The Price of Honor (Canadiana Series Book 1)

by Susanne Matthews

  Isabelle turned back to her step-mother, her cheeks blazing. Of course, Solange had a large stake in this marriage, too. How could she be so clueless?

  “Your husband becomes Count de Caen and d’Angrignon the day you marry, and he’s quite anxious to assume his new titles. Not many men move up four ranks in the peerage so easily. There are plenty of women willing to fill his bed and wear his ring, but at the moment, thanks to your bloodline, you’re the one he wants. Vincent offered to give you his name to spare the king any further shame, and somehow managed to convince his majesty it was all his idea in the first place, completely hiding his own ambition from Louis. The man is brilliant. The title is his reward for now, the position at court is mine. This is all about power—power and politics. You have absolutely no say in anything. Get used to it.”

  Solange grabbed her chin as she had before, twisting her face to the right and then to the left. Isabelle tried to pull away, but her grip tightened.

  “You’re really quite pretty, you know. Sophie resembles you, but she pales in comparison. Unfortunately, you’ve spent your life minimizing your looks. I’ve no doubt that properly dressed, you would be a great beauty.” She let go of her and pushed her away with such violence Isabelle had to grab the edge of her bed to keep from falling.

  “Fortunately, several members of the court are staying for lunch. You’ll take my place at the table. Colbert will announce your betrothal and the chevalier’s appointment at that time. By tomorrow, the news will be all over the capital, and our dinner guests tonight will reinforce it. Make no mistake, Isabelle. You’ll accept the king’s will or Sophie will suffer the consequences.”

  “You threaten Sophie, why?” she asked, wringing her hands once more.

  The countess fisted her hands at her hips and chuckled maliciously.

  The hairs on the back of Isabelle’s neck stood on end.

  “What happens to her matters far more to you than what happens to yourself. I saw it in the way you jumped to her defense earlier. If you cause me trouble here, I’ll see her sent to a brothel in Paris instead of the colony. Maybe I’ll have those long-ago charges of witchcraft against your great-grandparents in Navarre brought up again. I could do it without implicating you. Would you like to see her drowned or burned at the stake? Her fate’s in your hands.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” she hissed. “The charges were false, part of the Spanish Inquisitions persecutions against the French in Navarre. Sophie’s been raised to be a lady. She’d rather die than succumb to a life in a brothel.”

  “Please.” Solange rolled her eyes. “She wouldn’t be the first impoverished lady to become a courtesan, and she won’t be the last. Rumors of witchcraft are rampant in France once again, especially with the flux so prevalent. Why look at the way your father wasted away? You may not believe me, but I did everything I could to save him. I could lay his illness at her feet. She had ample opportunity to curse him. It wouldn’t be hard to manufacture evidence against her. She has a birthmark, doesn’t she? A white one just below her left breast, shaped like a flower, I believe.” She chuckled.

  Her cruel laughter turned Isabelle’s blood to ice, and she shuddered.

  “Your choice, Isabelle. Will Sophie live as a lady, even if it is on the other side of the world, as a whore in Paris, or be charged with witchcraft, and burned at the stake?”

  “Chienne!”

  Solange shrugged and moved toward the door.

  “Such unladylike language,” she said, shaking her head. “You’ll have to go to confession again. I may indeed be a bitch as you put it, but I’m one holding all the cards. There’ll be a small soiree tonight since Colbert, the chevalier and a few others are staying until tomorrow. I realize you think entertaining is in bad taste but get used to it. It’ll be a large part of your life from now on. If you don’t want anything untoward to happen to Sophie, don’t cross me. Now, I’ll leave you to ponder your choices. Never let it be said you had none.” She scrutinized Isabelle and sneered. “The gowns her majesty sent have all been aired and pressed. Wear the brown and gold brocade for lunch and the green velvet tonight. Both colors are suitable for a girl mourning her father. My maid will be up shortly to do something with your hair. The luncheon is at one. That should give you over an hour to make yourself presentable. Sophie won’t be joining you for the midday meal, but she’ll be there for dinner.” Her eyes narrowed. “Isabelle, remember what I’ve said. As you know, I’m a woman of my word.” The threat hung heavily in the air between them.

  Solange turned and left the room, slamming the door behind her.

  Isabelle slid to the floor, tears spilling down her cheeks. Impotent rage coursed through her veins. Although she had suspected her step-mother of malice, nothing could have prepared her for this single-minded vindictiveness.

  As much as she loved her king and normally would gladly do whatever he ordered her to do, she couldn’t obey him this time. If there was even the remotest possibility the chevalier meant to have others killed to advance any child she bore ... While she had no proof this conspiracy existed, the possibility it did ate at her. She would see Sophie safely aboard her ship before she’d make any move. Suicide would damn her to hell, but hell would be a far better place than Vincent’s bed. Perhaps God would understand her sacrifice and leave her in limbo for all eternity.

  A knock at the door made her jump. Hoping it was Sophie or her old nanny, she was disappointed to see it was Lucette arriving to repair her tear-ravaged face and dress her hair.

  “The countess has sent me to help you, madame,” the maid said, entering the room with a heavy garment in her arms, the scowl on her face proof that she didn’t want to be there.

  Isabelle nodded and sat in front of her dressing table and watched as the woman brushed, pulled, and plaited. Stone-faced, Lucette eventually tamed her ginger hair into a knot at the nape of her neck that made her look younger and far more innocent than she really was.

  It had been several years since Isabelle had allowed someone to dress her, but today, she lacked the backbone and energy to refuse. Considering the layers and the weight of them, it was just as well. Lucette helped her into the queen’s heavy brown and gold brocade dress, pinned the matching gold cap to the top of her head, and fastened the amber earrings to her lobes. Isabelle barely recognized the pale creature staring at her in the looking glass.

  Finally, at exactly one o’clock, the maid escorted her to the Grand Salon where lunch awaited the more than forty guests who’d chosen to remain. People eyed her curiously, eyebrows raise here and there, fans covering whispers elsewhere. Thankfully, most of them would depart after the meal, leaving only a handful for dinner.

  Isabelle sat at the foot of the table in what would’ve been her step-mother’s place. The chevalier spent most of the meal in earnest discussions with Colbert, essentially ignoring the other diners. Isabelle made small talk with those who deemed to speak to her, grateful most chose to ignore her instead.

  “My dear,” the Baroness de Rimbeault, seated on her right, leaned toward her. “Such a lovely gown. I recall the last time her majesty wore it. I believe it’s one of her favorites, but of course, since she’s with child once more, it doesn’t quite fit. Marie Louise is kindness itself.” She reached over and patted Isabelle’s hand. “This must be hard so soon after your father’s passing and being forced to leave the convent to do the king’s bidding. You are to be commended.”

  Why couldn’t anyone say death? Passing made it sound as if he might come back. And as far as the convent went, it wasn’t as if she’d planned to take the veil. She’d known that sooner or later, even if her father hadn’t died, the king would send for her.

  Since people seemed to recognize her dress, it was obvious that this too was part of the plan. Royal hand-me-down or not, it was too fussy for her tastes. Isabelle consoled herself with the fact that this charade would last less than a week. Hopefully, Sophie would lead a long and healthy life, and God would have mercy on her own sou
l.

  The meal, a typical light lunch befitting mourners, was delicious, but with no appetite and her stomach in knots, Isabelle barely touched her plate. She raised her glass of claret to her lips and sipped.

  One of the older ladies at the table, a woman she couldn’t remember ever having met, approached her, leaning heavily on an elaborate, gold-topped walking stick. Two men in royal livery followed her.

  “Mademoiselle de Caen,” she murmured. “That has always been one of my favorite gowns, and it becomes you. Please accept my deepest sympathies on your father’s passing. He was an old friend, a good man, and a strong supporter of my nephew, the king.”

  “Thank you, your highness,” Isabelle answered, eyes downcast, her emotions threatening to give way once more. If this woman was the king’s aunt, then she was the Princess Henriette. Isabelle started to rise.

  “Please, stay sitting down, my dear. We members of the royal family need not stand on formality with one another. I know how difficult this must be for you. Leaving the convent to wed is never easy, and while we all have a duty to God, so too must we serve his representative on earth. I was there at his christening, and the name Louis-Dieudonné, suits him well since he is God’s chosen to lead France and increase her grandeur.”

  Not knowing quite what to say, Isabelle nodded and murmured her thanks. She frowned as the princess tottered back to her seat across from Colbert. Still pondering her highness’s words, Isabelle moved aside to allow the servants to clear away the dessert plates.

  Colbert stood and clinked his knife against the silver goblet for attention. The king’s Minister of Finance teetered slightly.

  “Mesdames et messieurs, votre attention, s’il vous plait. Since many of you will be leaving shortly, allow me to read a message from his majesty, King Louis.” He unrolled a scroll. “It is with great sadness that I learned of the passing of my dear friend, Michel de Caen. While this is a somber occasion, Normandy must have a governor, and I have appointed Vincent, Chevalier d’Angrignon to that office. Furthermore, since his daughter, my ward Isabelle, is now without a protector, I’ve ordered her to return to Caen and have given her hand to d’Angrignon. The nuptials will take place in Paris on May 1, 1668 after which the new governor will be known as Vincent, Count de Caen and d’Angrignon, and she will be his countess. Signed, Louis.”

  Colbert cleared his throat. “I realize this union may seem hasty, especially since the young lady has so recently lost her father, but sacrifices must be made for the good of France. Because of the strategic value of this province, and rumors of English unrest, we must return to the status quo quickly.” He raised his glass. “To the future bride and groom.”

  Isabelle fought to keep her expression placid as the emotions roiled inside her. She’d heard plenty of rumors from the women who’d sought solace in the abbey, but potential threats from England weren’t among them. Hadn’t Louis and Charles just signed a treaty? A war on more than two fronts was easily lost.

  If her country was in danger, did she not have to do her patriotic duty? ... And what exactly would that be? Swallowing her confusion, she did her best to appear gracious as the women who’d ignored her previously fawned all over her. If some of those present didn’t agree with the decision, no one said a word.

  As soon as she could, she escaped to her room and spent the rest of the day crying and trying to console Sophie who’d learned of her own fate.

  Chapter Four

  After a calming lavender bath and a witch hazel mask to remove the puffiness from her face, Isabelle stood as still as she could, given the anger, frustration, and fear bubbling up inside her.

  If the English were planning to ignore the treaty and attack, wouldn’t the king have brought the regiment back to France to fight rather than disband it? Guy had said four hundred had stayed in the colony rather than return to the motherland. Trained soldiers were valuable commodities in war. Why make it attractive for them to stay in the colony and not return to defend France?

  “Try not to move, child,” Murielle said, as she laced the stiff whalebone stomacher over her undergarments. “You’re trembling.”

  “I’m just so angry,” Isabelle whispered, not wanting Sophie to hear her. “How can the king do this to us? Colbert implied the English may be planning to attack, but if that’s the case, why not send a garrison here instead of installing me as d’Angrignon’s wife and brood mare? This dinner to celebrate this farce of an engagement is in bad taste as well. Why would the countess allow it?”

  “Who can understand the workings of that one’s mind?” the housekeeper, formerly her nanny, asked, regret and remorse lining her face.

  Murielle dropped the various hoops into place over the laced stomacher, chemise, petticoat, and stockings, and covered the lot with a long-waisted dress whose new design was all the rage. Although the deep green was dark enough to be acceptable for one in mourning, Isabelle rebelled against wearing it, but the sight of a still tearful Sophie reminded her of Solange’s threats and the stakes in this game.

  The gown’s deep green velvet skirt opened at the center to reveal a patterned inner skirt of black and green velvet. The neckline was lower than her usual gowns and trimmed with black lace. The sleeves, set low in the shoulder, opened into a full ruff ending just below the elbow and were similarly edged with black lace.

  It would’ve taken several dressmakers weeks to create such a garment, but if Solange was right, and it was one ordered specifically for her, who had ordered it? The chevalier? Had Papa been prepared to agree to this? She sighed, more confused than ever. If only she could’ve spoken to him before he died.

  Tonight, Lucette had used the iron and had arranged her straight hair into a cascade of ringlets on the left side of her head. Despite Isabelle’s protests, she’d rouged her cheeks and applied stain to her lips, insisting it was the countess’s will.

  “Izzy, you look like a princess,” Sophie declared, coming into the room. “As horrible as this is, you’ll be the envy of all of the ladies at court. Even the countess will be jealous.”

  Isabelle walked over to the cheval glass in the corner and stared at the image in the mirror, barely recognizing herself.

  “Displeasing Solange would be some consolation,” she admitted, grateful she’d won the argument not to have her hair powdered, “but all of this is wrong.”

  There was no doubt the gown was exquisite. If only she were wearing it for Pierre, or even the handsome lord who’d visited today. Her cheeks burned. Where had that thought come from?

  As she watched in the mirror, Murielle secured the emerald cross outlined in diamonds that hung from a gold chain around her neck and attached the matching earrings to her ears.

  The former nanny, now housekeeper, stood back to admire her handiwork.

  “Sophie’s right, Madame Isabelle. You do indeed look every inch a princess. Now,” she turned to Sophie. “It’s your turn, little one. It will be just like dans les bons vieux temps when you used to play tricks on the count.”

  Isabelle frowned. When they’d been children, she and Sophie, only two years apart in age, had often dressed alike and tried to trick the count into believing one was the other. Now that they were adults, the resemblance was still there, but she was a couple of inches taller and a few pounds lighter, thanks to months of mourning, than her beloved cousin. Why had the countess ordered this? What game was she playing?

  Eyes wide in fascination, she watched Murielle plait Sophie’s hair, more cinnamon than ginger and naturally curly, and arrange it into a coronet on her head, covering it with a black cap. She dropped her best purple silk gown over the girl’s head and secured it. Isabelle had planned to have it sent to the dressmaker when her mourning was over since she’d lost so much weight it no longer fit, but it could’ve been made for Sophie.

  “It’s incredible,” she said. “It’s as if I’m looking at myself in the looking glass and yet, I can see I’m wearing green ... Get my amethysts; they’re perfect for that dress.”r />
  Sophie’s lower lip trembled.

  “Don’t start crying again,” Murielle warned, fastening the amethyst and silver necklace around Sophie’s throat. “You’ll ruin all my fine work.” She examined Isabelle and then Sophie and shook her head. “The family resemblance was always there, but I had no idea it had grown so strong. Sophie looks more like Isabelle de Caen than you do yourself tonight. I think the countess will be surprised.”

  “I don’t know what game’s she’s playing, but I doubt either of us will enjoy it,” Isabelle said, pursing her lips.

  Murielle put her hands on her hips and shook her head.

  “Of that, I have no doubt. While you’re at dinner, the countess has ordered me to start packing your best garments for Sophie. Everything else is to be given to the poor.” She sighed. “Your new wardrobe will be ready when you get to Paris. The few items you’ll be allowed to take with you are over there in that large chest from the queen. You can take your jewelry as well.”

  Isabelle sighed. If the only way out of this marriage was suicide, then she wouldn’t need anything.

  “If those are your orders, Murielle, then so be it. Sophie may have whatever she likes.”

  Isabelle swallowed her resentment. How dare the countess be so cavalier giving away things that didn’t belong to her.

  “You look lovely, Sophie. It seems the dress is yours, but you must take the amethysts as well. They were my wedding present from Pierre. He would want you to have them.”