Chapter Twenty
The weather had not relented. Under glowering skies, Honneure climbed up in the farm wagon and sat next to her husband-to-be. The boy who had appeared earlier that morning to feed Armand’s few animals and muck the stalls stood in the yard. He watched them roll through the gate, and then he ducked back into the barn. It was as if he was the only other person in the world beside herself and Armand. When he disappeared, Honneure was alone again with the only other human on earth, a stranger. The man she was about to marry. The nightmare went on and on.
The wagon rumbled and bounced along the rutted road. A few snowflakes fell but melted rapidly. Armand did not speak. He did not even look at her. Honneure supposed she should be grateful.
Their evening together had been strained and silent. With curt gestures and a few half-grunted words, he had indicated that she was to make him dinner. She had done so, though she had not joined him at the table. He had not seemed to care.
“You will sleep tonight in that room,” Armand had said as she had emerged from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a linen cloth, and pointed to one of two doors off the small sitting area.
The room was small and spare but clean. There were lace curtains at the single window, yellowed but intact. There was a plain, pine dresser with a pitcher and basin, a simple, sturdy chair, and a bed. Honneure had lain down without even undressing or opening her trunk. When next she had opened her eyes, a pale light was falling through her window.
“Bread and honey will suffice for today,” Armand had informed her when she had entered the kitchen. “But don’t think you will get off so easily any other morning.”
That had been the extent of their conversation up to this moment. When he had left the house, she had known he expected her to follow, and she had. She had seen the boy, the horse hitched to the wagon. She had climbed in. Now she was on her way to her wedding.
Honfleur was a seaside village. Several cottages surrounded a protected harbor. Small fishing boats rocked at their moorings. The streets were cobbled, and the wagon bumped noisily and uncomfortably toward the stone church. The horse’s shoes clanged on the stones.
At least there were people. Honneure looked down on them as they passed them in the wagon. They were dressed in bulky, winter peasant clothes. Some eyed her with mild curiosity. Most ignored her. A few nodded respectfully at Armand.
The priest in the church appeared to have expected them. A tall, spare, balding man, he greeted Armand with quiet dignity, then turned to Honneure.
“You are the bride, Honneure Mansart.”
“Yes, Father.” She dropped a small curtsy. The priest smiled at her with genuine warmth, and she felt something within her begin to thaw. A prick of emotion deep within her breast reminded her she was alive.
“You have come from the court of Versailles, I understand.”
Honneure nodded but did not allow her mind, her memory, to go back there. She could not bear to.
“Armand has told me your desire is to lead a simpler life, here in the country.”
Again, she nodded. The priest’s gaze bore into her, and it took all her willpower not to look away. He knew there was more to her story, a great deal more. He was giving her a chance to tell it.
But she would not. The past was dead and gone. Her future might be grim, but it was hers. It was all she had.
“I do indeed wish to live my life away from the Court,” she said, looking the priest straight in the eye. That much, at least, was true.
“You were a servant, were you not?”
“Yes, to the dauphine,” Honneure replied with pride. “She is a kind and generous person. It was with her blessing and her aid that I was able to come to Normandy and be … be respectably married.”
“And you join in this union with Armand Tremblay of your own free will?”
Honneure glanced at the man beside her. He was old enough to be her grandfather. So, however, was the king. At least this man offered marriage, refuge. What did age matter? It mattered as little as love. It mattered not at all.
The pain of the betrayal, the shock and grief, were still there, stuffed down deep within her. It was a ball of fiery agony that would consume her if she let it. She felt it pushing at her, putting pressure on her throat, making it impossible to speak. She swallowed, took a deep breath, shoved it back down. Honneure licked her dry lips.
“Yes. It is my voluntary decision to wed Armand Tremblay.”
“Very well.” The priest nodded solemnly. “Then let us waste no more time.”
Philippe knew the mare would run on until she died beneath him. It was her nature. Long favorites of the Viennese court, Lipizzans were the chosen mounts of officers riding into battle. Their agility enabled them to perform incredible maneuvers, both offensive and defensive. More importantly, their intelligence and loyalty had saved many a rider’s life. The mare would do whatever he asked of her. But could he ask her to die?
The wind rushed in Philippe’s face, and the ground sped past. She could go on a lot longer, he knew. Her ancestors had been bred and raised on the Slovenian-Italian border, where the grass of the karst was poor in nutrients but good for horses’ bone structure. The result was a breed prized for its strength and stamina.
But she was winded. Foam flying back from her mouth flecked her withers, and her white hide was dark with sweat. He couldn’t ask her for more. He just couldn’t.
The mare slowed to a collected canter, then dropped down to a trot. Her head was low, her neck so tired she could no longer hold it up. Philippe pulled her to a walk.
Steam rose in the cold air from her shoulders and flanks. Her sides heaved with the effort to breathe. Her nostrils flared wide and red, and smoke puffed from them rapidly. Philippe halted her and felt her knees try to buckle. He slid quickly from the saddle.
They were on a lonely, tree-lined road deep in the heart of the country. Philippe stroked the mare’s streaming neck and looked about him for signs of life. In the distance, to the north, he thought he saw wisps of rising smoke. Honfleur? As the mare’s breathing slowed and quieted, he thought he could hear a rushing sound strange to his ears. He had never seen the sea before but had heard it described. Was that what he was hearing now? The rush of the sea against the shore?
He was close. But was he in time?
The mare would cool faster if she walked. And he would be moving forward. He could not stop, not now. He had to reach Honneure before it was too late.
It was over, done. She was Madame Honneure Tremblay.
The priest blessed them. Armand pulled something from his pocket and pressed it into the father’s hand. He nodded his thanks. The bridal couple turned, walked the long aisle, and left the church without fanfare. Without joy.
Outside the church Armand turned to her. “I hope you don’t expect anything else. Life goes on. We’ll go back to the farm.”
Of course she didn’t expect anything else. What else could there be?
As she climbed into the wagon, however, Honneure’s mind led her to a path she had previously refused to travel. All her thoughts up till now had been on getting away from Versailles, away from the king and Philippe’s treachery. Her focus had been on simply getting through the minutes of the day, one by one. All her strength had been given to becoming Armand’s wife, the wife of a stranger, an old man. And she had done it. It was time to look to the next test. She couldn’t ignore it any longer.
The shaggy cart horse leaned into the breast collar, and the wagon moved forward. A seagull screeched, and a group of them swooped low over the harbor. The odor of dried seaweed and rotting fish hung over the village like a miasma. Honneure looked away from it and down the long road back to the farm.
Her stomach grumbled, reminding her it was growing late. When they returned to the farm she would fix her husband supper from the dwindling supply of dried meat and cheese in his larder. She might have time to unpack her trunk. Then she would bank the fire, take down her hair …
Beyon
d that Honneure’s thoughts refused to go. She did not mentally open the door to her husband’s bedchamber and look within. She did not want to see what lay beyond the threshold. The hours would pass, night would fall, and she would do what she must. She did not have to dwell on it.
The journey back passed as silently as the journey out. When they pulled into the yard Honneure half expected to see the boy, but he was nowhere about. She climbed from the wagon.
“Help me unhitch the horse,” Armand commanded.
Honneure’s fingers were familiar with the harness. It took only minutes to free the old gelding from the traces.
“Take him into the barn. He’ll need hay. The cows, too.” With that Armand turned and headed to the house.
Honneure wasn’t sure what she had expected. Nothing, in truth. She had merely tried to keep moving forward. She had become Armand’s wife, but what did that mean? She supposed she was finding out.
The barn was low-ceilinged and narrow and smelled of musty straw. Three milk cows were tied to the far wall, a pile of hay was pushed into a corner, and there was a loose box stall for the horse. Honneure led him into the dark enclosure, gave him hay and fresh water, and briefly rubbed him down. These were familiar things, and she took comfort in them.
The early darkness was fast falling. Inside the house Armand sat at the table by the kitchen hearth.
“Light the lamps and fix us something to eat. In the morning milk the cows. If you don’t know how, the boy will teach you. But don’t depend on him. Now that you’re here I won’t be needing him anymore.”
Her position was clear. But she didn’t mind. She had always preferred to keep busy, and she knew the value of labor in soothing the soul. Honneure did as she had been instructed.
It was full dark, but there was a pale light outside the windows. Honneure looked out and saw the clouds had parted to reveal a nearly full moon. Armand followed her gaze.
“We’ll not need so many lamps with this light. Put them all out but one. Then bring me that bottle on the shelf.”
Honneure was getting used to Armand’s near constant directions. Once again she did as she was bid. The bottle, she noted, contained brandy. She put it on the table in front of her husband with one glass. He did not ask her to get another.
The evening wore on. The fire burned down, and the level in the bottle fell. Honneure watched Armand’s eyelids grow heavy. She prayed for them to close. Eventually, her prayer was answered. His head fell back against the chair, and he snored throatily.
Was it possible? Was she going to escape the trials of her wedding night?
Hardly daring to hope, Honneure eased out of her chair. On tiptoe she crossed the room and put her hand carefully on the door latch to her bedroom. Holding her breath, she slowly opened the door and slipped inside. Only when she had closed it again did she dare to breathe.
The room was dark, but moonlight illumined its features. Honneure quickly undressed, then let down her hair and brushed its shining lengths until they crackled. She pulled back the covers and slipped between the sheets. She closed her eyes.
Sleep would be impossible, she knew. Every muscle in her body was tensed, waiting. Her ears strained for the slightest sound. He would come to her in time. He must. It was part of the price she had to pay.
Honneure never knew when she crossed sleep’s hazy threshold. She only knew that the sound she had dreaded had finally come. Coverlet clutched to her breast, she sat bolt upright in bed.
There it was again. But the sound was at the window, not the door. And there was a figure just beyond the glass. She could see it clearly in the moonlight. Heart hammering, Honneure sat up. What new nightmare had been sent to torment her? What new horror was in store?
She wanted to scream, but her throat was paralyzed. If she could just make it to the door …
As Honneure rose and sidled past the window, prepared to make a dash, the figure suddenly seemed emboldened. He pressed both hands to the glass. He tapped on it, softly.
Honneure froze.
Something was happening inside her. The great ball of pain was struggling for release again. Now it pushed against her ribs, making it difficult to breathe.
This wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be happening.
Honneure took a step toward the window. Another.
She could see his face now. Tears streaked his cheeks. His lips silently formed the sound of her name.
He had come to her. She did not want him, had not ever wanted to see him again. But she could not stop herself from moving toward the window. Could not stop her fingers from opening the latch.
Philippe swung the window wide himself. He braced his hands on the sill, heaved his body upward.
Then he was standing in the room. Honneure threw herself into his arms.
Their tears mingled as Philippe covered her face with kisses. He kissed her eyes, her brow. His lips retraced and found every spot he had kissed the first time he had kissed her. He heard the sob escape her throat, heard her moan his name.
“Sssshhhh.” Gently, he covered her mouth with his hand. “Keep your voice low, Honneure, but don’t be afraid to wake the old man. I watched him through the kitchen window. He woke, took another drink, and passed out with his head on the table.”
A hundred questions, a thousand words crowded Honneure’s tongue, tripping it. “But how … why … ?”
“I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you everything,” Philippe whispered urgently. “First and foremost, I did not betray you, Honneure. I did not. I would not.”
“But I saw …”
“You saw exactly what Olivia and Madame du Barry wanted you to see.”
Honneure listened in stunned silence as Philippe related the tale to her, revealed the deception, exposed it to the light. And in the light it turned to dust and blew away.
Philippe had not deceived her. He loved her. They had both been duped. Madame du Barry had eliminated a rival. Olivia had eliminated her rival and had her vengeance. Honneure was gone from the palace but not with Philippe, not as they had planned. The horror of it rose like a crushing wave breaking over her head. In a moment she would drown.
“Honneure … Honneure, what’s wrong?” Philippe grasped her arms as she sat heavily on the edge of the bed.
“Don’t look so stricken. Everything will be all right now. I’ll take you away from here. We’ll leave in the morning.”
Honneure shook her head slowly in denial of the entire hideous situation.
“If you’re worried about the old man, don’t be. I’ll talk to him, explain to him. He can’t keep you here against your will.”
The sound that came from her wasn’t even human. It frightened him. Though he hadn’t eaten in almost twenty-four hours, the weakness in his knees wasn’t from hunger. Philippe sank to the ground at Honneure’s feet. He took her hands.
“Honneure, what is it?” Philippe whispered. “Tell me.”
“Armand and I were married. This morning.”
Her eyes were so huge he could get lost in her gaze. He wanted to. He wanted to be lost and never found. He did not want to think his next thought or experience the agony that was going to accompany it. But the knowledge was relentless.
“You’re … married.”
Honneure nodded, unblinking. Tears welled. “We drove into Honfleur. There was just the priest,” she said in a small voice. “We came back here, and Armand started drinking …”
Philippe closed his eyes. Thank God she had married an old man who was fond of the bottle. “So nothing … nothing happened tonight?” It was more a statement than a question.
When Honneure shook her head, he let out a long sigh. “Listen, Honneure, my love. It isn’t too late. It can’t be.”
“But, Philippe …”
This time it was Philippe who shook his head in denial. “No. He’ll let you go. He has to let you go. He’ll release you. I’ll go to him, talk to him. First thing in the morning.”
Was it possible? Did she dare to l
et herself hope? Philippe’s excitement was contagious. But she was afraid.
“Armand is not … not an easy man, Philippe.”
“I’ll convince him. We’ll be together, my love. Please don’t think any other way but that. We belong together, and we will be together, Honneure. I promise you.”
A tiny spark of hope ignited in her breast. Could it be that her future did not lie at the bottom of a black abyss after all?
“Believe me, my love. Believe.” He kissed the hands he held. He pressed his lips to each knuckle, the back of her hand, and then turned it over and kissed her fingers, her palm. He heard her breathing quicken.
The nightmare, perhaps, had ended. But now she was caught in a dream. Philippe was here, in her room. Moonlight streamed through the window as he kissed her hands. It seemed the most natural thing in the world to pull him closer to her.
Philippe felt Honneure pull her hands free. She placed them on either side of his face and gently pulled him nearer. His head pillowed against her breast, and he could hear, feel, her heart beating. Through the thin material of her nightdress, he could feel the warmth of her flesh. His senses swam. He rocked back on his heels to clear his head.
It was her wedding night. Events had gone horribly, terribly wrong, and Honneure found herself wed to the wrong man. But Philippe had come to her. Philippe, her love, her life.
And it was her wedding night.
Honneure rose slowly from the bed. In one smooth, seductive motion she pulled her nightdress over her head. The gauzy material trailed a moment from her fingers and dropped to the floor. She raised her arms and lifted the long, heavy lengths of her hair from her shoulders and then let them fall again. Philippe sucked in his breath.
There was not a more beautiful woman in the world. Everything about her was perfect. Her pink-tipped breasts were full but not too heavy. Her waist was slender, hips ever so slightly flared. Her legs were straight and shapely. She stood before him with unaffected grace. He rose to his feet.
It never occurred to Honneure to feel shame in her nakedness. There was one love in her life, one husband in her heart. It had always been so. She belonged to Philippe in every way, as he belonged to her.
By Honor Bound Page 20