By Honor Bound (8 page)

But it was Claud who suddenly appeared when she closed her eyes. Claud, his face engorged with rage. Claud, who would make her life miserable at every opportunity.

No! Honneure curled into a tighter ball. She mustn’t think of him. She mustn’t. He was an unpleasant fact of life. That was all. She would ignore him and live her life as she was meant to, caring for her family and serving Madame Dupin. Exhausted, warmed by the bread and wine, she fell into a deep sleep.

Honneure wasn’t sure what had awakened her. The fire in the stove had died, and it was cold in the room. The candle had guttered. She sat up slowly, realizing it must be after midnight. She would have to get up, find a new candle, relight the stove, and undress.

She swung her legs over the bed, feeling for her shoes in the darkness.

A hand went over her mouth.

Panic blossomed in her breast and exploded. She was forced backward onto the bed.

“So you wouldn’t marry me if I was the last man on earth?” Snakelike, the voice hissed into her ear.

Honneure struggled but weakly. Claud’s weight on her frail form was overwhelming. She smelled the stink of his sweat and his sour breath, and nausea rose in her throat.

“Well, the feeling’s mutual …” A foul and slimy tongue licked the side of her neck. “ … but I
will
have what I want.”

Honneure felt Claud’s pelvis thrust against her. Something hard and obscenely repugnant between his legs drove at her groin. Panic turned to terror. His grip on her mouth was so strong she could not turn her head, and it was becoming difficult to breathe.

Claud’s free hand fumbled at her breast, kneading it beneath her woolen dress. Frustrated, he grabbed her collar and ripped away her bodice. His thick lips fastened on her at once.

Honneure could feel herself begin to float away. She wasn’t getting enough air.

Abandoning her breast Claud groped at her skirt. He worked it upward until it bunched around her waist, then tore at her underlinens.

She was completely exposed. Now she could feel him fumbling at his trousers.

But it hardly mattered. She was going away, going away where Claud did not exist, nothing existed …The scream could not possibly have been hers. She hadn’t even the breath to give it voice.

Yet, it went on … And she could breathe. Great gulps of air filled her lungs. Her body felt weightless. Claud was gone!

The screaming stopped. She struggled to sit up, but arms were suddenly around her, familiar, loving arms.

“Honneure … my baby … Oh, I’m so sorry!”

Honneure hugged her foster mother back and tried to look over her shoulder at the commotion in her doorway.

“No, no, don’t look.” Jeanne forcibly turned Honneure’s head away. She did not want her to see the punishment Claud was about to receive. “It’s over now. You’re safe … You’re safe, baby.”

All the fear, the terror, left her in a great, sweeping rush. She was empty, drained. Her arms dropped to her sides. Laying her head on Jeanne’s breast, Honneure wept.

Chapter Seven

Early Spring 1771

Philippe unfolded the note the stableboy had just handed him and quickly scanned the lines. He sighed.

“All right,” he said to the lad. “Tell her I’ll be there.”

The boy ran off, and Philippe returned his attention to the harness he had been polishing. It was already clean and supple, but he had little to do in the afternoons when he had finished exercising the Lipizzans. For nearly a thousand horses, there were almost as many attendants, including equerries, page boys, footmen, coachmen, stable lads, blacksmiths, cartwrights, saddlers, doctors, surgeons, chaplains, and musicians. The royal steeds lived almost as well as the royal family, Philippe mused. And while his workload was a great deal lighter than it had been at Chenonceau, it left him with time on his hands. He had never liked being idle.

If Honneure came, however, he could spend much of his free time with her. The prospect cheered him. It seemed he missed her more each day and prayed she would accept the princess’s offer. He knew how fiercely loyal she was and how stubborn. An opportunity that anyone else would jump at in a heartbeat would cause Honneure hours, if not days, of intense deliberation.

But he should learn something soon. It had been nearly three weeks since the messenger had taken the letters to Chenonceau.

In the meantime, there was Olivia.

Holding the shining harness clear of the floor, Philippe stood. The stableboy who had been assigned to assist him with the Lipizzans was at his side in an instant. Philippe handed him the leather trappings and mentally calculated the time.

She had said to meet him in an hour. Half of that time had already passed, and almost all the rest would be consumed in reaching the rendezvous point she had designated. Philippe ran a hand through his tussled curls and strode from the stable.

Not only did a thousand people work in the stables, but nearly nine thousand worked in the palace. Nearly twenty-five hundred were housed in the surrounding town, but the rest resided at the palace. The
Grand Commun
boasted a thousand rooms that held fifteen hundred people, and the balance, five thousand, lived within the château itself. As a result the grounds teemed with humanity.

Philippe was immediately lost among the many who hurried on their errands. No one regarded his passing or cared about his destination. It had been a difficult thing to comprehend at first, so different from Chenonceau. Once he had attended to his duties, he had almost complete freedom. In the beginning he had wondered what to do with himself. Then he had realized there were at least as many, if not more, intrigues among the palace servants as in the royal Court. Philippe chuckled to himself.

He had learned a great deal since coming to Versailles. He had long known about the king’s favorite, of course, Madame du Barry. But he had been shocked to learn of the king’s own private brothel. How many women did one man need? He shook his head.

Madame Dupin’s stories had prepared him for a measure of debauchery, but the reality of the Court’s excesses had stunned him. He knew he must have appeared wide-eyed at first. The morals of the Court were as loose as the lifestyle and surroundings were lavish. After a while it no longer surprised him that those who served the Court were morally lax as well. It had proved a temptation he could not hold out against forever.

Because there were so many people entering and leaving the château, no one noticed Philippe in particular. From the Royal Court he climbed the steps to the Marble Court and entered the palace. Cutting through the central block of the château saved him the twenty minutes it would take to walk around the massive wings. He bent his head and quickened his steps, as if bent on some important errand, and exited through the grand, gilded doors to the palace gardens.

To see the vista suddenly stretching away before him was a humbling experience. Philippe had always had a solid opinion of himself, but he felt small and insignificant when gazing down the long view. One vast terrace led to another, each decorated with pools, fountains, and elaborate gardens, all leading to the Grand Canal, its ribbon of blue disappearing into the distance. Dense woodland and hunting parks surrounded all, concealing secret gardens and grottoes. Pulse quickening, Philippe hurried to his rendezvous at the Apollo Fountain.

He didn’t see her at first. The beautiful spring day had attracted many to the freshly greening gardens. Then he caught the glint of sunlight on blue-black hair, unmistakable among the powdered wigs and elaborate styles. His blood seemed to heat as it rushed through his veins. He moved in her direction.

Olivia felt him before she saw him. Virility emanated from him like warmth and light from a fire, and she was irresistibly drawn. When she looked up and caught his eye, his fire bloomed within her.

She was on the opposite side of the pool, with the golden Apollo, his chariot and fiery steeds rising from the still waters between them. But Philippe saw only her hourglass figure and lush, pouting mouth. Her dark, slightly uptilted eyes gazed in the direction of a woodland path. She moved toward it slowly, and Philippe followed.

It had been warm beneath the direct sun, but in the shade of the new-leafed trees Olivia shivered. Resisting the urge to look behind her, she walked farther into the woods. She only stopped when she felt his hand on her shoulder.

“Are you trying to run away?” Philippe laughed softly in Olivia’s ear. “I thought you wanted to see me.”

Though her heart pounded, she managed to keep her face turned coyly away. “Do you not wish to see
me
?”

“I
wish
to do more than see you.” After a brief glance assured him no one else was near, Philippe pressed his lips to a spot just below Olivia’s left ear. The musky scent of her flesh stirred him, and he pressed more closely against her.

Reluctantly Olivia moved away, gaze still averted. “I have no time today,” she said sulkily. “Antoinette requires me to move from the palace into the
Grand Commun.
”

“The commune!” Philippe was taken aback. “But why? You’ve been with her since she first came to France.”

Olivia risked a glance in Philippe’s direction. “Yes, I’ve been loyal to her, have I not? I have taken care of her most intimate needs. Yet now I am being displaced.”

“Olivia, I … I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t you?” Olivia pursed her full lips and looked up at him from under lowered lids. “Did you not press your foster sister’s case to the princess?”

“Well, yes,” Philippe admitted, totally confused. “And the dauphine was kind enough to write to my former mistress, Madame Dupin, to ask Honneure to join the royal entourage.”

“To care for her dogs, no?”

“No. I mean yes …
Yes.
But what …” Philippe paused, realization dawning. “Is she coming? Has the princess had word?”

Olivia’s eyes narrowed. “Would it bring you joy?” she asked in a curiously flat tone. “Have you missed your sister so much?”

Delighted by the prospect of Honneure’s arrival, Philippe did not heed Olivia’s subtle warning signals. Grinning broadly, he grasped her shoulders and pulled her around to face him.

“You have heard something, haven’t you? When is she coming? Tell me.”

Something dark brewed in Olivia’s breast. She looked deeply into Philippe’s eyes. “She arrives tomorrow with Madame Dupin,” she replied curtly. “She will take over my small chamber. Where
I
used to sleep with the spoiled mongrels.”

The venom in Olivia’s tone finally pierced the glowing aura of Philippe’s happiness. The smile slipped from his mouth. “I … I’m sorry, Olivia. I never meant for this to happen.”

“No. You only wanted Honneure. Now you will have her. And what will become of me?”

“Olivia …” Philippe let his arms fall from her shoulders and grasped her hands. Enfolding them tightly, he pressed them to his breast and drew her toward him. “Honneure is my
sister
.”

“Your foster sister,” Olivia corrected.

“With whom I was raised. And whom I love as if she were a sibling of blood to me.”

“Are you sure?” Olivia leaned forward, her ample bosom now pressed to Philippe’s chest, imprisoning their hands. “This love is pure and innocent?”

Her nearness was intoxicating. “I’m sure, Olivia,” Philippe managed to whisper. “Just as sure as I am of my feelings for you.”

He longed to kiss her, she knew. But she raised her chin only a little, face slightly turned.

“Do you care enough to help me move my things to the
Grand Commun?
”

Philippe was able only to nod.

Olivia smiled. “It might be better, you know, in the commune. My chamber is small and spare, but I share it with no one. And with so many people coming and going, who will notice you?”

Her words inflamed him. Honneure temporarily forgotten, Philippe freed a hand and raised Olivia’s chin with the tip of one finger. She did not resist. As her eyes closed, he lowered his lips to hers.

Chenonceau’s gallery stretched from the main body of the château across the Cher to the opposite bank. Built by Catherine de Medici upon a bridge that had spanned the river, it was Honneure’s favorite spot. With eighteen arched windows reaching from floor to ceiling, the room was almost always filled with light, even through the gray days of winter. Italian cypress trees flourished in niches between the windows, and two great fireplaces at either end of the gallery warmed the air on the coldest days.

The air was frigid no longer, however. The spring thaw had finally arrived. All the snow had melted, grass was greening, and bulbs had pushed their blossoms up from the cool, dark earth. River ice had broken up and flowed away, and the Cher ran unimpeded between the château’s arched piers. Honneure stared at the water and thought it seemed very much like her life … simply flowing away, unable to stop, unaware of a destination, just moving, constantly moving on a predetermined course whose end she could not see.

Honneure sighed and recalled yet again the summer night she had sat with Philippe on the riverbank. Foolishly, she had forced him to promise their lives would not change. It was a promise he could not give, and even at the time she had known it deep in her heart. But she had wanted so badly to hang on to her hard-won happiness. Had she tempted fate with her fears of the future? Had she herself brought about the end of an idyllic childhood?

“Everything must have an end,” a familiar voice said softly, as if the speaker had heard her very thoughts.

Fighting tears, Honneure did not turn.

“This day will end,” Madame Dupin continued. “There will be a period of darkness. But another day
will
begin.”

“But will the new day …” Honneure had to pause and swallow her tears. “Will the new day be as bright as the ones that have gone before? It is not always so.”

“Each day will be what you make of it.”

“But
you
made my life what it is!” Choking on a sob, Honneure whirled to face her mistress. “You and Mother and Father and Philippe. Even this place, Chenonceau. This is my
home,
my
happiness.
If I leave, how will I ever find it again?”

“It?” Madame Dupin’s brow furrowed in a stern expression. “If by ‘it’ you mean Chenonceau, the château is well known and easy to find. But if by ‘it’ you mean your happiness, then you are surely lost. For the power to find happiness lies within you. If you cannot grasp it, it is no one’s fault but your own. And if you find it, it is because of your own personal search.”

Too caught up in her fears, Honneure stared at the marble-tiled floor and slowly shook her head. “No,” she whispered. “There is no happiness outside of Chenonceau.”

“You were not happy at Amboise?” Madame Dupin inquired sharply. “The years you spent with your mother were spent in darkness?”

“Oh, no. I didn’t mean that. I was very happy with my mother at Amboise.”

“And when you left Amboise, did you know how happy you would be with us here? Were you eager to make the journey to your new home?”

“No, no, I … I was scared to death. I …”

Madame Dupin smiled slowly as she watched the light return to Honneure’s eyes as realization dawned. She watched her expression soften, then tighten again with chagrin.

“I … I’m so sorry. I—”

“Don’t say another word,” Madame Dupin said quietly and touched her fingers to Honneure’s lips. “It is
I
who am sorry. I should have seen what was happening before my very eyes. I should have been more sensitive to Claud’s true character.”

“Oh, Madame Dupin, please don’t blame yourself.”

“I do not. I have regrets, yes, but even those are a waste of time. I do not blame myself, however. Only Claud may have blame. Yet I must still ask your forgiveness and understanding for not banishing Claud immediately from Chenonceau.”

Honneure folded her hands and dropped her gaze. “I … I understand your reasons.”

“He has far too tight a grip on my affairs,” Madame Dupin went on as if Honneure had not spoken. “
That
much is my fault. It will take time to extricate myself from his grasp, and for my own safety, I cannot let him know in advance that his days are numbered.”