By Honor Bound (4 page)

“Did I say something wrong?” Honneure said as her foster mother firmly closed the kitchen door.

“Not wrong, Honneure, just … You shouldn’t repeat everything Madame Dupin tells you.” Cheeks still flaming, Jeanne turned to the bubbling soup pot herself.

“Do you mean I should repeat some things but not others?”

“Well … yes.”

“But how am I supposed to know the difference?”

Jeanne Mansart sighed deeply, hung her ladle on its hook beside the hearth, and turned slowly to the child she had considered her own since the first moment she had laid eyes on her. She walked around the table and took Honneure’s face in her hands.

“Oh, Honneure, my dear, sweet girl, how do I answer you?” She looked into Honneure’s storm-gray eyes for a long moment. “You’ve always been so good, so dutiful and obedient and loving. I could not have asked for a more perfect child. You have never said an unkind word or committed a cruel act, and you have done nothing wrong now.”

“But you said—”

“I said you shouldn’t repeat everything you hear, and you very wisely pointed out to me how difficult it is to know how to choose.” Jeanne dropped her hands from Honneure’s face and laid them lightly on her shoulders. “You will learn as you grow older, I suppose, as we all do. For now … just be honest, as you always have been.”

“You’re not angry with me?”

“Oh, Honneure, no, of course not, dearest child. I love you.”

“And I love you,
Maman
.” Honneure stretched up to kiss her foster mother’s cheek.

Jeanne hugged her. “Go now and see if Madame requires anything before dinner.”

Honneure walked slowly through the three rooms that comprised the kitchen. She thought about what Jeanne had said to her but didn’t really understand. All that mattered was that her foster mother was not angry with her. She did not think at all about her actual words, the gossip about the king’s ministers. Madame Dupin was a frequent visitor at the Court of Louis XV and always brought back wonderful, vivid stories of the lavish lifestyle and colorful characters. Honneure loved the tales, particularly the ones about Choiseul. She recalled his wife, her former mistress, and smiled to herself.

Honneure crossed the corridor into what Madame Dupin called the green study. She loved the great green tapestry that covered one entire wall. Madame had told her it depicted the discovery of the Americas, their flora and fauna. She let her eyes linger for a moment on the Peruvian silver pheasants, pineapples, orchids, pomegranates, animals, and vegetables she had never even known existed. Reluctantly, she left the room and entered the tiny library.

Madame Dupin sat at her desk composing a letter. She looked up briefly and smiled. “One moment, Honneure. I must finish my thought before it blows away in the breeze.”

“
Oui
, madame.” Hands behind her back, Honneure dropped a small curtsy. She gazed over her mistress’s shoulder to the window and the gardens beyond, content to wait as long as was necessary. From the library the view of the gardens of Diane de Poitiers was breathtaking.

It was Philippe who had told her about Diane de Poitiers and Catherine de Medici when he had informed her that Chenonceau was widely known as the Château des Dames. Diane, he had whispered to her one evening as they stood on the banks of the Cher feeding swans, had been King Henry II’s favorite. He had actually given her Chenonceau as a gift. But when he died, killed in single-handed combat during a tournament, his widow, Catherine de Medici, forced Diane to give up Chenonceau in exchange for another château. The next day, with their parents’ attention turned elsewhere, they had sneaked up to Diane de Poitiers’s bedroom. There, on the chimney, Philippe had showed her the initials of Henry II and Catherine de Medici:
H
and
C
which, intertwined, could form the
D
of Diane de Poitiers. She had thought him very clever. And the history of the château began to come alive for her. She had grown to love it, as she had her new family and the mistress they all so willingly served.

Madame looked up from her missive and smiled once again. “You are a patient child. Have you been sent by your mother to see what I require?” When Honneure nodded, she said, “As a matter of fact I should like a glass of sherry.” Honneure hesitated, then dropped another curtsy and turned.

“What is it you wish to ask, Honneure?”

“It’s … nothing. I don’t wish to bother you.”

“You never bother me. You are curious and intelligent, and I have grown quite fond of our conversations. Now, once again, what is it you wish to ask?”

“Have you ever heard of the … the Duc de Berry?”

“Heard of him?” Madame Dupin snorted. “Of course I’ve heard of him. Where did you hear his name?”

Honneure dropped her gaze, wondering if she had said something wrong for a second time that day. “Well … Monsieur Roget was—”

“Oh, that silly boatman.” Madame Dupin waved a hand dismissively. “He is the greatest gossip in France. Tell me what he is saying about the young duke.”

Honneure felt the heat rise from her neck to her cheeks and regretted that she blushed so easily. “Nothing … Just that he and I are … are the same age.”

One elegant eyebrow lifted slightly, and a faint smile touched the corners of Madame Dupin’s thin mouth. “Yes. Yes, you are very near in age. But there the similarities begin and end, my dear. The Duc de Berry is the eldest living son of Louis, the dauphin, heir to the throne. The duke’s grandfather is our … illustrious … King Louis XV.”

Honneure’s lips formed a small
O
.

“Knowing Roget’s reputation, I am going to assume he made some inappropriate comment about you and a young prince of France.” Seeing Honneure’s blush return, she added quickly, “You are indeed a lovely girl. You are beautiful and sweet-natured and as bright as a newly minted coin. In short, you are far too good for the likes of any in Louis’s Court. Be glad you are who you are and are where you are. You will live a good life. Those who flutter about Louis’s throne, like moths around a flame, are doomed. Be thankful you will never know the brightness of that light which consumes all.”

With that Madame Dupin turned thoughtfully to the view outside her open windows. When she did not speak again, Honneure realized she was dismissed. She shook her head to clear it of the image her mistress had so vividly painted and hurried from the room. She was indeed lucky. She did not wish to change anything about her life. She did not aspire to the splendor of a royal Court. She did not even wish to leave Chenonceau.

Ever.

Chapter Four

Summer 1768

Summer lay across the countryside like a veil of soft gauze. The air was hot and hazy, and everything seemed to move a little more slowly. Even the Cher flowed sleepily between its grassy banks. The swans, necks curved into elegant question marks, glided lazily over the cool, green water, followed by their half-grown cygnets. Weeping willow limbs arched gracefully to touch the river’s shining surface.

Honneure turned from the Cher and started back toward the château. Her basket could not hold another flower. Trudging slowly through the heat of high noon, she made her way through the Catherine de Medici gardens. At the central pool she paused to splash water on her face and neck and on the newly cut stalks already beginning to wilt. In the eight years she had been at Chenonceau, she could not recall a hotter summer. Shaking moisture from her face, she proceeded to the house.

It took Honneure’s eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light of the château’s corridor. Grateful for the shade, she quickened her footsteps.

The kitchen appeared empty. Then she heard the sound of a cleaver coming down heavily on the butcher’s block. Leaving her basket on the table, she rounded the corner into the area that had become her foster father’s domain.

He looked up from the bloody carcass and smiled. “Rabbit for dinner.”

Honneure tried not to connect the mangled mess on the table with the sleek, adorable animals she loved to watch at dusk when they came out to forage. “It’s Philippe’s favorite,” she said, in an attempt to justify the hare’s death.

“Perhaps he’ll come home tonight in time to enjoy it.”

Honneure’s expression immediately brightened. “Do you think he’ll be home tonight? Do you?”

Paul shrugged and swung the cleaver again, severing a leg from the trunk. “There’s a chance. Your mother figured he’d be back by today or tomorrow. But Austria’s a long way away. It’s difficult to judge that great a distance. And with a few horses in tow, who knows?”

Honneure turned away as Paul lifted the cleaver a final time. When she heard the chop, she took a wooden bowl and gathered the pieces of rabbit. “I’m going to stew them, just as he likes. I have a feeling.”

“You and your mother.” Paul sluiced water from a ewer over his bloody hands. “She says she has a feeling too.”

Honneure tried not to let her hopes fly too high, but it was difficult. She hadn’t seen her brother in weeks, since Madame Dupin had dispatched him to Vienna to fetch the precious horses. Over the years he had gone on errands for days at a time but never this long. She missed him desperately.

When the cast-iron pan was hot enough Honneure added a dollop of goose fat and then the rabbit, piece by piece. She turned the parts over once and added a handful of freshly chopped herbs. As the meat browned to her satisfaction, she poured a pitcher of dry red wine over all. Steam curled upward from the pan, and a delicious aroma filled the room.

“Smells
wonderful
.” Jeanne put an arm around her daughter’s shoulders. “I just came in to do that, but I’m glad you beat me to it. I think you’ve become a better cook than I am.”

“Never!”

“Well, all right …
almost
as good.” She kissed Honneure’s cheek. “Shall I make a dandelion salad to go with it?”

Another of Philippe’s favorites. The two women exchanged knowing smiles, and Honneure nodded.

“You run along then and arrange your flowers, my dear. I’ll take care of the rest of dinner.”

Honneure grabbed her basket and fled the kitchen’s heat. She had already placed vases with fresh water about the château and had merely to arrange the fragile stems. She began in the chapel, near the front doors, and bowed her head reverently as she placed the flowers gently on the altar. She paused to admire the soaring vaulted ceiling and stained-glass windows. To the right of the altar stood a finely carved credence table, and for the hundredth time she read the motto of the husband and wife, Thomas Bohier and Katherine Briconnet, who had built Chenonceau: “
S’il vient a point, me souviendra
.” “If I manage to build Chenonceau, I will be remembered.” How correct they had been. It was their coats-of-arms that decorated the front doors.

From the chapel Honneure went to the Louis XIV living room, so named in honor of a visit the late king had made to the château. It was her favorite room, and its colors were glorious. Deep pink fabric lined the walls, and the furniture was covered with Aubusson tapestries. She thought of her mother, Mathilde, and how she would have loved the aura of the ornate chamber, where Madame Dupin had entertained such dignitaries and intellectuals as Voltaire, Rousseau, Montesquieu, and Diderot. She glanced at the portrait of Samuel Bernard, her mistress’s father, Louis XIV’s banker. Though he had left his daughter fabulously wealthy, she had squandered nothing. Her generosity and kindness were legendary. Honneure herself would always be grateful to her.

Honneure’s last stop was Madame’s bedroom. Near the center of the corridor she pushed open two finely carved oaken doors, revealing the curving staircase. It was always a pleasure to climb the steps and gaze at the coffers decorated with human figures, fruits, and flowers. At the curve in the stair was a loggia with a balustrade from which she was able to see the Cher. Late afternoon sun glinted sharply on the somnolent greenish waters, and Honneure hurried.

Of the many bedchambers in the château, the one Madame Dupin had chosen for her own was known as the Five Queens’ Bedroom, in memory of Catherine de Medici’s two daughters and three daughters-in-law, all of whom had become queens. The coffered ceiling displayed the five different royal coats-of-arms, and the walls were covered with a Flemish tapestry suite that had always fascinated Honneure. Around the walls of the room she could see the siege of Troy and the kidnapping of Helen, Circus games in the Coliseum, and the crowning of King David. She arranged the last of her flowers atop her mistress’s desk and on her way out straightened the rich red bed-curtains. Her house duties for the day were done.

The sun was low and at the perfect angle to enter her dormer window in a straight line, filling the tiny room with heat and light. Stripped to her underlinens, Honneure sat on the edge of her narrow bed and pinned the luxuriant masses of honey-colored hair atop her head. She poured water from a pitcher into a cracked basin, took a linen cloth and, eyes closed, washed away the day’s toil. When she came to her breasts she paused as she always did, still surprised by the changes in her body. It seemed only yesterday she was a thin, wiry child. Now … Honneure felt the weight of her breasts, not quite sure whether she was pleased or chagrined. In a way she was proud of her new form. But it had its drawbacks, in particular the attention she received from some local young men. And the steward’s son, Claud. Honneure shuddered. Thank goodness her brother continued to treat her as he always had.

Philippe.

Something knotted in the pit of her stomach and spread upward into her chest. Even now he might be riding up the long, tree-lined lane to the château. In fact, she fancied she could hear hoofbeats. Moving quickly she pulled on her summer shift of pale-blue cotton, slipped into her shoes, and unpinned her hair. There was no time to deal with it. She pulled her fingers through the tangled waves that fell to her waist, then ran from the room.

It had been a dry summer. Dust rose from behind the wagon wheels and hung in the windless air. Philippe felt it settle in yet another layer on his hair and exposed flesh. The white horse he rode had turned a dull dun color, and the two black horses tied to the back of the wagon had turned gray. Though the sun was low, the heat had been oppressive all day. The foal that trotted at the white mare’s side had begun to lag.

“Stop a moment, Claud,” Philippe called to the pudgy lad who drove the cart horse. “This filly can’t go much farther.”

Claud, son of Madame Dupin’s steward, obeyed immediately. He didn’t think he could go much farther himself. He was dirty, tired, and sore from sitting in the jolting wagon day after day and silently cursed his father for forcing him to accompany Philippe. He had been indifferent to the sights of Vienna, thought the food uncivilized, if plentiful, and the prostitutes insulting. Thank God the trip was nearly over.

Philippe climbed from the mare and approached the foal slowly. She shied away from him but stayed close to her dam. He stretched out his hand and stroked her neck until she quieted. Rubbing a spot behind her ears, he eased nearer. When he was pressed against her side he put one arm around her chest, the other behind her rump, and lifted her from the ground. She struggled but only briefly.

“Help me, Claud. I’m going to put her in the back of the wagon.”

Together they managed to get the filly into the back of the straw-filled cart. She whinnied for her mother, and the mare muzzled her reassuringly. To Philippe’s relief, the young horse lay down almost at once.

“Let’s get going,” Philippe urged. “I want to reach Chenonceau before dark.”

“You’re not the only one,” Claud mumbled. He slapped the reins on the cart horse’s back, and the wagon rumbled forward.

The last few miles were easier. They left the open farmland behind, and the forest deepened as they approached the château. The air was noticeably cooler. Philippe wiped his brow and tried to brush off some of the dust. He shook his head and ran his fingers through his thick, black curls. He was saddle weary, and as fine as the animals were, he was anxious to get home. He missed his own bed, his mother’s cooking, and most of all his sister. Philippe smiled.

He had thought of Honneure often on his trip. She was such a curious little thing and had such an appreciation for history that he wished he had been able to show her Vienna. She had never seen a big city before, and the Austrian capital was magnificent. She also would have loved the breeding farm where he had picked up Madame Dupin’s Lipizzan horses. He himself had never seen anything like it. The sprawling facility had been immaculate, the horses exquisite. He imagined the pleasure he would have describing the sights to her. He could almost see her gray eyes go wide and her lips part as she hung on his every word.

Philippe rubbed the stubble on his chin and chuckled. She had always been such an adoring child. From the beginning she had followed him around like a puppy. Having been an only child for the first twelve years of his life, he had feared her near-constant presence would be annoying. But he had discovered just the opposite. As she had emerged from her grief and her personality blossomed, he had found her enchanting. Her naïveté combined with quick wit, intelligence, and down-to-earth honesty brought a light and laughter into his life he had never known from his loving but hardworking, solid parents. He loved them dearly, but Honneure was, well …
Honneure
. He had missed her badly. He couldn’t wait to see her.

The sun seemed to rest upon the treetops of Chenonceau’s surrounding park. Honneure walked out onto the lane and looked north down the long gravel drive. She could have sworn she heard hoofbeats. She squinted. There was movement … There was!

“Philippe?” she called. “Philippe!”