“A page is bringing it,” Madame Campan continued and brushed her hands together as if she had gotten them dusty. “It’s one of Your Majesty’s older ones.”
“But in good condition, I trust.”
“Of course. I also packed in it two or three of the day gowns you no longer wear.”
“How thoughtful, Campan!”
“We can’t let her leave here with the few things she brought with her,” the older woman went on as if she had not heard. “Certainly her livery is no longer useful.”
“No,” the dauphine murmured. “I’m afraid not.”
“And although she leaves here, she still represents the Court. She was in your employ. She was recommended for her new … position … by one of Your Majesty’s ladies.”
“You have done well, Campan,” the princess said gently. “She will be very grateful. I know I am.” Antoinette rose from her clavichord bench, crossed to her maid, and took her hands. “You’ve grown very fond of her. I know how much you’ll miss her. So will I.”
“She’s a lovely, intelligent girl,” Madame Campan replied sorrowfully. “Her loyalty to you was unquestioned. You cannot afford to lose people like that.”
Antoinette sighed. “I cannot afford to let her stay.”
The two women exchanged glances, no explanations needed. Madame Campan knew everything as she had been with her mistress when the Duc D’Aiguillon had come to her chambers. He had begged the dauphine’s pardon for the intrusion, then had gotten straight to the point.
“I do not know all the details involved in this … situation. Nor do I think I want to, as it seems a rather sordid affair. But I do know this much. The king wishes your servant, Honneure Mansart, to proceed at once to the hunting lodge. Particularly since a betrothal, of which he was recently informed, now seems to be broken off. Conversely, the comtesse wants the girl in question to leave the palace at once, claiming she is involved in a domestic scandal that directly affects her entourage.”
At this point, the duke had had the good grace to look somewhat embarrassed. The yellow cast of his skin actually appeared to redden.
“For the sake of peace in the Court,” he had eventually resumed, “I would urge you to send the girl away. The comtesse bid me to tell you she would be in your debt.”
“Though difficult, it is definitely to your benefit for Honneure to leave us,” Madame Campan said at last, bringing both women back to the present. “A respite from the comtesse’s machinations would give Your Majesty time to concentrate on more important matters.”
Antoinette knew immediately to what she referred. Her husband would indeed be grateful to have the petty bickering over once and for all. If he saw her hand in it, he would be prouder still. Yet the princess’s conscience bothered her.
“But look where we are sending her, Campan.”
“What choice did you have? Unless Honneure is safely married, there is still the chance the king will pursue her.”
Antoinette raised her hands to her cheeks and shook her head. “My friend, dear Madame Dupin, offered to take her back at Chenonceau, but I fear to involve her. Du Barry has taken a dislike to her so great she has even been afraid to appear at Court. And I miss her!”
“Perhaps the comtesse will relent, as the duke assured us. When Honneure is gone, perhaps Madame Dupin will be able to return.”
“Oh, it is all so distressing, Campan.” Antoinette sank heavily into the nearest chair. “And the worst part is … what was Philippe thinking? How could he turn to that odious woman, Olivia, so quickly? He and Honneure would have worked it out. In truth, I’m sure Honneure had already come around to our way of thinking. How did everything go so terribly wrong?”
Madame Campan looked up thoughtfully. “I believe we should give Philippe himself a chance to explain it.”
“No!” Color rose to Antoinette’s cheeks. “Honneure does not wish to speak to him, and neither do I. His actions spoke loud enough for themselves.”
Madame Campan remained silent, but she wondered. She knew both Honneure and Philippe and had seen them together. She believed in their love. Deep in her heart she could not believe Philippe would have betrayed Honneure like this. But someone who hated her would.
“Think, Majesty, about who is involved in this, and about who might wish Honneure injury and have her well away from Versailles.”
Antoinette’s response was interrupted by the chiming of a mantle clock. She jumped to her feet.
“I haven’t time to think, Campan. The Abbé will be here any moment, and I’ve not finished practicing.” The princess returned to her clavichord and sat down. “But I will tell you this,” she added as she ran her fingers over the keys. “I am heartsick about the way this has all turned out. My only consolation is that Honneure will be safe. Happiness in this case is secondary. Honneure will be safe and respectably married. She at least will have a chance to lead a decent life.”
Madame Campan silently prayed it would be so.
Honneure marveled that her clothes and personal belongings were packed so neatly in the trunk. Her fingers were as numb as the rest of her. She could not feel them at all, and how she had managed to manipulate them so well was incomprehensible. She closed the lid of the trunk, locked it, and put the key in her small handbag. It had been incredibly kind of the princess to give her the things she would need for the start of her new life.
Her new life. Married to a stranger, an old man. A new home in Normandy, on the north coast of France. A new life.
Honneure said the words over and over in her mind, hoping she would feel something, anything. But her feelings were dead, she felt nothing, and it was probably a blessing. She remembered the first hours and days after she had found Philippe and Olivia together. She remembered the agonizing, unbearable pain and rivers of tears. She had been grateful when the slow numbing had begun. She could even picture Philippe in her mind’s eye now, his beautiful, naked body stretched beside Olivia, without feeling the dagger of grief reenter her heart. She could face her future with a stranger in a strange place without quaking with fear. Her prayer should probably be that this spiritless half-life would never end.
The distant chiming of the princess’s mantle clock told Honneure it was nearly time. The coach her husband-to-be had sent for her would be arriving soon. She glanced about her small room for the final time.
The bed was neatly made, the dresser empty. Nothing personal, no reminder of her remained. Even the dogs were gone, kindly removed by Madame Thierry. The sight of them had brought tears too easily to her eyes.
No, everything was packed away. It was over, finished. She had left nothing behind.
Nothing.
The jacket no longer fit tightly across his smooth, hard midsection. There was room to spare. Philippe finished closing the long row of silver buttons and pulled his fingers through his hair. He did not care how he looked. He cared about little. He could not eat; he didn’t sleep, although he tried. He prayed for sleep, for relief, however brief, from the relentless, gnawing pain and frustration. But he would not give up. Sooner or later, someone would have to talk to him.
Philippe left his tiny room and strode purposefully into the barn aisle toward the doors. He was going to try again, just as he did every morning and afternoon. He would besiege the princess for as long as it took until she consented to see him, talk to him. If she would only listen to him, he would convince her; he was certain. The dauphine was one of the most decent people he had ever known. When he told her the truth, she would recognize it. She would speak to Honneure. Everything would be right again. It was just a matter of time.
The winter chill hit him the moment he stepped through the doors, but he barely felt it. His mind was focused on his errand, the task at hand. He left the huge, comma-shaped building and entered the broad, busy avenue that was the approach to the palace. It was crowded with mounted riders, coaches of all description, and pedestrians. He hardly noticed the nondescript carriage just approaching him.
/> Philippe paused to let the coach-and-four pass him. As he did, he happened to glance at the vehicle’s occupant.
She was dressed in a modest hat and suit, suitable for travel. A trunk was tied to the roof of the carriage.
“Honneure!”
The horses were moving at a smart trot. When she turned her head, their eyes met for only a fraction of a second. Then she was gone. Philippe broke into a run.
“Honneure!”
She heard him. Heard his boots pounding the ground behind them. Heard him call her name, again and again. Heard the ragged sound of his breathing. The sob that caught in his throat. Then … nothing. The carriage rolled on.
Honneure did not look back.
Chapter Nineteen
After a morning of brilliant sun and moderate temperatures, the snow had begun to melt. Dark patches of earth blossomed from beneath a thinning blanket of white. Naked tree branches dripped crystalline beads of water. As the afternoon wore on, however, the sky clouded over, and the elongated droplets became icicles. Once again the world froze.
Madame Campan tugged on the leashes to hurry her charges along. Though the sky was dark, it was too cold to snow. She shivered and pulled the shawl more tightly about her shoulders. At least the wind isn’t blowing, she thought gratefully and quickened her steps as she entered the Forward Court.
She saw him immediately, although it was a wonder she recognized him. His skin was pale, features haggard. There was dark stubble on his chin, purple bruises beneath his eyes, and his long hair tangled at his shoulders. It looked as if he hadn’t eaten or slept in days, and her heart went out to him.
Philippe’s dark eyes bored straight into her. There was no way she could pass him without stopping. And she did not feel even the tiniest prick of disloyalty. There was more to the story than had been told, and it was about time someone heard it.
The dogs greeted Philippe joyfully, but he ignored them. He held out his hands imploringly to Madame Campan.
“Please,” he begged. “You must help me.”
“I intend to,” Madame Campan stated flatly. She took one of his outstretched hands. “Come with me.”
Gray. Everything was gray. Barely an hour after they had left Versailles and headed north, the sun had disappeared behind a solid wall of sullen clouds. It was as if all light, all life, remained behind in Versailles and she was headed into a world, a future, of bleak desolation. It hardly seemed to matter.
The coachman had stopped for the night at an inn along the Paris road. She had eaten her solitary dinner in a corner of the public room near a roaring fire and retired early. She had risen in the dark and was waiting for the coachman when he hitched the horses at dawn. The journey had commenced.
They had traveled all day, skirting Paris. The farther north they went, the darker and colder it became. They passed through villages where the cottages seemed to huddle together against the winter chill, columns of smoke rising uniformly from each chimney. The only sound was that of hoofbeats on hard-packed, frozen ground, and the only sensation was the constant, biting cold.
On the afternoon of the second day, almost twenty-four hours exactly after she had left Versailles, Honneure saw the sea for the first time. The carriage road made a gradual turn to the right, until they were headed nearly due east, and suddenly there it was on her left. It was as gray and somber as the sky. Looking down at a wide, sandy beach, she saw lazy waves breaking in a white foam upon the shore.
They rode beside the water for some time, then turned slightly away, to the southeast, and climbed a hill. Trees lined the road and soon surrounded them completely. The cold and dark seemed to weigh upon Honneure.
There were no signs of life in the forest, not a squirrel or fox, not even a bird. From somewhere nearby she heard the harsh, cheerless cry of a raven, but the voice was disembodied. The road deteriorated, and Honneure was forced to brace herself with hands pressed to the carriage’s interior walls. A misting rain began to fall.
Was the frigid, dismal afternoon lightening? Honneure turned her attention to the view outside the window.
The forest had been left behind, although trees still bordered the road. But they were trees in orderly rows, small trees, with bare, gnarled branches twisting upward toward the somber sky. On Honneure’s right they stretched upward to the crest of the hill; on her left they fell away down to the sea. Apples. They were passing through an apple orchard.
Honneure’s pulse quickened slightly. She must be nearing her destination.
“The gentleman’s name is Armand Tremblay,” Madame Campan had said to her gently. They had been sitting together in the dauphine’s salon. “He is a distant cousin of Madame Thierry. He owns a large and prosperous apple orchard near Honfleur, in Normandy, and he has recently lost his wife. He does not know the details of your plight. Madame Thierry’s message to him merely said you wished to live a quieter life away from Court. He is eager to wed again and readily agreed to his cousin’s suggestion. We have been fortunate, indeed, to find such a suitable, respectable placement for you. And so quickly.”
Fortunate. Yes. She was fortunate.
Through dull eyes, Honneure watched the orchards give way to a grassy expanse. There had been no snow, or it had melted, and the grass was long and surprisingly green. The road turned upward to the right, and she saw a rock wall. The coach passed through an open wooden gate, and the horses slowed.
They were in a farmyard. There was a long, low barn of gray stone with a thatched roof. Across from it was a modest, timbered house, its roof also of thatch. The coachman climbed from his bench, opened her door, and pulled down the steps. Ducking through the low door, Honneure exited the coach and stepped onto dark, bare earth. The door to the house opened.
The man appeared to be well past middle age. He was thin, almost gaunt, with a pronounced stoop. Thin, gray hair straggled across his head. But he walked steadily toward her. There was an expression that might have been a smile on his thin, pinched lips. His brown eyes were as bright as a sparrow’s, and they flicked over her from head to foot. He stopped directly in front of her.
“I am Armand,” he said in a surprisingly strong voice. “And you will be Honneure Mansart.”
She could only nod.
Again his eyes traveled the length of her body. They lingered for a moment on her bosom and slender waist. Then he turned abruptly to the coachman and waved an age-spotted hand.
“Off with you! Begone! You were paid in advance!”
The coachman scurried to remove Honneure’s trunk from the top of the coach and dropped it unceremoniously to the ground. Moments later the horses trotted through the gate, and with a sick, sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach, Honneure watched the coach disappear down the road.
“You’ll do,” Armand said with a throaty chuckle. This time Honneure had no doubt the man was smiling. But there was no humor in his expression.
The sinking feeling turned to outright dread.
“Since this is a marriage of convenience,” Armand went on, “I find it convenient to get it over with as soon as possible. The ceremony will be tomorrow. You can bring your trunk into the house.” Without another word he turned and walked away.
Honneure hesitated, but no one else appeared. There did not seem to be any servants. Armand walked inside and closed the door without looking back.
She was caught in a nightmare. This had to be a nightmare.
Picking up one end of the heavy trunk, Honneure began to drag it toward the house.
The dauphine raised both hands and pressed them to her mouth. Her blue eyes were wide with horror and distress. Even Madame Campan’s expression did not remain undisturbed.
“Philippe, dear God. How horrible. How could they?”
“We all know very well how,” Madame Campan put in. “The real question is, how do we undo the harm?”
“It’s all my fault,” Antoinette cried suddenly. “If only I had listened to you sooner. How can you ever forgive me, Philippe?”<
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He dropped at once to his knees at the princess’s feet. “Just tell me where she’s gone. Lend me a horse. Let me go after her. Please.”
Antoinette and Madame Campan exchanged quick glances. Anguish etched itself into the dauphine’s delicate features.
“She has gone to Normandy,” Madame Campan said at length, softly.
Philippe jumped up and turned to the older woman. “Where? Where in Normandy?”
“Near Honfleur, but …”
“Just tell me exactly where.”
Madame Campan sighed and closed her eyes. How could she tell him?
“She has gone to the farm of a man named Armand Tremblay,” she continued finally. “It lies to the west of Honfleur. But wait … wait, Philippe … Listen to me!”
Philippe paused in his flight toward the salon door.
“Please understand that we were only trying to protect Honneure. The best way we knew how. She … she has gone to Normandy to … to wed Monsieur Tremblay.”
His blood seemed to freeze in his veins. “What?”
“I’m so sorry, Philippe,” Antoinette said, finding her voice at last. “But it seemed the only way to keep her safe from the king. And it seemed so ideal. She won’t even be a servant anymore but wife to a respected and wealthy far—”
“May I take a horse?”
“Philippe …”
“May I take a horse?”
Antoinette flinched and Madame Campan started to protest, but the expression of stark desperation in Philippe’s dark eyes stayed her. She looked at her mistress, her own gaze beseeching.
The dauphine nodded. “Of course. Take the swiftest mount in my stable. Take the Lipizzan mare if you wish.”
Philippe started to leave but turned and swiftly crossed to the princess. Once more he dropped to his knees at her feet. Though he knew it was not proper, he took her small hands in his own and pressed them briefly to his lips.
“Thank you,” he whispered. “Thank you.”
“Go with God, Philippe. And ride like the wind.”
By Honor Bound Page 19