Speechless, Isabelle reached for the items he offered her.
Guy stood, placed his empty glass on the tray, and bowed.
“Thank you for your hospitality, my lady,” he said, reaching for his hat. “You may send me your decision through the intendant’s office. They’ll get word to me. Communication is slow between France and its colonies, but eventually messages do get through.” He moved toward the door. Just as he reached it, he stopped and turned to her once more, sorrow etched deeply on his face. “Adieu, Isabelle, may God comfort you.”
“Have a safe journey, my friend. I’ll be in touch.”
After the door closed behind him, Isabelle opened the heavy pouch he had given her. It was filled with an assortment of coins—an unexpected fortune compared to what little money she had. She pulled the drawstrings on the pouch to secure it. A knock on the door had her hiding her unforeseen bounty in the large pockets of her skirt.
“Come in.”
She prayed the hope she felt didn’t show on her face. Sebastien, one of the footmen, entered the room.
“The countess would like you to join her. She’s in her sitting room.”
“Of course. Will you have this trunk taken to my room, please?”
“Yes, madame.”
Feeling like a condemned prisoner, one with no hope of reprieve, Isabelle followed the man up the stairs.
* * *
Guy stepped out of the governor’s lodge, put on his hat, and started down the steps as the door close firmly behind him. The message, goodbye and don’t come back, was obvious. Poor Isabelle. He shook his head. The sound of merrymaking, especially this early in the day, grated on his nerves, and he clenched his teeth. How much worse it must be for her. Did courtiers have no sense of respect? He’d seen Colbert at the funeral and that pompous ass, d’Angrignon. While he couldn’t be positive, he thought the king’s aunt had been the older lady surrounded by liveried men and a couple of women. Isabelle’s father had been a popular man with the court, probably more so because he spent very little time there. That might’ve changed with his marriage, but he doubted it. The count had loved the land and preferred Caen to Paris.
He pursed his lips. The chevalier and the countess seemed rather friendly considering the occasion. Of course, the woman’s name had been linked with his and half a dozen other courtiers, before she’d married the Count de Caen, no doubt planning to bear him a son and cash in on the riches of Normandy. It wouldn’t surprise him if those two had kept up their relationship. Solange de Poitou had tipped her skirt for anyone who’d asked. She would’ve inherited the Count’s fortune, if not the land and the titles, making whatever sacrifice she’d made leaving the court well worth her effort. It looked as if she would be returning there a very wealthy widow. Why the count had ever married her would no doubt remain a mystery. Guy shook his head. Would she set her cap for the chevalier now? He was one of the king’s closest advisers.
Guy walked to the stable where he’d tethered his horse. His leg ached from the cold and all the time he’d spent on horseback since he’d returned to France via Martinique, well ahead of any ship from the colony itself. While he’d enjoyed his time in the tropics, attending to trade matters for Talon, he’d given his heart to his new home with its varied seasons.
Images of Isabelle filled his mind. God, she was beautiful, far lovelier than he’d expected, and the ravages of grief couldn’t change that. The slight puffiness and shimmer of tears still in her incredible green eyes had touched him. Her pallor bespoke her grief and something more. A flash of hope had crossed her face when he’d told her about Pierre’s estates, but it had died almost as soon as he’d seen it.
As a young girl, her energy and compassion had awed him. She’d been the daughter of the Count de Caen, Governor of Normandy, a potential contender for the throne of France, while he’d been Pierre’s poor cousin, much as Sophie was hers, dependent on the generosity of his uncle. At seventeen, he’d been attracted to the vivacious child of thirteen. She’d been as unattainable as the stars, and yet he hadn’t been able to stop himself from losing his heart to her. Seeing her today had brought back the love he’d forced deep inside him years ago. While it hurt to know she didn’t remember him, he clung to the precious memory of the last time he’d seen her.
It had been the day before her fourteenth birthday, and he and Pierre had come to say goodbye since they were leaving for military college in the morning. Isabelle had worn a pale green gown and looked as lovely as a summer’s day. He’d offered her a small bunch of violets and pansies which grew wild around the castle and had hurried away before she could say anything. While he’d hoped to return one day, until today, that hadn’t been possible. He’d envied Pierre her hand, had been surprised the king had allowed it, but never would’ve said anything to ruin his friend’s happiness.
There was nothing Guy wouldn’t have done for the vicomte or Pierre. The charges of treason had been trumped up—they had to be—but by whom and why? Pierre had been on a mission of some urgency for de Courcelle, the governor-general of New France, and Jean Talon, its intendant. There were forces at work in the colony that threatened its viability, and someone wanted to prevent the king from learning the truth. What exactly that was, even he didn’t know, but as soon as he returned to the colony he intended to find out.
Rumor had it some of those involved with La Compagnie des Cents Associés whose charter was revoked in 1663 were unhappy with the efforts to increase agriculture in the colony. Some continued to work for the French West India Company that had replaced it and lamented the restrictions put on their trapping and exploration. If they were to find a route to India, how could they do it without exploring the west? So far, the large body of water some had believed to be the Pacific Ocean had turned out to be nothing but an enormous lake. No ship would be able to navigate the river beyond Ville-Marie because of the rapids. As far as Guy was concerned, even if they found the ocean, they would never be able to make trade that way profitable—but a focus on agriculture and lumber to supplement the fur trade could make them very rich indeed.
He huffed out a heavy breath. Cedric. The name left a bad taste in his mouth. Pierre’s older half-brother would have jumped at the chance to discredit him and if he could, he would’ve added to the rumors and accusations that damned him. Even as a boy, he’d resented his younger half-brother and the affection the vicomte had lavished on his second son and his young wife. Perhaps this was his revenge. Not content with the fortune and title, he’d wanted to strip Pierre of the respect of family and friends, something he could never do in the colonies.
Should Isabelle choose to take her place there, it would be one of honor. The chances she would were remote, considering she carried royal blood, but a man could dream. If she were able to accept her husband’s lands and follow Sophie to the colony, she would have to marry, since all women of child-bearing age did, but her bloodline wouldn’t be an obstacle for him there.
Guy mounted his horse and trotted out through the city gate. The rain had stopped ensuring his ride back to Rouen would be drier and far more comfortable than his ride to Caen.
The allegations and charges against Pierre had stunned him. Whoever had falsely accused him needed to be punished for his slander. Had he arranged the ambush that had ended his best friend’s life? If so, Guy would do everything in his power to see the man hung for murder. He would restore Pierre’s honor and do whatever he could to make sure the woman they both loved was happy and safe. It was the least he could do for the man who’d saved his life.
Chapter Three
Wishing she was anywhere but here, Isabelle knocked on the door of her step-mother’s sitting room and turned the knob. Solange sat at her elaborate escritoire examining the correspondence Jean had given her earlier. She glanced up from her papers and motioned for Isabelle to approach.
“An attractive man from what little I saw of him. What did he want?”
Isabelle cleared her throat. “I didn’t reall
y notice. He served in New France with Pierre and came to offer his condolences.”
“Liar,” Solange replied and laughed. “You’d have to be even more frigid than I think you are not to appreciate such a well-made man. You were together more than half an hour. It only takes a minute to say I’m sorry. I’m sure you had more to discuss than that. What did he want? It must have been important for him to come all the way out here. I’m sure a handsome officer would much rather spend his leave in Paris.”
“Not everyone considers Paris the center of the world. He’s not an officer any longer. He’s a seigneur, a title he earned in service to the colony. He and I were friends as children since he was one of Pierre’s cousins. They went to military school together and served in the same unit. He brought me a small footlocker containing my husband’s personal items.”
The countess looked up from her papers, giving Isabelle her full attention, her lips pursed, her face mirroring her distaste.
“Another colonial upstart,” she sneered. “I wish the king would put an end to such nonsense. I can understand the need for nobility in the colony, but rewarding riff-raff with titles is hardly the way to do it. A man is either born noble or he isn’t. It isn’t something you can change by waving a sword around. It’s in the blood, as you well know considering the color of yours. I hope he was the last of the rabble.” She put down her quill pen and turned in the chair. “I’m annoyed with you. I didn’t expect you to be so stubborn.”
“Stubborn?” Isabelle frowned in surprise. “In what way?”
“Your attitude towards this marriage, of course. You should be overjoyed, but no.” Solange scrunched up her face. “It isn’t what I want,” she whined. “Behaving like a boorish peasant or a spoiled brat doesn’t become you.”
“It isn’t my intention to be difficult,” Isabelle argued, her chin raised. “I only want to honor my husband and my father.” She shook her head. “I can’t understand why you think this marriage would please me. I realize I must obey the king, but do my feelings count for so little? I carry the royal bloodline. I deserve some consideration.”
Solange’s fury was palpable and radiated from her. She stood quickly, knocking over her chair, moved to Isabelle’s side, and grabbed her chin painfully.
“Thanks to your husband, you deserve nothing,” she ground out between clenched teeth, her fingers digging into Isabelle’s cheeks. “His treason cost you your freedom and what few rights you had. My God! The king could’ve had us all executed for that transgression. The only reason he didn’t was because of his fondness for your father, but with him gone ... After what happened, allowing you to do as you please would be political suicide. I know it, the chevalier knows it, and so does the king.” She released her.
Isabelle reached up to touch her cheeks, stunned by her step-mother’s anger.
“I can’t believe how naïve you are,” Solange continued, shaking her head. “Rebellions have been started by people with weaker claims to the throne than yours—what are you? Twelfth now? Many of those ahead of you are old and unhealthy. The Princess Henriette, his majesty’s aunt, is almost sixty, and her health is erratic. I was surprised to see her here today, but at one time, she and your father were close. Beaulieu nears seventy. I heard the other day that Deneuve can no longer leave his room. As they die, your claim to the throne advances.” She let go of her and moved over to the fireplace.
What did her bloodline have to do with any of this?
“The king and queen are still young. She’ll bear another child this summer. The dauphin is only seven, and the princess just turned one. Every child the queen bears lessens my claim to the throne,” Isabelle insisted, rubbing her aching jaw.
“Does it? Two of the queen’s children born since the dauphin haven’t survived infancy, and the princess is frail. This pregnancy has been hard on her majesty. The life span of legitimate royal children seems shorter than most.” She reached for the cup of chocolate on her desk and sipped. “Of course, there are the royal bastards. The two from de Vallieres seem healthy enough, and rumor has it the king’s sniffing at the Marquise de Montespan’s skirts even before the queen enters her fifth confinement.” She laughed. “Our sovereign is a lusty man. Whether he acknowledges those born on the wrong side of the sheets or not makes little difference since only legitimate issue, those with the bluest blood of all, can inherit the throne.”
“But that still leaves the king’s younger brother, Prince Phillippe, the Duke of Bourbon-Orleans who’s only in his mid-twenties.”
Solange laughed. “Monsieur is far more interested in his mignons and other men at court than he is of Madame, his wife. Henrietta of England has only borne him daughters.”
Isabelle felt her cheeks heat. Court gossip wasn’t always reliable, but Monsieur’s exploits were widely known.
“There’s still his aunt’s son, Charles II of England as well as his issue. They outweigh any claims I might have since my claim comes through Navarre and the king’s mother.”
“Do you honestly think France would accept the rule of the English king?” she asked, shaking her head. “Minette may have arranged a treaty between her brother-in-law, the king, and England, but peace between the nations is fleeting at best. My God, the queen is Spanish and yet we are at war with Spain. No. If anything should happen to those of French blood ahead of you, you would move closer to the crown.” She laughed. “Even if Louis sires fifty bastards, your lineage has more power than theirs, or the English, and any legitimate children you bear will have a legal claim to the throne.”
“I just want to have a say in what becomes of me,” Isabelle pleaded, knowing that what her step-mother said was true. France would never accept the rule of the English king, and while the charges against Pierre stemmed from the colony, if Louis thought she might be plotting with them to advance her claim ... heads had been lost for less.
Solange turned to her once more and shook her head, her face mirroring her disgust.
“Do you realize the original decision was to slit your traitorous throat? Vincent convinced the king to spare you and allow him to marry you instead. This is how you repay his concern for your life? You should be down on your knees begging his forgiveness.”
Isabelle stared into her step-mother’s cold eyes. Could Solange be telling the truth? Slit her throat? She’d prefer they did, rather than force her to go through with this marriage, even if it meant placing an innocent in the chevalier’s bed.
“Leave me,” Solange said. “I must attend to a few of my guests and make arrangements to complete one last task as Countess de Caen and member of the board of directors for the French West India Company. Go to your room. Think about what I’ve said. We’ll continue this later.”
“Oui, madame,” Isabelle said, turning to leave.
How much of what Solange said could she believe?
As soon as she reached her bedroom, she hid the coins and documents Guy had given her in the false bottom of the old trunk at the end of her bed. The smaller footlocker sat near the door, and using the key she’d retrieved from the pouch, she opened it.
Along with some clothing, she found the letters she’d written to Pierre, as well as those his mother had sent him. She read through her letters, swiping at her tears. She would put them with the ones he’d sent her as soon as she had a chance. Setting them aside, she examined the rest of the items. Why would Pierre have wanted these?
There was a lightweight black coat, embroidered mittens lined with fur, a pair of beaded leather slippers, the dark brown wool scarf she’d knit for him two years ago, and stockings, trousers, and a couple of shirts in a fabric she didn’t recognize. They seemed sturdier and more durable than silk, wool, or linen. In the bottom of the trunk, she found several sheets of paper with writing on them in a language she didn’t understand—it could be English or Spanish, maybe even German—and a map of the colony.
She’d just put everything back into the small trunk when Solange barged into her room.
&n
bsp; “I see you’ve been crying again. Tears do nothing to improve your complexion. Have you thought about what I told you?” she asked.
“Not really,” Isabelle admitted. “I was looking through Pierre’s trunk.” She stood. “Surely, there’s another option? What if I renounce my claim to the throne and offer to go into the cloister for the rest of my life?”
Solange burst out laughing.
“Do you really think Vincent would allow that? That he would bow down to your whims, especially now that he’s come this close to securing real power for himself and his family? You foolish, foolish girl.” She shook her head. “Pauvre petite. You’re almost twenty-five-years old, and you have no idea how the world works. Men seek power the same way they do air to breathe. Given your bloodline, it’s possible that someday one of your grandchildren could inherit the throne, or your daughter could marry the dauphin, assuming he survives. Imagine how powerful Caen and d’Angrignon would be then. Resign yourself to your fate, Isabelle, and make the best of it. All you have to do is spread your legs and allow Vincent to plant his seed in you.”
Too disgusted to speak, Isabelle turned away and walked to the window. Solange’s comments now and her suggestions earlier bothered her. It was true the chevalier was an ambitious man, but would he commit murder to see his own child rule France?
“As far as renouncing your claim to the throne, documents have a way of going missing,” Solange continued. “Men who want to change the political structure of France won’t be deterred by the wall of a convent. They would murder you or use you for their own purposes and think nothing of it. Do you really believe Pierre orchestrated his treasonous plan alone? He wasn’t that smart. So far, none of the other conspirators have been caught. A woman is often accused of her husband’s crimes. You don’t want the king to start thinking that way, and if you oppose his will ... Besides, I can’t take my place at court until you’re the new Countess of Caen, and the sooner that happens, the better I’ll like it. I hate it here; I always have.”
The Price of Honor (Canadiana Series Book 1) Page 3
