“If you want me to bake you fresh bread,” Honneure replied evenly. She was learning to deal with the irascible old man, hopefully for not much longer. “Otherwise buy three loaves.”
“They’ll be stale by week’s end.”
Honneure shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
The old man climbed into the wagon without another word. Honneure knew she would have everything she had asked for. He treated her like a slave, not a wife, it was true, but the arrangement suited her. He asked no more from her than her labor, and she slept alone in her little room. He did not seem to mind her company but did not solicit her conversation. The circumstances were bearable.
Honneure waited until Armand had rattled out of sight in the direction of Honfleur. Then she hurried along the road to the widow’s house. She did not bring milk because they did not need eggs, but Armand’s absence gave her the opportunity to visit. She had not seen Madame Maurier or the boy since she had set his arm three days earlier. She was anxious to know how he fared.
Anne Marie was bent over, one hand on the small of her back, picking dead petals from the flowers along the front walk. She straightened, smiling, when she saw Honneure.
“The boy’s fine,” she said by way of greeting. “His arm will mend with no ill effect, I think. You did a good job setting the bone.”
Honneure took a deep breath. “I was worried. I’ve only tended to animals before.”
“Well, you acquitted yourself ably. There’s just one thing,” the widow said as she headed toward her front door. “The boy’s agitated about something. I can’t understand what’s upsetting him, but maybe you will.”
“I’ll try.”
Henri had been sitting, knees drawn up, on a pallet the widow had prepared for him in a corner of the room. He jumped up when he saw Honneure and ran to her. He held out his splinted arm, smiled, and caressed her cheek.
“You’re welcome,” Honneure whispered and briefly, carefully, hugged the boy. She held him at arm’s length to inspect the laceration and blackened eye, but his smile slipped away suddenly, and he shook his head.
“What is it, Henri?”
“You see?” the old woman said over her shoulder.
Something was clearly wrong.
“Take your time, Henri,” Honneure said. “Try to explain to me what’s wrong.”
The boy jabbed a finger at his chest and then pointed at the door.
“You want to leave?”
Henri did something totally baffling. He shook his head soberly and then nodded vigorously. “That’s what I don’t understand,” the widow said. “He doesn’t want to leave, but he does.”
“I think I understand,” Honneure responded. “Henri, you don’t want to leave Madame Maurier’s house, do you, not for good? But you do want to go somewhere.”
The boy nodded.
“Where, Henri? Where do you want to go?”
The boy abruptly sobered again. His gaze dropped from Honneure’s face to her skirt pocket. He held out his hand tentatively, brows arched.
“Go ahead, Henri.”
The child touched her pocket. His fingers slipped inside. He withdrew the letter she always carried with her. He pointed at it and then down the road. His eyes widened with fear.
Henri’s message was instantly clear to her, and Honneure’s stomach plummeted to her feet. She wondered that she hadn’t thought of it before, especially with Armand driving to Honfleur today.
“Pull that chair over here quickly,” the old woman said to the child. “Honneure, sit. You’re as pale as a ghost.”
Honneure sank onto the wooden chair. Her heart thumped painfully in her chest.
Widow Maurier planted both hands firmly on her hips. “Since the child can’t speak, Honneure Tremblay, I expect you’re going to be the one to tell me what’s going on, aren’t you?”
Honneure looked up at the old woman slowly. What was she going to say? How could she begin, and more importantly how was she going to end?
“Let me make it a little easier for you. Tell me why the boy is concerned about a letter.”
Honneure swallowed. She was going to have to tell the old woman something. And the only thing she had to tell was the truth.
“I … Henri, I mean … he … he mailed a letter for me.”
“So your husband wouldn’t know.”
Honneure nodded.
“Are you expecting a reply?”
Honneure repeated the motion. Her mouth was too dry to speak.
“Was Henri to meet the mail rider for you and bring you the letter when it arrived?” This time Anne Marie didn’t need to wait for a response. She knew exactly what was going on. “But the boy is unable to go to Honfleur now, which means Armand might intercept this letter. And when he reads it, as we both know he will, he’s going to be very upset indeed, isn’t he?”
Honneure could no longer even move her head. She seemed frozen in her chair.
Madame Maurier’s hands fell from her hips, and her expression softened. She took a deep breath. “I don’t know who is more injured, you or the boy. At least I can see what his wounds are, so I can help to heal them. But what am I going to do with yours, Honneure, eh? How can I help you if I don’t know what’s wrong?”
Honneure felt the story, the truth, rising up in her like a sickness. There would be no cure until she had vomited it out of her. She needed Madame Maurier, a friend, more than anything she had ever needed in her life besides Philippe.
But she was choking on it, strangling on the enormity of it. Tears poured down her cheeks, and her throat worked uselessly.
Madame Maurier turned to Henri. “I can’t remember if I fed the rabbits this morning, child. Will you see whether I have or not? And even if I did, I think they could use a little extra, don’t you?”
The boy nodded uncertainly, his gaze on Honneure. Reluctantly, he inched his way out the door. He had hardly closed it behind him when the floodgates were opened.
The old woman held Honneure as she wept.
The silence stretched when Honneure had finished her tale. Madame Maurier patted the slender hand she had been holding and stood slowly. She crossed to the open window and stood listening to the birdsong for a while. How beautiful the world was. And how unfair. She turned back to Honneure, who had remained seated. Her trembling had eased, but she was still as white as a corpse.
“Would you like another cup of tea, dear?”
Honneure shook her head. “No … no, thank you.”
The old woman sighed. The Dauphine of France, the king … Forgive me, Honneure, but it’s rather like hearing a fairy story, you must admit.”
“I’m telling the truth.”
“Oh, I know you are. I do not doubt you for a moment. It’s just difficult for an old woman like me to take in all at once.”
“I’m sorry,” Honneure said softly.
Madame Maurier folded her arms over her bosom. “No, I’m sorry,” she replied slowly. “I’m sorry for everything you’ve had to suffer. If it hadn’t been for the spiteful act of a jealous woman, you’d be married to your Philippe now. Together you would be joyfully anticipating the birth of your child. Instead …”
The sentence did not need to be finished. To speak it aloud again was to give it more life and weight than it already had. Honneure forced a smile to her lips.
“Instead,” she said, picking up the thread to weave a different cloth, “I will await word from the dauphine. She will do whatever she can to help me, I know. She is one of the kindest human beings I have ever known.”
“So it seems,” the old woman replied. Royals were more often a bane than a benefit to common folk. Honneure’s story, however, had been entirely believable.
“Since you believe so strongly that the princess will help you, I myself will go to Honfleur tomorrow. I have a friend there I’ll talk to. She can watch for the mail rider, ask for any letters for you. Later, when the boy is better, he can go into town and fetch any mail that’s come for you.”
>
Honneure clasped her hands together and held them tightly. “I wish I knew how to thank you.”
“Thank me when the letter is safely in your hands. It will be all the thanks I need.”
The sun was a little past directly overhead when Honneure finally started on her way back to the farm. Though she was warm and feeling unwell, she walked quickly. She did not like to provoke Armand any more than she had to. She did not want him to become suspicious. She was too close to her goal.
A flood of inner warmth coursed through Honneure’s limbs as she thought of Madame Maurier’s many kindnesses. She had found a true friend in the widow. Mingled with the happy anticipation of her escape from Normandy and Armand, however, was sorrow at the thought of leaving the widow and Henri behind. At least they would have each other.
Honneure smiled to herself as she approached the gate. God really did work in mysterious ways. Even if she had suffered all she had and come all this way simply to be fate’s agent in bringing Anne Marie and Henri together, it would all have been worthwhile. Just as long as she ended up with Philippe, everything would be worthwhile.
The gate was open, which did not surprise Honneure. She had left it that way. She did not feel the first icicles of fear until she saw the gelding, still hitched, standing in the yard. Honneure halted.
The goods Armand had purchased were still piled in the wagon. The front door stood open. He was waiting for her. She knew it. And she knew why.
Years later Honneure would wonder how she had walked from the yard to the house, how she had actually forced her legs to propel her forward. She would remember everything that happened once she walked through the front door but not how she got there.
He was sitting in his usual place, in the straight-back chair at the kitchen table, near the hearth. The fire had burned down. Wildflowers she had placed in a ceramic jug were wilting, heads drooping low. Armand smoothed the letter out on the table’s surface.
“I’ve been waiting for you.”
Honneure did not speak.
“I’ve been waiting because I have some news to impart to you. It’s from, let me see …” Armand glanced at the paper. “It’s from a Madame Campan. You know her, I trust?”
Honneure wasn’t sure if she had managed to nod or not.
The old man continued. “She says she is writing on behalf of the dauphine and that she is very sorry, but she has some terrible news. It concerns Philippe. He’s the one who was here, isn’t he?”
The vessels in her neck seemed to be constricting, cutting off the blood supply to her brain. Honneure knew she was going to faint, but she struggled against it. She had to hang on, had to know …
“Maybe it would be best if I read this part,” Armand went on. He picked up the letter. “Where is it … oh, yes. Madame Campan writes, ‘Upon Philippe’s return from Normandy, there was a tragic accident. He was apparently on his way to the dauphine’s apartments to tell us what had transpired between you. Whether it was by her design or not, he ran into Olivia at the head of the Queen’s Staircase. According to witnesses, they argued. I talked to someone who said Philippe told Olivia he held her personally responsible for all the misfortunes that have befallen the two of you. In response, Olivia raised her arm to strike Philippe and he, quite naturally, attempted to defend himself. In the ensuing struggle, Olivia lost her balance and fell down the stairs. She did not survive the fall.’”
Honneure saw Armand look up at her. He smiled tightly. Her stomach churned, and her vision seemed to dim.
“I don’t know who these people are, but it makes a good story. Would you like to read this next part for yourself?” Armand held up the letter as he might a dead fish. “No? I thought not. So I’ll continue. This is where it gets particularly interesting. Even I, old man that I am, buried up here in the north country, have heard of Madame du Barry. She’s the king’s mistress, is she not?”
His voice seemed to be coming from farther and farther away. Honneure could no longer even focus on his face.
“‘Despite the fact of several witnesses,’ this Madame Campan goes on, ‘Madame du Barry insisted Philippe pushed Olivia on purpose, as revenge for their little trick. She was not a witness herself, of course, but we all know her ability to sway the king to her causes. Standing now officially accused of murder, Philippe was forced to flee Versailles. We do not know where he has gone.’
“My, my, what a shame.” Armand folded the letter. “You can read all the sentimental drivel that follows for yourself, if you’re so inclined. I’ll just paraphrase for you the part that concerns me the most.”
Honneure would never know how she found the strength to remain standing. She could no longer feel her hands or feet. The room was tilting oddly.
“Madame Campan advises you, especially since you are with child, to remain here, with me. She urges you not to reveal that Philippe is the father of your child.” Armand chuckled mirthlessly. “I suppose so I will assume the child is mine and continue to harbor and protect you, call you my wife. Give you … and your bastard … my name.”
At the bottom of the abyss, Honneure saw a tiny light. Its flicker enabled her to keep breathing, to find her voice out of the darkness.
“No … no … I’m not worthy … I’ll go … I’ll …”
“No, you’re not worthy,” Armand snapped. “But you won’t be going anywhere. Not only have you nowhere to go; I’ll have you hunted down and brought back if you leave.”
His words were totally incomprehensible. Honneure simply stared. She did not realize she had started to sway.
Armand grinned. “Just think how impressed my friends will be to discover that I have impregnated my young and beautiful wife.” He chuckled again. “Will it be a son? I wonder. A son to follow in my footsteps?”
The chuckle amplified into cackling laughter. It was the last thing Honneure heard. The darkness that had been trying to close in on her succeeded at last. Gratefully, she embraced it and sank to the ground.
Chapter Twenty-Four
October 1772
The first sound Honneure heard when she awoke was that of branches rattling against the window. Wind whistled through the eaves. She opened her eyes.
Dawn had barely broken, but the red and golden leaves were so brightly colored she could see them distinctly as they blew past. The yard would be a mess. Honneure let her eyes drift closed again.
The room was cool but not cold. The moaning of the wind just made it seem colder, she supposed. Still, a hearth fire would be welcome this morning. Honneure wondered if Armand would stir the embers and lay new wood. Sometimes when she was late abed, he actually lifted a finger or two.
The tapping on the glass was insistent. It was, perhaps, what finally awakened the child. Honneure felt only a flutter at first. She laid her hands on the enormous mound her belly had become.
There … there it was … that sharp little elbow. Honneure felt it move, poking at her palm. Back and forth. The babe was restless today. A rare smile touched Honneure’s pale lips. She could get up now. The child was her only reason for living, for rising each day.
Honneure maneuvered her legs over the edge of the bed and managed to sit upright. She got to her feet and took her time dressing in the shapeless garment Madame Maurier had made for her. She tied a clean apron below her swollen breasts, wound her long hair into a knot, and pinned it at the nape of her neck. She splashed water on her face and gasped at the chill of it. She was ready for her day.
The fire had been started, and Armand gave her an icy glare when she lumbered into the room. Honneure glared right back, and he eventually dropped his gaze. She set about making coffee.
Every move she made was slow and deliberate. Her chores, the activities of her simple life, carried her forward, minute by minute, through each day, from one sunset to the next. She tried not to think, merely act. She tried not to hate Armand, simply tolerate him. She made meals, tended the house and the animals, and largely ignored her husband. He had learned to speak
to her civilly or not at all. Since the day he had read Madame Campan’s letter, she had made it clear she would not suffer his verbal cruelties.
When breakfast was done, Honneure trudged to the barn. The wind whipped her skirt and tugged wisps of hair from her chignon. Dry leaves blew against her legs. She squeezed through the opening Henri had left for her in the barn door.
She was so late the dirty straw had already been cleaned away and the boy was milking his second cow. He smiled at her without taking his hands from the teats. The rhythmic sound of milk spurting into a pail was vaguely comforting, and Honneure allowed herself a moment to do nothing but breathe in the familiar smells of the animals, clean straw, and old timber. Then she gathered an armful of hay and fed the gelding.
When three pails sat in a row by the door, the boy came to Honneure, and she bent over to kiss the top of his head. He put both hands on her belly and grinned when he felt movement.
“It won’t be long now, Henri.”
The boy shook his head, still grinning.
Honneure sighed. “Thank you for your help this morning, as usual. I don’t know what I would have done without you these past months.”
The boy shook his head, pointed to himself and then Honneure.
“You thank me?” When Henri nodded, Honneure tousled his hair, still streaked with blond from the summer. “You’re a sweet boy, and I love you very much. You know that, don’t you?”
In response Henri winked, and Honneure laughed. He was the only one who could make her laugh these days. In an otherwise bleak world, she cherished her relationship with him. And with Anne Marie Maurier.
“Run home now. Tell Widow Maurier I’ll be by later for a visit. I think the walk will do me good.” Honneure placed her hands on the small of her back and arched her spine. “My back is bothering me a bit today.”
A look of concern immediately crossed the boy’s fine features.
“Oh, I’m all right. I promise. Go on now. I’ll see you later. Maybe I’ll bake some of those pastries you love and bring them.”
By Honor Bound Page 23