By Honor Bound (30 page)

The threatening weather had driven almost everyone from the gardens. Thunder rolled on top of itself, and the nearly black sky seemed so low Honneure felt she might reach up and touch it. One of the little dogs was so frightened it would not run with the others but merely cowered against the hem of her wide, gold-trimmed blue skirt. Honneure headed briskly toward the palace.

She was approaching the Water Terrace when her troop of dogs spotted a stray cat. It was unusual because Louis detested cats and there were few to be seen about the palace. It was also annoying, for the first icy raindrops had begun to fall. Picking up her skirts, Honneure ran after her small charges.

About the edge of one of the pools, the animals ran across the brown, brittle winter lawn of the Bosquet of the Ballroom, over a gravel path and onto the Bosquet of the queen. There, the cat, back arched and tail abristle, leapt atop a marble pedestal. Standing with her back against the feet of the Medici Venus, she hissed and spit at her pursuers. Honneure captured the dogs and reattached them to their leashes.

“Bad dogs,” she said halfheartedly and tugged them back toward the palace’s garden entrance. As she hurried past the trees that bordered the Bosquet’s terrace, she saw a small group of people who, oblivious to the weather, were engaged in a heated exchange. Honneure could not help but overhear, and when she realized the topic of the conversation, she slowed her steps.

“The queen’s economies be damned,” a sharp-nosed woman exclaimed. “As if it weren’t all for show anyway!”

“I agree,” said a man who appeared likely to be her husband. “Everything she saved cutting expenses in the royal household, she threw away again on that pretender de Polignac woman.”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about,” blustered a short, round gentleman Honneure recognized as a friend of the queen’s, who had but recently returned from his country estates. “Just what has she thrown away on the Duchesse de Polignac?”

“A million and two hundred thousand livres,” the woman nearly crowed. “Four hundred thousand simply to get her out of debts incurred
entertaining
the queen.”

“Justifiable,” the portly man retorted. “Since the queen sponsored her at Court, it is her duty to
fête
her in the royal manner.”

“And what about the queen’s duties?” the woman inquired sharply. “Is it her
duty
to supply the duchess’s daughter with an eight-hundred-thousand-livre dowry?”

The gentleman’s brow wrinkled as his eyebrows rose. “I beg your pardon?”

The woman smiled smugly. “The Duc de Guiche asked for the hand of the duchess’s twelve-year-old daughter. As wealthy and well-positioned as he is, he was able to demand an outrageous dowry.”

“And get it,” the woman’s husband snapped. “Thanks to the queen. Now what kind of economizing is that?”

Thunder rolled over the gentleman’s response. The group looked at the sky and began moving away. Honneure picked up her own steps. The rain was falling faster.

Though she had heard the gossip before, Honneure was deeply upset. She knew, because she had been present when the duchesse had entreated the queen, that Antoinette had thought the request excessive. She had put Gabrielle off to consult with her husband and Necker, and they too agreed. In the end, however, the queen had felt duty bound to aid her friend as she had taken up the Polignacs, and they needed money to meet their new obligations. Although Honneure knew Antoinette had done it out of a deep sense of friendship, she also knew the Court viewed it otherwise, and it saddened her.

She barely made it to the doors on time. With a great, earsplitting clap, the skies opened in earnest. Lightning streaked through the black winter sky, and Honneure shuddered.

A thunderstorm in winter was a direful sign.

Chapter Thirty-One

September 1780

The queen’s apartments were in chaos. Traveling boxes were piled willy-nilly, and clothes spilled from open trunks. Maids bustled to and fro, and there was a constant low, rapid chatter as Antoinette’s servants talked among themselves. Madame Campan, nerves taut, abruptly clapped her hands. The room fell silent, and all heads turned in her direction.

“More packing and less talking will get the job done more efficiently,” she said brusquely. “Time is of the essence. I want everything packed and ready to go within the hour.”

Work resumed apace, although frightened glances now replaced nervous prattle. Honneure felt sorry for everyone who lived in fear of the disease currently running rampant through the countryside. Unlike Honneure and Philippa, most people were not immune. The death toll climbed each day.

Which was why, though she herself was also immune, the queen was hurrying to Fontainebleau where no cases had yet been reported. Because of the unborn child within her, possibly the heir to the kingdom, she must take every possible precaution.

Honneure folded a last handkerchief, tucked it neatly into a corner of the trunk, and closed the lid. She wondered what Madame Dupin would do. Having been inoculated, she was safe. Would she return to Chenonceau, her home, where the terrible disease was also spreading like wildfire? Or would she accompany the queen to Fontainebleau?

A familiar fear blossomed in Honneure’s breast and tried to steal through her body. She had been fighting it all day, since she had awakened that morning. When Madame Dupin had arrived, she had said Paul and Jeanne were fine. No one at Chenonceau had yet been stricken. But things had a way of changing quickly. Very quickly.

Another trunk lid thudded closed. Madame Campan directed a quartet of pages to begin taking baggage to the waiting coaches outside. Honneure rose from her kneeling position and brushed the wrinkles from her skirt. Her heart had begun to race, but she had no idea why.

Then she saw Madame Dupin.

She entered the queen’s boudoir where Honneure had been packing. Their gazes locked at once.

Honneure knew. She did not have to be told. It was as if she had been waiting for the news all day. Madame Dupin walked directly to her and gripped her hands.

“I’ve had a message from Chenonceau,” she began without preamble.

“It … it’s my parents, isn’t it?”

Madame Dupin nodded. “It’s very bad, Honneure. I’m so sorry.”

“I must go to them.”

“Yes, you must. And I’ve arranged for you to leave at once. You’ll take my coach.”

“What about Philippa?”

Honneure had not noticed Madame Thierry standing behind Madame Dupin. Now she stepped forward.

“I can take her with me. My son will be glad of her company on the way to Fontainebleau.”

Honneure found herself shaking her head. She and Philippa had not been separated since the day her daughter had been born. She simply couldn’t imagine being without her.

Madame Dupin squeezed Honneure’s hands. “Think of Philippa, dear. The situation at Chenonceau is no place for a child.”

“And think of Louis Antoine,” Madame Thierry said, attempting to smile. “The young duke adores Philippa. I don’t think he will go to Fontainebleau without her!”

Honneure was forced to consider reality. Madame Dupin was right about Chenonceau being no place for Philippa in the current crisis. On the other hand, she would be safe and happy with her friends, well looked after by the royal governesses.

“All right. Thank you, both of you.”

“No thanks are needed,” Madame Dupin said gently. “Just hurry on your way. You were already packed for Fontainebleau, weren’t you?” When Honneure nodded, Madame Dupin continued. “The driver will take you straight to the château. I’ve ordered for your parents to be cared for there. You will stay in the house as well.” She held up a hand to stay Honneure’s protest. “I’ll send a page for your luggage. Go now and change into your traveling clothes. And go with my love.”

The older woman embraced Honneure quickly, wondering if she should tell her what else she had done. Perhaps not. She had enough on her mind as it was.

Madame Thierry touched her cheek. “Philippa will be fine. I promise you,” she whispered.

Fighting back her tears, Honneure hurried from the room.

It had been almost a year since she had last made the trip. Little had changed, except that it was earlier in the season and the trees had not yet attained their full fall splendor. There were only occasional touches of red and gold scattered throughout the passing woodlands.

A stag, startled by the coach, leapt across the road. Honneure wondered how he was able to hold his head up under such a rack of antlers, much less move so gracefully. She tried to think of many things, anything to keep her mind engaged, to keep her thoughts from running ahead to Chenonceau. But it was no use. The stag disappeared on the other side of the road, and her thoughts returned home.

Twenty years had passed, twenty years since she had come to Chenonceau. Her foster parents were no longer young. And in her twenty-eight years she had learned, if nothing else, the hard lesson of change. Everything changed, constantly, inevitably. The more you wanted things to stay the same, the more tightly you held on to the present, and the more bitter your disappointment.

Yet it was difficult not to let her heart lighten just a little with hope when the coach turned down the long, familiar lane. This was home. This was where she had spent the happiest years of her life. Ahead were the gardens where she had come to know the nature and seasons of growing things. The river, where she had spent so many hours contemplating the course and flow of her own life. The barn and the animals she had loved. The boy she had loved. The man he had become, beloved still, the love of her life … lost.

Fear and heartache crept back into Honneure’s emotions. She hugged her breast as the coach crossed the first of the great piers. With a clatter of hoofbeats and the creaking of harness, the horses halted in front of the elegant stone château.

The front door opened, and Honneure half expected to see Claud. When a young woman in servants’ livery appeared, she realized she’d been holding her breath. She opened the door and stepped down from the coach.

The girl was pale, her eyes wide and frightened. She stood to one side as Honneure approached the door, as if afraid she might be contaminated by the slightest touch. And well she might.

“You … you are Mademoiselle Mansart?”

“Yes. And my parents …”

“Please,” the girl interrupted. “Come inside. They are upstairs, in the d’Estrees’s bedroom.”

Honneure did not hesitate. She knew the way well and walked briskly down the hall to the stairs. Picking up her skirt, she rushed up the stone steps. In the upstairs corridor she turned and went to the door of the room named for Gabrielle d’Estrees, King Henry IV’s favorite and mother to his legitimate son. It was a comfortable room with a huge hearth and four-poster bed. It had been kind of Madame Dupin to install her parents there. Honneure reached for the door latch.

It occurred to her suddenly that the house was very quiet. Too quiet.

Where were the other servants? Wasn’t there supposed to be someone caring for her parents?

Honneure listened for a moment longer, ear to the door. Not a sound came from within. All she could hear was the frantic pounding of her own heart. She took a step backward and then placed her palms against the door, as if she might feel through them what was happening inside the room.

It was then she heard the footsteps. Bootheels on a tile floor. A man’s heavy step.

Involuntarily, Honneure took another step backward. She watched the door latch turn slowly.

The door opened outward. She watched it swing wide. She saw the tall figure stride across the threshold.

Honneure’s racing heart burst.

“Philippe … ,” she whispered, and collapsed into his arms, vision gone dark.

She was caught in a dream from which she did not ever wish to wake. She was home, at Chenonceau, Le Château aux Dames. Fall had only lightly touched the woodlands, and the trees were still fully leafed. Temperatures were mild. Squirrels, alerted by the shortening of the days, scampered frantically to bury their winter stores. Doves called from high atop the dungeon tower. The Cher whispered softly against its banks, and swans, their cygnets grown and gone, glided side by side, lovers once again.

She did not want to leave the river’s edge to return to the château. There was something terrifying inside, something she did not wish to confront. She wanted to stay forever where she was, by the peaceful Cher, with Philippe holding her hand, stroking her brow …

“Honneure … Honneure, wake up,” he said softly.

She would do anything for him, always. Obediently, she opened her eyes.

His dear, handsome face hovered above her own, inches away. One hand held on to hers, the other lay gently on her forehead. She looked into his eyes, and he did not need to speak.

“They’re gone,” she said simply, quietly. It was a statement, not a question.

Philippe did not so much as blink. But she knew. The silent communication between them was as it had always been. And the love.

It was so strong it was almost palpable, a thing she might reach out and touch. Time and distance had not dimmed it. Circumstances had not changed it. Tragedy had not scarred it. She lay on the bed, held Philippe’s hand, looked into his eyes, and knew that nothing, ever, would change what they felt. This was real and eternal, and she clung to it with all her might.

“When?” Honneure whispered at last, gaze still locked to Philippe’s.

“Early this morning. The fever took them quickly. They were spared … the worst of it.”

Honneure closed her eyes again. “I came as swiftly as I could.”

“I barely made it in time myself.”

“You saw them … before …”

“They didn’t know me, Honneure. They didn’t even know I was here.”

“They went together. Thank God they went together.”

Unable to speak, Philippe nodded. He had loved Honneure all his life, but he had never loved her more than in this moment. He was weak with his love, helpless. He did not know what to do or say. He was powerless.

Honneure felt her grief crowding her, pushing, trying to find a way in and take her over. But she could not let it happen, not yet. There was something that needed to be done first. She wasn’t sure what it was, but she sensed it was the most important thing she would do in her life.

Dizziness assailed her when she swung her legs over the edge of the bed, but it passed rapidly. She was afraid Philippe might try to prevent her from rising, but he did not. She pushed to her feet.

“Walk with me. Please.”

With a simple gesture, he indicated she should lead the way. Silently, Philippe just behind her, she left the bedchamber and the château.

It was late in the afternoon, and the shadows were long. The air had cooled, but the sun was still warm on their shoulders and backs. Wordlessly, Honneure took Philippe’s hand, and in the strength of his grip she felt his need of her. She moved a little closer to him until their shoulders touched. She took a deep breath of the clean, fall-scented air.