By Honor Bound (27 page)

Their good-byes had been said, in large part, the night before. The morning’s departure, therefore, was a quiet one. Henri had the horse hitched and the wagon loaded by the time the sun was high enough to banish the dawn’s misty damp. Chickens clucked and pecked in the yard while Philippa ran around to the back of the house to say farewell to the rabbits.

“One good thing about your leaving,” Anne Marie said as she and Honneure stood next to the wagon. “I’ll be able to sell those rabbits again for local stew pots instead of keeping them as pets.”

Honneure laughed, in spite of the heaviness weighing down her heart. “But she’s named them all. How can you possibly sell a rabbit whose name is Elizabeth to the butcher?”

“Please believe that I will find a way,” the widow responded dryly. In her heart, however, she doubted that this particular generation of rabbits would ever leave her farm.

Philippa reappeared, cheeks rosy and hair tangled. Anne Marie bent over carefully to hug her.

“Give me a kiss, quickly now,” she demanded, not unkindly. “Coozie is eager to be off on his adventure.”

“To the Royal Court,” the little girl piped up brightly.

“And won’t he be the grandest horse there?”

Philippa nodded solemnly and then threw her arms around the old woman and planted a kiss on her cheek. Anne Marie straightened.

“Put her in the wagon, Henri.” The widow turned to face Honneure. “We’ve said all that needs to be said. You know you and Philippa will be welcome here, always. Even after I’m gone. Henri loves you two as much as I do.”

“I know,” Honneure whispered.

“A letter now and then would be welcome.”

Honneure simply nodded. It seemed she had not shed all her tears the night before.

“Then off with you. It won’t do to keep the Queen of France waiting.”

The women hugged briefly, and Honneure climbed into the wagon. Henri clucked to the horse, and the gelding moved forward.

The old woman stood watching. The month had been dry so far, and dust rose lazily into the still air from beneath the wagon’s wheels. Philippa, squeezed between her mother and Henri, turned and waved, a happy smile on her rosebud mouth. In spite of her initial reluctance, she now moved into her future with joy and excitement. It was just as it should be.

Before the wagon went out of sight down the road, Honneure turned. She did not wave but raised her hand as if in salute. Despite the distance, the two women locked gazes. Then they rounded a bend and were out of sight. Anne Marie sighed, drew a handkerchief from her pocket, and blew her nose.

The widow walked slowly back to her house. She only hoped she lived long enough to learn the next chapter of Honneure’s story. The girl was special, no doubt about it. Destiny had not finished with her. It had, in fact, probably only begun.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

July 1779

The parklike gardens surrounding the
Petit Trianon
were at the height of their summer glory. Spreading trees shaded rolling, sprawling lawns and small, sparkling lakes. On the grassy verge of one, sunlight glinted on the dome of the Temple of Love. Behind the supporting fluted columns, a marble Cupid bent to carve his bow from Hercules’s club. Birds chattered in overhanging branches and endured the scoldings of bold squirrels. It was a perfect summer day.

Inside the small Trianon, the young queen laughed with her friends and reluctantly noted the length of the shadows outside the salon windows.

“I’m afraid it is time to leave our charming retreat and return to reality,” she announced with a moue. “I dine with my dear husband tonight and an old friend who has come to visit, and I must dress accordingly.”

“You mean,” said Madame Elisabeth, “that you must dress for the friend and the courtiers who will join you. Were you to dine alone with my brother, I doubt you would have to dress at all.”

Antoinette’s friends, the Duchesse de Polignac and the Princesse de Lamballe, both sensitive souls, reacted with surprised horror. Antoinette, however, laughed and playfully slapped her favorite sister-in-law on the back of her wrist.

“You’re too naughty,
ma soeur.
”

“If I’m naughty, then you’re a scandal,” Elisabeth replied with a straight face. “Imagine, at the Royal Court of Versailles, actually being in love with your husband and remaining faithful to him. And you the Queen of France! You could have anyone you want!”

The Princesse de Lamballe, prone to fainting, had turned pale, and Antoinette hurried to reassure her.

“We’re only teasing, Marie Therese. Come, a walk in the fresh air will do you good. We’ll go by our little theater and see how it’s coming along. Monsieur Mique assures me it will be done soon.”

The four women left the small, jewel-like building and strolled amiably, arm in arm, through the wooded grounds. As they passed from shadow into a narrow clearing, sunshine highlighted the unusual color of the queen’s simple gown.

“Tell me again what that color is called,” the Duchesse de Polignac said. “Didn’t the king give it a name?”

“He certainly did,” Antoinette replied with mock pique. “I thought Madame Bertin positively brilliant to come up with this extraordinary color for me. But the first thing Louis said to me when he saw it was, ‘My God, Antoinette, that gown is the color of a
puce.
’”

“A flea?” Marie Therese exclaimed.

“Exactly. And whatever this color used to be called will probably be entirely forgotten over time. My husband has started a trend, and now everyone calls it
puce.
”

As the women approached the nearly completed building, workmen stopped and stared in awe. Antoinette smiled at them cheerily.

“Go on,” she called gaily. “Don’t stop on my account. I long for the completion of this project.”

Craftsmen and laborers slowly returned to their duties.

Though the queen was well known for her easy, friendly nature, it still took many people aback.

“Can we look inside?” Gabrielle, the Duchesse, inquired timidly.

“Why not?” Antoinette replied. “This is
our
theater after all.”

Though the interior was not quite finished, it was easy to see that the architect had masterfully designed the limited space. Though small, the stage was as elaborate as any of its grander cousins. Curtains and chairs were in the queen’s colors, and every carving and fixture was exquisite down to the smallest detail.

“My goodness!” Marie Therese’s eyes grew wide. “Look at all those seats! How can Your Majesty possibly have the courage to perform in front of so many people?”

“In the first place,” Antoinette replied, “there aren’t that many seats. Merely fifty, and I doubt they will ever be completely filled. We’re only inviting family and a few favored friends to our little productions. Since Artois will be performing with us there will be his wife, of course, and Monsieur and his wife,” she said, referring to the king’s other brother, Provence. “The aunts have said they’d like to come, and Clotilde.”

“My sister will only come if there’s food involved,” Elisabeth remarked dryly.

“Ooooh, you do insist on being bad, don’t you?”

“You don’t care how bad I am,” Elisabeth retorted good-naturedly, “as long as I’m good onstage.”

“You’ll be the star, I’m sure. And in the second place,” Antoinette continued, returning her attention to Marie Therese, “I will have the courage to perform because I am doing it for my dear Louis. You know how restricted his time has become. He no longer has time for the real theater. But we will perform at his leisure, and he has merely to walk across the lawn from his home to get here when he chooses. We will be able to put a little entertainment and gaiety back into his life.”

“You are so good and kind.” The princess sighed.

“Merely a proper wife to a good and loving husband. Now come. I really must return. I’m anxious to see if my friend has arrived.”

As the women walked toward the palace, Madame Elisabeth wrinkled her nose. “You know, that theater really is a bit too small.”

“Elisabeth,” the queen exclaimed. “It’s not a bit too small for our purposes. Why would you say that?”

“Did you not say Monsieur’s and Artois’s wives would be attending?”

“Yes,” Antoinette drawled cautiously. She had an idea of what the prankish Elisabeth was about to say.

“Well, then, the theater is obviously too small. Even if we are up onstage, we shall be able to smell the stench.”

Marie Therese and Gabrielle had the good grace to blush. Even Antoinette drew a sharp breath and halted abruptly.

“Elisabeth, really,” she scolded. “You’re going too far. Those poor women simply don’t know any better.”

“And since they’re royalty and supposedly have plentiful water available to them, imagine what the rest of the population must smell like. In my opinion, Piedmont is a country to be avoided at all costs.”

“Be kind, Elisabeth. They’ve been better recently. Didn’t you know your brother talked to them? He himself was so offended he informed them, in the nicest way possible, of course, that bodies were for bathing and teeth for brushing.”

“One of my brother’s greatest acts, so far, as king.”

“Oh, Elisabeth, stop now!”

“I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose. Doesn’t Louis have
two
tubs, one for bathing and one for rinsing? He doesn’t even like to have
soap
left on him, he’s so clean.”

This time it was Antoinette’s turn to blush. And once again, the Princesse de Lamballe appeared likely to faint.

“Enough, Elisabeth,” the queen said, but a giggle erupted nevertheless.

Hurrying into the palace, Antoinette was equally unaware of amused smiles … and disapproving frowns.

The room was narrow but pleasant and had a tiny square of window overlooking the Bosquet of the Queen, a grassy terrace studded with classical statues. There was one wide bed for mother and daughter, a cupboard for their clothes, a desk and chair. The single doorway led to a small sitting room they shared with an elderly couple who served one of the king’s ministers. Honneure had met them once or twice and found them kindly enough but distant, and they seemed to spend little time in their quarters. It suited Honneure, for she and Philippa had more room for themselves and the queen’s dogs. There was also a small hearth that would be a luxury come winter, some comfortable if threadbare furniture, and a shelf with an eclectic but welcome collection of books.

Standing by the window in their room, Honneure could not help but recall her years with her mother at Amboise. She had adored her mother, and they had been happy despite the physical poverty of their existence. How much better things were for her and Philippa! How far she had come, from Amboise to Chenonceau, Chenonceau to Versailles. And even though her sojourn in Normandy had begun as a nightmare, she still had treasured memories of her daughter’s first years and Henri and Anne Marie. If only she could forget the horror of the day Armand had threatened Philippe and driven him away and out of her life …

Honneure shook her head, scattering and banishing the unwelcome memory. Now was the time for a fresh start. She was incredibly blessed by the queen’s friendship and generosity. She had a decent home for her child and food and clothing. Philippa even had friends, for Antoinette had been true to her word. The children of her ladies and of her most trusted servants tumbled freely with the royal progeny.

Which was where Philippa was at the moment, and it was high time to collect her. The dogs needed a walk, and there was someone very special Honneure wanted to see. She clapped once, and four small bodies roused themselves from various positions about the room.

“Come, little ones,” she called, and the four small dogs trotted obediently in the wake of Honneure’s swishing blue satin skirt.

It took Honneure several minutes to reach the Queen’s Stair, and she hesitated, looking up the grand ascent. Though she and Philippa had been at Versailles for a little over two weeks, she still did not feel comfortable climbing these steps. Each time she could not help but envision Philippe at the top, his argument with Olivia, the woman’s fatal fall. The end of all hope.

Picking up her skirts, Honneure trudged upward. She heard the dogs’ nails skittering on the marble behind her.

There had been a thin, fragile hope in her breast when she first returned to the palace that someone would have word of Philippe, would know if he was safe or where he had gone. But no one had so much as mentioned his name. It was as if he had never existed. Surely, if someone had word of him, they would have told her. The hope had almost died within her.

Honneure passed quickly through the overwhelmingly ornate and sumptuous reception rooms. In the queen’s bedchamber she opened the hidden door and slipped into the interior apartments. Hearing voices, the dogs bounded ahead of her into the salon, and she called to them to come back to her. Madame Campan appeared in the doorway.

“I’m sorry, madame. I was just passing through to the nursery stairs.”

Madame Campan smiled. “To fetch Philippa? Louis Antoine has grown quite fond of your daughter, you know.”

“And she of him. They play together nicely.”

“The queen is pleased. She is also fond of Philippa and grateful her nephew has such a lively and intelligent playfellow.”

“The queen has always been more than gracious. And I’m sorry I must put an end to the children’s fun, but it’s time for Philippa to help me with the dogs. I assume Her Majesty wants to play with them before her evening begins?”

“She does. And she should be returning at any moment now.”

“Then I’ll hurry.”

Madame Campan smiled again, enigmatically this time. “Yes, I believe you do want to hurry.”

Honneure’s heart leaped, and she looked past Madame Campan into the salon. “Is she here?”

“She has gone to her chamber to change out of her traveling clothes, and then she’ll be here for an hour or so visiting with the queen. You have plenty of time.”

With murmured thanks, Honneure collected her charges and hurried to the interior staircase. The dark, narrow corridors that connected the king’s and queen’s apartments usually made the hairs on the backs of her arms stand up, but she paid little heed to the dank passages today. The dogs yapped in excitement as she skipped up the stairs.

The queen’s informal salon was of a modest size. There were so many people present when Honneure returned with her daughter and the freshly walked dogs that it was difficult to pick out any one person. She scanned the milling, chattering crowd.

She saw the queen first, who was the center of attention. Her cheeks were rosy and her eyes bright. Honneure knew how much she loved to be with her friends. Near her stood the Duchess Gabrielle Yolande de Polignac. She was a petite, Raphaelesque beauty with a swan neck and dark, velvety eyes. Honneure knew of the unkind things people said about her and the queen, and her hackles bristled. Yes, it was true that the duchess and her husband were impoverished nobility. It was true that the queen had the duke promoted to a more lucrative position so he and his kind, beautiful wife would be able to afford to live at Versailles. But what was wrong with that? The queen wanted her friend near her. The Duke de Polignac was ably fulfilling his duties as equerry and earning his pay. Why did the gossipmongers insist on putting the queen in such a bad light for such a generous and innocent gesture?