By Honor Bound (33 page)

People were fickle, they loved gossip, and they particularly loved to bring the mighty low. Honneure had not wanted to think it could ever happen to someone as sweet, generous, and compassionate as Antoinette. But it was happening indeed. Axel de Fersen was a perfect example.

The queen had met the dashing Comte de Fersen in June of the previous year. Antoinette had arranged a gay and elaborate party at the Trianon to entertain King Gustavus of Sweden. The Count, one of the king’s courtiers, met Antoinette at the gala, and the two became fast friends. Honneure distinctly remembered the night the queen had excitedly told her about her new friend, how witty and intelligent he was. Antoinette had been so happy. Her happiness was not to last for long.

Within days rumor reached them that Antoinette was being criticized for throwing too expensive and elaborate a party. The criticism had wounded her deeply, for she had merely done as her husband requested. He had wanted to impress the Swedish king in order to obtain a treaty favorable to France. In that, he had succeeded, and Antoinette had been proud. The cruel censure injured her, but worse was to come. Though she had only seen Axel de Fersen once, at the gala, he was now rumored to be her lover.

Honneure shook her head as she continued on her way. Antoinette’s name was constantly being linked to various rakes and dandies. It was ridiculous as there was not a more loyal or devoted wife than Antoinette. Yet Antoinette herself had stated what others hinted at darkly. “Just look at the differences between us, Honneure! Louis is steady, while I am quick. He is reserved, while I am the opposite. He loves books; I loathe reading! He could care less about music; I adore it. His friends are few; mine are many. No wonder people think we must not get along!”

There were other differences as well, Honneure mused, which the queen had not mentioned. While Antoinette was elegant, majestic, royal in every way, the king was ungainly. The queen had remained slim, whereas Louis had become quite portly. These things, too, were talked about … and speculated upon. It was a shame people did not also comment on the positive, the traits the royal couple had in common. For both were great of heart, devoted to their children and their country. Their sense of duty was firm and unwavering. While theirs was not an affair of passion, their affection was solid and deep. The queen had been and without doubt would continue to be faithful. No one knew better than Honneure, who could account for almost every one of Antoinette’s waking hours.

She was not left, however, with a great deal of time to herself, and she treasured the moments she was able to spend in her small but cozy home. Her footsteps quickened as she approached the Hameau.

The farm on the palace grounds was perfect in every way. Conceived by the queen, the village boasted eight thatched cottages, a cow barn, stables, dairy, paddocks, and chicken run. There were sheep, goats, Swiss cows, horses, laying hens, and an orchard. Though, once again, the queen had been criticized and accused of building and running the farm for her own personal amusement, she had actually had it created as an agricultural experiment. So far the experiment was working, and the farm brought in a minimum of six thousand livres a year. One of the reasons for the farm’s success was good management, and it was the stable manager Honneure currently sought.

The stables lay at the far end of the small, efficient farm. Just ahead and to the right stood the cottage that had become home. Honneure saw him striding toward the front door, a bucket swinging from one hand.

How many years had it been? And he still made her knees weak. Honneure felt the warmth fill her midsection and spread out to her limbs. She raised a hand in greeting as her lips curved into a smile.

“Honneure! What are you doing home this time of day?”

His broad grin answered hers, and a fresh wave of warmth washed through her. He was definitely, Honneure decided, more handsome than ever. The lines time had carved into his face added character to his mobile features. His hips were still narrow, his waist slim, but his chest seemed larger, shoulders more muscular. A light dusting of snow had touched the thick, dark hair at his temples. Though she never would have thought it possible, she loved him more than ever.

Philippe set down his bucket and walked toward his wife. Merely being in her presence was like being touched by sunlight. She surrounded and filled him in ways he would never be able to express in words. As he reached her she held out her hands, and he took them, drawing her to him. He bent his head to her, and their lips briefly touched.

“This is a rare treat, Wife.”

“Mmmmm.” Honneure closed her eyes and received just what she wanted … another kiss. “What’s in the bucket?”

“Fresh butter and cheese.”

“I’ll make you and Philippa something wonderful for dinner.”

“Where
is
our daughter?”

“I left her in the nursery. You know how she and Louis Antoine love to be together.”

There was a quick, hot stab of unnamed fear in Philippe’s breast. It was gone as quickly as it had come, but he was still not completely at ease. Honneure was worried about something. He felt the heat of it emanating from her. He took her arm and hooked it through his.

“Come in the house and tell me why you’re home early. And why you’re so worried.”

Honneure glanced up at her husband. He had an uncanny way of sensing her moods, no matter how well she tried to hide them. It had been that way, she supposed, since they were children. She stepped inside the cool, dim cottage ahead of him.

The main room contained everything they needed for their quiet, comfortable life. Utensils of various sizes and shapes hung on the walls around the hearth, much like the kitchen at Chenonceau. Bright curtains hung from the windows. The walls were whitewashed, and a pot of summer flowers sat on the sturdy kitchen table. It was a home filled with warmth and light and happiness. But Honneure shivered as she sank into a chair.

Philippe sat at her side. “Tell me what’s wrong. Does it have anything to do with the Cardinal de Rohan?”

Honneure’s brows arched. “Do you know about the … the acquittal?”

Philippe nodded. “Word spreads quickly. I imagine the queen is taking this very hard.”

“She’s distraught.”

“As well she might be. People’s sentiments seem to lie with the
Parlement
.”

Honneure glanced up from her folded hands. “The queen fears irrevocable damage has been done to the monarchy,” she said in a small voice.

The prick of fear returned, but this time Philippe recognized its source. It was a secret he had harbored more than fifteen years. For Honneure’s and Philippa’s sake, he must keep it safe still. With the mood building in the country, it became more imperative every day.

“Philippe? Is something wrong?”

He shook his head to banish the thought.

“Nothing’s wrong. Especially now that you’re here.”

Once again Philippe’s smile did something to the pit of her stomach. She took his hand, raised it to her lips, and kissed each knuckle.

“I love you,” Honneure whispered and knew she would never be able to tell him how much. Or how much she treasured their life together, the three of them, and how she wanted to go on like this forever.

But the thought itself frightened her. She recalled all the times in her life when she had thought everything was perfect and how she had prayed nothing would ever change. And it reminded her how fragile was the web they had woven, how transitory happiness.

Honneure rose and pulled Philippe to his feet. She moved directly into his arms and pressed her lips to the hollow part of his throat she so loved. She rubbed her hands over the hard mass of his chest and, with a melting thrill, let her body conform to his.

Her need of him was urgent, demanding, and Philippe’s body responded. When her hand moved down his hard, flat abdomen, his manhood rose to meet her. He groaned as she rubbed her hand along his shaft. Bending his knees, he stooped slightly and lifted her into his arms.

Honneure closed her eyes, reveling in the knowledge of the ecstasy and forgetfulness to come.

Chapter Thirty-Four

September 1788

Honneure opened her eyes to predawn darkness. The nip of fall was in the air, and the tiny bedroom was chilly. She snuggled closer to the man sleeping at her side. He rolled over and threw an arm across her breast. Honneure smiled.

Eight years they had been married. Eight years. And the joy of it was still new. She turned her head on the pillow and kissed the tip of her husband’s nose.

Philippe’s eyes opened slowly. “It’s cold,” he murmured sleepily. “I’ll start the fire.”

“You certainly will. But not in the hearth.”

She rolled over and faced her husband, letting her fingers trail along the dark line that divided his chest. There were occasional strands of silver, she noticed. She was proud of them. They were a marker of time, a symbol of the years they had spent together. Such precious time. An accumulation of days, each one treasured. Not a single one taken for granted.

Despite the pleasant thoughts, anxiety pricked at Honneure’s consciousness. Lately it was like a predator, stalking her, moving in and out of the shadows. Sometimes she was aware of it. Often she was able to ignore it. But it always returned. She closed her eyes and pressed her lips to Philippe’s.

The passion between them had never dimmed. At times it was less urgent than others, however, and they loved each other slowly, comfortably. They were a perfect fit and now moved together with the ease of long familiarity, each knowing exactly what the other liked. When Philippe groaned with pleasure, a thrill sparked in Honneure’s breast. Her tongue flicked at his mouth, and he drew her in as he rolled on top of her, need mounting, rhythm increasing. She loved the feel of him, every inch of him, every centimeter of his flesh pressed to hers. And the white-hot flame bursting between her legs …

A crackling fire had taken the chill from the air, and the compact house smelled of coffee by the time Philippa stirred. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, and a fine mist crept along the ground and swirled about the farm buildings and cottages. An impatient cow lowed, followed quickly by another.

Honneure turned from the window and listened to the sounds of her daughter moving about the loft sleeping area. Moments later she appeared, dressed but disheveled, and climbed down the ladder into the main room.

“Help me with my hair, Mother … please?”

Philippa looked up at Honneure from beneath a fringe of long, thick black lashes. She was so beautiful and so like her father, it made Honneure’s heart ache. She nodded and took the brush her daughter offered.

It was a morning ritual, brushing, braiding, and pinning her daughter’s hair. It was another of the special moments in her life she had come to cherish. But it would not last forever. In barely a month Philippa would be sixteen. It was time to think about marriage and suitable young men her age.

“Ouch! Mother, you’re pulling!”

“I’m sorry.” Honneure tried to concentrate on what she was doing. It was difficult.

Philippa was completely devoted to Louis Antoine, Honneure knew. They had become such fast friends. The child would never willingly leave the young duke’s side, and Honneure certainly understood that kind of devotion. Louis Antoine was precocious, however, despite his younger age, and Honneure could no longer tell herself the relationship was merely platonic. She sighed as she twisted the thick plaits of Philippa’s hair.

Unless something changed, there was no doubt what would eventually happen. Honneure had been forced to think about it more and more often of late. She had been forced to examine her innermost feelings. If Louis Antoine and Philippa were to indulge their love, Philippa could never be more than a mistress. Did she want that for her daughter?

No, she did not. Absolutely.

But neither could she deny the strength of a true and honest love. She well knew how rare and precious it was. Moral and religious constraints had not stopped her and Philippe. How could she preach them to her daughter?

The unpleasant turn of her thoughts was interrupted by the touch of her husband’s hand on her shoulder, and she turned to him gratefully.

“I’m going to the stables,” he said and kissed her lightly on the brow.

“Have a good day, my love.”

Philippe smiled in response and kissed his daughter on the cheek. She hugged him back.

“I love you, Daddy.”

“I love you, too.”

Tears immediately sprang to Honneure’s eyes. She blinked them away as Philippe strode out the door. She returned to pinning her daughter’s hair. How incredibly blessed they were. Since the day they had wed, it was as if they had always been a family. Philippa had accepted her father and adored him as if he had raised her since the moment of her birth.

“Thank you, Mother.” Philippa explored her hair with her fingers. “Are you ready?”

“I will be in a moment.”

Honneure banked the fire and pulled a shawl around her shoulders. Their day was well begun.

Honneure and Philippa walked side by side through the grand and gilded reception chambers. They were dressed in the queen’s livery of blue and gold, and no one paid any attention to them. They entered the golden bedchamber and proceeded through the hidden door to the inner apartments. Philippa pecked her mother on the cheek.

“I’ll be in the nursery. I’m going to help with Louis Joseph’s lessons today.”

“I know.” Honneure’s smile abruptly faded. “How is he?”

Philippa shrugged, an unhappy look on her piquant features. “His back pains him greatly. But he is very brave.”

“And you are very kind to be so good to him.” Honneure lightly caressed Philippa’s cheek. “I’ll see you later.” She smiled fondly as she watched her daughter continue to the interior stairs.

She moved into the salon, where Madame Campan sat alone, her latest embroidery project draped across her lap. She acknowledged Honneure with the barest tilt of her head.

“Has the queen gone to the chapel again?”

Madame Campan nodded. “She and her ladies left almost an hour ago.”

“She goes more and more often. And now earlier.”

“Much of her day is spent in prayer.”

Honneure did not respond. There was little to say. Both women well knew the reason for Antoinette’s immersion in her faith. She walked on to the queen’s bedchamber to put it in order.

The fateful day had occurred just over a year ago. Honneure would never forget it.

She, Philippe, and Philippa had taken a rare day for themselves and were having a picnic in the gardens not far from the palace. The day was warm, and they sat in the shade of a huge, spreading oak. They had been laughing, happy together. The Princesse de Lamballe’s shriek had pierced them like a knife.

“Come … come quickly! Oh my God!”

The woman came running across the lawn in their direction. Her arms were akimbo, hair streaming.

“Honneure … Honneure!”

All three of them had risen. Philippe gripped the princess’s arms as she stumbled to a halt.

“Honneure, you must come … at once. Something has happened to the baby!”

“Sophie?” Honneure’s blood turned to ice.

But the woman could not respond. Philippe caught her as her eyes rolled up, and she sagged.

“Go on,” Philippe urged. “I’ll see she gets back to the palace.”

Honneure did not need to be told twice. She picked up her skirts and fled, a prayer on her lips.

Sophie Helene was only eleven months old and the apple of the queen’s eye.

The scene in the nursery was chaos. Several of the queen’s ladies were sobbing, Gabrielle de Polignac chief among them. The queen herself stood as still and white as a marble statue by the satin-draped bassinet. Honneure pushed to her side.

But it was too late. The beautiful infant girl lay dead. There was nothing anyone could do. No cause of death was ever determined. God had simply taken her.

Honneure finished straightening the queen’s chamber and returned to the salon. Madame Campan’s hands lay quietly in her lap. Her face was turned to the window, but her gaze was unfocused.

“Do you know why I think she spends more and more time at her devotions?” the older woman said at length, as if no time at all had passed since Honneure had left the room. “She was not even allowed to grieve that poor little baby.”

The heat of anger blossomed at once in Honneure’s breast. “Nor was the king.”

Honneure recalled how his ministers had been at him, hounding him even as he tried to grieve in private with the queen in her chambers. “Disintegrating affairs of state,” they had said. France was more important.

“And they criticized my poor Antoinette,” Campan continued. “Said she grieved too long for a child who had lived so short a time. When asked why she did not recover, do you know what she replied?”

Madame Campan pulled her gaze from the window at last and looked up at Honneure. Tears shimmered in her eyes.

“She said, ‘I grieve because she might have grown up to be my friend.’”

Honneure’s heart twisted. Though Antoinette was Queen of France, surrounded by courtiers and servants and a few professed friends, she was the loneliest woman Honneure had ever known.

“
I
will never desert her,” she murmured softly.

“Nor I.” Madame Campan sighed. “But dark days are coming.” Her eyes fastened once more on the view outside the window. “They began with that horrible affair of the necklace. Public opinion started to turn against her then and the gaiety, her
joie de vivre,
seemed to leave her. She stopped going to the opera, the comedies …”

Campan’s voice trailed away. She cleared her throat.

“Then she learned poor Louis Joseph suffered from the Bourbon’s hereditary disease,” she said, referring to the affliction that had taken the king’s older brother when he was but a child. “Then Sophie. And Louise.”

Honneure remembered. Antoinette had been extremely fond of the king’s aunt, who had devoted her life to the Carmelite order. Her death, so soon after Sophie’s, had been a grievous blow.

“Dark days are coming,” Madame Campan said again. “The golden era is done.”

Madame Campan’s words had remained with Honneure all day. The prediction was dire, but Honneure could not deny the truth of it. Antoinette’s life had indeed taken a sad turn. The king’s was not much better. France was in turmoil.

Honneure and Philippa hurried homeward together in the failing dusk. The chill air was heavy with the scents of autumn, damp leaves and earth, burning wood. The seasonal fragrances usually cheered her, but now Honneure barely noticed them. All her thoughts were bent on home. And Philippe.

He awaited them, seated at the table in front of a roaring hearth. In spite of her cloak of gloom, Honneure’s heart had lightened when she saw his silhouette through the window. But as she walked in the door, the smile died on her lips.

“Philippe … what’s wrong?”

He rose from the table, chair scraping on the stone floor. He indicated the remaining seats, and Honneure and Philippa joined him. Philippa shrugged the shawl from her shoulders, but Honneure kept hers tightly wrapped about her shoulders. An icy river of fear seemed to have replaced the blood in her veins.

“I have disturbing news. News so grave the king collapsed upon receiving it.”