Madame Maurier finally looked up from her stitching. Her eyebrows were twin question marks. “The horse hugs her?”
“Well, yes, actually.” Honneure smiled to herself as she recalled the scene she had come upon shortly after they had purchased the animal. The old gelding had finally died, and Philippa had been devastated. To console her, Honneure had allowed the girl to pick the horse who would replace him. She had chosen a young, strong, piebald gelding because, she said, he was much more affectionate than Old Gray had been. It had meant nothing to Honneure until she had entered the barn one day and had seen the piebald with his head and neck bent to the side. He was holding Philippa against him, actually pressing her gently into his ribs. “See, Mommy!” she had said. “He’s hugging me!” As if to support her, the horse had snorted and tossed his head up and down.
When Honneure related the story, Anne Marie looked skeptical and returned to her needlework. Honneure left to check on Armand.
He lay just as she had left him that morning after bathing him and changing the linens. He did not appear to have moved an inch. His eyes flickered briefly in her direction and then refocused on the wall in front of him. Honneure sighed and closed the door.
“I’m going to heat some soup,” she said to Anne Marie. “When Henri returns he can sit Armand up and hold him while I try to feed him again. He wouldn’t take anything for breakfast. I’m worried about him.”
“You can try whatever you like, but I don’t think there’s anything wrong with him. His refusal to eat is probably just his way of informing you that he doesn’t like what you’re serving. He’s still that ornery, you know. God struck him dumb for the way he treated Henri years ago and left him paralyzed for the way he treated you. But He didn’t make him any nicer. He’s still the same mean, old codger, and for the life of me I don’t see how you can be so kind to him, much less compassionate.”
“It’s my duty,” Honneure replied with quiet dignity and walked to the hearth. With a fire tool she pulled the iron arm out, hooked the handle of the soup pot onto it, and pushed it back over the fire. After another quick look out the window, she returned to her seat next to Anne Marie and pulled her half of the embroidery piece onto her lap.
“The snowfall’s growing heavier by the moment, you know.”
The widow remained concentrated on her stitching. “They went for a ride. When they’ve had enough they’ll come back.”
“What if one of them fell off?”
“Since they’re riding double, if one went off they both did.”
With a dramatic sigh, Honneure put down her needle. “You’re not being helpful.”
Anne Marie looked up at last. “Neither are you. You’ve hardly taken ten stitches since they left.”
Honneure frowned at the old woman, but the widow had already dropped her gaze.
“Let’s talk about something more positive, shall we? Tell me again about your latest letter from Madame Campan.”
Instantly warming to the subject of her beloved queen, Honneure picked up her needle again. “Antoinette’s popularity continues to grow, especially under the present circumstances.”
“As well it should.”
“The king’s also. The people still haven’t forgotten his first great act of generosity upon his accession to the throne.”
Anne Marie’s brow puckered. “Didn’t he and the queen turn down a traditional gift of money?”
“Yes, le droit de joyeux avenement. It’s a tax the Parisians would have had to put on coal and wine to raise the money, but Louis and Antoinette waived it. It amounted to over twenty-four million livres! Then they promptly cut down on their household staffs and even canceled their summer trips to Compiegne to save money.”
“I’d be falling down and kissing someone’s feet if I were a Parisian,” the widow quipped. “If memory serves, the king did not only that but kicked out all the du Barry’s appointees, along with her sorry backside, and put honest ministers in their places.”
Honneure nodded soberly. She would never forget how glad she had been to learn that Antoinette, at last, was free from the du Barry’s arrogance and cruelties. The queen herself, shortly after her accession and despite the incredible burden of her new duties, had directed Madame Campan to write to Honneure and inform her of the du Barry’s demise.
Knowing the tragic impact Madame du Barry has had on your life, Madame Campan had written, the queen bid me to tell you the woman is gone from the Court. She left with her lover, the Duc d’Aiguillon, for his estate in Ruel. From there she went on to the convent of Pont aux Dames with instructions from the king to see no one, since she knew state secrets. The duke himself is also now persona non grata, as he has been asked by the king to resign.
“Restoration of the Court’s integrity was long overdue,” Honneure said at length. “It was no secret to the previous king’s subjects that they were being ruled not by him but by the whims of his succession of mistresses.”
“And that we were being taxed, not to support our country but to pay for the hussies’ gifts!”
Honneure smiled, not at what the widow had said, which was true and very, very unfortunate, but at her spirit. “That era is over, thank goodness. An age of reason has been ushered in. Not only has our new king modified taxes to relieve the burden on the poor and middle class, but also he’s trying to curb the excesses of his own nobles. In Madame Campan’s latest letter she mentioned an incident to me involving one of Louis’s nobles who was deeply in debt. The king ordered him exiled from Versailles until all his creditors had been satisfied. Another, a prince, had asked Louis for a stay of proceedings against his creditors, a standard practice during the previous reign. But the king replied, ‘When a man can keep mistresses, he can pay his debts.’”
“Sounds to me like he has it in for any and all mistresses these days.”
“Oh, he’s always been that way,” Honneure replied, diligently plying her needle. “His parents were very moral people, devoted to one another and their children. They were openly and deeply disapproving of the king’s lifestyle and profligacy. Louis grew up respecting his grandfather as a monarch but not as a man.”
“According to what you’ve told me, it was also part of the cause of his hesitancy in trusting and loving his bride.”
“I’m sure of it. There was also a great deal of anti-Austrian sentiment and people whispering in Louis’s ear that Antoinette was nothing more than a spy for her mother, the empress. She had many more obstacles to overcome than an ordinary bride would. But she is extraordinarily kind, loving, and generous. And as moral as her husband. He was able to see that at last.”
“Apparently. Or we would not be embroidering this baby blanket.”
Honneure laughed outright and ran her hand over the soft, pale yellow material. The fleurs-de-lis they stitched were in the queen’s colors, blue and gold.
“As sweet as you’ve told me the queen is,” Anne Marie continued, “I just hope her husband is as caring. It’s one thing to bring justice to a country, quite another to the home.”
“Well put. But I can assure you of the king’s compassion.” Honneure put down her needle for a moment. “Do you remember when the old king died?”
“I do. He died of the smallpox.”
“Yes. Well, fifty others in the Court came down with the disease, and ten died. Louis decided he should be inoculated, despite the newness of this treatment, and then went into isolation. He ordered that no one should attend him who had not already had smallpox and had the humanity to extend the order to the lowest servants.”
The widow quirked a brow. “What of the queen?”
“She had already had a mild form of the disease. She remained with him and attended him herself.”
The shadow of a smile touched Anne Marie’s mouth. “I’m surprised we weren’t embroidering this blanket four years ago.”
Honneure returned the smile. “Sometimes these things take longer than others.”
“Take yourself, for
instance.” The old woman knew it was the wrong thing to say before the words had even left her mouth. She pushed the blanket aside and took Honneure’s hands.
“Oh, my dear, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to remind you. How stupid of me.”
Honneure shook her head. “No, it’s all right … really,” she said, but she stared at her lap until she had fought back her tears. She forced a brave smile to her lips and looked Anne Marie straight in the eye.
“We may have only had one night together, but what if we had never had anything at all? What if I didn’t have Philippa?”
“You’re a remarkable woman. Do you know that, Honneure?” the widow said softly. “Look at what you’ve accomplished, the life you’ve built for yourself, despite a tragic series of events and almost overwhelming adversities. And through it all you’ve maintained your dignity and compassion. You’re a wonder to me. I treasure our friendship, and I apologize deeply for hurting you.”
Madame Maurier squeezed Honneure’s hands, sat back, and picked up her sewing. “Now, enough sentimentality. We have to get to work and finish this before the child is born.”
“We’ll have to work hard,” Honneure said, glad of the change of subject. “From what I’ve heard it could be any day now.”
The two women worked for a while in silence, until a gust of wind rattled the windows. Honneure dropped her sewing and stood up.
“That’s it. Now I really am worried. Look at how hard it’s snowing.” She crossed to the window overlooking the yard. To her immense relief, Coozie was just trotting through the gate.
“Look at them, Anne Marie! Just look at them!”
Henri, a tall, strong lad of sixteen sat bareback with Philippa in front of him. The tops of their heads and shoulders were dusted with snow, as was the gelding’s broad rump. The children were laughing when suddenly the horse decided to shake off his layer of snow.
Philippa’s mouth formed an O as she grabbed for Coozie’s mane. Henri’s arms went around Philippa. A moment later they both lay sprawled on the newly white ground.
Honneure held her breath until she saw her daughter sit up and burst into a fresh spate of giggles. “They’re safe and well. I suppose I’ll check on Armand, then serve the soup. The children will want something hot.”
The door to the bedroom creaked slightly as Honneure pushed it open. Armand lay exactly as she had left him. His pale, blue eyes remained fixed toward the wall. Honneure walked to the side of the bed.
“Armand, would you like something to eat now? I’ve made some soup. Armand …”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
June 1779
Of the seven summers she had spent in Normandy, this was definitely the most beautiful. Spring had come early and swiftly. Trees had leafed and flowers bloomed. Migrating birds had returned, and the mild temperatures had held. There had been some windy days and some drizzly days but no fierce spring storms. The days simply grew longer and brighter and warmer.
Even the grass seemed thicker and greener, Honneure noted, as the wagon bounced along the rutted road to the widow’s farm. The apple trees were certainly well on their way. If the weather continued to hold, it would be a banner harvest this year.
“Look, Mommy. There’s the reading room.”
Honneure followed the direction of her daughter’s pointing finger and saw the weathered stump by the side of the road. She chuckled dutifully at the little joke Philippa had made up so long ago now, it seemed. How many letters had they shared sitting there side by side? A twinge of melancholy tugged at Honneure.
Though she had never seen her grandparents, sitting on that old stump Philippa had come to know them through their letters. She could describe almost every inch of Chenonceau. She even knew the names of the carriage horses Madame Dupin still kept in the barn. But would she ever see the château? Would she ever get to know Paul and Jeanne and experience the love that had helped make Honneure who she was? The love that had bolstered her through years of hardship and overwhelming emotional burdens?
There was now, at least, a glimmer of hope in her soul.
Coozie knew the way. Without the slightest touch of the reins, he made the left turn into the widow’s drive. He lowered his head as he strained a little harder on the incline. Once inside the gate, he halted.
Anne Marie stood at the front door, smiling and wiping her hands on her apron. Henri pushed past her and trotted to the wagon. Grinning, he held out his arms to Philippa.
Normally the little girl would have leapt, laughing, into the boy’s arms. Today she merely sat there until he had lifted her gently to the ground. Honneure had to take a moment to compose herself. This was going to be harder than she had thought.
“Come, Philippa,” the widow called cheerily. “I’ve baked your favorite pie for lunch. Are you hungry?”
The little girl gave an almost imperceptible shrug. She clung tightly to Henri’s hand. Anne Marie and Honneure exchanged quick glances over Philippa’s head. Honneure climbed down from the wagon.
The house was filled with delicious aromas. “Anne Marie Maurier, you baked more than just a pie, didn’t you?” Honneure stared at the array of foods lined up on the table. “You must have been cooking for days!”
Henri nodded energetically. Philippa’s eyes were wide, and her solemn expression appeared to have lightened a little.
“Well, I did want today to be … special.” Anne Marie had to struggle to keep her smile from faltering. “And I wanted to be sure we had enough so you’d have plenty to … to take with you.”
Once again the women glanced at one another over Philippa’s head.
“How thoughtful of you, dear friend.” Honneure forced a bright smile. “By the looks of it, we’d be well fed even if we spent a week on the road.”
Henri waved his hand to capture their attention and then shook his head and pointed to his stomach.
“Not with you along, is that what you’re saying, Henri?” Honneure said. They all laughed when he nodded. “Well, just make sure you have enough for the return trip.”
Henri’s grin slowly faded. He made a sweeping gesture with his hand and then pointed to his lips and the smile that briefly flickered there.
“Going, you will be happy,” Honneure said.
Henri nodded. He made a motion opposite to the first, touched his heart, put a finger to his eye, and let it trail down his cheek.
“But coming back,” Honneure murmured, “you’ll be sad.”
Henri nodded slowly. Philippa looked from her mother to Anne Marie. She walked to Henri and took his hand again.
“I don’t want to go,” she announced soberly. “If Henri’s going to be sad, why do we have to leave? I’m going to be sad, too.”
Honneure bit her lip to hide its sudden trembling. “Philippa,” she began, but her voice broke.
“Philippa, dear,” Anne Marie said smoothly, “come over here and sit on my lap.”
The child did as she was bid. Anne Marie put her arms around her as Philippa laid her head against the widow’s narrow breast.
“Do you remember the story your mommy told you, the one about going away?”
The little girl nodded reluctantly.
“Can you tell the story to me?”
Philippa was still for a long moment, her gray eyes wide and unblinking. Absently, she tugged at the long, thick black curls falling over her shoulder. “Mommy was just a little older than me. She had to leave the house where she had lived all her life.” Philippa’s eyes darted in her mother’s direction. “She was very frightened and very sad.”
“What else?”
“She was so sad she didn’t think she would ever be happy again.” Philippa’s voice was so small it was barely audible. “She went away to a new home in a wagon with a big, friendly horse.”
“And where are you going tomorrow?”
“To a new home.”
“How are you going to get there?”
“In a wagon.” Philippa squirmed. The smile was tryi
ng to emerge.
“In a wagon pulled by what?”
“By a big, friendly horse.” It was apparent now she was suppressing the grin.
“And what happened to your mommy when she got where she was going?”
“She was very, very happy.” Philippa’s small, perfect teeth were revealed at last.
“And what’s going to happen to you when you get where you’re going?”
Philippa laughed and slipped off the widow’s lap. She ran to her mother, threw her arms around Honneure’s legs, looked up at her, and grinned.
“I’m going to curtsy to the king and queen and thank them very much.”
Honneure smoothed the dark curls, so achingly familiar, from her daughter’s face.
“And what are you going to thank the king and queen for?” Anne Marie pressed.
“For giving us a home,” the little girl replied, thoroughly caught up in the game.
“What kind of a home?”
“A happy home.”
“Yes!” The widow clapped her hands and rose.
Henri joined the clapping, as did Honneure.
“This is the fashion, is it not?” Anne Marie asked. “This … hand clapping … after a performance.”
“Indeed, it is,” Honneure replied. She stooped to look her daughter in the eye. “And it is another reason why you will love the queen as much as I do. Would you like to know why?”
“I certainly would,” the widow chimed in. Henri jabbed a thumb at his chest.
“Well, it used to be that out of respect for the king, one did not clap during royal performances. One evening, however, the queen, though she was the dauphine then, enjoyed the dancing of Mademoiselle Heinel so much that she clapped. And went on clapping. She is so gay and merry, so sweet, she infected all around her. Everyone clapped and went on clapping. And now it is the thing to do after every performance, to show one’s approval, even in the presence of the king.”
Philippa’s eyes were huge. She looked from her mother to Anne Marie and Henri, back to her mother again.
“Mommy?”
“Yes, my darling. What is it?”
“I’m hungry. Can we eat now?”
By Honor Bound Page 25