Henri looked hesitant but eventually left. Honneure watched him slip through the barn door and heard the light patter of his feet as he scampered away. He ran for the joy of it now, not because he was afraid of being seen. Since Armand didn’t have to pay the child, he couldn’t object to his presence or to the help he lent.
He was such a good boy, Honneure mused, and he had come so far in six months. He had never left Madame Maurier’s since the day he had broken his arm. Their arrangement was entirely suitable to both of them. The widow fed Henri, clothed and housed him, and lavished all her love on him. He adored her in return, took care of all her outdoor chores, and helped with most of the indoor duties. No one ever came seeking him, and on the widow’s infrequent trips to Honfleur, she had not even heard that his mother might be looking for him. It was just as well.
Honneure arched her back again and took a deep breath. The pain seemed to be getting worse. She had better keep moving.
It was a pleasant walk to the hillside pasture, where she turned the cows loose to graze throughout the day. She used to have to lead them, but now they followed her willingly. She patted each smooth, brown flank as the animals filed past her, heads bent already to the grass.
The wind had died down a little, and the sun was warm on her shoulders. Hands supporting her back, Honneure walked slowly down the hill. She paused on the road.
It was as far back to the farm as to Anne Marie’s from here. And not only did her back hurt, but it suddenly felt as if she had a cramp, the kind she used to get just before her time of the month. It was undoubtedly normal, but she would rather check with Anne Marie. Henri would have to have his treat on another day. Honneure started to walk west.
Though most of her days seemed gray, she had to admit the forest was beautiful at this time of the year. The foliage was brilliant, and most of the trees still fully leafed. Red, gold, and orange stretched away up the hillside to her left. To her right, fat, red apples crowded the branches of trees marching away in orderly rows. Soon Armand’s army of pickers would arrive, and the harvest would begin.
Though it was cool in the shade of the trees, Honneure felt unusually warm. Up ahead on the right was a familiar stump. It had become her place of choice to stop and read her letters from home. With great care, Honneure awkwardly lowered herself onto her seat.
It was bliss to lessen the strain on her aching back and close her eyes for a moment. Honneure recalled her last letter.
It had been from her parents, and all was well. The weather was mild, and the gardens were still in bloom. Honneure let her mind drift to Chenonceau until she was sitting on the grassy banks of the Cher, watching the green water roll lazily by. The drooping branches of a weeping willow stirred gently in the breeze.
Honneure’s heart suddenly ached with homesickness, and she jerked her thoughts back to the present. It did no good to dwell on the Loire Valley, her parents, or what might have been. Armand would not let her return to either Versailles or Chenonceau. Philippe was lost to her, to all of them, perhaps forever. Her life was in Normandy. Her life was the child within her.
It was time to go. She couldn’t waste any more time. She would have a brief visit with Anne Marie and then return to the farm and begin her afternoon chores.
But Honneure suddenly found she could not move. The cramp that had been low in her abdomen spread up and outward. Like the stalks of a creeping vine, its tentacles spread across her belly and tightened. Sweat beaded her brow as the pain streaked through her body.
“Oh … no …” The words were hardly more than a groan. Honneure panted until the pain receded.
The baby was coming.
A pair of chattering squirrels chased each other up a tree and frightened a flock of small blackbirds. They fluttered upward into the sky, like ashes rising from a chimney, scattering in the wind and blowing away.
The baby was coming, and she was all alone. Honneure wondered if she would be able to make it to Anne Marie’s.
At least she had to try.
The autumn dusk was magnificent. The wind had died away entirely, and the surrounding trees stood still and stately with the setting sun lighting their colors ablaze. In the distance, the sea roared against the shore. The earth continued to turn toward darkness.
Inside her small house, Madame Maurier signaled for Henri to light the lamps. She took the linen cloth from Honneure’s brow, dipped it in the basin of water, wrung it out, and replaced it. Honneure did not wake, and Anne Marie was grateful. The girl was exhausted and only had a minute or two now between contractions. The widow sat back and awaited the inevitable.
Honneure’s eyelids flew open as the agony gripped her anew.
“Breathe,” Madame Maurier instructed quietly. “Just remember to breathe.”
It seemed to go on forever. And she was tired, so tired. Her eyes closed again even before the last of the pain had faded. They flew open almost at once.
“Squeeze my hand. Go ahead. I won’t break.”
Tears were forced from Honneure’s eyes, a cry from her throat. The widow put her hand on Honneure’s belly and felt the contraction diminish. Only a few seconds later, the grossly swollen belly tightened anew.
“I have to look now, Honneure.” Madame Maurier gently disengaged her hand from Honneure’s. She sat on the end of the bed between the girl’s bent legs and lifted the sheet. She heard Honneure groan at the onset of another contraction.
The baby’s head had not yet crowned. It would not be long, however. Though she had attended only one human birth, she had assisted in the delivery of many animals. Anne Marie recognized that Honneure fast approached the time when she would want to begin to push. As Honneure grimaced in the throes of another contraction, the widow checked her small bundle of supplies: newly sharpened knife, two lengths of twine, and cloth for swaddling. She was as prepared as she would ever be.
“I … I want to … to push now.” Honneure panted.
“Hold on,” the widow directed, one hand on Honneure’s belly. “Wait for the start of the next one … all right … push!”
Honneure’s teeth were bared, eyes squeezed shut, face red as she bore down with all her might.
“I see it! Hold on, dear, and wait for the next one … Go!”
A scream tore from Honneure’s throat as the baby’s head appeared.
“Good girl, good girl, Honneure.” Anne Marie supported the infant’s bloody head. “Just one more now … All right … that’s it …”
The widow held her breath. Honneure’s face screwed up. She pushed.
The baby slithered into Madame Maurier’s waiting hands. A wide grin split her deeply lined face.
“It’s a girl, Honneure. You have a daughter. It’s a girl!”
The pain had already faded into memory. Something Honneure thought she would never feel again bubbled up from deep inside her. Unbidden, laughter blossomed from her throat.
“A girl? It’s a girl!”
“A beautiful babe.” Anne Marie deftly cut the cord and swaddled the infant. “A beautiful, beautiful girl just like her mother. Here … here she is.”
Honneure reached for the child. Her hands felt the tiny, fragile form. She tucked her in the crook of her arm against her breast. She looked into the blue, blue eyes.
Love, huge and awesome, swelled in Honneure’s breast. “My baby,” she whispered. She held the tiny hand. Tears of joy streaked her cheeks. “My baby … Philippa …”
Chapter Twenty-Five
May 1774
To wade in the water, Honneure and Anne Marie had picked up the hems of their skirts and tucked them into their apron sashes. Honneure had laughed at the widow’s spindly legs with their fine tracery of spider veins. They both had laughed at Philippa’s chubby calves as she toddled along at the edge of the foaming white water. A gusty spring breeze picked up a layer of sand and blew it against them, stinging their flesh and forcing the women to turn their backs. Philippa ran on, unaffected, black curls rioting in the wind. The soun
d of her laughter trailed in her wake.
“Since that child learned to walk,” Anne Marie complained, “I’ve had to learn to run.”
“You love it and you know it,” Honneure countered.
“Yes, I do. I love everything about that child. Most of all, I love what she’s done for you.”
Eyes still on her daughter, Honneure smiled sadly. “I still miss Philippe. I miss him all the time, think about him all the time.”
“You always will, dear,” the widow said quietly. “Just as love never dies, neither does the sorrow of losing it. Believe me, I know.”
Honneure stopped for a moment. She turned to Anne Marie, took her gnarled hand, and pressed it briefly to her cheek. “I love you, you know. Philippa and I both do.”
Blinking back tears, the old woman smiled. “Oh, I know. I know. And there’s my boy, Henri. I’m a lucky woman, a very lucky woman.”
The two friends walked on in companionable silence for a while. Then the breeze picked up again, and Honneure shivered.
“It’s time to go, I think.”
“You won’t get any objection from these old bones.”
“Philippa! Come here, Philippa … Come to Mommy!”
The child turned and grinned and then continued on her way. Honneure broke into a trot, drew even with the little girl, and scooped her into her arms. Philippa put her arms around her mother’s neck and nuzzled her cheek.
“Uvuu, Mummy.”
“I love you, too, Philippa.” Honneure fought back the tears that threatened her nearly every time she held her daughter like this. She loved her so much the emotion was almost painful. “But it’s time to go back to the farm now.”
“Nooooo!”
“Yes!”
Madame Maurier caught up with them, and they walked slowly up the beach away from the water. It took several minutes headed slightly uphill to reach the edge of the trees. At the side of the road, they sat to dust the sand from their feet and put their shoes back on. Philippa squirmed and protested, but Honneure prevailed. They had no sooner set on their way again when Honneure heard the steady, brisk clop of hooves coming in their direction.
“This might be Henri,” the widow remarked. “At least, I hope it is.”
“Are you tired?” Honneure inquired with concern.
Madame Maurier looked aggrieved. “Of course I’m tired. So would you be if you walked five miles in sand at my age.” Anne Marie allowed her expression to soften. “Don’t worry, my dear. I’m not nearly as old and decrepit as Armand. What happened to him is not going to happen to me.”
“Perish the thought!”
“Yes, perish the thought. It’s his meanness that got him, you know. That’s not going to happen to me.”
Though what the widow said was probably true, Honneure resisted the urge to chuckle. Armand’s state was truly pitiable. His facial features were twisted to one side, his left arm and leg were paralyzed, and he had lost the ability to speak. Most of his time was now spent in bed.
“Well, you’re in luck, dear friend,” Honneure said, banishing the image of her husband. “Here, indeed, is Henri.”
Henri pulled the old gelding to a halt and jumped straight down from the wagon. He appeared excited.
“You look like you have news,” Madame Maurier said.
Henri nodded energetically and waved a sealed piece of parchment.
Honneure took the letter Henri held out to her but did not even glance at it. She had written Madame Dupin a while ago, and this was undoubtedly her response.
“Tell us the news first,” Honneure pressed. “You look so excited … Tell us!”
Henri shook his head, lips compressed. He had grown tall and had begun to fill out. When he obstinately crossed his arms over his chest, muscles bulged in his upper arms. He shook his head again, pointed at the wagon bench, then the letter.
“Oh, go on, do as he says. Read the letter out loud to us on the way home like you always do.” Anne Marie waved a hand impatiently. “Just let me get off my feet.”
They all climbed into the wagon, the widow on one side of Henri, Honneure on the other, and Philippa in her lap. With her arms around the child, she finally examined the letter.
“My goodness! This is from the dauphine!”
Henri grinned and nodded. Anne Marie’s eyes widened. Henri stabbed a finger at the letter.
Honneure examined the royal seal and then slowly broke it. “This is quite an honor. She’s only written once before. Usually, Madame Campan …”
“Read,” Anne Marie cried.
Honneure complied.
“‘Dear Friend,’” it began. The widow caught her breath, and Henri whistled. A shy, proud smile touched Honneure’s lips. She continued.
“‘I know that my dear Campan has written to you from time to time as well as our friend Madame Dupin, and they have kept you abreast of Court affairs. This time I write myself in fond memory of our friendship, your devoted service, and the dilemma we once both shared.’”
“Dilemma?” the widow chirped.
Honneure felt a blush of color rush to her cheeks. “We … we at one time had a … a similar problem. Philippe hadn’t realized he … well, that he loved me yet, as I loved him. And … well, the dauphin hadn’t quite realized yet how special his wife was. And …”
“Gracious, dear, you don’t mean to tell me that the Dauphine of France confided her love life to you!”
Honneure felt her cheeks grow even hotter.
“Never mind. Go on. Read.”
Honneure took a breath. “‘I also want to share my happiness with you, as you once shared yours with me. I know you must still grieve for the loss of your love, but I pray my news will cheer you. You have always had such a kind and generous heart. So I know you will rejoice when I tell you that Louis and I are happy, truly happy.’”
Honneure paused and took another deep breath. Yes, she did rejoice for the princess to whom she had been and was still devoted.
Henri wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and pursed his lips.
The widow slapped his arm. “Hush. Go on, Honneure.”
“‘As you undoubtedly know, dear Louis took me to Paris for the first time last June. We drove to Notre Dame through flower-strewn streets and triumphal arches and dined publicly in the concert hall of the Tuileries. Then we walked in the gardens—and they cheered us! So many, many people pressed close, trying to thank my good husband for his many kindnesses to the poor. There was such a great crowd that we remained for three-quarters of an hour without being able to go forward or back. The dauphin and I several times ordered the guards not to strike anyone, which made a very good impression. Later, when we appeared on the Tuileries balcony, the Duc de Brissac turned to me and said, “Madame, two hundred thousand people have fallen in love with you.” I pray it is so. I believe it might be, for Louis seemed to look at me from then on in a different light.’”
They had reached Madame Maurier’s gate, and the horse had stopped, but no one seemed to notice. Honneure read on.
“‘When we went in July to Compiegne, Louis adopted the practice of walking through the gardens with me arm in arm. Do you know that the practice was copied by the Court? Husbands and wives who hadn’t spoken to each other in years were suddenly appearing as cozy as Louis and me! Can you imagine setting such a trend?
“‘Also of note, the du Barry has quite changed her attitude toward me. Knowing how fond I am of jewelry, she arranged to have me shown a pair of earrings, each set with four diamonds and worth seven hundred thousand livres. She said if I liked them, she would ask the king to make a present of them to me. I took great pleasure in telling her I was quite satisfied with the diamonds I already possessed.’”
Honneure chuckled. Finally, the tide had turned.
“‘I must close now, dear friend. Think of me with joy. My thoughts and prayers are with you, as they are with Philippe, wherever he may be.’ Signed, ‘Marie Antoinette.’”
A hush followed Honneure’s
reading of the signature. Philippa hiccoughed, and Honneure patted her on the back.
“Well,” Anne Marie puffed at length. “That was quite something. A personal letter from the Dauphine of France.”
Henri shook his head in forceful denial and began at once to gesture. All eyes turned in his direction, even Philippa’s.
Honneure looked confused as she attempted to translate. “This … this is not a personal letter?”
Still shaking his head, Henri pointed at the signature on the page.
“It’s not Marie Antoinette, the dauphine?”
Henri nodded slowly. He pointed at the signature again, and then raised his hands as if placing something on his head.
Honneure drew in a sharp breath as realization dawned. “What did you … what did you hear in town, Henri?” she asked in a voice barely above a whisper. “Has the king … has the king … died?”
Henri nodded solemnly.
“And Marie Antoinette is no longer the dauphine.”
Henri continued to nod as Honneure glanced once more at the letter in her hand.
“So this letter is from the … the Queen of France …”
Chapter Twenty-Six
December 1778
It was the first snowfall of the season. By noon it was nearly as dark as the winter’s dusk, and fat, lazy flakes fluttered from the sky. Honneure carefully moved the half of the blanket she was embroidering onto Anne Marie’s lap, rose, and crossed to the window. The yard was empty, the barn door still shut. They hadn’t returned yet.
“I don’t see any sign of them. Do you think they’re all right?”
The widow didn’t even look up from her stitching. “Of course they’re all right. Do you think Henri would let anything happen to that little girl?”
“Noooo, but …”
“I trust that horse to get them home safely. What does Philippa call him? Oh, yes … Coozie. Now how did she ever come up with a name like Coozier?”
Honneure laughed quietly. “I think it’s a derivative of cozy. She’s told me she thinks he’s cozy because of the way he hugs her.”
By Honor Bound Page 24