By Honor Bound (24 page)

“‘Despite the fact of several witnesses,’ this Madame Campan goes on, ‘Madame du Barry insisted Philippe pushed Olivia on purpose, as revenge for their little trick. She was not a witness herself, of course, but we all know her ability to sway the king to her causes. Standing now officially accused of murder, Philippe was forced to flee Versailles. We do not know where he has gone.’

“My, my, what a shame.” Armand folded the letter. “You can read all the sentimental drivel that follows for yourself, if you’re so inclined. I’ll just paraphrase for you the part that concerns me the most.”

Honneure would never know how she found the strength to remain standing. She could no longer feel her hands or feet. The room was tilting oddly.

“Madame Campan advises you, especially since you are
with child
, to remain here, with me. She urges you not to reveal that Philippe is the father of your child.” Armand chuckled mirthlessly. “I suppose so I will assume the child is mine and continue to harbor and protect you, call you my
wife.
Give you … and your
bastard
… my name.”

At the bottom of the abyss, Honneure saw a tiny light. Its flicker enabled her to keep breathing, to find her voice out of the darkness.

“No … no … I’m not worthy … I’ll go … I’ll …”

“No, you’re not worthy,” Armand snapped. “But you won’t be going anywhere. Not only have you nowhere to go; I’ll have you hunted down and brought back if you leave.”

His words were totally incomprehensible. Honneure simply stared. She did not realize she had started to sway.

Armand grinned. “Just think how impressed my friends will be to discover that I have impregnated my young and beautiful wife.” He chuckled again. “Will it be a son? I wonder. A son to follow in my footsteps?”

The chuckle amplified into cackling laughter. It was the last thing Honneure heard. The darkness that had been trying to close in on her succeeded at last. Gratefully, she embraced it and sank to the ground.

Chapter Twenty-Four

October 1772

The first sound Honneure heard when she awoke was that of branches rattling against the window. Wind whistled through the eaves. She opened her eyes.

Dawn had barely broken, but the red and golden leaves were so brightly colored she could see them distinctly as they blew past. The yard would be a mess. Honneure let her eyes drift closed again.

The room was cool but not cold. The moaning of the wind just made it seem colder, she supposed. Still, a hearth fire would be welcome this morning. Honneure wondered if Armand would stir the embers and lay new wood. Sometimes when she was late abed, he actually lifted a finger or two.

The tapping on the glass was insistent. It was, perhaps, what finally awakened the child. Honneure felt only a flutter at first. She laid her hands on the enormous mound her belly had become.

There … there it was … that sharp little elbow. Honneure felt it move, poking at her palm. Back and forth. The babe was restless today. A rare smile touched Honneure’s pale lips. She could get up now. The child was her only reason for living, for rising each day.

Honneure maneuvered her legs over the edge of the bed and managed to sit upright. She got to her feet and took her time dressing in the shapeless garment Madame Maurier had made for her. She tied a clean apron below her swollen breasts, wound her long hair into a knot, and pinned it at the nape of her neck. She splashed water on her face and gasped at the chill of it. She was ready for her day.

The fire had been started, and Armand gave her an icy glare when she lumbered into the room. Honneure glared right back, and he eventually dropped his gaze. She set about making coffee.

Every move she made was slow and deliberate. Her chores, the activities of her simple life, carried her forward, minute by minute, through each day, from one sunset to the next. She tried not to think, merely act. She tried not to hate Armand, simply tolerate him. She made meals, tended the house and the animals, and largely ignored her husband. He had learned to speak to her civilly or not at all. Since the day he had read Madame Campan’s letter, she had made it clear she would not suffer his verbal cruelties.

When breakfast was done, Honneure trudged to the barn. The wind whipped her skirt and tugged wisps of hair from her chignon. Dry leaves blew against her legs. She squeezed through the opening Henri had left for her in the barn door.

She was so late the dirty straw had already been cleaned away and the boy was milking his second cow. He smiled at her without taking his hands from the teats. The rhythmic sound of milk spurting into a pail was vaguely comforting, and Honneure allowed herself a moment to do nothing but breathe in the familiar smells of the animals, clean straw, and old timber. Then she gathered an armful of hay and fed the gelding.

When three pails sat in a row by the door, the boy came to Honneure, and she bent over to kiss the top of his head. He put both hands on her belly and grinned when he felt movement.

“It won’t be long now, Henri.”

The boy shook his head, still grinning.

Honneure sighed. “Thank you for your help this morning, as usual. I don’t know what I would have done without you these past months.”

The boy shook his head, pointed to himself and then Honneure.

“You thank
me
?” When Henri nodded, Honneure tousled his hair, still streaked with blond from the summer. “You’re a sweet boy, and I love you very much. You know that, don’t you?”

In response Henri winked, and Honneure laughed. He was the only one who could make her laugh these days. In an otherwise bleak world, she cherished her relationship with him. And with Anne Marie Maurier.

“Run home now. Tell Widow Maurier I’ll be by later for a visit. I think the walk will do me good.” Honneure placed her hands on the small of her back and arched her spine. “My back is bothering me a bit today.”

A look of concern immediately crossed the boy’s fine features.

“Oh, I’m all right. I promise. Go on now. I’ll see you later. Maybe I’ll bake some of those pastries you love and bring them.”

Henri looked hesitant but eventually left. Honneure watched him slip through the barn door and heard the light patter of his feet as he scampered away. He ran for the joy of it now, not because he was afraid of being seen. Since Armand didn’t have to pay the child, he couldn’t object to his presence or to the help he lent.

He was such a good boy, Honneure mused, and he had come so far in six months. He had never left Madame Maurier’s since the day he had broken his arm. Their arrangement was entirely suitable to both of them. The widow fed Henri, clothed and housed him, and lavished all her love on him. He adored her in return, took care of all her outdoor chores, and helped with most of the indoor duties. No one ever came seeking him, and on the widow’s infrequent trips to Honfleur, she had not even heard that his mother might be looking for him. It was just as well.

Honneure arched her back again and took a deep breath. The pain seemed to be getting worse. She had better keep moving.

It was a pleasant walk to the hillside pasture, where she turned the cows loose to graze throughout the day. She used to have to lead them, but now they followed her willingly. She patted each smooth, brown flank as the animals filed past her, heads bent already to the grass.

The wind had died down a little, and the sun was warm on her shoulders. Hands supporting her back, Honneure walked slowly down the hill. She paused on the road.

It was as far back to the farm as to Anne Marie’s from here. And not only did her back hurt, but it suddenly felt as if she had a cramp, the kind she used to get just before her time of the month. It was undoubtedly normal, but she would rather check with Anne Marie. Henri would have to have his treat on another day. Honneure started to walk west.

Though most of her days seemed gray, she had to admit the forest was beautiful at this time of the year. The foliage was brilliant, and most of the trees still fully leafed. Red, gold, and orange stretched away up the hillside to her left. To her right, fat, red apples crowded the branches of trees marching away in orderly rows. Soon Armand’s army of pickers would arrive, and the harvest would begin.

Though it was cool in the shade of the trees, Honneure felt unusually warm. Up ahead on the right was a familiar stump. It had become her place of choice to stop and read her letters from home. With great care, Honneure awkwardly lowered herself onto her seat.

It was bliss to lessen the strain on her aching back and close her eyes for a moment. Honneure recalled her last letter.

It had been from her parents, and all was well. The weather was mild, and the gardens were still in bloom. Honneure let her mind drift to Chenonceau until she was sitting on the grassy banks of the Cher, watching the green water roll lazily by. The drooping branches of a weeping willow stirred gently in the breeze.

Honneure’s heart suddenly ached with homesickness, and she jerked her thoughts back to the present. It did no good to dwell on the Loire Valley, her parents, or what might have been. Armand would not let her return to either Versailles or Chenonceau. Philippe was lost to her, to all of them, perhaps forever. Her life was in Normandy. Her life was the child within her.

It was time to go. She couldn’t waste any more time. She would have a brief visit with Anne Marie and then return to the farm and begin her afternoon chores.

But Honneure suddenly found she could not move. The cramp that had been low in her abdomen spread up and outward. Like the stalks of a creeping vine, its tentacles spread across her belly and tightened. Sweat beaded her brow as the pain streaked through her body.

“Oh … no …” The words were hardly more than a groan. Honneure panted until the pain receded.

The baby was coming.

A pair of chattering squirrels chased each other up a tree and frightened a flock of small blackbirds. They fluttered upward into the sky, like ashes rising from a chimney, scattering in the wind and blowing away.

The baby was coming, and she was all alone. Honneure wondered if she would be able to make it to Anne Marie’s.

At least she had to try.

The autumn dusk was magnificent. The wind had died away entirely, and the surrounding trees stood still and stately with the setting sun lighting their colors ablaze. In the distance, the sea roared against the shore. The earth continued to turn toward darkness.

Inside her small house, Madame Maurier signaled for Henri to light the lamps. She took the linen cloth from Honneure’s brow, dipped it in the basin of water, wrung it out, and replaced it. Honneure did not wake, and Anne Marie was grateful. The girl was exhausted and only had a minute or two now between contractions. The widow sat back and awaited the inevitable.

Honneure’s eyelids flew open as the agony gripped her anew.

“Breathe,” Madame Maurier instructed quietly. “Just remember to breathe.”

It seemed to go on forever. And she was tired, so tired. Her eyes closed again even before the last of the pain had faded. They flew open almost at once.

“Squeeze my hand. Go ahead. I won’t break.”

Tears were forced from Honneure’s eyes, a cry from her throat. The widow put her hand on Honneure’s belly and felt the contraction diminish. Only a few seconds later, the grossly swollen belly tightened anew.

“I have to look now, Honneure.” Madame Maurier gently disengaged her hand from Honneure’s. She sat on the end of the bed between the girl’s bent legs and lifted the sheet. She heard Honneure groan at the onset of another contraction.

The baby’s head had not yet crowned. It would not be long, however. Though she had attended only one human birth, she had assisted in the delivery of many animals. Anne Marie recognized that Honneure fast approached the time when she would want to begin to push. As Honneure grimaced in the throes of another contraction, the widow checked her small bundle of supplies: newly sharpened knife, two lengths of twine, and cloth for swaddling. She was as prepared as she would ever be.

“I … I want to … to push now.” Honneure panted.

“Hold on,” the widow directed, one hand on Honneure’s belly. “Wait for the start of the next one … all right …
push
!”

Honneure’s teeth were bared, eyes squeezed shut, face red as she bore down with all her might.

“I see it! Hold on, dear, and wait for the next one … Go!”

A scream tore from Honneure’s throat as the baby’s head appeared.

“Good girl, good girl, Honneure.” Anne Marie supported the infant’s bloody head. “Just one more now … All right … that’s it …”

The widow held her breath. Honneure’s face screwed up. She pushed.

The baby slithered into Madame Maurier’s waiting hands. A wide grin split her deeply lined face.

“It’s a girl, Honneure. You have a daughter. It’s a girl!”

The pain had already faded into memory. Something Honneure thought she would never feel again bubbled up from deep inside her. Unbidden, laughter blossomed from her throat.

“A girl? It’s a girl!”

“A beautiful babe.” Anne Marie deftly cut the cord and swaddled the infant. “A beautiful, beautiful girl just like her mother. Here … here she is.”

Honneure reached for the child. Her hands felt the tiny, fragile form. She tucked her in the crook of her arm against her breast. She looked into the blue, blue eyes.

Love, huge and awesome, swelled in Honneure’s breast. “My baby,” she whispered. She held the tiny hand. Tears of joy streaked her cheeks. “My baby … Philippa …”