By Honor Bound (26 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

June 1779

Of the seven summers she had spent in Normandy, this was definitely the most beautiful. Spring had come early and swiftly. Trees had leafed and flowers bloomed. Migrating birds had returned, and the mild temperatures had held. There had been some windy days and some drizzly days but no fierce spring storms. The days simply grew longer and brighter and warmer.

Even the grass seemed thicker and greener, Honneure noted, as the wagon bounced along the rutted road to the widow’s farm. The apple trees were certainly well on their way. If the weather continued to hold, it would be a banner harvest this year.

“Look, Mommy. There’s the reading room.”

Honneure followed the direction of her daughter’s pointing finger and saw the weathered stump by the side of the road. She chuckled dutifully at the little joke Philippa had made up so long ago now, it seemed. How many letters had they shared sitting there side by side? A twinge of melancholy tugged at Honneure.

Though she had never seen her grandparents, sitting on that old stump Philippa had come to know them through their letters. She could describe almost every inch of Chenonceau. She even knew the names of the carriage horses Madame Dupin still kept in the barn. But would she ever see the château? Would she ever get to know Paul and Jeanne and experience the love that had helped make Honneure who she was? The love that had bolstered her through years of hardship and overwhelming emotional burdens?

There was now, at least, a glimmer of hope in her soul.

Coozie knew the way. Without the slightest touch of the reins, he made the left turn into the widow’s drive. He lowered his head as he strained a little harder on the incline. Once inside the gate, he halted.

Anne Marie stood at the front door, smiling and wiping her hands on her apron. Henri pushed past her and trotted to the wagon. Grinning, he held out his arms to Philippa.

Normally the little girl would have leapt, laughing, into the boy’s arms. Today she merely sat there until he had lifted her gently to the ground. Honneure had to take a moment to compose herself. This was going to be harder than she had thought.

“Come, Philippa,” the widow called cheerily. “I’ve baked your favorite pie for lunch. Are you hungry?”

The little girl gave an almost imperceptible shrug. She clung tightly to Henri’s hand. Anne Marie and Honneure exchanged quick glances over Philippa’s head. Honneure climbed down from the wagon.

The house was filled with delicious aromas. “Anne Marie Maurier, you baked more than just a pie, didn’t you?” Honneure stared at the array of foods lined up on the table. “You must have been cooking for days!”

Henri nodded energetically. Philippa’s eyes were wide, and her solemn expression appeared to have lightened a little.

“Well, I did want today to be … special.” Anne Marie had to struggle to keep her smile from faltering. “And I wanted to be sure we had enough so you’d have plenty to … to take with you.”

Once again the women glanced at one another over Philippa’s head.

“How thoughtful of you, dear friend.” Honneure forced a bright smile. “By the looks of it, we’d be well fed even if we spent a week on the road.”

Henri waved his hand to capture their attention and then shook his head and pointed to his stomach.

“Not with you along, is that what you’re saying, Henri?” Honneure said. They all laughed when he nodded. “Well, just make sure you have enough for the return trip.”

Henri’s grin slowly faded. He made a sweeping gesture with his hand and then pointed to his lips and the smile that briefly flickered there.

“Going, you will be happy,” Honneure said.

Henri nodded. He made a motion opposite to the first, touched his heart, put a finger to his eye, and let it trail down his cheek.

“But coming back,” Honneure murmured, “you’ll be sad.”

Henri nodded slowly. Philippa looked from her mother to Anne Marie. She walked to Henri and took his hand again.

“I don’t want to go,” she announced soberly. “If Henri’s going to be sad, why do we have to leave? I’m going to be sad, too.”

Honneure bit her lip to hide its sudden trembling. “Philippa,” she began, but her voice broke.

“Philippa, dear,” Anne Marie said smoothly, “come over here and sit on my lap.”

The child did as she was bid. Anne Marie put her arms around her as Philippa laid her head against the widow’s narrow breast.

“Do you remember the story your mommy told you, the one about going away?”

The little girl nodded reluctantly.

“Can you tell the story to me?”

Philippa was still for a long moment, her gray eyes wide and unblinking. Absently, she tugged at the long, thick black curls falling over her shoulder. “Mommy was just a little older than me. She had to leave the house where she had lived all her life.” Philippa’s eyes darted in her mother’s direction. “She was very frightened and very sad.”

“What else?”

“She was so sad she didn’t think she would ever be happy again.” Philippa’s voice was so small it was barely audible. “She went away to a new home in a wagon with a big, friendly horse.”

“And where are you going tomorrow?”

“To a new home.”

“How are you going to get there?”

“In a wagon.” Philippa squirmed. The smile was trying to emerge.

“In a wagon pulled by what?”

“By a big, friendly horse.” It was apparent now she was suppressing the grin.

“And what happened to your mommy when she got where she was going?”

“She was very, very happy.” Philippa’s small, perfect teeth were revealed at last.

“And what’s going to happen to you when you get where you’re going?”

Philippa laughed and slipped off the widow’s lap. She ran to her mother, threw her arms around Honneure’s legs, looked up at her, and grinned.

“I’m going to curtsy to the king and queen and thank them very much.”

Honneure smoothed the dark curls, so achingly familiar, from her daughter’s face.

“And what are you going to thank the king and queen for?” Anne Marie pressed.

“For giving us a home,” the little girl replied, thoroughly caught up in the game.

“What kind of a home?”

“A
happy
home.”

“Yes!” The widow clapped her hands and rose.

Henri joined the clapping, as did Honneure.

“This is the fashion, is it not?” Anne Marie asked. “This … hand clapping … after a performance.”

“Indeed, it is,” Honneure replied. She stooped to look her daughter in the eye. “And it is another reason why you will love the queen as much as I do. Would you like to know why?”

“I certainly would,” the widow chimed in. Henri jabbed a thumb at his chest.

“Well, it used to be that out of respect for the king, one did not clap during royal performances. One evening, however, the queen, though she was the dauphine then, enjoyed the dancing of Mademoiselle Heinel so much that she clapped. And went on clapping. She is so gay and merry, so sweet, she infected all around her. Everyone clapped and went on clapping. And now it is the thing to do after every performance, to show one’s approval, even in the presence of the king.”

Philippa’s eyes were huge. She looked from her mother to Anne Marie and Henri, back to her mother again.

“Mommy?”

“Yes, my darling. What is it?”

“I’m hungry. Can we eat now?”

It was late. Philippa had long been asleep, curled on the pallet she would share with her mother. Henri was in his corner, snoring fitfully. The two women sat close to the hearth, its dying flames their only light.

“It’s going to be hard, you know,” the widow said, quietly continuing their conversation. “Harder than you think.”

“What choice do I have, Anne Marie?”

The widow’s only reply was to lower her chin and look up at Honneure from beneath arched brows.

“You know we can’t stay here,” Honneure replied softly. “Your place simply isn’t big enough, and I have … nothing. I couldn’t even help to build an extra room on this house.”

“With Henri’s help we’d manage somehow.” When Honneure did not reply, the widow did not press the point. She knew what a sore subject it was, and she silently cursed Armand as she had done nearly every day since his death.

Spiteful to the end, the old man had left nothing to Honneure, not a sou, despite the years she had spent caring for him and his farm. He was as mean in death as he had been in life. He had left everything to an aging sister, who being in failing health herself, had promptly sold everything lock, stock, and barrel. Honneure and Philippa had nothing but their clothes. And Coozie, whom they had hidden away from the sales agent, and who would, henceforward, belong to Henri.

Anne Marie felt tears threatening at the corners of her eyes and tried to blink them away. They were a waste of time. Change was the nature of life. And Honneure was, perhaps, doing what was best for her and her child.

“There will certainly be more life for you and Philippa at Court. I myself prefer the quiet country life, but you’re young yet. There is so much opportunity, so much for you and Philippa to look forward to.”

Honneure let her gaze rest briefly on her sleeping child and then turned back to the widow. “You will always be family to us. You know that. But I want Philippa to have the chance to know my foster parents, too. And now that Madame du Barry and her entire faction are long gone, there’s always the chance …”

Honneure left the sentence unfinished. Anne Marie covered her hand with her gnarled fingers.

“Through the years your love for Philippe has never dimmed,” the old woman said in a barely audible voice. “If anything, your devotion to his memory has grown. I cannot but imagine that his love is as strong, as unyielding to time, as yours. If it is God’s will, you will find each other. You will be together again.”

Honneure smiled to hide the trembling of her lip. “I know that if, or when, he is able, he will let our parents know he is safe. Someday he will know about his … his daughter.” She glanced once more at Philippa and then brightened her smile. “And in the meantime, speaking of devotion, there is the queen.”

“Yes, the queen,” Anne Marie repeated, no small amount of awe in her tone. “It amazes me that someone in her position is so … so
normal,
so unassuming.”

“She is one of the kindest people I have ever known.”

“And over the years, hearing your stories and reading those letters, I have come to believe you. Why, it was only a matter of weeks after you wrote her of your predicament that she replied …
personally
… and said she’d find a place at Court for you.”

Honneure flushed with the memory. The queen had been thrilled, in fact, with the idea of Honneure’s return.
Baron has passed on, and two of my little ones
, Antoinette had written.
But I have new little friends and know you will think them quite merry. I am as fond of them as I can be and cannot tell you how happy I am to know that you will be returning to care for my dear little ones. I have not as much time for them anymore and spend what free time I can find with my precious daughter. What fun the children will have together when you bring your own treasured child to Court. Did you know that Artois, Louis’s brother, has two children now? Louis Antoine, who is only a bit younger than your Philippa, and Charles Ferdinand, who is the age of my Marie Therese. Oh, to hear the sounds of their laughter ringing in these dusty old halls… .

“As sad as I am to leave you and Henri,” Honneure said at last, “I cannot deny that I long to serve the Dauph—my queen, again. In many ways I feel almost as if it is my destiny, as if I am bound to her in some way.”

“You will forever be bound by your integrity and honor, my dear,” the widow replied gently. “Your mother aptly named you.”

At that moment Philippa mewed in her sleep, and Honneure was instantly on her feet. “I hate to bring this, our last night, to a close. But I really should lie down with her. Dawn will come all too soon.”

“Too soon, indeed.” The old woman grunted as she pushed to her feet. “And you’ll forgive me if I’ll not be welcoming this one with my usual enthusiasm. Come now, let me cover you. You’ve been a daughter to me, you know.”

Honneure merely nodded, unable to speak. She stretched out on the pallet next to her daughter and closed her eyes while her friend pulled a thin blanket up around her shoulders. In no time at all, the pallet’s covering was damp with her tears.