By Honor Bound (28 page)

Irritated, Honneure let her eyes move on. She was not surprised to see the Princesse de Lamballe on the queen’s other side. The lady was several years older than her friend but still lovely, pale, slim, and sad-eyed, with curling fair hair, her beauty only slightly marred by a prominent nose and large hands. Though she was overly sensitive and prone to vapors, Honneure liked her very much. She was a widow who had remained devoted to her immensely wealthy father-in-law, and despite unkind rumors, Honneure knew why. The great-hearted gentleman had become widely known as the father of the poor for his acts of generosity. Always by his side, assisting, his daughter-in-law had become known as the good angel. To keep such a benignant and loyal person near her, Antoinette had made her a lady-in-waiting, and Honneure was glad.

Honneure continued to scan the crowd. Her right hand held her daughter’s, the left, the dogs’ leashes. She did not want to intrude into the room any farther than she had to. Moments later she spotted the familiar, beloved features.

The lines in her face were etched a little deeper. There was more white than gray in her hair. But it was the same sweet smile. Honneure’s heart brimmed with love.

Madame Dupin made her way through the throng, until she stood facing Honneure and Philippa. Her eyes glistened as she gazed at Honneure and then at the child, who curtsied to her. Madame smiled in return and then took Honneure briefly but tightly into her arms.

“Dear girl,” she murmured, “you’ve only grown more beautiful. And this lovely child …” Madame Dupin reached out and gently touched Philippa’s shining curls. “She has your eyes. Otherwise she is the spitting image of …” She stopped, uncertain whether to continue.

“Of her father?” Honneure finished for her. “Yes, she knows. I tell her all the time.” She gazed down at her daughter, proud of the fact she had never given in to Armand. Though the people of Honfleur may well have thought Philippa was his daughter, Honneure had never pretended such a thing to her child or to her family and friends.

Philippa smiled at her mother and then looked at the older woman. “You’re Madame Dupin, and my papa grew up at your house, didn’t he?”

Finding it difficult to speak, Madame Dupin nodded to the child.

“
Maman
told me all about it. Your house is Chenonceau, and it’s where
Grandmére
and
Grandpére
still live.”

“Yes,” Madame Dupin whispered. She cleared her throat. “And we all wish very much that you will come and visit Chenonceau one day. Your grandparents are anxious to see you. They told me to send a hug for you. May I?”

Philippa nodded slowly, her gray eyes wide and solemn. She looked up at Madame Dupin and raised her arms.

Honneure could no longer deny her own tears. This was a moment she had longed for, prayed for. Soon, perhaps, she would even be able to make the trip to Chenonceau. She had truly come home.

Madame Dupin straightened and dabbed at her cheeks with a linen handkerchief. “May we take a little walk, dear? I have time before the royal dinner party, and we have so much to discuss.”

“Certainly. I’d like that.”

They left through the back of the palace to walk through the formal gardens and crossed the Water Terrace, between two large, rectangular pools. Past the pools they entered the
Tapis Vert
, a long, wide avenue of velvety green grass, and approached the Apollo Fountain. Philippa ran ahead with the dogs while the two women talked, heads bent together as they strolled slowly along.

Honneure listened hungrily to tales of her home and news of her foster parents. Though they had been faithful in their letter writing, it was so much better to hear of them firsthand.

“They really, really are well and happy?”

“Oh, yes, my dear. They have aged since you saw them last, just as I have. Wrinkles are time’s first erosion, and then gravity takes over and pulls us downward.”

Honneure chuckled. “You will never grow old. You’re far too young at heart.”

“How I wish that were true! But if there is anyone at all in the world whose spirit will keep a person young, it is your foster mother.” Madame Dupin grew abruptly serious. “She has carried heavy burdens over these last years, Honneure. Her mother’s heart was grievously wounded. Yet she never gave in to despair. And it was she, in fact, who buoyed your foster father and I when our spirits sank.”

Honneure dropped her gaze as guilt overtook her. “I’m so sorry. For everything.”

Madame Dupin tilted Honneure’s chin upward and forced her to look her in the eye. “You have nothing to apologize for, Honneure,” she said in a firm, but gentle voice. “Nothing that happened was your fault. You … and Philippe … were victims of two cruel and deceptive women.”

“But you must have thought so ill of me! I led you to believe I married Armand willingly. Then you find out I’m pregnant with Philippe’s child.”

“Honneure … Honneure …” Madame Dupin shook her head. “We never thought badly of you. Never. Following Philippe’s accident, the entire truth came out, and we grieved for you. For both of you. Oh, Honneure.” Madame Dupin took her hands. “I’m so sorry if you thought for a single moment you did not have our complete love and support.”

“I … I committed a sin against God.” Honneure was heedless of the tears streaming down her cheeks. “I was married to Armand, yet I … I …”

“Honneure, stop it.” Madame Dupin squeezed Honneure’s fingers until she winced. “You and Philippe loved each other. You thought your husband would free you to marry Philippe. The only sin committed was by Monsieur Tremblay when he forced you to stay with him. How you endured it I will never know.”

“I never … I never believed I wouldn’t be with Philippe,” Honneure said in a small voice. Tears dripped from her chin to the bodice of her gown. “Then, when I learned what had happened to Philippe, that he was gone, in hiding, I … I didn’t want to live. I didn’t care about anything. Only his life within me kept me going.”

“Oh, dearest child, I’m so terribly, terribly sorry.” Madame Dupin released Honneure’s hands, put her arms about her, and drew her to her breast. “I am so sorry.”

“I miss him.” Honneure sobbed. “I love him. I love him still, with all my heart. I’ll never stop. And I can hardly bear it sometimes, knowing I’ll never see him again, never be able to tell him about his daughter …”

It was more than Madame Dupin could stand. She had to tell Honneure. She had to. In time she would find out anyway. Better she hear it now, from a friend.

Taking a deep breath, Madame Dupin held Honneure away from her and looked her straight in the eye.

“Honneure, stop, please. There’s something I must tell you.”

Honneure dashed the tears from her cheeks. The expression on Madame Dupin’s face alarmed her. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Honneure, Philippe … Philippe knows …”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

August 1779

The weather was stifling. Not a breath of air stirred. Honneure stood by the open window of their little room to comb Philippa’s hair. She was glad of the plain, muslin gowns the queen had made popular. Even the colors seemed cool, hers of pale green, Philippa’s of sky blue. She tied her daughter’s long, thick hair back with a ribbon of darker blue.

“There. You’re perfect.”

Philippa looked up at her, eyes wide with concern. “Really? Promise?”

Honneure nodded. “Promise.”

Philippa looked at her a moment longer, then turned and walked slowly into the adjacent sitting room. She climbed into her favorite chair and sat quietly, hands folded. She had been quiet and thoughtful all morning.

Doubt momentarily assailed Honneure. Was she doing the right thing? Almost everyone thought she was out of her mind and told her so in no uncertain terms.

Yet she had to do it. She would have no rest, no peace, until she had.

When a knock came at the outer door, Honneure asked Philippa to answer it. She was taken aback when her daughter announced it was Madame Campan. Honneure hurried into the sitting room.

“Madame Campan, what … ?”

“I’ve come to tell you a coach is waiting.”

The older woman’s features were expressionless, but there was a hard edge to her tone.

Honneure felt herself flush. “You … you’re too kind. You should have sent a page.”

“And I would have, had I not wanted to urge you one more time to reconsider.”

The color spread downward to Honneure’s neck. “I … I must go,” she murmured.

“Think of your child.”

“That’s exactly who I’m thinking of.” Honneure’s voice had found its strength.

Madame Campan held Honneure’s gaze for a long moment. It did not waver. She let her expression soften. “Very well. I didn’t think you would relent. So since you are going, go with God, Honneure.”

To her total astonishment, Madame Campan quickly embraced her. Seconds later she was gone. Honneure took a deep breath and turned to her daughter.

“It’s time, Philippa. The queen has kindly lent us a coach, and we must hurry.”

The little girl slid off her chair and approached her mother. She looked up at her and then took her hand and held it tightly. Together, side by side, they left the room.

Everyone, everything, seemed to suffer with the heat. The carriage rolled slowly through the countryside, the coachman unwilling to stress his horses with a faster pace. Dust from the wheels rose lazily in the air, and the only sounds were the clop of hooves on the dry, hard-packed road and the creak of harness. Even the birds had been silenced by the oppressive warmth.

Philippa, fortunately, had fallen asleep. Honneure stared out the window until the dusty green trees passing endlessly began to blur. Her thoughts drifted, returning to the only place they seemed to be able to go these days.

She was back on the green with Madame Dupin. In the distance she could hear the splash of the Apollo Fountain. Then Madame Dupin uttered those fatal words and the world went away.

“Honneure, Philippe … Philippe knows …”

Knowledge flashed through her like a bolt of lightning, electrifying every part of her body. Her nerve endings literally tingled.

Philippe was alive.

Questions had crowded her mind, tumbling over one another. She couldn’t speak. Madame Dupin’s hands dropped from her shoulders.

“I know how many questions you must have,” she said softly. “I’ll answer them as best I can.”

“Just … just tell me, let me hear it in your own words, that he is alive. And well.”

“Indeed he is.”

A shudder passed through her. “How long have you known?”

Madame Dupin hesitated. Her gaze slid away from Honneure’s to rest for a moment on the fountain’s statuary. “For nearly … two years.”

“Two years! Madame Dupin, why didn’t you tell me? Didn’t you know how desperate I’ve been to know Philippe’s alive?”

“Of course, of course we knew. But your parents and I thought that, under the circumstances, you were better off not … not knowing.”

Honneure shook her head, trying to banish the anger that rushed to her temples. “What circumstances do you mean? A sham of a marriage to a bitter old man? You thought that would be better than for me to know Philippe was alive so his daughter and I could go to him, be where we belonged?”

Madame Dupin regretted deeply that she had to be the one to break this news to Honneure. She loved her like a daughter. She could not bear to bring her any more pain or suffering than she had already had to endure. But there was no help for it.

“Honneure,” she began gently. “There are other circumstances that you are unaware of. Your parents and I debated this, whether or not to let you know. And then your husband became ill and eventually died. We knew we shouldn’t tell you at that time, with so many other things on your mind.”

“But now I’m back, here in Versailles, so you’ve finally decided to tell me?”

Madame Dupin nodded.

“You said Philippe … Philippe knows about …” Honneure’s gaze strayed to where Philippa played with the dogs.

Madame Dupin sighed. For the moment, at least, Honneure was ignoring the obvious. “Yes. Yes, he does.” She gestured toward the fountain. “Come. Let’s sit. I’ll tell you everything from the beginning.”

They sat side by side on the low stone lip of the fountain. Madame Dupin took one of Honneure’s hands and held it in both of her own.

“When the … the accident happened, and Philippe was forced to flee, the queen gave him the white Lipizzan mare. Knowing he had been unjustly accused, she wanted to aid him in any way she could. A swift mount would ensure his escape and give him something of value, should he need it, to help him survive.

“Philippe was vague about his first few months in hiding. Your parents managed to get him some money, and he existed for a time. Then he came upon an older gentleman, wealthy, of minor aristocracy, with a lovely farm in the country. He had several horses of which he was very fond, and his stableman had recently passed away. It was the ideal situation for Philippe.”

Honneure listened with her entire being, hanging on every one of Madame Dupin’s words. She envisioned Philippe happily working at what he loved, and her heart was glad.

“The gentleman admired the white mare,” Madame Dupin continued. “Just as I did so many years before, he sent Philippe to Austria to purchase a stallion and a number of mares. Thus began a breeding operation. Philippe was quite successful, and his employer did well selling young horses.

“By this time, however, the king had been dead, and the du Barry banished, for over two years. Philippe decided it was safe enough to come out of hiding. You can imagine our surprise and joy when he came riding into Chenonceau one day.”

Honneure could see him, riding down the long lane to the château, white horse prancing. His long, curling hair would have blown against his shoulders. Lips parting in a smile would reveal his white, even teeth. His strong, broad hands, sun darkened, would grip the reins skillfully, easily. Her heart thudded in her breast as Madame Dupin described the reunion.

“The first thing he wanted to know, of course, was about you.”

“And you … you told him about Philippa?”

“He was shocked at first. Never in my life have I seen such an expression on a man’s face. Then he appeared filled with a sorrow so immense it brought tears to your mother’s eyes.”

Pain shot through Honneure, so intense it was as if she was experiencing the event all over again.

“He … he wanted to come to us, didn’t he? But he couldn’t because of …”

“Because of Armand’s threat,” Madame Dupin finished when Honneure grew pale and faltered. “Yes, he told us. We were horrified. I thought Paul was going to leave on the spot to go to Normandy and personally throttle your husband.” She sighed. “We were relieved, however, I must admit, because we never understood in the first place why Philippe had ridden to Normandy but returned without you. As much as you two loved each other, we could not imagine such a thing.”

Honneure closed her eyes. “It was the worst day of my life,” she whispered.

Madame Dupin squeezed Honneure’s hand in sympathy. Her heart ached, and she dreaded what she must say next.

“Your foster father, at that point, insisted on going to Normandy. Not to strangle Armand, though he still very much wanted to, but to take you and Philippa away with him. He didn’t think your husband would shoot a father come to fetch his daughter. He wanted to go to Normandy and bring you back to Philippe.”

“But I never heard a word! What … what happened?”

“Philippe had not finished his tale. He asked his father to wait until he had heard everything. And he told us the rest of his story.”

Honneure turned her face from the carriage window and stared at the wall straight in front of her. Never, never would she heal from the pain of the wound Madame Dupin, by necessity, had to inflict on her.

Philippe’s employer, a kindly man, had had two daughters. One had married well, but the other lived at home still. She was a beautiful girl and sweet. But her birth had been difficult, and her mother had died. The girl, Suzanne, had never been right. She had a sunny disposition but had never been able to learn to read or write or figure. At the age of sixteen, some local boys had taken advantage of her, and she had eventually given birth to a son. Her father despaired of her ever finding a proper husband. As his health failed, he had turned to the only person in the world he now trusted.

He would leave Philippe everything, the horses, the farm, his money, if he would take care of Suzanne and her son. Forever.

He had not thought he would ever see Honneure again. He did not know he had a daughter. He had loved the old gentleman and was fond of Suzanne and the boy.

Philippe had married.

An hour earlier, they had turned off the main road. The farther into the country they drove, the worse the secondary road became. A particularly severe bump awakened Philippa. She straightened and rubbed her eyes.

“Are we there yet, Mother?”

Honneure returned her attention to the scene outside her window. Woodland had given way to fenced acres of rolling fields. She saw a pair of horses, then another. They were Lipizzans.

“I … I believe we are,” Honneure replied in a small voice. She said a silent prayer of thanks that her daughter sat beside her. She did not think she would be able to hold herself together otherwise.

The coachman slowed his horses as they approached a lane intersecting the road. As they made the right turn, Honneure saw a modest stone château standing in the shade of several tall and stately elms. Her heart was so full in her throat she could scarcely breathe.

There were more horses in pastures on either side of the lane. Wheels crunched on gravel as they pulled into a circular drive in front of the house. Bright red geraniums bloomed from pots on either side of the front door. The coach stopped.

As there was no footman and the driver needed to stay in control of the horses, Honneure opened the door herself and stepped down.

A boy who appeared to be about ten peeked at her from behind the trunk of a tree. He had dark hair and prominent ears. She smiled reassuringly, but he darted away into the house. Honneure didn’t move. She didn’t think she could. A moment later the door opened again.

The woman, in her midtwenties, about Honneure’s age, was beautiful. Her auburn hair was straight and shining and hung loose around her shoulders. Her features were piquant, her green eyes huge. She smiled uncertainly from the doorway.

Honneure took a few tentative steps forward. “I … I’ve come to see Philippe Mansart.”

The woman’s face immediately lit up. She nodded happily.

“Is he … here?”

The woman shook her head, still smiling. She moved from the doorway to stand between the potted flowers.

“There. He’s there.” She pointed to an area behind the château. “Are you … a friend?”

It was Honneure’s turn to nod. She looked toward the small stable the woman had indicated.

“May I? Go there, I mean?”

“Yes. Yes. Go there. See Philippe.” The woman’s smile was lovely. It never faltered.