By Honor Bound (22 page)

Chapter Twenty-Two

May 1772

High, white clouds scudded across a blue sky. The sun seemed unusually bright, and Honneure was grateful for the brisk spring breeze. She had adopted the dress of the country, and the material of her simple skirt and blouse was thick and coarse. Though it was still early and cool, her skin was already slick with sweat. She heaved the last of the manure onto the growing pile, stepped back, and scrubbed the back of her hand across her forehead.

Farmers would be coming soon for their share of this odiferous bounty. They would spread it on their truck gardens and, in return, Armand would be given a share of the eventual harvest. In the meantime, Armand bought what produce they needed in Honfleur. She never accompanied him. She wasn’t allowed.

She didn’t mind. She minded little these days.

Honneure carried the pitchfork into the barn and set it against the wall. The cows had been turned out to graze, and the barn’s only remaining occupant, the old gray gelding, whinnied softly to her. She opened the door to his stall and stroked his ragged, patchy coat.

“You’re losing your winter fur, aren’t you? I’ll bet it itches.”

As if in response, the horse rubbed his face against Honneure’s side. She laughed. “I hear you. I’ll get the brush.”

Handfuls of long hair fell away as Honneure vigorously curried the aging animal. When she was finished, he bent his thick neck and looked at her with large, baleful brown eyes. She put down the brush, held out her hand. He shoved his muzzle into her palm. With her free hand she stroked his long face.

“You’re a good boy,” Honneure murmured. “Such a good old boy. You’re going to miss me when I’m gone. I’m going to miss you, too.”

Moisture rose to her eyes. It had been months since she had cried. She had cried all the tears left in her when Philippe had ridden away. All that was left in her was cold, hard determination. First to survive. Second to reunite with Philippe. And her plan was in motion. With luck, she would soon be gone. But she would miss the animals and worry about them. She doubted they had ever known a moment’s kindness until she came.

With regret, Honneure left the stall and pulled the door closed behind her. At the barn door she picked up one of the covered pails of milk and set off across the yard. She would have to hurry now on her next errand.

Spring rains and wagon traffic had left the road deeply rutted. Honneure walked along the side, pausing often to shift the milk pail from one hand to the other. She had to admit she was getting tired more easily now. She looked around for the boy, who usually joined her on her walks to the Widow Maurier’s farm and helped her carry the milk. But she didn’t see him yet. She prayed he had not endured another beating. Or something worse. Honneure sighed, changed hands again, and walked on.

She would miss the boy, too. He had grown very dear to her. She let her memory meander back to the first time she had seen him again after Philippe’s traumatic departure.

Several days had passed, and the weather had finally seemed to make up its mind. The wind had died away, the gray clouds silently massed anew, and the temperature had risen subtly. Snow had begun to fall, lightly at first, dusting the fence, the roof of the house as well as the roof of the barn. Later, however, it had come in earnest. When Honneure had made the coffee and left the house to perform her morning chores, she could barely see past the front path. She could not, in fact, see the front path at all. The snow, when she had stepped in it, had come up over her ankles.

It had been difficult to open the barn door. She had tugged and tugged, gaining inches at a time, ripping off a fingernail. Suddenly he had been there, his little hands under hers, pulling with all his might. The door opened wide enough for them to slip inside, but he had looked over his shoulder first, toward the house.

Once inside, Honneure had knelt and put her hands on the boy’s thin shoulders. She had smoothed a wisp of dirty brown hair back from his pale brow. She was aware of how painfully thin he was.

“Thank you for helping me. Thank you for teaching me to milk the cows. I think we’re going to be friends, don’t you?”

The boy had nodded solemnly.

“Then will you tell me something? I only want to help you, as you’ve helped me. Will you tell me if you’re afraid of something? Are you afraid of Monsieur Tremblay?”

The boy had shrugged. His eyes would not meet hers.

“Has he ever hurt you? Hit you?”

The boy had shaken his head, but Honneure knew Armand.

“Has he ever yelled at you? Threatened to tell your parents you’re lazy if you didn’t move fast enough for him?”

The look of fear in his eyes had been enough. She hadn’t needed to feel the hunching of his pitiful shoulders.

“Does Monsieur Tremblay say that to you because he knows you’re afraid of your parents? Because he knows
they’ll
punish you?”

The boy had tried to twist away from her, but Honneure had held him tightly. She had seen mistreated animals before. She knew how to soothe them, heal them. First, however, she had to be sure.

The boy had winced when Honneure had gently run her hand down his back. She could count his vertebrae. She could feel the welts.

Sorrow had flooded her veins, and her heart had swelled with the added burden. Honneure had released her grip on the boy’s shoulders and folded him into her arms. He had remained stiff, rigid, his hands braced against her chest, trying to push her away. She had held on, murmured in his ear, and gently rocked back and forth. She could feel the tension, the resistance, drain from him. When he had relaxed entirely, she had picked him up in her arms and held him cradled like an infant.

Slowly, ever so slowly, one scrawny arm had crept around her neck. He had turned his face into her breast.

“You’re safe here,” she had whispered. “You will always be safe here with me.”

The minutes had ticked away. Honneure had been afraid her arms would no longer be able to hold the child. He had looked up at her and signaled for her to put him down, and she had obliged. He had quirked a finger for her to bend down to him.

They were eye to eye. The boy had taken her face in his small, dirty hands and kissed her softly, innocently, on the mouth. He had touched his hand to his heart and then to hers.

Seconds later he had fled, disappearing as swiftly and silently as he had appeared. She hadn’t seen him again until days later when she had struggled along the snowy road with her milk pail. He wasn’t there one minute; the next he was. He had taken the pail from her and carried it until they had reached the gate to the widow’s small farm. He handed the bucket back to her and was gone.

So had their relationship progressed. Over time they had learned to communicate quite effectively with one another. Honneure had learned the boy’s name was Henri. He had managed to convey to her that he would do anything to help her, as she had helped him. The temptation had proved too great.

Honneure paused at the side of the road and put the bucket down. She rubbed her hands together and looked around again.

Long rows of apple trees on either side were greening, buds swelling on the branches. A cottontail rabbit hopped into view just ahead and nibbled at the roadside grass. But there was no sign of Henri.

A twinge of anxiety triggered a surge of nausea. Honneure clapped a hand over her mouth, but the feeling passed.

Where was he? The favor he had been doing her was a dangerous one. Had he been caught? Honneure’s hand slipped into her pocket.

The precious letter was there. Her fingers traced the edges of it. She carried it everywhere, afraid to leave it behind at the house. If Armand found it, he would know she had someone meeting the mail rider for her, since she was never able to go to Honfleur herself. Conversely, if she had someone to bring her letters, that person might also be taking them away. And Armand must not find out that she was able to communicate, secretly, with the outside world. He must not know, until it was too late, that she had been able to confide in and ask for aid from the one person who could actually help her, save her, return her to her love.

A jay scolded, drawing Honneure’s attention back to the moment. It was growing late, but she had almost reached Widow Maurier’s farm, and she was not feeling her best at the present. She would wait a little while longer and hope that Henri arrived.

To pass the time, Honneure drew the much-read letter from her pocket. Finding a stump at the side of the road, she sat and smoothed away the creases in the paper over her bent knees. She read:

Dearest Honneure,

How delighted we all were to receive your letter and know you are well. I was so distressed to learn from the dauphine of your plight and was dubious about its solution, as were your parents when I related it to them. There had been such high hopes for a union between you and Philippe. But perhaps this is best after all. Philippe will retain his very excellent position, you are safe from the king’s notorious appetites, and you have actually taken a step up! The princess has assured us that your husband is of some reputation in Normandy and is quite prosperous as well. Your parents and I are happy for you, especially now that you have reassured us of your health and well-being.

Honneure sighed deeply and looked up briefly at the passing clouds. She had hated to deceive her parents and Madame Dupin. She had wanted to pour her heart out to them, tell them the truth, the real circumstances. She had wanted them to know about the deception and tragic misunderstanding that had led to the marriage they all regarded so highly now, a marriage that was simply a continuation of the nightmare.

But just as the dauphine had exercised caution and restraint in relating details to Madame Dupin, so had Honneure. The first missive had to be bland and innocuous in case Armand intercepted it. She didn’t want him to think anything other than she had accepted her fate. With a sigh, she returned to her letter.

I myself have good news, dear Honneure. Earlier in the year, about the same time you left for Normandy, the princess made peace (on the surface at least) with the du Barry. One of the results was that I was able to return to Court. I am happy to report that the princess and I resumed our friendship as if nothing had intervened. It was especially fortunate as only recently there was another unpleasant incident, and I was exceedingly glad to be here to comfort the dauphine.

I will not bore you with political details, but of late there has been a strain on French and Austrian relations. As a result there was a witty but cruel dispatch floating around that vilified the dauphine’s mother, the empress. The du Barry got her hands on it and read it aloud at one of her soirees. To add insult to injury, she insinuated to the king that Maria Theresa’s letters to her daughter (which the dear child keeps hidden or burns) contained anti-French advice. Nothing could be further from the truth, but the king listened to her. Following up on her victory, the du Barry let it be known that she would call at the dauphine’s apartments.

I’m sure I need not tell you how our princess felt about this turn of events! She behaved royally, however, as you would expect. She acquiesced and received the du Barry. She even spoke to her. But the horrid woman was displeased with the dauphine’s tone and expression, apparently. She has said it amounted to a snub! Since then, she has stepped up her verbal attacks on our dear princess, and the Court is being divided most painfully and embarrassingly. We shall see what happens!

Certainly I will keep you informed, dear Honneure. I know how devoted to the dauphine you were, and remain.

Your parents are in the process of composing a letter to you but ask me to send their best in the interim.

All love to you, dearest child.

Madame Dupin’s familiar signature scrawled across the bottom of the page. Honneure folded the letter and returned it to her pocket.

Life remained the same at Versailles. Madame du Barry continued her wicked ways. A surge of anger helped Honneure rise and pick up the pail again.

Would this go on unchecked forever? Would that evil woman be able to go on wrecking lives and getting away with it?

Honneure had to force herself to remain calm. Blood rushing to her head had caused her a moment’s dizziness, and she could afford to rest no longer. She was late. Armand would be waiting for her with his bad temper and needling questions.

There was still no sign of Henri, and Honneure was worried sick about him. He almost never missed an opportunity to walk with her and help her carry the pail. But she was probably just overanxious. The waiting was beginning to tell.

There was no help for it. She had to hurry. Gripping her pail, Honneure hastened up the lane to Widow Maurier’s farm.

The house was built on a gently sloping hillside and was timbered like Armand’s but much smaller. A wooden shed that listed slightly to the right stood behind the house. Chickens went in and out through the open door. Next to the shed was a long row of rabbit hutches, partially filled. There was a patch of vegetable garden, and flowers bordered the path to the front door. A low, stone fence surrounded the whole. Widow Maurier’s place was petite, tidy, and entirely welcoming. Honneure always looked forward to the days they needed eggs.