Fortunately, it seemed Antoinette, too, was in no mood to waste any time. With alacrity she took her place in the velvet-lined seat and bid Philippe to drive on. He did not hesitate. For a few minutes, until they were well away from anyone’s earshot, the only sound was the hiss of runners over crisp snow.
“Well, Philippe,” the princess said at length. “I suppose you’d better tell me what has gone amiss between you and Honneure. This morning, when the two of you came to me and asked for permission to marry, I was overjoyed. It’s the perfect solution for everyone. Now, however, Honneure is telling me she cannot go away with you.”
“I apologize deeply to you, Highness, for the trouble you’ve had to take.”
“Nonsense.” Antoinette waved a dainty, gloved hand dismissively. “You know how fond I am of both of you. Your happiness matters very much to me. I was devastated last night to learn of the king’s decision to send Honneure to Le Parc aux Cerfs. You cannot imagine how happy I was to give my permission to you to marry Honneure and take her out of harm’s way. But now she says she cannot go, she cannot leave me. She will wed you, happily, joyfully … but she will not leave the palace.”
Philippe briefly closed his eyes. He spoke just loud enough to be heard over the wind rushing in their faces. “Honneure is devoted to Your Majesty.”
“But at her own peril?”
“So it seems, Majesty. Ever since she was a little girl, she has felt her loyalties intensely.”
“It is an admirable quality, Philippe. Yet this time, I fear, it will not stand her in good stead. Can you not speak to her again, reason with her? Unless she is well away, I’m afraid the king will have what he wants. And soon. I have put him off for a day or two, saying I must find someone to replace Honneure. But the king is, as you know, an impatient man. He will have what he desires.”
“Even if we are wed?”
“In this Court marriage is not viewed as an obstacle to one’s desires,” Antoinette replied so quietly Philippe had to strain to hear her. “No, you must take her away. At once. And you must convince her yourself. I’ve done all I can. I have even, as you know, promised to find you another position. But she stands firm.”
There was nothing more to say … except to Honneure. And he was at a loss. She already had her hackles up at his insistence that her devotion was misplaced. The dauphine had released her, and her place was with him, at his side. Why was she unable to see that?
The temptation rose strongly in Philippe to tell Honneure what he suspected, in fact was almost certain of, about her past. Perhaps fear could do what reason could not.
But he couldn’t tell her, at least not now, not yet. She had suffered enough trauma and distress in the last few days. He could not add to it a potentially crushing knowledge.
With a heavily burdened soul, Philippe returned the princess to her party in the courtyard. “Take heart,” she said in an undertone as she climbed from the sleigh. “Come to my apartment when you’re done. I’ll make sure Honneure is there to speak with you.”
It was all he could do. He turned the mare back in the direction of the stables and cracked the buggy whip over her flank. She stepped out briskly, long mane lifting from her elegantly curved neck. It took only a few minutes to return to the stables.
There was a great deal of activity, as usual. Philippe did not notice at first the footman making his way in his direction. When he saw him at last, he smiled grimly at the man’s nervousness around horses. It was obvious he was from the palace.
“Philippe Mansart?” the footman asked tentatively as he sidestepped the mare.
When Philippe nodded, the man handed him a slip of paper. Philippe thanked him curtly and unfolded the note, which said, “Dearest Philippe, I must see you as soon as possible. Please meet me in the Salon of Hercules. I await you.”
The note was not signed and scribbled so hastily he barely recognized the handwriting, but it had to be from Honneure. Had she changed her mind? Is that why she wished to see him now? Hope leaped in Philippe’s heart.
It didn’t take long to unhitch and rub down the mare, yet it seemed an eternity. The afternoon waned, and time was of the essence. Every day, every moment counted now. He hurried from the stable and jogged toward the palace.
It occurred to Philippe as he entered the first of the courts that funneled visitors into the château, that the Salon of Hercules was an unusual place for Honneure to request a rendezvous. If he was not mistaken, it was part of the greater area that made up the king’s suite of apartments. But perhaps that was the reason. At this time of day, late in the afternoon and before the commencement of evening activities, they would undoubtedly have privacy. Philippe hastened his steps.
He had been correct. After a hurried inquiry, a footman directed him up the King’s Staircase.
Philippe hesitated at the top of the royal stair. A few passing servants eyed him curiously, but no one questioned him, dressed as he was in the dauphine’s livery. He looked to the left, toward the actual living quarters where the majority of the activity seemed to be taking place, and proceeded to the right. He passed through two grand and gilded reception chambers, the Salon of Abundance and the Salon of Venus, and came at last to the Salon of Hercules.
The chamber was greater in dimension than the previous two rooms had been and just as ornate. Philippe’s eyes were drawn upward to the fantastic ceiling painting of the triumph of Hercules, and he did not notice, at first, the figure standing in a corner of the huge room.
“Philippe. I’m so glad you’ve come.”
The voice was low, seductive, and familiar. And it made his flesh crawl. He halted in midstride.
“You.” A single word, yet the tone of it fully revealed the depth of his loathing for her. “What are you doing here?”
“Why, meeting you, as my note clearly stated,” Olivia replied smoothly. She wanted to fly at him and scratch his eyes out. But she would have her revenge, against both of them. Very soon now. “I assume you got my message … That’s why you’re here?”
“Your message.” Philippe’s hands were clenched into fists.
“Yes, of course. Why, Philippe? Did you simply assume the note was from … another?”
He knew he should simply turn and walk out. But a visceral curiosity delayed him.
Olivia took advantage of it. From a cut crystal decanter on a small table she poured two glasses of wine, then carried them toward Philippe.
“You can stop right where you are, Olivia.”
“But, Philippe,” Olivia protested with a smile, “we must toast your good news. We must raise a glass to you and your … future bride.”
Philippe felt his blood run cold. “How did you know?” he demanded.
“Oh, Philippe, you know how the palace is. There are no secrets.”
Ice continued to creep through his veins. It made it difficult to move. But she was approaching him again, moving closer. He managed to turn away.
“Wait, Philippe. Don’t go. We really must celebrate. So much good news in a mere twenty-four hours!” Olivia halted in front of Philippe and smiled up at him. “Your engagement. And Honneure’s winning the king’s favor …”
“Olivia!”
Both looked toward the door. Madame du Barry frowned at Olivia in mock disapproval.
“I thought this was to be a toast to good news. I’m sure your handsome friend doesn’t wish to be reminded of any unpleasantness at this particular moment. Neither do I, for that matter.” On satin-slippered feet, the comtesse glided toward the pair in the center of the room.
Philippe stood rigid in stunned, awkward silence. What was going on?
Madame du Barry took one of the glasses, the one nearest her, from Olivia and handed it to Philippe. “Take it, please. I insist.” When Philippe reluctantly complied, she took the second glass of wine.
“I’m sure you’re wondering what this is all about, are you not?” The comtesse allowed her gaze to caress the equerry from head to foot. He was as divinel
y good-looking as Olivia had said. Perhaps when this was all over and the rival for the affections of both of their lovers had been driven from the palace, she would have a taste of what Olivia found so delicious.
“It is just as Olivia has said. She and I, too, would like to toast your happiness. Olivia because she considers you a dear friend, and I … well, I’m certain I don’t have to spell out to a man as intelligent as yourself why I would like to see the lovely Honneure happily wed and no longer a temptation to the king.”
With a smile on her expertly painted lips, the comtesse touched Philippe’s glass. “To love.” She drank.
Philippe felt he was caught in the bizarre and complex web of a nightmare from which he could not awaken. This simply could not be happening. But it was. And he wanted it over with as soon as possible. Throwing back his head, he drained the goblet dry.
“I … hardly know how to thank Madame,” he said with what he hoped was an air of finality. “It is kind and generous of you to take note of and care about the lives of mere servants.”
“Oh, I do care,” the comtesse purred. “More than you know.”
“Then I thank you again and will take my … take my … leave …”
“Olivia? I think you should summon a footman. Your friend doesn’t appear … quite himself.”
Philippe heard the comtesse’s words, but they seemed to come from very far away, and he couldn’t make sense of them. He only knew he had to get away. He turned toward the doorway.
Someone was coming through the door. And he couldn’t move his feet. They seemed rooted to the parquet floor. His body, however, had already begun to lean in the direction he wished to go.
The floor came up to meet him, slowly …
Winter’s early night was falling, and the setting sun laid sheets of pink and gold atop the fresh snow. Honneure caught her breath as she stood at the window preparing to draw the drapes. The world sparkled, glittered, and almost seemed on fire with color so pale yet pure that it hurt the eye.
But cold stung the flesh, and window glass was too thin a barrier against the winter night. Reluctantly, Honneure pulled the heavy silken drapes together and arranged their folds. Behind her Madame Thierry lit the lamps while another servant banked the fire. Madame Campan was in the princess’s boudoir buttoning the gown Antoinette had chosen for the evening. The dogs, walked and fed, were asleep in their beds in a corner of the salon. Her day was almost done.
Where was Philippe?
“Everything is done here,” Madame Thierry said. “At least until the dauphine returns from supper. You may take some time for yourself, if you like.”
“Thank you, but no. I think I’ll wait here.”
“As you wish. I’m going to spend some time with my son. Good evening.”
Honneure curtsied in response. Madame Thierry as well as the other servant left, and the room was suddenly very quiet. Too quiet.
There must be something else to do. Honneure turned, critical eye surveying the room, but everything was perfect. She could find nothing to busy her fingers and occupy her mind. She could avoid reality no longer. And reality was that she had driven Philippe away with her stubborn loyalty and determination.
Honneure clasped her hands and squeezed them together as stinging tears rose to her eyes. Though she tried to stay the memory, it was too new, too fresh. She saw the look in Philippe’s eyes as he had proposed, the love and devotion. He would do anything for her; he had proved it. He was willing to give up the best position he could ever possibly have just for love of her, to make and keep her safe. And how had she responded? Honneure winced as the morning’s memory assailed her.
Together, hand in hand, she and Philippe had had an audience with the dauphine. Her delight in their decision to wed had been genuine. She had been saddened, certainly, to hear Philippe say he and Honneure must find a place elsewhere to be out of the king’s extensive reach but had agreed it was necessary. She had even offered to help them find a new position. Honneure blushed as she recalled her response to the generous offer.
She had turned it down flat with protestations that she could never leave the princess’s service. And how could she? Antoinette had been so good to them both. Despite her elevated station, she had been a friend to them. And she had so few friends herself within the Court. How could she possibly desert the princess?
After having an entire day to reflect, Honneure’s mind offered her a ready response. She should leave because it was the only way she would be truly safe from the king. She should leave because she belonged with Philippe. She had known it the instant he had proposed. It was right. Honneure also recalled what the princess had said to her when Philippe, hurt, had finally left.
“Remember, Honneure, that I came here as a foreign princess. I thought, when I first arrived, that my loyalties should continue to lie with my mother and my country, Austria. And in the beginning I was correct. By my deportment I represented my country well. Many hard feelings against my country have been softened as a result. Yet should something go amiss, if, God forbid, relations between France and Austria were to become strained, where should my loyalties be then?”
Honneure had known exactly what the dauphine was telling her.
“Your … your duty would be to your … your husband.”
The dauphine had nodded slowly, and Honneure had admired such wisdom in one so young. She would make a great queen one day. Also one day the dauphin would see what a wonderful wife she had already become.
What kind of a wife will I be? Honneure wondered. She was beginning to fear she would never find out.
Where was Philippe? Had she really driven him away?
Honneure was so deep into her thoughts, so entrenched in her anxiety she jumped when the knock came at the door. She hurried to answer it.
“I have a message for Mademoiselle Honneure Mansart,” the young page boy announced solemnly.
“I am Honneure Mansart.”
Wordlessly, he handed her a folded piece of paper, bowed slightly from the waist, and departed.
She opened the note. Before you make any decisions that will affect the rest of your life, come at once to Madame du Barry’s chambers. It was signed simply, A Friend.
Honneure crumpled the note and tried to still the hammering of her heart. What was going on?
Dark premonition closed around her shoulders like a heavy cloak. Nothing associated with Madame du Barry would ever come to any good. She should ignore the missive and wait for Philippe. He would come. He would.
Honneure found herself opening the door.
She had always thought the Queen’s Staircase was grand. The King’s Stair dwarfed it. The sheer size and elegance of it, the splendor of the courtiers traversing it, made her feel as insignificant as an insect. Her apprehension increased, and her steps faltered.
What was she doing after all? How could this have anything to do with Philippe? It was probably some scheme Madame du Barry had concocted to further torment the princess. She should have no part of this whatsoever.
Yet the note had said it pertained to her life, not Antoinette’s. It referred to her decision, and the only decision she was making was about marrying Philippe. Curiosity drove Honneure on as surely as the lash of a whip drove an ox.
Honneure knew, indeed all knew, that the comtesse’s suite of rooms adjoined the king’s. She proceeded to the door of the salon and found it ajar. Cautiously, she stepped into the sumptuous chamber.
The room was empty, eerily quiet. Where could everyone be? It was no secret the comtesse had at least as many servants as the dauphine did. Where had they all gone?
A door on the other side of the salon was also open. Honneure tiptoed across the carpeted floor. Hands braced on the doorjamb, she looked into the next room.
It was a short hallway. Several doors opened onto it, and the nearest one was also open. It was almost like an invitation.
Something was wrong, very wrong. Honneure still had seen no sign of a single soul. But t
he temptation was more than she could bear. She stepped into the hall and crossed to the open door.
It was a small sitting room, prettily decorated in pink and gilt. A floral Aubusson carpet in shades of pink and pale green covered the floor. A dainty, Chinese-style secretary graced one corner of the room. A wide, pillow-strewn bench stood in another. A thin, silken shawl of lavender covered two figures reclining on the bench. The fringed ends of the coverlet trailed on the floor.
Honneure must have made a sound when she entered the room, because the person nearest the door stirred and sat up. The shawl fell away from her breasts, and Honneure could see she was naked.
“Honneure.” Olivia’s uptilted eyes perfectly complemented her feline smile. “What a surprise.”
It was not a surprise, not at all. Olivia couldn’t possibly look more confident. Honneure didn’t have to wonder who lay next to her.
It was her fault. She had driven him away. He had offered her all his love, everything, but she had attached conditions to hers. He had put her first, above all. She had put duty first. He had turned to Olivia. And she deserved it.
As Honneure slowly backed from the room, Olivia let the coverlet fall away completely. She did not want to look. She knew what she would see.
He was as beautiful unclothed as she had always known he would be. His body was long and lean, and the musculature as perfect as if he had been sculpted. His limbs were akimbo, his long hair falling across a velvet pillow. He was asleep.
In a single instant, Honneure’s heart, her life, shattered. She turned and started to run.
Chapter Eighteen
“I’ve found a larger trunk,” Madame Campan told the princess.
Antoinette looked up from her clavichord. She bestowed a small smile on her chief chambermaid, but her expression remained sad.
“Thank you for taking the time to look, dear Campan.”
By Honor Bound Page 18