By Honor Bound (25 page)

Chapter Twenty-Five

May 1774

To wade in the water, Honneure and Anne Marie had picked up the hems of their skirts and tucked them into their apron sashes. Honneure had laughed at the widow’s spindly legs with their fine tracery of spider veins. They both had laughed at Philippa’s chubby calves as she toddled along at the edge of the foaming white water. A gusty spring breeze picked up a layer of sand and blew it against them, stinging their flesh and forcing the women to turn their backs. Philippa ran on, unaffected, black curls rioting in the wind. The sound of her laughter trailed in her wake.

“Since that child learned to walk,” Anne Marie complained, “I’ve had to learn to run.”

“You love it and you know it,” Honneure countered.

“Yes, I do. I love everything about that child. Most of all, I love what she’s done for you.”

Eyes still on her daughter, Honneure smiled sadly. “I still miss Philippe. I miss him all the time, think about him all the time.”

“You always will, dear,” the widow said quietly. “Just as love never dies, neither does the sorrow of losing it. Believe me, I know.”

Honneure stopped for a moment. She turned to Anne Marie, took her gnarled hand, and pressed it briefly to her cheek. “
I
love you, you know. Philippa and I both do.”

Blinking back tears, the old woman smiled. “Oh, I know. I know. And there’s my boy, Henri. I’m a lucky woman, a very lucky woman.”

The two friends walked on in companionable silence for a while. Then the breeze picked up again, and Honneure shivered.

“It’s time to go, I think.”

“You won’t get any objection from these old bones.”

“Philippa! Come here, Philippa … Come to Mommy!”

The child turned and grinned and then continued on her way. Honneure broke into a trot, drew even with the little girl, and scooped her into her arms. Philippa put her arms around her mother’s neck and nuzzled her cheek.

“Uvuu, Mummy.”

“I love you, too, Philippa.” Honneure fought back the tears that threatened her nearly every time she held her daughter like this. She loved her so much the emotion was almost painful. “But it’s time to go back to the farm now.”

“Nooooo!”

“Yes!”

Madame Maurier caught up with them, and they walked slowly up the beach away from the water. It took several minutes headed slightly uphill to reach the edge of the trees. At the side of the road, they sat to dust the sand from their feet and put their shoes back on. Philippa squirmed and protested, but Honneure prevailed. They had no sooner set on their way again when Honneure heard the steady, brisk clop of hooves coming in their direction.

“This might be Henri,” the widow remarked. “At least, I hope it is.”

“Are you tired?” Honneure inquired with concern.

Madame Maurier looked aggrieved. “Of course I’m tired. So would you be if you walked five miles in sand at my age.” Anne Marie allowed her expression to soften. “Don’t worry, my dear. I’m not nearly as old and decrepit as Armand. What happened to him is not going to happen to me.”

“Perish the thought!”

“Yes, perish the thought. It’s his meanness that got him, you know. That’s
not
going to happen to me.”

Though what the widow said was probably true, Honneure resisted the urge to chuckle. Armand’s state was truly pitiable. His facial features were twisted to one side, his left arm and leg were paralyzed, and he had lost the ability to speak. Most of his time was now spent in bed.

“Well, you’re in luck, dear friend,” Honneure said, banishing the image of her husband. “Here, indeed, is Henri.”

Henri pulled the old gelding to a halt and jumped straight down from the wagon. He appeared excited.

“You look like you have news,” Madame Maurier said.

Henri nodded energetically and waved a sealed piece of parchment.

Honneure took the letter Henri held out to her but did not even glance at it. She had written Madame Dupin a while ago, and this was undoubtedly her response.

“Tell us the news first,” Honneure pressed. “You look so excited … Tell us!”

Henri shook his head, lips compressed. He had grown tall and had begun to fill out. When he obstinately crossed his arms over his chest, muscles bulged in his upper arms. He shook his head again, pointed at the wagon bench, then the letter.

“Oh, go on, do as he says. Read the letter out loud to us on the way home like you always do.” Anne Marie waved a hand impatiently. “Just let me get off my feet.”

They all climbed into the wagon, the widow on one side of Henri, Honneure on the other, and Philippa in her lap. With her arms around the child, she finally examined the letter.

“My goodness! This is from the dauphine!”

Henri grinned and nodded. Anne Marie’s eyes widened. Henri stabbed a finger at the letter.

Honneure examined the royal seal and then slowly broke it. “This is quite an honor. She’s only written once before. Usually, Madame Campan …”

“Read,” Anne Marie cried.

Honneure complied.

“‘Dear Friend,’” it began. The widow caught her breath, and Henri whistled. A shy, proud smile touched Honneure’s lips. She continued.

“‘I know that my dear Campan has written to you from time to time as well as our friend Madame Dupin, and they have kept you abreast of Court affairs. This time I write myself in fond memory of our friendship, your devoted service, and the dilemma we once both shared.’”

“Dilemma?” the widow chirped.

Honneure felt a blush of color rush to her cheeks. “We … we at one time had a … a similar problem. Philippe hadn’t realized he … well, that he loved me yet, as I loved him. And … well, the dauphin hadn’t quite realized yet how special his wife was. And …”

“Gracious, dear, you don’t mean to tell me that the
Dauphine
of France confided her love life to you!”

Honneure felt her cheeks grow even hotter.

“Never mind. Go on. Read.”

Honneure took a breath. “‘I also want to share my happiness with you, as you once shared yours with me. I know you must still grieve for the loss of your love, but I pray my news will cheer you. You have always had such a kind and generous heart. So I know you will rejoice when I tell you that Louis and I are happy, truly happy.’”

Honneure paused and took another deep breath. Yes, she did rejoice for the princess to whom she had been and was still devoted.

Henri wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and pursed his lips.

The widow slapped his arm. “Hush. Go on, Honneure.”

“‘As you undoubtedly know, dear Louis took me to Paris for the first time last June. We drove to Notre Dame through flower-strewn streets and triumphal arches and dined publicly in the concert hall of the Tuileries. Then we walked in the gardens—and they cheered us! So many, many people pressed close, trying to thank my good husband for his many kindnesses to the poor. There was such a great crowd that we remained for three-quarters of an hour without being able to go forward or back. The dauphin and I several times ordered the guards not to strike anyone, which made a very good impression. Later, when we appeared on the Tuileries balcony, the Duc de Brissac turned to me and said, “Madame, two hundred thousand people have fallen in love with you.” I pray it is so. I believe it might be, for Louis seemed to look at me from then on in a different light.’”

They had reached Madame Maurier’s gate, and the horse had stopped, but no one seemed to notice. Honneure read on.

“‘When we went in July to Compiegne, Louis adopted the practice of walking through the gardens with me arm in arm. Do you know that the practice was copied by the Court? Husbands and wives who hadn’t spoken to each other in years were suddenly appearing as cozy as Louis and me! Can you imagine setting such a trend?

“‘Also of note, the du Barry has quite changed her attitude toward me. Knowing how fond I am of jewelry, she arranged to have me shown a pair of earrings, each set with four diamonds and worth seven hundred thousand livres. She said if I liked them, she would ask the king to make a present of them to me. I took great pleasure in telling her I was quite satisfied with the diamonds I already possessed.’”

Honneure chuckled. Finally, the tide had turned.

“‘I must close now, dear friend. Think of me with joy. My thoughts and prayers are with you, as they are with Philippe, wherever he may be.’ Signed, ‘Marie Antoinette.’”

A hush followed Honneure’s reading of the signature. Philippa hiccoughed, and Honneure patted her on the back.

“Well,” Anne Marie puffed at length. “That was quite something. A personal letter from the Dauphine of France.”

Henri shook his head in forceful denial and began at once to gesture. All eyes turned in his direction, even Philippa’s.

Honneure looked confused as she attempted to translate. “This … this is
not
a personal letter?”

Still shaking his head, Henri pointed at the signature on the page.

“It’s not Marie Antoinette, the dauphine?”

Henri nodded slowly. He pointed at the signature again, and then raised his hands as if placing something on his head.

Honneure drew in a sharp breath as realization dawned. “What did you … what did you hear in town, Henri?” she asked in a voice barely above a whisper. “Has the king … has the king …
died
?”

Henri nodded solemnly.

“And Marie Antoinette is no longer the dauphine.”

Henri continued to nod as Honneure glanced once more at the letter in her hand.

“So this letter is from the … the
Queen
of France …”

Chapter Twenty-Six

December 1778

It was the first snowfall of the season. By noon it was nearly as dark as the winter’s dusk, and fat, lazy flakes fluttered from the sky. Honneure carefully moved the half of the blanket she was embroidering onto Anne Marie’s lap, rose, and crossed to the window. The yard was empty, the barn door still shut. They hadn’t returned yet.

“I don’t see any sign of them. Do you think they’re all right?”

The widow didn’t even look up from her stitching. “Of course they’re all right. Do you think Henri would let anything happen to that little girl?”

“Noooo, but …”

“I trust that horse to get them home safely. What does Philippa call him? Oh, yes …
Coozie.
Now how did she ever come up with a name like Coozier?”

Honneure laughed quietly. “I think it’s a derivative of
cozy
. She’s told me she thinks he’s cozy because of the way he hugs her.”

Madame Maurier finally looked up from her stitching. Her eyebrows were twin question marks. “The horse
hugs
her?”

“Well, yes, actually.” Honneure smiled to herself as she recalled the scene she had come upon shortly after they had purchased the animal. The old gelding had finally died, and Philippa had been devastated. To console her, Honneure had allowed the girl to pick the horse who would replace him. She had chosen a young, strong, piebald gelding because, she said, he was much more affectionate than Old Gray had been. It had meant nothing to Honneure until she had entered the barn one day and had seen the piebald with his head and neck bent to the side. He was holding Philippa against him, actually pressing her gently into his ribs. “See, Mommy!” she had said. “He’s hugging me!” As if to support her, the horse had snorted and tossed his head up and down.

When Honneure related the story, Anne Marie looked skeptical and returned to her needlework. Honneure left to check on Armand.

He lay just as she had left him that morning after bathing him and changing the linens. He did not appear to have moved an inch. His eyes flickered briefly in her direction and then refocused on the wall in front of him. Honneure sighed and closed the door.

“I’m going to heat some soup,” she said to Anne Marie. “When Henri returns he can sit Armand up and hold him while I try to feed him again. He wouldn’t take anything for breakfast. I’m worried about him.”

“You can try whatever you like, but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with him. His refusal to eat is probably just his way of informing you that he doesn’t like what you’re serving. He’s still that ornery, you know. God struck him dumb for the way he treated Henri years ago and left him paralyzed for the way he treated you. But He didn’t make him any nicer. He’s still the same mean, old codger, and for the life of me I don’t see how you can be so kind to him, much less compassionate.”

“It’s my duty,” Honneure replied with quiet dignity and walked to the hearth. With a fire tool she pulled the iron arm out, hooked the handle of the soup pot onto it, and pushed it back over the fire. After another quick look out the window, she returned to her seat next to Anne Marie and pulled her half of the embroidery piece onto her lap.

“The snowfall’s growing heavier by the moment, you know.”

The widow remained concentrated on her stitching. “They went for a ride. When they’ve had enough they’ll come back.”

“What if one of them fell off?”

“Since they’re riding double, if one went off they both did.”

With a dramatic sigh, Honneure put down her needle. “You’re not being helpful.”

Anne Marie looked up at last. “Neither are you. You’ve hardly taken ten stitches since they left.”

Honneure frowned at the old woman, but the widow had already dropped her gaze.

“Let’s talk about something more positive, shall we? Tell me again about your latest letter from Madame Campan.”

Instantly warming to the subject of her beloved queen, Honneure picked up her needle again. “Antoinette’s popularity continues to grow, especially under the present circumstances.”

“As well it should.”

“The king’s also. The people still haven’t forgotten his first great act of generosity upon his accession to the throne.”

Anne Marie’s brow puckered. “Didn’t he and the queen turn down a traditional gift of money?”

“Yes,
le droit de joyeux avenement.
It’s a tax the Parisians would have had to put on coal and wine to raise the money, but Louis and Antoinette waived it. It amounted to over twenty-four million livres! Then they promptly cut down on their household staffs and even canceled their summer trips to Compiegne to save money.”

“I’d be falling down and kissing someone’s feet if I were a Parisian,” the widow quipped. “If memory serves, the king did not only that but kicked out all the du Barry’s appointees, along with her sorry backside, and put honest ministers in their places.”

Honneure nodded soberly. She would never forget how glad she had been to learn that Antoinette, at last, was free from the du Barry’s arrogance and cruelties. The queen herself, shortly after her accession and despite the incredible burden of her new duties, had directed Madame Campan to write to Honneure and inform her of the du Barry’s demise.

Knowing the tragic impact Madame du Barry has had on your life
, Madame Campan had written,
the queen bid me to tell you the woman is gone from the Court. She left with her lover, the Duc d’Aiguillon, for his estate in Ruel. From there she went on to the convent of Pont aux Dames with instructions from the king to see no one, since she knew state secrets. The duke himself is also now persona non grata, as he has been asked by the king to resign.

“Restoration of the Court’s integrity was long overdue,” Honneure said at length. “It was no secret to the previous king’s subjects that they were being ruled not by him but by the whims of his succession of mistresses.”

“And that we were being taxed, not to support our country but to pay for the hussies’ gifts!”

Honneure smiled, not at what the widow had said, which was true and very, very unfortunate, but at her spirit. “That era is over, thank goodness. An age of reason has been ushered in. Not only has our new king modified taxes to relieve the burden on the poor and middle class, but also he’s trying to curb the excesses of his own nobles. In Madame Campan’s latest letter she mentioned an incident to me involving one of Louis’s nobles who was deeply in debt. The king ordered him exiled from Versailles until all his creditors had been satisfied. Another, a prince, had asked Louis for a stay of proceedings against his creditors, a standard practice during the previous reign. But the king replied, ‘When a man can keep mistresses, he can pay his debts.’”

“Sounds to me like he has it in for any and all mistresses these days.”

“Oh, he’s always been that way,” Honneure replied, diligently plying her needle. “His parents were very moral people, devoted to one another and their children. They were openly and deeply disapproving of the king’s lifestyle and profligacy. Louis grew up respecting his grandfather as a monarch but not as a man.”

“According to what you’ve told me, it was also part of the cause of his hesitancy in trusting and loving his bride.”

“I’m sure of it. There was also a great deal of anti-Austrian sentiment and people whispering in Louis’s ear that Antoinette was nothing more than a spy for her mother, the empress. She had many more obstacles to overcome than an ordinary bride would. But she is extraordinarily kind, loving, and generous. And as moral as her husband. He was able to see that at last.”

“Apparently. Or we would not be embroidering this baby blanket.”

Honneure laughed outright and ran her hand over the soft, pale yellow material. The fleurs-de-lis they stitched were in the queen’s colors, blue and gold.

“As sweet as you’ve told me the queen is,” Anne Marie continued, “I just hope her husband is as caring. It’s one thing to bring justice to a country, quite another to the home.”

“Well put. But I can assure you of the king’s compassion.” Honneure put down her needle for a moment. “Do you remember when the old king died?”

“I do. He died of the smallpox.”

“Yes. Well, fifty others in the Court came down with the disease, and ten died. Louis decided he should be inoculated, despite the newness of this treatment, and then went into isolation. He ordered that no one should attend him who had not already had smallpox and had the humanity to extend the order to the lowest servants.”

The widow quirked a brow. “What of the queen?”

“She had already had a mild form of the disease. She remained with him and attended him herself.”

The shadow of a smile touched Anne Marie’s mouth. “I’m surprised we weren’t embroidering this blanket four years ago.”

Honneure returned the smile. “Sometimes these things take longer than others.”

“Take yourself, for instance.” The old woman knew it was the wrong thing to say before the words had even left her mouth. She pushed the blanket aside and took Honneure’s hands.

“Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to remind you. How stupid of me.”

Honneure shook her head. “No, it’s all right … really,” she said, but she stared at her lap until she had fought back her tears. She forced a brave smile to her lips and looked Anne Marie straight in the eye.

“We may have only had one night together, but what if we had never had anything at all? What if I didn’t have Philippa?”

“You’re a remarkable woman. Do you know that, Honneure?” the widow said softly. “Look at what you’ve accomplished, the life you’ve built for yourself, despite a tragic series of events and almost overwhelming adversities. And through it all you’ve maintained your dignity and compassion. You’re a wonder to me. I treasure our friendship, and I apologize deeply for hurting you.”

Madame Maurier squeezed Honneure’s hands, sat back, and picked up her sewing. “Now, enough sentimentality. We have to get to work and finish this before the child is born.”

“We’ll have to work hard,” Honneure said, glad of the change of subject. “From what I’ve heard it could be any day now.”

The two women worked for a while in silence, until a gust of wind rattled the windows. Honneure dropped her sewing and stood up.

“That’s it. Now I really am worried. Look at how hard it’s snowing.” She crossed to the window overlooking the yard. To her immense relief, Coozie was just trotting through the gate.

“Look at them, Anne Marie! Just look at them!”

Henri, a tall, strong lad of sixteen sat bareback with Philippa in front of him. The tops of their heads and shoulders were dusted with snow, as was the gelding’s broad rump. The children were laughing when suddenly the horse decided to shake off his layer of snow.

Philippa’s mouth formed an
O
as she grabbed for Coozie’s mane. Henri’s arms went around Philippa. A moment later they both lay sprawled on the newly white ground.

Honneure held her breath until she saw her daughter sit up and burst into a fresh spate of giggles. “They’re safe and well. I suppose I’ll check on Armand, then serve the soup. The children will want something hot.”

The door to the bedroom creaked slightly as Honneure pushed it open. Armand lay exactly as she had left him. His pale, blue eyes remained fixed toward the wall. Honneure walked to the side of the bed.

“Armand, would you like something to eat now? I’ve made some soup. Armand …”