The Price of Honor (Canadiana Series Book 1)

by Susanne Matthews

  Isabelle noticed the slight slurring of his words, proof that he might indeed have had too much to drink.

  “And of course, we do lose some due to the rigors of the sea voyage itself, although this ship may fare better than others,” he finished. “Your husband must have told you something of the colony, Madame Gaudier? He was there almost two years, wasn’t he?”

  Vincent smirked at Colbert. “Jean-Baptiste, be reasonable. A man away from such a lovely wife for so long would hardly spend his pillow talk discussing savages and the weather.”

  Amid the laughter following Vincent’s comment, Isabelle shivered and touched the emerald cross at her throat. She would have to tell Sophie what little Pierre had told her. People were bound to ask her questions aboard ship, and she could easily get tripped up.

  “Solange.” The duchess rose from the table and the other diners did as well. “I thank you for your hospitality at this difficult time. Irene and I will retire now. We leave at first light as I believe you do, Colbert.” She turned to Sophie. “Madame, I wish you well in the colony. I pray God grants you love, children, prosperity, and long life.” She took Isabelle’s hands in hers. “The king is wise. With your sister so far away and your parents with God, it makes sense to allow you a small measure of comfort in a husband’s loving arms. I’ll see you at court. Tongues will wag, but when your belly doesn’t grow too quickly, this haste will be forgotten.”

  Vincent reached for Isabelle’s hand.

  “I would escort you to your room, and extend our precious time together, but I need to see to my carriage and driver and explain his new task. Since I’m also leaving at dawn, I’ll see you when you arrive in Paris next Sunday. Our time apart will seem like an eternity.”

  The duchess giggled, a strange sound coming from a woman her age. “Oh, go ahead, Vincent. Kiss the poor girl.”

  Much to Isabelle’s horror, he bent his head and claimed her lips in a cruel, punishing kiss, one devoid of love or tenderness. It demanded submission and warned of reprisals if she dared complain.

  The duchess laughed. “Such fire in him. Your fiancé is besotted, my dear. You’re a lucky woman.”

  Too angry and humiliated to speak, Isabelle nodded and followed Sophie out of the room.

  Chapter Six

  After scrubbing her mouth vigorously with the back of her hand, Isabelle sat in the chair in front of the fireplace in her bedchamber. By tomorrow night, the news would be all over Paris. Isabelle de Caen, possibly with child, was going to marry the man taking her father’s place both as Count de Caen and Governor of Normandy. Isabelle Gaudier, widow of Pierre Gaudier, no longer existed, replaced by Sophie, sent to the colonies where no one would ever know the truth. Tears trickled down her cheeks.

  The sound of the door opening roused Isabelle from her despondency. She brushed away her tears and looked up to see Sophie, clad only in her nightdress. She closed the door behind her and ran over to her, collapsing on the floor at her feet.

  “Izzy, I know I have to go to New France because the king ordered it, and I can’t disobey the king, but look at what he’s done to me. They’ve even provided me with papers to prove it.” She thrust the documents into Isabelle’s hands.

  There were four separate sheets—a letter from the old King, dated two years before her own birth, congratulating her parents, a baptismal certificate that showed she’d been baptized here at St George’s mere days after her birth, a document renouncing any claim to the throne of France by Sophie de Caen not only for herself but for any children she bore, and a marriage certificate. Isabelle’s mouth fell open. She could swear on a stack of Bibles that the signatures there belonged to Sophie, Pierre, and Papa. The king must have a clever forger to create such accurate documents.

  “Where did you get these?”

  “The countess brought them to my room a few minutes ago. She said she’d come to bid me farewell and didn’t expect to see me again. If I ever return to France, I’ll be charged with witchcraft and burned at the stake like Joan of Arc. She’ll use my birthmark to prove it. She gave me the documents and this pouch and said they were my wedding gift from the king.” Tears crept down her pale cheeks. “They’ve not only stolen my identity and four years of my life, they’ve taken my virginity.”

  Isabelle shook her head, appalled by what Sophie said as well as by the documents she held. Forgeries like these didn’t get made overnight. Pierre had been charged with conspiracy, but if there was a scheme afoot, its roots were here in France, not in the colony. Could the documents that had condemned him have been counterfeit, too?

  “These papers make us truly sisters even if they are clever imitations.” She opened the pouch. There had to be at least a hundred livres inside. “You’re a rich woman now. Perhaps this is his majesty’s way of apologizing for everything.”

  Sophie stood and paced in front of the fireplace.

  “How can this be a good thing? An apology? My future husband won’t be gentle with me on our wedding night when these documents clearly show that I was married for over three years and should be an experienced woman.”

  Isabelle rose and took her cousin’s hands in hers. “You forget Pierre and I spent very little time together as man and wife. We were married less than a week when he was sent to the Spanish Netherlands after King Phillip of Spain died. He was back scarcely a fortnight when he was sent to New France, and we’d been together only a month when he was called before the king. It’s almost as if God himself conspired to keep us apart.” She sighed. “No one will expect you to be anything but what you are. You can say the marriage was never consummated. The man you marry will have no problem with that since a maidenhead is the best wedding gift a bride can give her husband.”

  She took Sophie by the shoulders, forcing the young girl to stop and look at her.

  “I had a visitor this afternoon.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “In Ville-Marie, Pierre is a seigneur with land and a fine house. With these documents you can claim them. Don’t worry about this.” She waved the papers in front of her. “The man’s name is Guy Poirier. Do you remember him?”

  “P’tit Guy? Of course.” Sophie’s tears slowed. “I also recall how you made cow’s eyes at him all those years ago. What were you twelve, thirteen?” She frowned. “You don’t remember? Do you recall the year Papa took us to visit the vicomte’s house near the Austrian border and Pierre’s half-sister, Anne, fell through the ice when we were skating? He’s the one who saved her life. He and Pierre went away to school the following year.”

  “P’tit Guy? Impossible! This soldier is tall and broad-shouldered. He spoke fluidly. As I recall now, P’tit Guy was skinny and short, so shy he couldn’t put two words together whenever he was near me.”

  Isabelle’s cheeks heated at the memory of the crush she’d had on the quiet young man. Back then, Pierre had been far too boisterous for her. She set aside her sudden memories of the gangling youth she’d been half in love with. Now that she knew who he was, she could see the resemblance. No wonder she’d reacted to him as she had.

  “He’s certainly changed. While he has a scar on his face and limps now, he’s still quite attractive. I believe you’ll sail on the same ship. He’ll know you aren’t Pierre’s widow. I’ll give you a letter for him, one in which I’ll explain everything as best I can. He wants Pierre’s land. If he’s not already married or promised, he might be willing to marry you for it.” Envy stabbed her. “He was Anne’s hero ten years ago; he can be yours now.” She stood and helped her cousin to her feet. “Go to bed. I’ll see you after Prime, I don’t want to waste a minute of our last few days together.”

  “Do you want me to help you undress before I go?” Sophie asked.

  “No, Murielle should be here soon. Goodnight.”

  Isabelle resumed her seat in front of the fireplace. The door opened and the gentle look of understanding on Murielle’s face was her undoing. Vicious sobs racked her body as she wept in the arms of the woman who’d cared for her for so
long.

  “Feeling better?” Murielle asked, when her tears had changed to hiccups. “Let’s get you out of that dress, brush out your hair, and get you into bed. You have a few hours before Prime. I know everything seems hopeless, but it’s the will of the king, and because it is, it’s the will of God. The Lord expects much of us, Madame Isabelle, but rewards those who do His bidding.”

  “Thank you,” she said, sniffling, feeling no better than she had before. “Did you know the king sent documents identifying Sophie not only as my sister, but as Pierre’s widow?”

  Murielle shook her head. “Who can understand the ways of the king? He must have his reasons. Ours is not to question them. Perhaps it’s for the best since no one will suspect you of being involved in your husband’s crimes—I know you believe him innocent, but an innocent man doesn’t get himself killed like that. Go to sleep, child. It’s in the hands of God now.”

  After Murielle blew out the bedside candle and left the room, Isabelle grabbed the heavy quilt from the bed and dragged it back to the chair by the fire. She sat contemplating the flames just as she had as a child. She’d realized one thing tonight. Two men in line for the throne ahead of her—her father and the Baron Deneuve—had died mysteriously. There was only one way out of this marriage to protect others with royal blood. Isabelle de Caen had to die.

  Six hours later, Isabelle awoke to the sound of knocking.

  “Madame, it’s Beatrice,” the girl called.

  She scrambled from the chair to the bed, throwing the quilt across herself as best she could, disarranging the pillows as she did. Considering the chevalier’s room was down the hall, the last thing she needed were the servants gossiping about where she’d spent the night, not that she’d gotten much sleep.

  She’d racked her brain for hours, examining the facts as she knew them, fitting the suppositions into place. There was no way she could accept that this plan had met her father’s approval, and as such, she searched for a way that Isabelle de Caen could die without having to die herself, so that she could discover the truth behind everything.

  To do that, she needed to get to New France. Was it possible for her to escape the country and have everyone think she’d died instead? The millpond was a deep one, some of the more superstitious peasants calling it a witch’s hole, one with no bottom. Could she pretend to drown and sneak away? But where could she go that she wouldn’t instantly be recognized? In the end, unable to come up with a single viable plan, she’d prayed to God, begging Him to strike her dead. Since she was alive, her prayers must’ve fallen on deaf ears. It looked as if she would be committing two sins now.

  No matter how hard she tried to focus on an escape plan, she’d been distracted by memories of Guy. Sophie was right. She’d been besotted by the slender lad with the serious nature and shy ways. The maid knocked again.

  “Come in,” she called.

  “Good morning, madame.”

  Beatrice placed a cup with her morning tisane on the table. It was forbidden to eat or drink anything else but warmed water and herbs before Holy Communion. The maid opened the heavy drapes.

  “Would you like me to help you get ready?”

  “No, thank you,” Isabelle answered. “Since I’ll dress simply for church, I can manage.”

  The young girl nodded, curtsied, and left the room.

  Isabelle braided her hair into the style she preferred, donned the black gown she’d worn yesterday, and slipped her feet into her worn boots. She affixed her heavily veiled bonnet to the top of her head and grabbed her long wool-lined black cape. If any of last night’s guests saw her, they would assume she was Sophie.

  What she needed to do this morning was find an opportunity to speak with Father Anselme, her father’s confessor. She needed to know why Papa hadn’t sent for her. As she descended the stairs, she heard voices in the foyer, and wishing to avoid the chevalier at all costs, she slipped out the servants’ entrance at the side of the house and crossed the courtyard to the church.

  The interior of St. George’s was dark this early in the day, the only light in the nave provided by the votive candles burning and the sanctuary lamp. Altar boys entered from the sacristy door and lit the tall candles on each side of the altar.

  Using holy water, Isabelle made the sign of the cross and genuflected, noting she wasn’t the first one here. A few of the older women from the town were already on their knees in prayer. She walked to the pew reserved for the governor’s family. Someone had placed warm bricks on the floor under the seat to provide warmth for her feet. The priest entered the sanctuary, and everyone rose.

  “This morning, we’ll offer prayers for the soul of Michel, Count de Caen. In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost.”

  Isabelle tried to focus on the liturgy, but she couldn’t concentrate. The correct responses, in Latin, came from her lips while her thoughts were miles away. She didn’t notice the sound of the door opening to admit a late penitent.

  “Je vous béni au nom du Père, et du Fils, et du Saint Esprit.”

  The final blessing given, the service was over.

  Instead of leaving the chapel, Father Anselme came down from the altar area and stood beside her.

  “Madame Gaudier, let me say once more how truly sorry I am for your losses. I know that at times like these, we feel God has abandoned us, but it’s just the opposite—suffering is good for the soul. I tried to get you alone yesterday, but I couldn’t. I have something for you.” He reached into the pocket of his cassock and removed a letter. “Your father gave me this the night before he died, not realizing how truly ill he was. I was to bring it to you at the abbey, but he passed on before I could. He was most insistent it be given directly to you and no one else. He made me swear on my oath as a priest not to mention it to anyone.” He handed the paper to Isabelle and left the sanctuary.

  Isabelle turned the paper over and recognised her father’s seal on the back of the letter. She traced the red wax imprint with one finger, tears slipping down her cheeks as she did. Sniffling, she broke the seal and unfolded the page.

  My darling daughter,

  By now, you’ve heard I’m ill. My doctor can’t understand it, since I respond to his treatment for a few days, only to become sicker afterwards. Solange has brought a physician from the court to tend to me, but to no avail. Neither man will confirm my suspicions, but I believe I’ve been poisoned—something that works slowly, but in the end, is fatal.

  I’m convinced you’re in danger, too. No matter what happens, you must stay away from Caen. I don’t know who’s to blame for this, but I suspect it’s tied to your husband’s death.

  I’ve begun inquiries into the charges against Pierre and the events that occurred in Paris. Things aren’t as they seem, and I’m worried. Those who spoke with the king’s guards have all vanished. Even the tavern where he was supposed to have played Piquet and lost no longer exists. As far as this duelist goes, the man is a ghost—no one can even describe him.

  My informant discovered Pierre delivered documents from the governor-general of New France to the president of the French West India Company shortly after his arrival in France. Since the charges against him stemmed from the colony, something in those documents must have been to blame. My man continues to search for answers.

  I love you and miss you. Be well my darling child. No matter what happens, follow your heart.

  Your loving Papa

  Isabelle sat in the pew and let the tears flow unimpeded down her cheeks. Since there was no mention of her hand being given to d’Angrignon, Papa couldn’t have agreed to it, and his spirit would support her efforts to avoid it, although he might draw the line at suicide. Whoever was behind this had to have been at work on it for months—even before Pierre returned to France—that meant whoever had framed and killed him might’ve murdered her father as well. Who had Papa suspected had poisoned him? The countess? She had the easiest access to his food and drink, but how would Pierre’s death benefit her? Isabel
le folded the letter and slipped it into the pocket of her dress.

  She was startled when a man sat beside her and, frightened by her father’s words, she jumped up ready to flee. Familiar brown eyes pinned her in place.

  Guy hadn’t worn his uniform. Instead, he’d chosen to blend in with the other penitents who’d attended the first church service of the day. He’d allowed his hair to fall forward, hiding his scar, further obscuring his identity. Like an answer to prayer, he held out his arms.

  Desperate for a touch of human kindness, Isabelle went into them and cried until she was sure there were no tears left inside. Gradually, she became aware of the thumping of Guy’s heart, of his breathing, and the warmth suffusing her. Before she could nestle any deeper into his arms, she realized where she was and pulled away.

  Guy released her. “Feeling better?”

  The question had become a familiar one to Isabelle. Everyone thought a few tears would heal even the deepest wounds, but there were some hurts which could never be mended by tears alone.

  “Yes, thank you. We can’t stay here. People will arrive soon for the next mass. Come. Walk with me.”

  * * *

  Guy followed Isabelle out of the church, across the courtyard, and outside the castle walls. He slowed his pace as they strolled toward the millpond. Walking beside her, he bathed in her fresh scent. He could never smell a rose without thinking of her.

  She stopped under a tree at the edge of the water. The crab apple was in bud. Within a week or so, it would be covered in fragrant blossoms. Around Ville-Marie, trees and bushes would be budding as well, and the men would be collecting the sap from the maple trees.

  “This was Pierre’s favorite spot. We often came here to skip stones,” Isabelle said, turning to gaze up at him. “I don’t know why you’ve come again—and don’t say it was to attend Prime. There are many churches in Rouen which would do as well.”

  “I came to see you. I wanted to talk to you away from the walls that listen.” He chuckled and looked around. Cattle wandered toward the pond, followed by fat geese and a couple of ducks. The sun was rising, painting the eastern sky pink and violet. “I think we can speak freely here.”