By Honor Bound (17 page)

The dance was done. The usual rumble of conversation did not immediately continue, however. All attention was fixed on the king.

And the king’s attention was fixed on the couple who stood before him. He nodded briefly at his grandson, the Comte d’Artois, by way of acknowledgment. The boy was light on his feet and had partnered well with the girl. Artfully, Artois had allowed the girl to display her grace to the fullest. She was absolutely lovely, and he was pleased, well pleased. And something more.

Memory tugged at the king. It was long ago, another woman. She, too, had danced for him, and he had admired her grace and beauty. He remembered how she had enchanted him and how he had desired her. But he recalled her as only a brief, shining light in his life. Then she had gone, disappeared.

What had happened to her? Where had she gone?

It had been many, many years since he had even thought of her. He might never have recalled her beauty, her elegance, if he had not seen this girl before him now.

How pleasant it would be, how fortunate for him, to be able to relive that long-ago love. Louis beckoned to a nearby servant.

“Summon the dauphine to me,” he ordered.

He must speak with her about the future of her servant.

Chapter Sixteen

The wind picked up, and the snow fell harder. The storm raged in earnest. Its ferocity was all that had saved her.

Honneure stared at the pale yellow walls of her small room. The Boxer lay on his side in a corner, snoring softly. The three small dogs were in a pile on her bed, watching her sleepily, aware something was wrong. Earlier they had jumped in her lap, but she had gently shooed them away. She hadn’t the heart to comfort another creature. She could not comfort herself.

All Philippe’s reassurances, all the dauphine’s and Madame Campan’s, had been for naught. It had been not just a dance but an audition. And she had won the part. The king wanted her. He had, in fact, wanted her moved into the lodge that very night.

The storm’s teeth had been too sharp, however, its bite too strong. It had held the monster at bay. But what would happen with the dawning of a new, less violent day?

The horror of it was simply too great to imagine. She was nearly numb. Certainly she had no more tears to cry. She had shed them with her mistress and Madame Campan, who had imparted the terrible news.

Following her performance, Honneure had fled to her room. Not long after she had been summoned into the salon by Madame Campan. The dauphine had been there, but all her other ladies had been dismissed. It was then that she knew her worst fear was about to be realized. She had not even needed to see the tears on Antoinette’s cheeks.

“The king has sent a message,” Madame Campan had begun. Honneure could not recall the rest of her words. Her mind had already begun to shut down with the shock of it. She remembered only Madame Campan and the dauphine’s kindness, their sympathy. They had all shared their tears.

But there was nothing anyone could do.

She could run away, of course. But where would she go? She could not return to Chenonceau and bring the king’s wrath down on Madame Dupin and her foster parents. What would become of Philippe, who would surely insist on following her? And what of her duty to the princess? No, she could not leave. It was not an option. Better to suffer her fate and wait for the king to tire of her.

Despair clogged Honneure’s breast so thickly it seemed to slow the beating of her heart. Soon, perhaps, it would simply stop. Pain and fear and desperation would kill her. And it would be a blessing. Even for Philippe …
especially
for Philippe.

Though she thought she had cried all her tears, they rose again to her eyes, spilled over, and ran down her cheeks as rivulets of anguish.

Philippe. What would become of him? What would he do? How would he cope with her loss?

How would she cope with his?

It was unendurable. She could no longer sit in this little room and agonize. She had to see Philippe.

Just one more time.

Philippe could hear the intensity of the storm through the thick stone walls. He knew how cold it would be, how it would feel, how difficult it would be to find his way in the darkness and fury of the blizzard.

But it was no longer possible to pace the aisle and wonder and worry. It was late. Surely the ordeal was over by now. What had happened? What had been the king’s reaction?

Philippe was still pulling on his coat when he slipped outside through one of the stable’s immense double doors. The wind nearly ripped the garment from his back, and he clutched the edges together at his breast. Within moments his gloveless fingers were numb. Snow swirled in his eyes and dusted his shoulders and hair.

Light still shining from the palace was enough of a beacon to steer by. Philippe bent his head and started forward. He had no idea what he was going to do when he reached the château. He didn’t even know if he would be allowed to approach the dauphine’s apartments. He only knew he had to try.

The storm buffeted Philippe and played with him like a cat with a ball of twine. He looked up to orient himself and was relieved to see he had almost reached the Forward Court. He was also amazed to see another figure hurrying in his direction. Who else was crazy enough to come out in weather like this? Philippe stopped and shielded his eyes from the blowing snow to get a better look.

The person headed in his direction appeared to be a woman. He watched the slight figure sway and stagger, bent nearly double against the howling wind. What dire emergency could possibly drive her out on a night like this? No doubt she needed aid. Philippe began a brisk walk in her direction. Then his heart skipped a beat, and he broke into a run.

Honneure could scarcely believe it. There he was, as if in answer to a prayer. With a cry, she crossed the final distance between them and flung herself into Philippe’s outstretched arms.

“Honneure. Dear God, what are you doing? Where were you going?”

She didn’t answer him. Sobs wracked her so violently she could hardly breathe, much less speak.

Philippe felt Honneure sag against him and realized her knees had buckled. In a single smooth motion he swept her into his arms and cast about for the nearest shelter.

It was called the Chapel by the Court of Versailles. To ordinary men it had the dimensions of a cathedral. It would be cold this time of night, but its doors were never locked, and it was shelter from the wind and snow. With Honneure cradled against his chest, Philippe hurried toward its massive doors.

The first thing Honneure became aware of was the cessation of the storm. Then she heard the echo of Philippe’s booted feet on marble. She lifted her head from his breast and looked about to see where he had taken her.

They had entered the palace’s elegant and soaring chapel. A number of candles flickered in the gloom, and there was just enough dim light to see by. Philippe carried her to an area containing a double row of velvet-covered benches and gently set her on her feet. She sank immediately onto the nearest bench.

Words were not needed. The look of misery on Honneure’s face told the story. Pain piercing his heart like a dagger’s blade, Philippe sank to his knees at her feet.

For a long, aching moment they stared into one another’s eyes. Honneure felt the return of her tears.

“Don’t cry. Please don’t cry anymore.” Philippe smoothed the windblown hair from her face, then took her hands and kissed them. “It’s not going to happen. I won’t let it.” He couldn’t and not just because she was the love of his life. With what he feared was the truth about her heritage, she could not possibly become mistress to the king.

“But … but how … what … ?”

“The solution is very simple,” Philippe replied and only wondered why it had taken him so long when the answer was so obvious. He kissed Honneure’s hands again. Holding them captured between his own, he pressed them to his heart.

“Marry me, Honneure. I love you so much. I’ll never love anyone but you. This is the right thing; you know it. Marry me, please?”

Honneure sat silent, stunned. First there had been the Hall of Mirrors, then the dance, the king’s decision. She had experienced her life plunging from the heights to the depths. She was in shock. She could barely comprehend Philippe’s words.

“What … what did you say?”

Philippe laughed softly. “I’m asking you to marry me, Honneure. Please, will you marry me? And I’ll take you away from here, back to Chenonceau perhaps. Just tell me you’ll marry me.”

She felt like snow melting. Realization came over her like the warmth of the sun, and she felt herself sinking down, spreading out, returning to the earth, and becoming one with it. Living life’s cycle as God and nature had intended it.

Philippe loved her. She loved him also. She adored him. Of course this was the right thing. It had been the right thing all along. They had been destined for one another since the moment of their meeting, on that frigid morning in the courtyard at Amboise. This was the conclusion to the first segment of their lives and the beginning of the second. This was exactly what had been intended.

“Oh, Philippe … Philippe.” This time the tears were tears of happiness. “Yes. Yes, I’ll marry you. Oh, yes!”

Olivia sat in the comtesse’s over-decorated salon and wondered how long it might be before she was summoned. She had no doubt she would be. It was just a matter of time. She let her eyes roam over satin-covered, gilt-encrusted chairs to shelves and delicate tables covered with exotic knickknacks from all over the world. She loved the little elephants, one carved of ebony, the other of ivory, with golden collars and jewel-studded saddles. Boldly, she picked one up to examine it. It was instantly snatched out of her hand.

Zamore, the comtesse’s little Bengali slave, cradled the carving to his chest. “Don’t touch mistress’s things.”

Without hesitation, a tight smile on her lips, Olivia drew back her hand and slapped him. The frightened boy dropped the elephant, and Olivia stooped to retrieve it.

“I’ll touch anything I want, you wretched little monkey. Now go away and leave me alone.”

Glaring, the boy backed away. “She’ll
punish
you.”

Olivia laughed outright. “I doubt it.”

The sound of a door opening alerted her and, quick as a cat, she tossed the costly ornament to Zamore. He caught it just as the comtesse’s chief lady-in-waiting entered the room.

“What are you doing?” she snapped. “Put that down at once! You are
never
to touch the comtesse’s belongings without permission.”

With a sidelong glance at Olivia, Zamore did as he was told. Olivia gave him a sly, satisfied smile.

“And you,” the lady-in-waiting said to Olivia, her disapproval evident. “The comtesse wishes to see you at once.”

Olivia curtsied respectfully to the older woman and then carefully composed her features as she slipped into the adjoining bedchamber.

Madame du Barry lay in her wide, silk-covered bed propped up on an impressive array of pillows. Her expression was impassive, but Olivia knew her well.

“How is Madame’s headache?” she inquired solicitously.

“‘Madame’s headache,’” the comtesse repeated sarcastically, “has served its purpose. I successfully avoided the public humiliation.”

“I heard, however, that the ball was breathtaking. They say the Hall of Mirrors was exquisite in the candlelight.”

“Do you mock me, Olivia?”

“Oh, no, madame! Certainly not! I only meant to imply my sympathy for your plight. You were denied the opportunity to spend a most enjoyable evening because … because …”

“Go ahead and say it, Olivia. Because the king has an eye for the dauphine’s vapid little dog-walker. Tell me, you who always have an ear pressed to the wall, what was the result of the evening’s … entertainment?”

Olivia dropped her chin a notch and looked up at the comtesse through wide, sympathetic eyes. “I did not see, of course, but I heard …”

“Yes, yes, go on.” Madame du Barry waved an impatient hand. “What is the outcome?”

It was almost too delicious. Olivia licked her lips, savoring the taste of her rival’s defeat. “The king was pleased,” she replied at last. “He has ordered Honneure to the lodge.”

The comtesse crossed her arms as her gaze narrowed. “The old fool. He hardly has the wherewithal to take care of
me
anymore, much less his stable full of whores.”

Wisely, Olivia remained silent. She watched as Madame du Barry threw back her silken coverlet and slid from the high bed. She crossed to her dressing table, sat down, and studied her reflection in the mirror with intensity. Stroking her long, slender neck, she slowly turned her head from side to side. Then she turned on her padded boudoir stool and pinned Olivia with a hard stare.

“I have grown tired of the king’s dalliances. And more tired still of the young women who throw themselves at him thinking to advance their positions at Court.”

The comtesse paused, recalling the first time, at Fontainebleau, that the king had seen Honneure. She remembered how demure she had been, how shy. How absolutely beautiful. She had not tried to capture the king’s attention at all. Quite the opposite. Which was far more serious. She was just the sort of sweet, innocent young thing who might rekindle Louis’s dying sexual fires. She could not be allowed into the king’s bed. This one was too perilously lovely.

“I cannot allow the king to have this girl,” Madame du Barry announced with finality.