By Honor Bound (34 page)

Philippa’s eyes widened.

Honneure reached across the table to lay a hand atop her husband’s. She was not surprised by his announcement. It seemed she had been waiting all day for another grim reminder that the world as they had known it was slowly crumbling.

“He was hunting,” Philippe continued, “when he was brought a packet of letters. A short while later one of his huntsmen came upon him. He had dismounted and was sitting with his head in his hands. He was weeping.”

Honneure’s heart cringed in sympathy. “What could possibly affect him so, Philippe?”

Philippe drew a deep breath. “You know that he disbanded
Parlement
because they would not go along with his reforms for the people.”

Both Honneure and Philippa nodded in unison.

“Despite the fact the king was trying to help them and
Parlement
had blocked his every move, the populace clamored for the body’s reinstatement. Though he was loath to do it, there was such an outcry he finally relented. But he believed, he truly believed, that the people didn’t really mean it. That they were rebelling for rebellion’s sake and would be sorry when
Parlement
reconvened. That they would see what good the king had been trying to do and be remorseful.”

“But …” Honneure prompted when Philippe hesitated.

“
Parlement
returned in triumph.” Philippe shook his head. “There’s celebration in the streets. It’s a complete rejection of Louis and everything he stands for.”

“Oh, Philippe, how horrible.” Honneure pressed her palms together and raised her fingers briefly to her lips. “But why? I don’t understand. Louis would have lowered taxes, distributed wealth more evenly.”

“It’s a mob mentality now at work, I fear. It’s not rational. It’s been drummed into them that monarchies are despotic and set against them, and they can’t see beyond their own prejudices to recognize what a good and enlightened king is trying to do for them. They want things the way they were. They want
Parlement
back, although it will be to their detriment and beneficial reforms will never pass. They can’t see what a brilliant reformer Louis really is. Or was.”

“Philippe, don’t say that. He hasn’t given up. He can’t.”

“From what I’ve been hearing, his spirit’s been broken. He’s apparently resigned to the fact that he must reap what his grandfather sowed.”

Honneure remained silent as fear clutched at her heart. She knew her husband well. So well that she could see in his eyes there was more. He had something else to say, though he did not wish to.

“Go on, Philippe,” Honneure whispered at last. “Say what you must.”

Philippe held his wife’s gaze. He knew what her response would be. He also knew he had to try. It was his duty as the head of the family to try to protect them.

“The king’s acceptance of his defeat will further weaken the crown. There’s already upheaval in the country. I fear worse. Much worse.”

Honneure had already begun to shake her head slowly. “No …”

“Listen to me, Honneure. It may no longer be safe to remain at Versailles. I have the money from … from Suzanne’s father. And the horses I’ve bred from the queen’s gift of the Lipizzan mare. We have enough to buy our own place, start over, away from the storm I fear is on its …”

“No!” Philippa’s chair tumbled over backward as she leapt to her feet.

Her parents stared at her in surprise.

“I won’t go … I can’t!”

“Philippa …” Honneure rose and extended a hand to her daughter, but Philippa backed away from her.

“No, leave me alone. You don’t understand. I can’t leave Louis Antoine. I love him. He loves me! I won’t go!”

Honneure raised a hand and pressed it over her heart. So. It was as she had suspected. She was surprised only by the timing. She had not expected it so soon. She opened her mouth to speak, but Philippe was quicker, both in word and action.

In one smooth, swift motion, Philippe rounded the corner of the table and grabbed his daughter’s wrist. Thunder rode on his brow.

“Have you lain with him?”

Honneure gasped in horror.

Philippa’s mouth fell open.

“Have you?” Philippe demanded. “I asked you a question. Answer me!”

Philippa seemed to regain her senses. She shook her head. “No,” she whispered hoarsely. “No …”

Philippe crumpled before Honneure’s eyes. His chin dropped to his chest, his shoulders slumped, and his knees bent.

She was afraid he was going to fall and started toward him.

But Philippa had returned to life. She pulled her wrist from her father’s grip, and Honneure could see her fists were clenched. Her dark eyes flashed fire.

“But you can’t stop me,” she exclaimed suddenly. “You can’t stop
us.
We …”

Philippa’s head snapped sideways with the force of her father’s blow. The reddened print of his palm was almost immediately visible on her cheek.

Honneure’s hands flew to her mouth. The whites of Philippa’s eyes were visible all the way around the dilated pupils.

“You’ll never see him again,” Philippe roared. “Do you understand? I’ll lock you up if I have to, but you will
never see him again
.”

Utter silence followed the outburst. Then, abruptly, Philippa burst into hysterical tears and fled up the ladder to the loft. Honneure started after her, but Philippe grabbed her hand.

“Leave her,” he ordered. “Come with me.”

It was not happening. It was not possible. She did not know this person Philippe had become. Numb and docile, Honneure followed her husband out of the house and into the cold night air. He walked around the side of the cottage, away from neighboring windows, and stopped. Honneure stared at him.

Philippe’s sanity returned as his terror abated. Guilt assailed him, and he reached for his wife. She shrank from him, and he groaned. “You don’t understand,” he said brokenly.

“You’re right,” Honneure whispered. “I don’t.”

Philippe pressed his fingers to his eyes and then scrubbed his face with his broad, strong hands. He felt sick to his stomach.

How could he tell her?

Honneure had begun to tremble. She was cold. Inside and out.

“Tell me, Philippe,” she said in a flat, emotionless voice. “Tell me what I don’t understand.”

He had known this time would come. Eventually. In his heart he had prayed it would not. But he had known.

“Do you … do you remember the night you were ordered to dance for the king, Louis’s grandfather?” he began in a voice foreign to even his ears. “I was so afraid for you, Honneure. And not just because of the king’s intentions. There was something else. Something from the past, something you’d told me when we were children. It was haunting me. Making me ill, literally, with fear, though I didn’t know why. Then it came to me.”

She was caught up entirely in his tale. She did not resist when he again reached for her hands. Having captured her, Philippe drew her closer to him. She looked up at him and became lost in the torment of his gaze.

“When your mother died, you told me of her cryptic words. It had always bothered you, a puzzle you could not solve. A last message from your mother you could not decipher. And neither could I. I could never help you. Not until that night when I put it all together at last.”

It had been a day of shocks. Honneure had a feeling she was about to receive the greatest one of all. She turned her face away, as if expecting the same blow Philippe had delivered to their daughter.

“She spoke of the king,” he went on, relentlessly. It had to be said now, all of it. The secret was too dangerous to reveal, too dangerous to keep. “Why? Why would she speak of him on her deathbed?”

Honneure closed her eyes.

“‘Never tell,’ she said. Never tell what?”

She began to shake her head.

“‘
Les cerfs … dans le parc
.’ What sense does that make, Honneure? What sense does it make unless she meant …
Le Parc aux Cerfs?
”

The king’s brothel.

“No …”

“‘My poor lost Honneure … my lost
honneur
.’ Her lost
honor
.”

Tears streaked her face, steaming in the night air.

“No,” she breathed again. But she knew, in her soul, it was true.

“Don’t you see, my love?” Philippe’s voice was agonized. His own cheeks were wet. He clung to his wife as if he might save her from drowning. “Louis XV was Louis Antoine’s great-grandfather. And Philippa’s grandfather … your father …”

Chapter Thirty-Five

June 1789

It was one of the saddest days of her life. Honneure stood to one side of the church, near the back, and touched a handkerchief to her tearstained cheeks. At the front of the church were two rows of monks chanting the Office of the Dead. Between them lay a small white coffin.

Louis Joseph, Dauphin of France, had succumbed to the disease known as the king’s evil. Over the years his spine had twisted until one hip was higher than the other, and his vertebrae protruded pitifully. The past few weeks he had remained bedridden in enormous pain.

An audible sob escaped Honneure’s throat. He had been an exceptionally sweet child and so intelligent. He had borne his pain stoically and had gently comforted the parents whose only wish was to comfort him. He had been heir not only to the throne but to a fatal disease.

Now he lay in his coffin, with his crown and gold spurs.

The queen was being supported by two of her ladies-in-waiting. The king’s head was bowed, his face wet with tears. Gabrielle de Polignac had a handkerchief pressed to her lips trying to muffle the sounds of her grief, and the Princesse de Lamballe was prostrate.

Two of her children dead, a son and a daughter. How the queen was able to bear her burden, Honneure did not know. She missed Philippa so acutely she could hardly stand it, even though she knew she would see her daughter again. Antoinette would only see her babies again in heaven.

Honneure raised her gaze to the light falling through the high, clerestory windows and whispered a silent prayer of her own.

Life was so tenuous, happiness so frail and fleeting. She was watching her queen’s life collapse before her eyes. The very fabric of France seemed to be disintegrating. What would happen to the king and queen, the country, her own family?

Honneure had not thought anything could be worse than the night Philippa had declared her love for the young Duc d’Angouleme and Philippe had revealed his long-held secret. It appeared her own life and her family’s had just fallen apart. The world had rocked beneath her feet.

At first she had wanted to deny it was true. But it answered too many questions, solved too many little mysteries. There were other comments her mother had made, her occasional bitterness, and most revealing, her attitude toward the king, a man she could not possibly know personally yet loathed.

So Honneure had not been able to deny it and had been forced to look at herself and her mother in a whole new way. Having been told merely that her father had died prior to her birth, she had been free to imagine anything she wished about him. And her fertile imagination had conjured many things. But never a king. Certainly not the handsome but corrupt King Louis XV, the man who had wanted to make her one of his concubines. Her father.

Honneure shuddered.

He had desired her mother. Had he seen something in her that reminded him of Mathilde?

She would never know. Perhaps it was a blessing. The knowledge of her parentage alone certainly carried a heavy enough load of curses.

Philippa and Louis Antoine had been separated. Forever. The kindly Madame Dupin had been their savior once again and taken Philippa in as she had once taken Honneure. Philippa was at Chenonceau and would never return to Versailles.

It had been a compromise upon which she and Philippe were finally able to settle. Philippa was sent out of harm’s way, but she and Philippe would remain with their sovereigns. She was bound to her queen. She could not leave her, and Philippe had understood, despite the added danger they now faced.

Fate itself seemed to be conspiring against the beleaguered monarchy. A bizarre and violent hailstorm the previous summer had ruined wheat crops. Bread was scarce and prices out of reach for the ordinary man. A trade agreement with England brought into France cheaper but well-made goods, and many Frenchmen found themselves out of work. They were suffering not only from English competition, however, but from a drying up of Court spending. By supporting the
Parlement
in its insistent demands for cuts in royal spending, the tradespeople of Paris were really cutting their own economic throats. A prime example was the queen’s dressmaker, Rose Bertin, who had recently gone bankrupt. Yet all blame fell upon the crown, of course. Anyone of royal blood was openly despised.

And her father was the man who had ultimately brought France to her knees. If her secret was ever to become public …

The service had ended, and the pathetic little coffin was being borne up the aisle. Due to the tenor of the times, Louis Joseph, former Dauphin of France, would be buried inexpensively at Saint-Denis.

When the sad procession had passed, Honneure fell in behind the mourners and left the church. It did not seem the sun should be shining so brightly.

The summer’s day was nearing its end when Honneure returned to the palace. The king and queen had already retired to their apartments, but Honneure had stayed behind to retrieve the queen’s personal effects from the royal coach. She cried quietly as she picked up a handkerchief bearing the royal monogram. It was soaked with the queen’s tears.

Honneure walked slowly up the Queen’s Staircase. She felt drained, exhausted. She barely noticed the splendor of the surroundings that had always so enchanted her. Her very eyelids felt heavy. But her senses became more alert as she made her way through the reception chambers.

The formal rooms were unusually crowded. Many faces she had not seen before. Others she recognized as attendants of several of the royal ministers. Her curiosity turned to anxiety when she reached the queen’s bedchamber and saw the crowd, many of them courtiers of the king.

Hers had long been a familiar face at the Versailles Palace, and Honneure passed into the interior apartments unimpeded. She was not surprised to see the throng within.

The king’s attendants stood shoulder to shoulder with the queen’s ladies-in-waiting in the modest foyer. From within the salon she heard a voice, loud and demanding. Her hackles went up at once. Who could possibly be speaking to the king and queen in such a way on this, of all days? Pressed against the wall, Honneure made her way into the salon unnoticed.

The king and queen sat side by side. Though her bearing was regal, Honneure could see the lines of grief etched into Antoinette’s delicate features. Louis had his fingers pressed to his temples as if he was in pain. One of the king’s ministers stood in front of the royal couple, a frown on his bloated features. Louis shook his head.

“No, I cannot. I will not.”

“You must, Highness. It will be political suicide to let the States General convene without you.”

Louis merely shook his head.

“The militants of that body are already proclaiming that they represent the whole nation,” the minister went on heatedly. “This notion will be strengthened by your absence. The monarchy
must
be present during the re-formation of the government, or government will re-form without it!”

“No! Dammit, no!” Louis came to life all of a sudden and slammed his palm down on the arm of his chair so forcefully his jowls quivered. “You will not do this to me again! The first time we lost a child, you did not allow me time to mourn. You will not do so again. I am a father before I am a king!”

The minister seemed inclined to continue the argument, despite the force and emotion of the king’s reply. But Honneure did not wish to be present for it. She knew how it would end. Louis was, indeed, a broken man. The crown was certainly in danger of falling, and the thought struck terror into her heart. As quickly and quietly as possible, Honneure melted into the crowd and left the queen’s apartments.

The early evening was still warm but dark enough that Honneure had expected to see a lamp lit in the cottage. The house was dark, however. Philippe did not appear to be home. Honneure hurried on toward the stables.

She saw him before he saw her, and she paused to watch him. He had been out riding Snow Queen, great-granddaughter of the original Lipizzan mare, and was just returning. A rising moon, full and round, cast a silver sheen on the animal’s white flanks as she pranced in a high trot toward the stable. Honneure stood in shadow and, although she knew Philippe had not seen her yet, the mare was aware of her presence. Her ears pricked forward, and she nickered softly. Honneure smiled in the darkness, forgetting for a moment her fears.

Honneure had been present at Snow Queen’s birth. With her skilled hands, she had helped to deliver the tiny, premature foal. She had concocted, mixed, and administered the added nutrients the foal had needed to grow strong and healthy. They had formed a bond as solid as the one between horse and trainer.

Philippe recognized the mare’s greeting as the special one she used for Honneure, and his eyes probed the shadows. He halted the mare and slid from the saddle as his wife stepped toward him.

“I’m sorry I didn’t see you.” Philippe smiled. “But Snow Queen knew you were there.” He slapped the mare’s shoulder affectionately and then drew his wife into his arms. “How was it?”

“Very, very sad,” Honneure replied, knowing he referred to the young prince’s funeral. “But there was worse to come.”

Philippe did not respond at once but continued to hold his wife against his breast. Every day, it seemed, there were new and evil tidings. For just one moment he wanted to hold the woman he adored and make the world go away.

Honneure remained silent until her husband released her and held her at arm’s length. He sighed deeply.

“All right. Tell me what could be worse than the death of a child.”

“Nothing,” Honneure responded quickly. “But the king’s grief has apparently overwhelmed him.”

Philippe sighed again and dropped his hands from Honneure’s shoulders. “I was afraid of that. He’s not going to attend the States General, is he?”

“No,” Honneure replied in a small voice. “I heard one of his ministers tell him, in so many words, that if he didn’t take control he would lose his authority.”

“His minister was correct.”

Snow Queen nudged Philippe’s back, and he stroked her neck.

“You know it’s time to go, don’t you?” he said to the mare.

“Philippe!”

“I only meant to the barn. Don’t worry.”

Honneure dropped her gaze. She knew her insistence on remaining with the queen at Versailles was endangering them. Only last night Philippe had told her he feared the country was on the brink of revolt.

Suddenly fearful again, she looked back up at him. “Do you really think there’ll be a revolution, Philippe?”

“If the king doesn’t take control, the country will move on without him. When they do, they’ll realize they don’t need him. He will be deposed. Or worse. And the nation will be torn in two.”

Honneure shivered and hugged her breast.

“I’m frightened, Philippe,” she whispered. “I’m so frightened.”

He did not tell her that he was frightened as well. He simply took her into his arms again.

“As long as I am alive, my love, you have nothing to fear,” Philippe murmured into his wife’s pale, summer-scented hair. “As long as I live, no harm will come to you …”