By Honor Bound (38 page)

Do you know how much I love you, dearest Philippa? Though I have always tried to be a good mother, and a good wife to your father, I fear I have not properly shown or expressed to you how very much I love you both. And it is the very danger and insanity of these times that have made me realize that you and your father really do come first in my life and that I may not have let either of you know it. I hope I can now remedy that.

Knowing who my father was and how perilous it would be should our secret be revealed, still I followed the queen to Paris. I thought it was my duty to continue to serve her, no matter the personal risks. As you and certainly your father know, devotion to duty has been the cornerstone of my life. Duty always came first.

I continue to live by this ideal and suspect I always will. My error has not been in believing that loyalty comes first but in who comes first in my loyalties. These dark and dangerous days in Paris, however, have helped me to understand my priorities. And my first priority is my family. Nearly losing Philippe and missing all the precious days I might have been spending with you have made me realize, finally, that our lives as a family are more important than my service to the king and queen.

This has been a difficult decision for me to make because, no matter my illegitimate birth, the king is family, too. Although, for obvious reasons, the world must never know, we are still cousins. It will be hard to leave my queen and the king behind. Yet I can no longer deny that it is time to flee Paris. We must be reunited. We have spent too much time apart already.

I have not even told your father yet of my decision. It only came to me this morning as I pondered what to write to you. I anticipate the joy with which your father will receive this news when he returns tonight, and my day is considerably brightened already. Hopefully, it will not take us long to leave the city, and we will see you soon, my darling. Until then I remain,

Your devoted mother

Honneure Mansart

The population of Paris had swelled to nearly three-quarters of a million, and the narrow streets were crowded and dirty. To make matters worse, it had snowed a few days earlier, and Honneure was forced to wade through filthy slush. The sky was gray and overcast, and the damp cold seemed to eat right into her bones. Yet she smiled as she trudged in the direction of the Tuileries château.

In the basket she carried, along with the queen’s small gifts, lay her letter to Philippa. On the way home she would post it. Soon she and Philippe would be on their way home to Chenonceau. The mere thought filled her with an almost inexpressible joy. She felt liberated, freed from bonds she had not even known had bound her for so long. There was more than just a revolution in France. There had been a revolution in her soul.

Honneure emerged from the dismal, labyrinthine streets to the wide boulevard that ran along the Seine, and she quickened her step. Ahead lay the Tuileries, a dark sixteenth-century palace that, until the king’s arrival, had been uninhabited since 1665. The steep-roofed, three-story, gray stone château was uncomfortable in the extremes, freezing in winter, stifling in summer. Its furniture was stiff and old-fashioned and its windows small. The accommodations were only one of many indignities the royal family was being forced to endure. But at least they were together.

Honneure had a whole new sense of how important that fact was. The hardships of imprisonment might be many, but there were blessings, too. With little else to distract them and few duties to attend to, the king and queen were able to spend most of their days with their children. The queen continued to tutor them, and their father had the time now to play with them. As long as they were allowed to remain together, life was endurable. And soon, Honneure told herself, their confinement must be ended. The situation could not go on indefinitely. Even if Louis was deposed, it was not the worst thing that could happen. At least he would have his freedom … and his family.

The guards at the gate stopped Honneure, as usual, though she was a frequent and familiar visitor. She swiftly produced the blue pass she had been issued that enabled her to visit the queen. Moments later, she entered the dim, drafty corridors of the château. And was stopped again.

“Your pass, please.”

Honneure’s eyes narrowed as she regarded the thin, gray woman who had confronted her. She wore the uniform of the Jacobins, the tricolor cockade hat, and a perpetual sneer. It was well known the woman spied on the queen and enjoyed throwing her weight around. As in the present situation.

Biting her tongue, Honneure reached into her basket to retrieve her pass. Almost every time she ran into Honneure, the woman asked her to produce it, although she knew Honneure never could have gotten into the palace without it. Petty harassment apparently amused her.

Honneure’s fingers groped in her basket and eventually found what she sought. Irritated, she snatched it out of the basket. She did not realize she had also caught a corner of her letter, and she did not see it flutter to the ground.

The Jacobin woman waited until Honneure had disappeared down the corridor. Then she bent and picked up the envelope. A queer, hungry smile stretched her pale lips as she tore open the paper and began to read.

Life had never been easy. The narrow, filthy back streets of Paris were all she had ever known. She had suffered grinding poverty as a child and could never even remember a time when she had not been hungry. She had fared little better as an adult and toiled daily to buy enough to eat, simply to be able to get up and do it again the following day. There had never been any hope in her life, any color in her gray sky, until the Revolution.

Now everything was changing. The oppressed were changing places with the oppressors. The heads of the aristocracy were rolling in the streets, and their blood flowed in the gutters. Those who had known only privilege would now find it a privilege merely to exist.

Still smiling, the woman carefully refolded the letter.

She had always thought there was something intrinsically wrong with Honneure Mansart. Her beauty itself was an affront. Her carriage and bearing were too haughty by far.

The woman nodded slowly to herself as she tucked the envelope into her threadbare bodice. She had been right all along. There was something wrong with Mademoiselle Mansart. She was tainted by royal blood.

It would be spilled.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

The guards outside the door to the king’s and queen’s chambers eyed Honneure suspiciously, as they always did. More than one did so with a wicked leer and caressing glance. She ignored them and waited patiently while the locks, one by one, were undone. It was ironic, she thought. Locks had once been Louis’s hobby. Designing and building them had helped him pass many happy hours. Now the very instruments he had loved held him prisoner. Locks and his own sense of honor.

The outer door opened, and Honneure proceeded into a dim and dank corridor. At a second, inner door, she again halted and waited for the unlocking procedure.

There had been a time not long ago when Louis could have abdicated in favor of his son. Louis Charles, however, was only six years old. The Duc d’Orleans, now known as Egalité, would have ruled on the boy’s behalf as regent. But the duke was weak and ineffectual, and Louis’s integrity would not allow him to surrender his realm to the rule of such a man. There would have been safety in the king’s abdication, for him and his family. But no honor.

A premonition seemed to hold Honneure in its grip as she hurried down the last dim and chilly hall. The queen, too, might have fled earlier to safety with her children, but her sense of honor and duty had bound her to her husband, the king.

Was it too late for them? Had their decisions, however noble, condemned them?

Had Honneure’s loyalty to the queen condemned her as well?

No. Honneure shook her head. She could not think such a thing. It was not too late for her. It wasn’t. She had come to her senses in time. Soon she would be back at Chenonceau with her husband and daughter and dear Madame Dupin. She would be back where she belonged. The queen, in fact, had been urging her to do so for some time. There was little she could do for Antoinette anymore, aside from these small favors. It was well and truly time to leave.

Honneure at last entered the first chamber of the modest suite of rooms that housed the king and his family. The stone walls were bare and cold. A worn carpet covered most of the floor. There were several straight-backed chairs and a desk, all occupied.

The queen looked up from an open book that lay on the desk. Her brow had been furrowed in thought, but it smoothed, and a smile lit her lips when she recognized Honneure.

“What a pleasant surprise,” she remarked brightly. “It is well past your usual hour, and I was afraid you weren’t going to come.”

“I’m so sorry. I know it’s almost your lunchtime. I won’t stay long.”

“Nonsense.”

The king rose from the seat he had taken between his two children and his sister, Elisabeth. He was dressed simply in black silk trousers and a waistcoat in a gold color known as the queen’s hair. No longer allowed to ride or take much exercise at all, he had grown heavier, with prominent jowls. But his blue eyes were still merry, despite his circumstances. Honneure dropped a deep curtsy, amazed as usual by the monarch’s warmth and informality. The king raised her to her feet with a simple touch under her chin.

“We are always happy to see you,” Louis continued. “And to enjoy your far too generous gifts.”

Honneure blushed and ducked her head. “They’re nothing, really.”

“Oh, yes, they are.”

Young Louis Charles jumped up from his chair and ran to Honneure’s side. His long, chestnut hair was in disarray, and his eyes were wide. “Have you brought something for my sister?”

Honneure touched the prince’s head and smiled down at him with genuine affection. He adored his older sister and always thought of her first.

“Of course I have. But let me show you what I have for you.” Honneure’s fingers searched within her basket and withdrew a few sheets of writing paper.

“Thank you … Thank you,” the boy exclaimed. “Now I have something to write my lessons on.”

“I thank you as well,” Louis said and nodded somberly.

“I’m just glad I was able to find some,” Honneure replied. “Literature and education seem to have little importance these days, and what paper there is all seems to go into the presses of the scandal and hate mongers.”

The queen’s indrawn breath was audible, and Honneure was instantly sorry. The shock of events over the last three years had turned her hair white, and her nerves were always dangerously on edge. Honneure had not meant to cause her any additional anxiety and apologized.

“Show us what you’ve brought for Marie Therese,” Antoinette said, wisely changing the subject.

“Yes … what have you brought for my sister?”

Honneure crossed to where the child had remained seated. Marie Therese Charlotte was a serious little girl, and it was always difficult to coax a smile to her lips. Honneure reached into her basket once again and produced a pair of warm woolen stockings.

Marie Therese accepted them with a sober expression, but Honneure, who had known her almost all her life, could tell she was pleased.

“Thank you very much,” the child said.

“You are quite welcome.” Honneure turned to the queen and handed her a small package of soap. “This is for you and Princess Elisabeth. I’m sorry there isn’t more. These were the only luxuries I could find this week.”

“Dearest friend,” Antoinette said as she took the small packet. Tears glittered in her eyes. “These gifts, given with a loving heart, are more precious than gold and gems. Don’t you know that?”

Honneure could only nod. Soon she would have to tell the queen she would no longer be able to come. Although she knew Antoinette would be glad for her and would tell her she was doing the right thing, it was still terribly difficult. She knew how keenly Antoinette felt the defection of her friends, people who had once sworn their love and loyalty and had now turned their backs. The queen treasured her few remaining friends, a handful of devoted servants included.

But it was time to go. Honneure could no longer deny it. As if to reassure herself, she reached into her basket to touch the letter.

“Honneure? Are you all right?”

Concerned by Honneure’s sudden paleness, Antoinette pushed back her chair and rose. The king touched Honneure’s elbow.

“Do you feel ill, my dear? You don’t look well at all.”

“I … I’m fine.” Honneure managed to shake her head. “But I’ve … forgotten something. I really must go.”

“Of course. Leave at once if you must. Don’t let us detain you.” The queen’s brow furrowed once again.

Honneure tried to utter the proper words of farewell, but her tongue seemed to have cleaved to the roof of her mouth. Her stomach seemed on the verge of rebellion. Dipping a hasty curtsy, she groped behind her for the door handle.

Seconds later, she was fleeing down the long, dark corridor.

The trees that marched along the banks of the Seine were bare. They seemed to pass far, far too slowly as Honneure ran along the river path. And although she felt she was barely moving, her heart threatened to explode.

She had backtracked to the palace entrance so carefully. She had not found the letter.

Had she merely thought it was in her basket? Did it lie safely at home?

But the thought, the image, was not true. Honneure’s memory replayed the morning’s events, and she saw in her mind’s eye exactly where she had placed the letter.

Honneure could no longer feel her feet hitting the ground. Pure terror raced through her veins with a numbing poison.

If someone had found that letter, she was doomed.

Heedless of the carriage traffic, Honneure veered off the path and ran across the busy boulevard. The gray walls of the city closed around her.

Philippe … let me find you … just let me find you …

She no longer had any hope she had left the damning missive at home. She knew in her heart what had happened, what had become of it. Remembered pulling the pass from the basket a second time.

Just let me see you one more time, Philippe, my beloved …
Honneure knew she would only be able to draw a few more ragged breaths before she could go on no longer. Her legs were already starting to fail her as she rounded the last corner onto the dim and dirty street where they lived.

Panic burst at once in her breast, and Honneure stumbled to her knees.

They were outside her building, their tricolor hats bright in the shadowy light of the narrow street. Even as she watched, someone leaned out the open window of their small room. He shouted, and though Honneure could not hear the words, she knew he informed his colleagues of her absence.

Honneure rose slowly, heart thudding against her ribs. They hadn’t seen her yet. Perhaps she could simply turn and walk away. It was near the time of day Philippe returned Snow Queen briefly to her rented stall for a cup of oats. If he was there …

One hand pressed to the cold, gray stone of the corner building, Honneure backed away from the men midway down the block. She never took her eyes from them. She held her breath as they turned and looked in her direction. And good sense fled before the crushing wave of terror.

Honneure whirled and ran.

She heard their shout. She knew her fatal error. With the last of her strength, she fled toward the rundown stable.

Philippe, too, heard the shouts, and the hair on the back of his neck rose immediately. In these dark days, voices raised in anger and alarm all too often meant death or imprisonment to some unlucky victim. The Jacobin extremists, in their reign of terror, literally chased down some of their luckless prey on the city streets. And
La Lanterne,
their guillotine, was perpetually hungry. Not wishing to witness another of their foul roundups, Philippe pulled on the white mare’s reins and slowed the coach in preparation to turn it around. He was not fast enough.

It was a woman, he noted. Her mean, black skirts were clutched in her hands, the better to run, and her long disheveled hair streamed out behind her. Her eyes were wide with terror. They were staring right at him. Philippe’s heart thudded to an abrupt halt, and his flesh and blood turned to ice.

“Philippe!”

Her cry tore through him, an ax blade splitting his chest. He was propelled into action.

Tears sprang to Honneure’s eyes when she realized her final prayer would be answered. If she could just stay on her feet, just keep going for a few more steps, she would feel his arms around her one more time. She saw him jump from the coach to the curb, saw him sprint toward her …

Rude hands grabbed at Honneure’s shoulders. As she was pulled back, she stretched out her hands.
“Philippe …”

He touched her fingertips, grasped her hands. With all the strength in him, he pulled her into his arms, held her against his heart.

Then a bright, white light blossomed in his brain, and he knew no more.