By Honor Bound (15 page)

“I love you, too.”

She moved away from him quickly, reluctant to leave yet anticipating the warmth of the dauphine’s apartments. Nor did she ever want to give the appearance of shirking her duties, which must always come first. Secure in Philippe’s love for her, she merely looked forward to the next time she would see him. Honneure turned when she reached the immense palace doors and watched Philippe disappear into the night.

It was difficult, the periods of waiting until she could see him again. But she was patient.

And they had a lifetime together ahead of them.

The long and boring dinner finally appeared to be coming to an end. Madame du Barry glanced around her with disdain.

The Comte de Provence’s new little wife was plain, uninteresting, and totally, disgustingly subservient, and she loathed the room in which she had been forced to dine. The relatively small space of the king’s private dining room in the
Appartements Interieurs
hardly seemed befitting of royalty at all. She much preferred the grand and elegant chamber where, although they dined publicly, they at least did so in suitably kingly surroundings. Besides, she rather liked the ceremony of the public meals, when any and all who wished could come and see their monarch sup. It was good for the common people to see how the aristocracy lived. And it was divine to feel the caress of their hungry eyes on her face and form, her fabulous gowns and jewels. With a sigh, the comtesse cast her gaze on the opposite side of the table.

No doubt about it. There absolutely was a shadow of a mustache on the girl’s upper lip. Josephine Louise of Savoy was lucky to have bagged any husband at all. The fact that she had wed a grandson of the King of France was positively miraculous. Her family must be powerful indeed. Languidly, she stretched a bejeweled hand toward her glittering crystal wineglass.

“Homely little thing, isn’t she?”

The king had leaned close to her to whisper his observation. She could smell the wine on his breath, and it was almost overpowering. Good. It was time to bring up the matter that had annoyed and distracted her all evening. The comtesse leaned back in her chair until her shoulder nearly touched Louis’s.

“My very thoughts, Majesty. And my prayer for your grandson is that it won’t take too many attempts to plant a royal seed in that particular field.”

The king chuckled, then laughed aloud. All eyes turned in their direction, but the comtesse ignored them. When she continued to converse with the king in an undertone, the diners drifted back to their own conversations.

Antoinette eyed the pair nervously. She did not like the way du Barry’s gaze kept sliding in her direction as she whispered with the king. What new tale was she spinning? What new harm did she concoct?

Lifting her chin a notch, Antoinette turned her attention down the long table. Dozens of candles cast magical, flickering lights on sparkling crystal and silver. White-gloved, white-wigged footmen moved gracefully and unobtrusively to refill glasses or remove empty plates. A low murmur of conversation hovered over the clink of flatware on porcelain. She glanced at her husband, chatting amiably with Provence’s bride, and her heart went out to the girl. She knew what it was like to come to an unfamiliar land and marry a perfect stranger. Her eyes traveled on down the table.

The Comte d’Artois, Louis and Provence’s younger brother, was laughing with his sisters, Elizabeth and Clotilde. The king’s three plump sisters, Adelaide, Victoire, and Sophie, sat together across from the nieces and nephew in prim and pointed silence. They occasionally exchanged glances among themselves but never once turned their attention toward their brother and his much-loathed mistress. Antoinette pitied them, for they had gotten on well with the king and had led a relatively happy life until the arrival of du Barry. The king’s youngest sister, Louise, had become so demoralized by the situation at Versailles, at its being turned into a virtual brothel, she had entered the Carmelite house in Saint-Denis, one of the poorest and most austere convents. It was widely known she had gone there to pray for the moral conversion of her brother, the king. Antoinette sighed deeply and looked down the table to her left.

Her pale and thin but utterly jovial brother-in-law, Provence, flashed her a disarming smile.

“Don’t look so glum, little sister,” he scolded playfully. “Surely amid so much beauty and splendor, you can find some reason to smile.”

“I have many reasons to smile. But none of them have anything to do with material possessions.”

“Dancing is not material. Think of all the wonderful holiday parties to come. I invite you now to be my partner.”

“What about your wife?”

Provence leaned close to Antoinette’s ear. “I don’t think she knows how,” he whispered. “And, besides, there are other moves I would prefer to teach her.”

Antoinette could not help laughing, even as the blood rose to her cheeks. Across the table, the comtesse watched her with a smug and satisfied smile.

“Promise me, Louis,” du Barry said to the king without taking her gaze from the dauphine. “Promise me you will do something about her impertinence.”

Louis gulped the last of his wine and set the crystal goblet back on the Belgian lace cloth with an unsteady hand. “Sounds to me like it’s only her servant needs punishing.”

The Comtesse du Barry briefly considered how gratifying it would be to have revenge not only on Antoinette but on one of her favorite servants as well. She dared not ask for anything too petty, however. Besides, she had to let Olivia have a little fun.

“No,” the comtesse said at last. “I’m sure it was not the equerry’s fault at all but Antoinette’s. I have no doubt she has directed all her servants to ignore requests from any of
my
servants. It is simply another way she has found to snub me and show her self-righteous disapproval.” The comtesse finally turned her heavy-lidded eyes on the king and blinked slowly. “And I sent my servant merely to ask the equerry permission to borrow that lovely new sleigh of Antoinette’s, the one you so admired, that we might have a ride together at first snowfall.”

Louis nodded absently, his mind on more fleshly pursuits. But he did make a mental note to have someone have a word with Antoinette. He was tired to death of the trivial squabbling between his mistress and his grandson and heir’s wife. Furthermore, their endless skirmishing had polarized his court. Some of his most able and trusted ministers had begun to side with his prissy little granddaughter-in-law and openly criticized his lifestyle and the drain it put on the nation’s treasury. He could not have that any longer. Antoinette must be seen to be in line with all the royal decisions and choices, no matter her personal bent.

It was ironic, however, the king mused. Of all the brides he could have arranged for his grandson, the future king, he had unwittingly chosen one as morally proper and tight-laced as Louis himself. Well, she would simply have to mend her ways. Or at least appear to.

With narrowed eyes, Louis the elder gazed across the table at his pretty, young granddaughter-in-law. Barely sixteen years old and already as prudish as his sisters. Such a pity. But it would change. He would see to it. There would be peace between du Barry and Antoinette.

Chapter Fourteen

January 1772

Twelve years. Honneure took a deep breath and let it out slowly as she gazed from the princess’s salon onto the snowy scene below her. It was almost impossible to believe twelve years had passed since Paul and Philippe had come to fetch her from Amboise. She recounted the events over those years, being reared and educated in a beautiful château by a warm and loving family, tutored by a generous and caring mistress, becoming a servant of the future Queen of France, finding the love of her life. She had to be the luckiest woman alive. She only wished she could share her joy with her mistress.

Antoinette looked as forlorn as Honneure had ever seen her. She sat with her smallest and favorite dog on her lap and slowly stroked its silken coat while her hairdresser fussed with her elaborate wig. She had already been dressed in her finest day gown. Diamond earrings glittered in her ears. Her highest-ranking ladies-in-waiting had dressed in appropriate finery of their own and stood about awkwardly, as ill at ease as their mistress.

All eyes turned to Madame Campan as she hurriedly entered the room. “The royal party approaches.”

Antoinette’s ladies assembled themselves in two half circles on either side of the door, ready to fall in behind the princess as she passed. Honneure crossed to her and held out her arms for the little dog.

“They’ll all be waiting for you when you return,” she said in an attempt at reassurance.

Antoinette started to lift her pet, then hesitated. “No,” she said, as if thinking aloud. “My dogs can accompany me. Why not?” She looked up at Honneure. “You, too. Bring my precious pets, Honneure. There is no reason on earth why they cannot come as well.”

Honneure quailed inwardly, remembering her face-to-face encounter with the king. She recalled the uncomfortable intensity of his regard and the almost palpable dislike of his mistress. But her duty was to obey, without question, her princess.

Honneure dipped a curtsy, accepted the small dog, and went to fetch the others. She returned in time to take up the rear of the train as it passed from the interior apartments into the formal reception chambers. Their destination was the Salon of Peace, chosen by the king for what he hoped were obvious reasons.

The room was as immense and splendid as the others of the Queen’s Apartments. Complex, gilded architectural detail framed ceiling murals depicting classical Greek scenes of heroism. A massive circular, allegorical painting of Louis XIV bestowing peace on Europe hung over the marble fireplace and gave the room its name. Heels clicking on the intricately laid wooden floor, the dauphine’s party moved to the center of the chamber to receive the Court.

The king, his ministers, his grandsons, and all their entourage arrived first. Antoinette gave a small sigh of relief when she saw her husband, and they exchanged brief, fond smiles. Then she drew a great, deep breath.

She could do it. She could. She must. She had promised both her husband and her husband’s grandfather, the king. She would speak to the du Barry. She would acknowledge her. How painful could it be?

More footsteps and a cacophony of voices announced the arrival of the ladies of the Court. Madame du Barry entered the salon first, accompanied by the foreign minister’s wife, the Duchesse d’Aiguillon. She was a respectable lady who had been a friend of the late queen, and Antoinette was rather fond of her. She detested the woman who followed, the Marechale de Mirepoix, known as the little cat. She treated life as nothing more than a great joke, and Antoinette wondered if du Barry had brought her along as a personal comment on the current proceedings.

Madame du Barry’s group came to a halt. The comtesse looked first at the king, but his attention was elsewhere. Irritated, she glanced pointedly at Antoinette.

The princess realized she was trembling. Avoiding the comtesse’s gaze, she spoke first to the Duchesse d’Aiguillon. She turned at last to her nemesis and spoke the words she had rehearsed.

“There are a lot of people at Versailles today.”

No more than that, but it sufficed. She had acknowledged the du Barry, spoken to her. Officially, the feud was over.

Louis, her husband, looked pleased. The king looked pleased and, certainly, the comtesse. Antoinette had compromised her morals and principles, but she had done her duty to her husband and her sovereign. Realizing she had been holding her breath, she let it out in a long, slow sigh.

The public spectacle, tantamount to an apology, was over, and the Court ladies retreated. The comtesse looked back over her shoulder at the king, but he seemed preoccupied, and she moved on. It was the dauphin who finally broke the silence.

“You look quite lovely, Antoinette,” Louis said to his wife in a conciliatory tone. He knew how difficult this had been for her.

“And her Mistress of the Menagerie looks quite lovely as well.”

If the floor had opened beneath her feet and she had plunged to her death in a black abyss, Honneure would only have been grateful for the oblivion. She felt every eye in the room upon her as the aging king walked slowly in her direction.

“I remember you,” Louis said and paused in front of the enchantingly beautiful young woman. With a jeweled finger, he tilted her face up that he might look at her more closely. “You were with the dauphine last fall, when she aided the injured hunter.”

Honneure could not speak. Somehow she managed to nod.

Her hair was the color of summer honey, her eyes the color of a summer storm. She reminded him of someone from long, long ago, but he could not place the memory. And it was a shame, because it was a pleasant one.

“Do you know how to dance?” the king inquired abruptly.

“I … I know a few steps.”

“Good. I want you to dance for me. Next Wednesday at a
fête
celebrating the New Year.” The king turned to go, then hesitated. He stared at Honneure for a long moment and smiled. “I will look forward to it.”

Philippe stroked the elegantly curved neck, then ran his hand over the mare’s withers and down her well-muscled shoulder. “You’re a beauty,” he murmured softly. “Good girl. My good girl.”

The mare pushed her muzzle into Philippe’s side. Her eyelids grew heavy as he massaged the muscles of her back. But Philippe felt her tense beneath his touch, watched her head go up and ears prick forward. She whickered.

The huge stables were always full of people coming and going. The mare must have sensed someone familiar. Philippe’s heart beat just a little faster.

Heads turned to see a young woman in the dauphine’s livery hurrying along the clean, wide aisle. But she seemed to notice no one, intent only on her destination. By the time she reached the stalls where the Lipizzans were kept, Philippe had opened the mare’s door. Honneure practically fell into his arms.

“Philippe!”

“Honneure … what is it? What’s wrong?”

She merely clung to him.

Mindful of the many curious stares, Philippe gently eased Honneure into the stall and closed the door. He held her until the grip of her arms loosened. She took a step back and looked up at him.

“Something terrible has happened, Philippe. I must talk to you.”

Her eyes were wide and frightened. Even the mare sensed her tension and moved her feet nervously.

“Come, let me take you to my room. We can speak privately.”

Honneure hesitated only a moment, necessity winning over propriety. She nodded and allowed Philippe to guide her to his small room near the animals that were his responsibility.

Honneure’s heart squeezed as she glanced about the tiny, windowless, sparsely furnished space. There was a narrow cot, a small trunk for personal possessions he had brought with him from Chenonceau, a peg in the wall for hanging clothes, and a diminutive table pushed into the corner. Letters were spread across its scarred surface, and Honneure recognized the handwriting. Two short steps carried her across the room, and she gazed down at the familiar, beloved scrawl.

“Oh, Philippe, I miss them so.” She felt Philippe come up behind her, put his strong hands on her upper arms as if to brace her. “I’ve saved all my letters, too. And the ones from Madame Dupin.” Honneure touched the parchment pages with the tip of her index finger, then turned within Philippe’s grasp and gazed up at him. “She’s so witty, so clever, isn’t she? And
Maman
writes as if she was born to it. Reading her letters I’m almost back at Chenonceau. I can see and hear the river, smell the fragrant air …”

Honneure’s throat constricted, and tears rushed to her eyes. When they spilled over Philippe brushed them away.

“Honneure, what’s wrong?”

But she couldn’t speak. She shook her head.

Seeing the fear in her eyes, the sadness, and feeling helpless to aid her was more than Philippe could bear. Taking her face in his hands, he kissed away the tears that continued to fall, then her eyelids, her chin and cheeks. Eventually his lips found hers.

Honneure could not help but respond. His very presence was enough to make the ground move beneath her feet. When he touched her the world went away.

But she could not let herself forget, not now, not this time. With all the willpower she possessed, Honneure pushed Philippe away. With her hands pressed to his chest, as if to hold him at bay, she swallowed her tears and forced herself to return to the reason she had come.

“Philippe, I … I was with the dauphine today when she received the Court. The … king …” Honneure had to swallow again. “The king took notice of me. He ordered me to a gala on Wednesday. He … he’s ordered me to dance for him.”

Philippe felt himself grow cold. With the king’s notorious reputation, the invitation was certainly not an innocent one.

“Philippe, what am I going to do? You must help me.”

The dread in her voice tore at his heart. “The first thing you must do,” he said in a deliberately even tone, “is take a deep breath and try to be calm. Tell me everything from the beginning.”

Honneure complied, including the incident at Fontainebleau.

“Honneure, why didn’t you tell me before?”

“It didn’t seem important before.”

It was important now, however. The king had seen and taken notice of her twice. He had ordered her to appear before him again. And it was particularly significant because he was flaunting his interest in public, in the face of his mistress. Philippe could not doubt the seriousness of the situation. Neither did he want to share the depth of his concern with Honneure.

“Philippe, please, what are we going to do?”

“There is only one thing
to
do at the moment.” Philippe smoothed back the short, fine curling hairs that wisped about Honneure’s forehead. “We must not anticipate the worst. We have to take each day and live it and deal with a problem if …
if
… it arises.”

Honneure looked deeply into Philippe’s eyes. She saw her love reflected in them and returned. She heard the sagacity of his words and tried to hang on to it.

Yet when her thoughts leapt ahead and her imagination carried her back into the king’s presence, the fear returned. She laid her head against Philippe’s breast and closed her eyes.

“I’m sorry, Philippe,” she said in a small voice. “I’m so frightened. I can’t help it. What if … ?”

“Don’t say it.” Taking Honneure’s arms, Philippe gave her a little shake and forced her to look him in the eye. “Don’t even say the words. Nothing has happened, and we’re not going to act as if it has, or might. If you must think ahead, think about how beautiful you will look and how gracefully you’ll dance … because you do. Think of how you will impress the Court and please the dauphine. And how, when it’s over, life will go back to just exactly the way it was.”

Was he simply trying to allay her fears, or did he truly believe his words? Unblinking, Honneure stared at Philippe and saw only his faith in her and his love. She wanted to believe him, had to believe him.

But suddenly all she could think of were her musings from only a few hours earlier, when she had counted her blessings and considered herself the luckiest woman alive. She wanted Philippe to tell her that nothing would change, that she would go on being blessed and happy. And then she recalled the night years before when she had asked him to promise the same thing.

All at once Honneure felt very heavy, as if the weight and wisdom of a hundred lifetimes had fallen on her shoulders.

“Sometimes things change for the better,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “Sometimes they change for the worse. But change they will; they must. It is the nature of the world. Just promise me one thing, Philippe, please. Promise me you will always love me. Tell me that will never change.”

Philippe shook his head, setting long, dark curls astir against his shoulders. “No, Honneure,” he said solemnly. “That will never change. That is the one promise I can make that I know will never be broken. I love you. I love you with all my heart and for all time.”

“As I love you,” she whispered and laid her head once more against his breast until she could hear the beating of his heart.

It was the one true thing she could hold on to.