, etienne?"

"She died at Eastertime."

Aurore hugged herself for warmth. She felt bonded to him by the horror they had shared. "But Faustin isn't a father to you?"

"He's an old man. His life has been a bitter disappointment. Is your father disappointed by life, too? Or is he only strict and old-fashioned?"

"My father has everything, but nothing he ever wanted. He was nearly killed in the hurricane himself. He was out sailing when it blew in, but he found shelter on the cheniere, cheniere, in a church presbytery. He never speaks of it, but even now, when he hears the tolling of a bell, he turns pale." in a church presbytery. He never speaks of it, but even now, when he hears the tolling of a bell, he turns pale."