It was late. Philippa had long been asleep, curled on the pallet she would share with her mother. Henri was in his corner, snoring fitfully. The two women sat close to the hearth, its dying flames their only light.
“It’s going to be hard, you know,” the widow said, quietly continuing their conversation. “Harder than you think.”
“What choice do I have, Anne Marie?”
The widow’s only reply was to lower her chin and look up at Honneure from beneath arched brows.
“You know we can’t stay here,” Honneure replied softly. “Your place simply isn’t big enough, and I have … nothing. I couldn’t even help to build an extra room on this house.”
“With Henri’s help we’d manage somehow.” When Honneure did not reply, the widow did not press the point. She knew what a sore subject it was, and she silently cursed Armand as she had done nearly every day since his death.
Spiteful to the end, the old man had left nothing to Honneure, not a sou, despite the years she had spent caring for him and his farm. He was as mean in death as he had been in life. He had left everything to an aging sister, who being in failing health herself, had promptly sold everything lock, stock, and barrel. Honneure and Philippa had nothing but their clothes. And Coozie, whom they had hidden away from the sales agent, and who would, henceforward, belong to Henri.
Anne Marie felt tears threatening at the corners of her eyes and tried to blink them away. They were a waste of time. Change was the nature of life. And Honneure was, perhaps, doing what was best for her and her child.
“There will certainly be more life for you and Philippa at Court. I myself prefer the quiet country life, but you’re young yet. There is so much opportunity, so much for you and Philippa to look forward to.”
Honneure let her gaze rest briefly on her sleeping child and then turned back to the widow. “You will always be family to us. You know that. But I want Philippa to have the chance to know my foster parents, too. And now that Madame du Barry and her entire faction are long gone, there’s always the chance …”
Honneure left the sentence unfinished. Anne Marie covered her hand with her gnarled fingers.
“Through the years your love for Philippe has never dimmed,” the old woman said in a barely audible voice. “If anything, your devotion to his memory has grown. I cannot but imagine that his love is as strong, as unyielding to time, as yours. If it is God’s will, you will find each other. You will be together again.”
Honneure smiled to hide the trembling of her lip. “I know that if, or when, he is able, he will let our parents know he is safe. Someday he will know about his … his daughter.” She glanced once more at Philippa and then brightened her smile. “And in the meantime, speaking of devotion, there is the queen.”
“Yes, the queen,” Anne Marie repeated, no small amount of awe in her tone. “It amazes me that someone in her position is so … so normal, so unassuming.”
“She is one of the kindest people I have ever known.”
“And over the years, hearing your stories and reading those letters, I have come to believe you. Why, it was only a matter of weeks after you wrote her of your predicament that she replied … personally … and said she’d find a place at Court for you.”
Honneure flushed with the memory. The queen had been thrilled, in fact, with the idea of Honneure’s return. Baron has passed on, and two of my little ones, Antoinette had written. But I have new little friends and know you will think them quite merry. I am as fond of them as I can be and cannot tell you how happy I am to know that you will be returning to care for my dear little ones. I have not as much time for them anymore and spend what free time I can find with my precious daughter. What fun the children will have together when you bring your own treasured child to Court. Did you know that Artois, Louis’s brother, has two children now? Louis Antoine, who is only a bit younger than your Philippa, and Charles Ferdinand, who is the age of my Marie Therese. Oh, to hear the sounds of their laughter ringing in these dusty old halls… .
“As sad as I am to leave you and Henri,” Honneure said at last, “I cannot deny that I long to serve the Dauph—my queen, again. In many ways I feel almost as if it is my destiny, as if I am bound to her in some way.”
“You will forever be bound by your integrity and honor, my dear,” the widow replied gently. “Your mother aptly named you.”
At that moment Philippa mewed in her sleep, and Honneure was instantly on her feet. “I hate to bring this, our last night, to a close. But I really should lie down with her. Dawn will come all too soon.”
“Too soon, indeed.” The old woman grunted as she pushed to her feet. “And you’ll forgive me if I’ll not be welcoming this one with my usual enthusiasm. Come now, let me cover you. You’ve been a daughter to me, you know.”
Honneure merely nodded, unable to speak. She stretched out on the pallet next to her daughter and closed her eyes while her friend pulled a thin blanket up around her shoulders. In no time at all, the pallet’s covering was damp with her tears.
Their good-byes had been said, in large part, the night before. The morning’s departure, therefore, was a quiet one. Henri had the horse hitched and the wagon loaded by the time the sun was high enough to banish the dawn’s misty damp. Chickens clucked and pecked in the yard while Philippa ran around to the back of the house to say farewell to the rabbits.
“One good thing about your leaving,” Anne Marie said as she and Honneure stood next to the wagon. “I’ll be able to sell those rabbits again for local stew pots instead of keeping them as pets.”
Honneure laughed, in spite of the heaviness weighing down her heart. “But she’s named them all. How can you possibly sell a rabbit whose name is Elizabeth to the butcher?”
“Please believe that I will find a way,” the widow responded dryly. In her heart, however, she doubted that this particular generation of rabbits would ever leave her farm.
Philippa reappeared, cheeks rosy and hair tangled. Anne Marie bent over carefully to hug her.
“Give me a kiss, quickly now,” she demanded, not unkindly. “Coozie is eager to be off on his adventure.”
“To the Royal Court,” the little girl piped up brightly.
“And won’t he be the grandest horse there?”
Philippa nodded solemnly and then threw her arms around the old woman and planted a kiss on her cheek. Anne Marie straightened.
“Put her in the wagon, Henri.” The widow turned to face Honneure. “We’ve said all that needs to be said. You know you and Philippa will be welcome here, always. Even after I’m gone. Henri loves you two as much as I do.”
“I know,” Honneure whispered.
“A letter now and then would be welcome.”
Honneure simply nodded. It seemed she had not shed all her tears the night before.
“Then off with you. It won’t do to keep the Queen of France waiting.”
The women hugged briefly, and Honneure climbed into the wagon. Henri clucked to the horse, and the gelding moved forward.
The old woman stood watching. The month had been dry so far, and dust rose lazily into the still air from beneath the wagon’s wheels. Philippa, squeezed between her mother and Henri, turned and waved, a happy smile on her rosebud mouth. In spite of her initial reluctance, she now moved into her future with joy and excitement. It was just as it should be.
Before the wagon went out of sight down the road, Honneure turned. She did not wave but raised her hand as if in salute. Despite the distance, the two women locked gazes. Then they rounded a bend and were out of sight. Anne Marie sighed, drew a handkerchief from her pocket, and blew her nose.
The widow walked slowly back to her house. She only hoped she lived long enough to learn the next chapter of Honneure’s story. The girl was special, no doubt about it. Destiny had not finished with her. It had, in fact, probably only begun.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
July 1779
The parklike gardens surrounding the Petit Trianon w
ere at the height of their summer glory. Spreading trees shaded rolling, sprawling lawns and small, sparkling lakes. On the grassy verge of one, sunlight glinted on the dome of the Temple of Love. Behind the supporting fluted columns, a marble Cupid bent to carve his bow from Hercules’s club. Birds chattered in overhanging branches and endured the scoldings of bold squirrels. It was a perfect summer day.
Inside the small Trianon, the young queen laughed with her friends and reluctantly noted the length of the shadows outside the salon windows.
“I’m afraid it is time to leave our charming retreat and return to reality,” she announced with a moue. “I dine with my dear husband tonight and an old friend who has come to visit, and I must dress accordingly.”
“You mean,” said Madame Elisabeth, “that you must dress for the friend and the courtiers who will join you. Were you to dine alone with my brother, I doubt you would have to dress at all.”
Antoinette’s friends, the Duchesse de Polignac and the Princesse de Lamballe, both sensitive souls, reacted with surprised horror. Antoinette, however, laughed and playfully slapped her favorite sister-in-law on the back of her wrist.
“You’re too naughty, ma soeur.”
“If I’m naughty, then you’re a scandal,” Elisabeth replied with a straight face. “Imagine, at the Royal Court of Versailles, actually being in love with your husband and remaining faithful to him. And you the Queen of France! You could have anyone you want!”
The Princesse de Lamballe, prone to fainting, had turned pale, and Antoinette hurried to reassure her.
“We’re only teasing, Marie Therese. Come, a walk in the fresh air will do you good. We’ll go by our little theater and see how it’s coming along. Monsieur Mique assures me it will be done soon.”
The four women left the small, jewel-like building and strolled amiably, arm in arm, through the wooded grounds. As they passed from shadow into a narrow clearing, sunshine highlighted the unusual color of the queen’s simple gown.
“Tell me again what that color is called,” the Duchesse de Polignac said. “Didn’t the king give it a name?”
“He certainly did,” Antoinette replied with mock pique. “I thought Madame Bertin positively brilliant to come up with this extraordinary color for me. But the first thing Louis said to me when he saw it was, ‘My God, Antoinette, that gown is the color of a puce.’”
“A flea?” Marie Therese exclaimed.
“Exactly. And whatever this color used to be called will probably be entirely forgotten over time. My husband has started a trend, and now everyone calls it puce.”
As the women approached the nearly completed building, workmen stopped and stared in awe. Antoinette smiled at them cheerily.
“Go on,” she called gaily. “Don’t stop on my account. I long for the completion of this project.”
Craftsmen and laborers slowly returned to their duties.
Though the queen was well known for her easy, friendly nature, it still took many people aback.
“Can we look inside?” Gabrielle, the Duchesse, inquired timidly.
“Why not?” Antoinette replied. “This is our theater after all.”
Though the interior was not quite finished, it was easy to see that the architect had masterfully designed the limited space. Though small, the stage was as elaborate as any of its grander cousins. Curtains and chairs were in the queen’s colors, and every carving and fixture was exquisite down to the smallest detail.
“My goodness!” Marie Therese’s eyes grew wide. “Look at all those seats! How can Your Majesty possibly have the courage to perform in front of so many people?”
“In the first place,” Antoinette replied, “there aren’t that many seats. Merely fifty, and I doubt they will ever be completely filled. We’re only inviting family and a few favored friends to our little productions. Since Artois will be performing with us there will be his wife, of course, and Monsieur and his wife,” she said, referring to the king’s other brother, Provence. “The aunts have said they’d like to come, and Clotilde.”
“My sister will only come if there’s food involved,” Elisabeth remarked dryly.
“Ooooh, you do insist on being bad, don’t you?”
“You don’t care how bad I am,” Elisabeth retorted good-naturedly, “as long as I’m good onstage.”
“You’ll be the star, I’m sure. And in the second place,” Antoinette continued, returning her attention to Marie Therese, “I will have the courage to perform because I am doing it for my dear Louis. You know how restricted his time has become. He no longer has time for the real theater. But we will perform at his leisure, and he has merely to walk across the lawn from his home to get here when he chooses. We will be able to put a little entertainment and gaiety back into his life.”
“You are so good and kind.” The princess sighed.
“Merely a proper wife to a good and loving husband. Now come. I really must return. I’m anxious to see if my friend has arrived.”
As the women walked toward the palace, Madame Elisabeth wrinkled her nose. “You know, that theater really is a bit too small.”
“Elisabeth,” the queen exclaimed. “It’s not a bit too small for our purposes. Why would you say that?”
“Did you not say Monsieur’s and Artois’s wives would be attending?”
“Yes,” Antoinette drawled cautiously. She had an idea of what the prankish Elisabeth was about to say.
“Well, then, the theater is obviously too small. Even if we are up onstage, we shall be able to smell the stench.”
Marie Therese and Gabrielle had the good grace to blush. Even Antoinette drew a sharp breath and halted abruptly.
“Elisabeth, really,” she scolded. “You’re going too far. Those poor women simply don’t know any better.”
“And since they’re royalty and supposedly have plentiful water available to them, imagine what the rest of the population must smell like. In my opinion, Piedmont is a country to be avoided at all costs.”
“Be kind, Elisabeth. They’ve been better recently. Didn’t you know your brother talked to them? He himself was so offended he informed them, in the nicest way possible, of course, that bodies were for bathing and teeth for brushing.”
“One of my brother’s greatest acts, so far, as king.”
“Oh, Elisabeth, stop now!”
“I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose. Doesn’t Louis have two tubs, one for bathing and one for rinsing? He doesn’t even like to have soap left on him, he’s so clean.”
This time it was Antoinette’s turn to blush. And once again, the Princesse de Lamballe appeared likely to faint.
“Enough, Elisabeth,” the queen said, but a giggle erupted nevertheless.
Hurrying into the palace, Antoinette was equally unaware of amused smiles … and disapproving frowns.
The room was narrow but pleasant and had a tiny square of window overlooking the Bosquet of the Queen, a grassy terrace studded with classical statues. There was one wide bed for mother and daughter, a cupboard for their clothes, a desk and chair. The single doorway led to a small sitting room they shared with an elderly couple who served one of the king’s ministers. Honneure had met them once or twice and found them kindly enough but distant, and they seemed to spend little time in their quarters. It suited Honneure, for she and Philippa had more room for themselves and the queen’s dogs. There was also a small hearth that would be a luxury come winter, some comfortable if threadbare furniture, and a shelf with an eclectic but welcome collection of books.
Standing by the window in their room, Honneure could not help but recall her years with her mother at Amboise. She had adored her mother, and they had been happy despite the physical poverty of their existence. How much better things were for her and Philippa! How far she had come, from Amboise to Chenonceau, Chenonceau to Versailles. And even though her sojourn in Normandy had begun as a nightmare, she still had treasured memories of her daughter’s first years and Henri and Anne Marie. If only she could
forget the horror of the day Armand had threatened Philippe and driven him away and out of her life …
Honneure shook her head, scattering and banishing the unwelcome memory. Now was the time for a fresh start. She was incredibly blessed by the queen’s friendship and generosity. She had a decent home for her child and food and clothing. Philippa even had friends, for Antoinette had been true to her word. The children of her ladies and of her most trusted servants tumbled freely with the royal progeny.
Which was where Philippa was at the moment, and it was high time to collect her. The dogs needed a walk, and there was someone very special Honneure wanted to see. She clapped once, and four small bodies roused themselves from various positions about the room.
“Come, little ones,” she called, and the four small dogs trotted obediently in the wake of Honneure’s swishing blue satin skirt.
It took Honneure several minutes to reach the Queen’s Stair, and she hesitated, looking up the grand ascent. Though she and Philippa had been at Versailles for a little over two weeks, she still did not feel comfortable climbing these steps. Each time she could not help but envision Philippe at the top, his argument with Olivia, the woman’s fatal fall. The end of all hope.
Picking up her skirts, Honneure trudged upward. She heard the dogs’ nails skittering on the marble behind her.
There had been a thin, fragile hope in her breast when she first returned to the palace that someone would have word of Philippe, would know if he was safe or where he had gone. But no one had so much as mentioned his name. It was as if he had never existed. Surely, if someone had word of him, they would have told her. The hope had almost died within her.
Honneure passed quickly through the overwhelmingly ornate and sumptuous reception rooms. In the queen’s bedchamber she opened the hidden door and slipped into the interior apartments. Hearing voices, the dogs bounded ahead of her into the salon, and she called to them to come back to her. Madame Campan appeared in the doorway.
“I’m sorry, madame. I was just passing through to the nursery stairs.”
By Honor Bound Page 26