By Honor Bound (3 page)

Honneure sighed with relief. “Of … of course I am.” In truth, she had thought of almost nothing in the past weeks. It was as if she had been asleep and had only just awakened. “Of course I want to know.”

“Good.” Philippe rolled onto his side and propped himself on one elbow. “Because we’re a good lot. You’ll like us.” He grinned. “Are you hungry?”

Honneure started to shake her head, then found herself nodding.

Philippe pulled a piece of hard bread from his pocket, broke it, and handed her half. “Can’t take a journey like this on an empty stomach.”

“How … how far is it?”

“We’ll be there just after dark. You’re not afraid of the dark, are you?”

“No.”

“It’s a shame, though, to arrive at night. Chenonceau is beautiful. Have you ever heard of it?”

Honneure shook her head, bemused. It was a challenge to keep up with the turns Philippe’s conversation took.

“It’s built right out on the water. Over the Cher River, like a bridge.
Maman
says it makes her seasick if she looks out a window for too long. You’ll like her,
ma mère.
” The boy abruptly turned serious. “You miss your own mother very much, don’t you?”

The question took Honneure completely by surprise. Philippe’s liveliness and jollity had lifted her spirits, and for a short while she had forgotten her grief. She looked away from him to the passing countryside.

They had left the village behind and Honneure experienced a frisson of fear. She had never been so far before. Bare-branched trees lined the rutted road, and woolly cattle grazed on stubble in the now-barren fields. She gazed back toward the distant town and saw the château on the hill, silhouetted against the lowering gray sky. She would probably never see it again.

“Yes,” she whispered. “I miss my mother very much.”

The lump in her throat was so huge and painful she could neither swallow nor cry. Her eyes glistened, but the tears would not come. She felt as if she might break.

“It’s going to snow soon,” Paul Mansart said without turning. “Give the girl a blanket, Philippe. It will not do for the newest member of our family to arrive at her new home with a chill. Your mama will have both our hides.”

Honneure remained motionless, staring at the receding château. She felt something go about her shoulders.

“
Maman
will not skin me,” Philippe remarked lightly in her ear. “She doesn’t know how. Papa is the butcher. She’s the cook.” He let the silence ride for a moment. “Don’t you want to know what I do?”

She wanted nothing but for the pain to go away. Yet she found Philippe’s question and his easy warmth of manner irresistible. She turned to him slowly. “All right. Tell me. I think you’re going to anyway.”

“That’s the spirit.” The grin returned. He chuckled. “I work in the stable. I groom and care for Madame Dupin’s horses. Do you like animals?”

The lump in Honneure’s throat dissolved. She managed to nod. “I love them.”

“Then we will be the best of friends. I love nothing more than to be near them, to care for them. Perhaps you’ll be able to help me. Would you like that?”

A picture immediately formed in Honneure’s mind’s eye. She was back at Château D’Amboise, in the stables. Her mother had often allowed her to visit and Charles, the old stableman, had welcomed her company. She recalled the sweet smell of the hay and horses and saw again the ever-dancing dust motes caught in beams of light from the narrow windows. She heard the soft nickers and occasional shrill whinny and felt the warm breath from a velvet muzzle as it thrust into her palm. These were familiar things and treasured memories, because she had been happy then. Was it truly possible she would know these things and be happy again? She looked up slowly into Philippe’s large, liquid eyes.

When the boy saw the anguished plea in Honneure’s gaze, his smile faded. He noticed her eyes were the color of the snow-laden clouds and brimmed with unspilled tears, and his heart went out to her. He could not even imagine losing his own mother, being all alone in the world, or being forced to leave the only home he had ever known. How great her sorrow must be! How great her courage.

A snowflake gently touched Honneure’s upturned cheek, but she barely noticed. She was caught once more in the grip of her pain, her grief like a living thing eating away at her heart and growing, growing, until she felt she might burst and die. Or simply float away into the heavy clouds and be no more. The only thing keeping her alive, anchored to the earth, was the look in Philippe’s eyes.

More flakes fell, dusting Honneure’s curls and the blanket around her shoulders. Philippe touched her reddened cheek. The snow had melted from the warmth of her skin and ran like tears. He smoothed away the moisture.

Then her face was against his chest, and his arms were around her, tightly, as she sobbed, and the agony poured from her like a molten river.

And the snow continued to fall from a windless sky, covering them both, on the slow journey to Chenonceau.

Chapter Three

Spring 1763

“The supply boat is coming!” Jeanne Mansart turned from the kitchen window and wiped her hands on her apron. She nodded to Honneure. “Go on down to the platform, dear, and open the doors. Then get Philippe. I’ll be along presently.”

Honneure didn’t hesitate. Her arm ached from stirring the soup pot in the massive hearth, and rivulets of perspiration ran down her sides and back. The fresh spring breeze off the river would feel wonderful. Thankfully, she put aside the great ladle and hurried from the overly warm room.

As Philippe had told her over three years ago, Chenonceau was built like a bridge, right over the river. Large piers supported the graceful structure, and between two of them was a platform where boats with supplies could draw alongside to unload. Honneure crossed the platform, unlatched the heavy wooden doors, and threw them open.

“Good day to ya,” the boatman called. “I’ve got the Madam’s wines and spices, and I’ll be lookin’ for some help.”

“I’ll fetch someone,” Honneure replied.

“You’re a good girl, Honneure. An’ you’ve grown since I seen you. What are you now? Eighteen? Got a young man yet?”

Honneure blushed and pushed back a wing of wavy blonde hair from her cheek. “Of course I haven’t a young man. I’m only eleven, Monsieur Roget. And you know it,” she retorted good-naturedly.

“Eleven!
Mon Dieu
, they ripen young in the country, don’t they?”

This time Honneure smiled but declined comment and merely watched as the craft entered the arched space between the two piers. She waited as Roget secured his lines, then sped away to find Philippe.

It was not a short distance to the stable, but Honneure knew the boatman would not thank her for hurrying. He would enjoy his pipe or a chat with Philippe’s father in the time it took her to find Philippe and return with him. He would most certainly enjoy a piece of one of Madame Mansart’s pies. She had plenty of time. Her pace was quick only because she was eager to see Philippe and bask for a few moments in the fragrant coziness of the stable.

From the platform Honneure climbed a short flight of stairs to the main hall and emerged near the front door. She pulled it open slowly, braced against its great weight, and slipped out into the warm spring sunshine.

Honneure now stood in an oval courtyard built atop one of the piers. The sound of the Cher murmured below her. She crossed a narrow bridge to another pier and from there entered the forecourt, a huge rectangle dominated in one corner by the Marques Tower, a former donjon
.
With the river swirling around her, Honneure had the illusion of floating along on a broad-beamed ship. One hand shielding her eyes, she gazed up at the conical roof of the Renaissance-style dungeon. As if sensing her regard, a pair of pigeons fluttered skyward and flew off in the direction of the stable. Honneure followed them.

From the forecourt she crossed a final bridge and stepped onto a wide lane. It ran for nearly a mile through dense forest until it reached the main road. To her right sprawled the Diane de Poitiers’s gardens, on the edge of which stood the steward’s handsome house; to her left and slightly behind, on a curving bank of the Cher, lay the fabulous gardens of Catherine de Medici; ahead and to the left, stretching for almost a quarter of a mile, were the stables and attached residences for the servants. Honneure paused a moment to catch her breath, then continued on her way.

Honneure did not immediately see Philippe upon entering the dim, cool building. But as she looked down the long aisle, several horses raised their heads and perked their ears. The large draft horse who had pulled the wagon that had brought her to Chenonceau whickered. She crossed to his stall and raised her hand to his bewhiskered muzzle.

“You always have a greeting for me, don’t you?”

“Honneure?” Philippe emerged from a stall near the end of the aisle. He closed the door, leaned a pitchfork against it, and wiped his brow with a square of linen. “I thought I heard your voice. What are you doing here this time of day?”

“Looking for you.”

“This must be my lucky day.”

Philippe grinned, and Honneure grinned back. “It’s lucky if you feel like unloading Monsieur Roget’s boat.”

Philippe groaned as he tucked the linen back into his loose, coarse trousers. “I don’t suppose you’d like to earn a few muscles by doing that for me, would you?”

“Oh, certainly I would. But then I wouldn’t have time to wash the pots and pans or scrub the kitchen floor, and then you’d have to help
me
.”

Philippe winked. “
Touché
.” He reached Honneure’s side and threw an arm about her shoulders. “Lead on then, fair damsel. My destiny awaits.”

Honneure leaned into Philippe and put her arm about his slender waist. He smelled wonderful, like hay and horses and good, honest sweat, and her heart squeezed as it always did when they were together. Side by side they left the stable and stepped into the bright afternoon.

Honneure had to stretch her legs to match Philippe’s long stride. He had grown tall in the years since she had come to live with his family, since she had become his sister. She glanced up at him with adoring eyes, seeing the hay dust that coated his glossy black curls and the moisture that glistened in the hollow of his throat. He was so handsome and so incredibly kind. She loved him dearly, as her own true brother of the flesh, and had since the very beginning, on the journey to Chenonceau.

Honneure often thought of that time. She remembered her arrival at Chenonceau and her amazement. They had not stopped at the stable, as she had thought they would, but continued on to the château. She had not been able to make out its details in the dark. Yet she saw the lights from many windows and was awed by the structure’s imposing size. She could not see the river either but heard the music of its passing as they crossed the bridge from the forecourt to the courtyard. Burning torches cast flickering lights upon the snowy ground. The monumental double doors, a coat of arms on each side, had opened slowly.

“Ah, Paul, you’ve arrived at last.” A handsome, elegantly dressed woman stood in the doorway, framed by light, one hand holding the edges of a shawl together over her breast. “How was your journey?”

“Uneventful, Madame Dupin, as I’d hoped. The treasure we carry is safe.”

“Well, come in. Come in where it’s warm.”

Philippe had not needed to be asked twice. He jumped from the wagon, then held out his arms to Honneure and helped her down. She was immediately set upon by Madame Dupin.

“Poor child, you must be freezing.” She took the shawl from her shoulders and wrapped it about Honneure. “I am Madame Dupin,” she added needlessly. Stooping slightly so she might look directly into Honneure’s eyes, she said, “And you are Honneure, who has come to be the little daughter of Paul and Jeanne, sister to Philippe. They are my trusted and beloved servants, and I know you will be very happy with them. You have suffered the greatest tragedy a child could ever know, but you are safe now and very welcome in my home. Come. Come and meet the rest of your new family.”

Honneure was completely at a loss for words. Never had she experienced such kindness from strangers, nor had she even imagined it might exist. She had thought her life was over. And now this.

The marvels had only just begun.

Steering her gently, Madame Dupin guided Honneure through the doors and into the front hall. Light blazed from what seemed a hundred candles set in a silver candelabra. Tapestries lined the walls. The floor was tiled with small reddish squares, each one stamped with a fleur-de-lis crossed by a dagger. Honneure had never seen anything like it.

Followed by Paul and Philippe, Madame Dupin had led Honneure down the corridor to a door near the end. Warmth and delicious smells enveloped her as they stepped across the threshold. She gazed in wonder at the large kitchen and glowing hearth, teeming baskets of potatoes and onions, sausages and dried herbs hanging from the open joists of the ceiling, an array of highly scrubbed pots and utensils hanging from hooks on the creamy walls. She was overwhelmed.

“Jeanne?” Madame Dupin called. “Are you here? Paul and Philippe have returned. And they have brought with them the daughter you have always wished for.”

“Oh!
Oui,
madame, I’m coming!” A figure appeared from around a corner.

As long as she lived, Honneure would never forget the moment she met Jeanne Mansart. The woman was the very picture of beneficence and kindliness. A gleaming white apron was tied about her plump midsection. Curling wisps of gray hair, escaped from the chignon at the nape of her neck, framed her round face and apple cheeks. Small blue eyes twinkled brightly. Her welcoming smile seemed to stretch from ear to ear. Then, suddenly, there were tears on her face. She came up to Honneure and knelt, her arms opened wide.

“Oh, you precious, precious child,” she murmured. “My own dear little girl.”

Honneure had moved into the circle of the woman’s arms and had known, in that instant, she would never know loneliness or fear again.

Nor had she.

Once again, as they approached the château, Honneure gazed up at the boy who had become her brother, her family. In over three years he had never said a harsh word to her. He teased her from time to time but never maliciously. In fact, she loved his playfulness. His humor, sensitivity, and forthright nature had helped to ease her out of her grief and into the circle of the Mansart family. She truly did think of them now as her own. She even wondered occasionally if Paul was anything like her own father. She hoped so. He was a good man, solid, compassionate, and good-humored. And although Jeanne was nothing like her own mother, she loved her deeply as well. There certainly could not be a sweeter woman anywhere on earth. Since Jeanne Mansart had uttered the words, “My own dear little girl,” Honneure had been treated that way. She had even adopted their name and proudly called herself Honneure Mansart.

“Here they are.” Roget pushed himself away from the wall and plucked the pipe from his mouth. “Hah,
mon ami
, your son looks more like you every day.”

The senior Mansart smiled slowly and gazed proudly at Philippe. “He’s a good lad. He’ll be a good man.”

“And your daughter,” Roget added as he climbed down into his boat. “What a beauty, fit for a king, I might say.” He winked. “She and the young Duc de Berry are of an age, you know. You should contrive to get her a position at Court. Who knows what might happen.”

Standing on the platform, Philippe accepted the barrel Roget handed up to him, hefted it onto his shoulder, and passed it on to his father, who set it inside a storeroom.

“Speaking of the Court,” Jeanne Mansart said eagerly, “what news is there?”

Roget grunted as he handed another barrel up to Philippe. “The war with England is over, I suppose you know.”

“A war that never should have been waged in the first place,” Paul Mansart said. “Thousands of lives lost, and now Canada, India, and Dunkirk as well. All because of that woman.”

“Now, Paul.” Jeanne laid a hand on her husband’s arm. “Not in front of the children.”

“If you mean me,” Honneure interjected, “and if you’re talking about Madame du Pompadour, I already know.”

All eyes turned in her direction. Jeanne’s chin dropped and Paul’s eyes widened.

“Madame Dupin tells me about the king sometimes when I help her in the garden. She said he has always listened more closely to his mistresses than his ministers.”

“Honneure,” Jeanne exclaimed.

Philippe’s eyes twinkled with suppressed mirth. “What else has Madame told you about the king and his mis—, uh, ministers?”

“Well, things like Monsieur Choiseul attends mass with the latest saucy novel hidden in his missal, and Cardinal Richelieu takes milk baths—”

“That will be enough, Honneure.” Color flooded Madame Mansart’s cheeks. It heightened when Roget roared with laughter.

“I was right.” He choked. “You should send her to Court. She just might keep them all honest.”

Paul attempted to hide his smile, but the corners of his mouth quivered. Under his wife’s stern glare, he said, “Perhaps, Honneure, you and your mother should see to that soup pot. You wouldn’t want to spoil dinner now, would you?”