No Sweeter Heaven: The Pascal Trilogy - Book 2 (23 page)

“Yes, it bloody well is. I’d bed Lily in the blink of an eye, but I don’t think that God intended for a man to bed a wife who hates him.
That’s
the problem.”

“I can understand your dilemma,” Father Chabot said. “Elizabeth is as stubborn and determined as the day is long, and if she has made up her mind to despise you, it might be quite a job unmaking it.”

“Oh, then you know my wife?” Pascal asked with surprise.

“Slightly,” Father Chabot said uncomfortably.

“Do you know Lily’s brother?” Pascal asked.

“Again, only slightly. I confess, I agree with your appraisal of the duke. He is not a bad man, only lazy and self-indulgent. He has not made himself popular in the area. Nor had your sister when she came the last time, but I think that her actions this afternoon will do much to turn that situation around.”

“I hope so. It was brave of her to come out to the fields at all, feeling as she does about everything. But what she did once she was there is a good example of the person she is—the person no one knows, least of all Lily.”

“Well, my son. As for advice, I think that your … ah … growing fondness for your wife should eventually make a difference. You cannot force her to an act she does not want, but perhaps with time and patience she will find a way to be fond of you in return.”

“Considering that Lily has sworn to hate me for all eternity, it could be a long wait.”

“Ah. Yes, eternity is a very long time indeed,” the priest agreed.

“Too long for my liking.” Pascal looked up at all those stars a good eternity away, and just as unreachable as Lily. “I can’t go on like this.”

The priest was silent for a few moments. “Does Elizabeth truly know you?”

It was Pascal’s turn to be silent.

“It’s a fair question,” he said, thinking it over. “There are things she doesn’t know about me, as I already told you. Correcting those false assumptions isn’t much of a problem. There are things—other things—that I’d rather she didn’t know. I don’t really see how I’m going to be able to keep them from her in the course of living a lifetime together, though.”

There was a long pause before Father Chabot spoke. “Do you not trust her to accept that God made you for a special purpose?” he asked quietly.

Pascal’s head snapped around, his eyes sharp. “What do you mean by that?”

“I have heard of you,” the priest said apologetically. “News travels quickly in certain circles, and the priesthood is no exception. I am correct in thinking that the monastery you were at was St. Christophe?”

Pascal blew out a long breath. “Yes,” he said. “It was St. Christophe.”

“And it was you I had heard of?”

“Yes,” Pascal said, seeing no point in denying it. At least he now understood the priest’s initial response to him, not that he liked the situation. “Yes, it was.” He looked away.

“Then how very fortunate we are to have you among us,” Father Chabot said simply. “However, by your reaction to my question, I am led to think that there is more than one reason that you chose life in a monastery. Gifts such as yours can be a burden, I would imagine.”

“You are very astute, Father,” Pascal said with considerable surprise. He hadn’t expected this kind of easy acceptance.

“Ah, well,” Father Chabot said. “I don’t know about astute, but for forty years I’ve listened to people pour out their troubles. No wonder you were so annoyed with Elizabeth. She took you from your sanctuary.”

Pascal managed a smile. “It is sometimes easier doing one’s work in a place where people are accustomed to God’s hand in things.”

“Yes. And now you are here, and it begins again.”

“It will,” Pascal said with a heavy sigh. “It will.”

“Alain will recover then?”

“Yes. Alain will recover, and he’ll do it with no trouble, although I wouldn’t say such a thing to anyone but yourself. I go out of my way to make people think I’m a run-of-the-mill healer.”

“I understand,” Father Chabot said, sympathy heavy in his voice. “But that won’t last long, will it?”

Pascal shook his head. “The people will come to me, and after something happens that can’t be explained away by simple medicine, those same people will start to cross themselves, or make the sign against the devil. I never know which. They’ll smile and shake my hand, but they’ll keep a certain distance. It’s human nature to do that with people who are … different.”

Father Chabot nodded. “And you do not want this to happen with your wife, now that you’ve begun to care for her.”

“I’m beginning to wonder if God didn’t give you the Sight,” Pascal said, looking at the priest incisively.

“It’s been said before,” the priest replied, casting his eyes down modestly. “So. I think you must put your trust in God. He gave you Elizabeth, and He did it quite emphatically, did He not? I don’t think He would have sent you a wife who would shy away from His other gift to you. Trust her. Tell her what you have told me.”

“Lily,” Pascal said, “would probably laugh in my face if I told her. She doesn’t believe in God as it is.”

“Then find a way to show her His face. She is going to need to know Him if she is to know you, my son.”

Pascal rubbed his forehead. “That might be an even bigger challenge than taking Lily to bed.”

“Oh, I begin to think that is not so far off. You gave the Lord your celibacy, and He gave you a wife in reply. I doubt He’d be so cruel as to make you wait too much longer.”

That earned a laugh from Pascal. “You’re an earthy man for a priest, Father, and bless you for it. I’ll think over what you said. And thank you—my heart is lighter for our talk.”

“I am pleased. Oh. About the vineyards…” His voice held a note of hopeful question.

Pascal held up one hand with a smile. “Don’t worry, Father. I have a green thumb, too. But you might say some fervent prayers. We’re not out of the woods yet.”

As soon as Pascal left, the priest got down on his knees. He said a heartfelt prayer of thanks to the Good Lord. He was confident that young Alain would fully recover if Pascal LaMartine said he would. He had no reason to doubt that Pascal was blessed with the touch of God, and given what he’d said—and hadn’t said—he was certain of it.

Then he said another, more fervent prayer asking for wisdom and guidance, for he also knew that he was going to be in hearty need of both.

He finally rose, knees creaking, wondering how long it would take for the rumors to start, almost surprised that they hadn’t already. Odd. Pascal LaMartine did have a look of his father about him.

Pascal
left his pallet at dawn the next morning and climbed up to the meadow on top of the hill behind the cottage. From there one could see far over the countryside, over the Dordogne that glittered beyond, a wide silver thread that wound its way back and forth between the verdant fields and the vineyards that spread out in a vivid patchwork of color and life. Here there was a stretch covered in the scarlet red of poppies, there another, the brilliant yellow of mustard. Little clusters of villages were scattered about, Saint-Simon closest by, sleepy and still.

The chateau rose up on its own hill to the west, its fortified towers glimmering in the rosy light, the limestone softened into a pale ochre. It was a beautiful sight.

Very little moved at this hour when the sun was drifting up over the horizon, save for an occasional farmer or his wife out to milk the cows or tend to one of the various other chores that needed doing before the day’s work really began. For Pascal, this time alone was precious, as peaceful and fulfilling as Matins had ever been.

He settled on the ground, drawing his legs up and crossing them, his feet placed against his thighs, his hands resting on his knees, then drew in a deep breath and let it out. He had a great deal on his mind, not the least of which was the talk he’d had with Father Chabot the night before. Chabot was a good man and brilliant at his calling, his intuition as sharp as anything Pascal had ever seen, his practicality sweetly gentled by humor.

The contrast to Father Mallet could not have been more extreme, and Pascal fervently wished that Lily had been brought up with Chabot’s version of God rather than Mallet’s.

Show her His face, Chabot had said. But how? Lily refused to admire something as simple as a sunrise. She was hardly likely to be any more receptive to its Maker. He couldn’t imagine Lily being cordial to her Maker at all. No doubt when the time came and Lily was confronted with positive proof, she would tell Him off for not having been more scientific about His existence.

Pascal smiled, then closed his eyes and surrendered himself.

Something cold and wet pressed through the cloth of his trousers and nudged his knee. His eyes flew open to find Bean, her entire body wriggling with pleasure. Not far behind Bean was her mistress, holding a basket in one hand, her nose buried in the pages of a book on herbs he had given her the night before.

Lily had clearly taken it upon herself to learn all about their harvesting and was serious enough in intent to have dragged herself out of bed at this hour to gather the herbs before the heat of the sun drew out the oils. Unfortunately, she had missed the part about letting the dew dry first.

He pulled Bean’s warm little body into the cradle made by his thighs and watched Lily with fascination as she poked her way along the ground, bending over various plants, very few of which were going to be of any use. She was concentrated on her task, her rosy mouth pulled together like a raspberry ripe for the plucking.

Pascal drew in a deep breath of longing. He may never have been with a woman, but there wasn’t a thing wrong with his instincts. Lily in the wild, unfettered by a duchy, was a sight to behold. Her dresses had faded with constant washing and the help of the strong summer sun, and as she no longer bothered with layers of petticoats, he could see the outline of her long legs beneath the fabric. The nipples of her high breasts were equally visible, hard nubs pushing against the thin cloth.

Pascal broke into a cold sweat, painfully aware of the erection that would have impressed even Charlie. He wondered if he couldn’t quietly slip away, but before he had a chance, Lily turned, calling for Bean, and saw him. He quickly reached for Bean and pulled her directly on top of his lap, hoping to hide the evidence of his arousal.

“Pascal? What are you doing here? You must be soaked through.” She marched toward him, reminding Pascal once again of an avenging angel.

“I was meditating,” he said, hoping his voice didn’t sound as hoarse to her as it did to him.

“Meditating about what? Why?” She planted her hands on her hips in a familiar stance.

“It’s something I do every morning. As for what it’s about, I can’t exactly say. It’s, ah … it’s a little like praying, I suppose, only without the litany. It all works out to be the same thing in the end.” He prayed for his erection to subside, not an easy thing, for Bean was wiggling on it.

Lily rolled her eyes. “It sounds incredibly boring. I really can’t see the attraction.”

Bean, impatient with sitting in Pascal’s lap, jumped down and trotted off to explore the edges of the wood, and Pascal realized with infinite relief that his body was back under his control—probably because of Lily’s expression of withering disdain.

“It’s not easy to explain,” he said helplessly. “You have to experience it to understand the attraction.”

And then inspiration struck. Without thinking about it further, he reached up and grabbed both of her wrists, pulling her down opposite him in a disordered heap.

“You brute! What do you think you’re—”

“Hush, Lily.”

“Lily … you called me Lily,” she said suspiciously. “You called me that yesterday, too. Why?”

“It’s your name isn’t it? I shall call you much worse in another moment if you don’t listen to me. For once just close your mouth and open your eyes. I want you to look.”

“Look at what?” she said in confusion.

“Just look. Look out over the valley. Look at what’s around you. Look at the mist shifting below, the brilliant green of the grass, the rooftops of the village.”

Lily sighed impatiently. “I’m not blind, you know. I can see perfectly well.”

“You said you wanted to learn, didn’t you? Well, this is part of it. Half the art of healing is learning to pay attention. And if you’re going to pay attention, the first thing you need to do is to learn how to look—and how to listen, and not just to me, but to yourself.”

“All right,” she said, biting her lip. “If you insist. But I think this is very silly.”

“Never mind,” he said, releasing her hands but maintaining a light touch on her fingertips, supporting them under his hands. “Now, close your eyes. Listen to everything around you. Listen to the sounds, listen to the silence, and when you’ve done that, take all of it into yourself. Let it sit inside of you like a great comfort, Lily. Let it speak to you in its own language. It will, you know. All you have to do is to let it.”

Lily was sure that Pascal had gone mad, but she did want to learn about making people better. She tentatively closed her eyes.

“Breathe,” he said softly, and she heard the catch of laughter in his voice. She realized that she’d been holding her breath, and she exhaled sharply, then took in a few quick breaths for good measure. Her breathing soon settled down as she concentrated on listening. At first she heard nothing at all except a few birds twittering, but gradually she noticed that the wind was sighing in the trees and she could hear the leaves rustle in response. She heard voices too, faint but still noticeable, floating up from the village far below. Much closer came the sound of Pascal’s breathing, slow and even.

An extraordinary blanket of calm slowly began to drift over her, a lovely sense of peace and well-being, and it seemed to slip directly from Pascal’s fingertips into her own. She felt the warmth of his hands under hers, and she realized that his hands were resting on his knees, and those knees were lightly pressed against her own.

She felt the breeze in her hair and the sun warming her back, and she felt as if there were a sun inside her as well, something that glowed in her center and spread out gently through her limbs, leaving her as open and soft and vulnerable as a new life experiencing sensation for the first time. Maybe this was what a newborn babe felt like after squeezing its way out of the dark and into open space, all raw and fresh and happy to be breathing air and seeing light.

She drifted for a time, safe and secure, but then she became aware of something insistent pulling at her through the warm haze, something she could no more resist than drawing breath. She sighed and slowly opened her eyes, obeying the silent call that sounded as loud as if it had been shouted. Pascal looked directly at her, a faint smile lifting the corners of his wide mouth, his dark eyes unwavering as they held hers in a steady grip, as steady and firm as the hands beneath her own.

She fell into the gaze that was and wasn’t Pascal. There was a brilliant light all around the outer edge of her vision, all around him, whitish-gold and shimmering, yet all she could see was the endless depth of those dark eyes as the call touched her soul and led her toward something with a yearning beyond description. She was helpless to do anything but follow it. And so she went, and as she did, something sharp and painful rose in her, an open flame that grew steadily brighter until it shot through every vein, exploding into fire as it reached that soft open place just below her heart. She almost cried out, it hurt so much.

Yet it was not the unbearable, unceasing pain of emptiness that she’d felt when her mother had left and, later, Jean-Jacques. This was altogether different, a pain born of fullness and joy, too profound to fit into a single thought—or even a thousand. It went on and on in great rolling waves as if it would never stop, flowing ever fuller, filling her until she felt she could not contain it and would burst apart. Just as she thought she could bear no more, it gently began to release her, infinitely slowly, leaving her with nothing more tangible than the desire to burst into tears.

In that moment she realized that hot tears were coursing down her cheeks.

“Sweet Lily,” Pascal murmured, and the brilliant, translucent light shivered and rippled around him, slowly fading until it became nothing more than simple sunlight.

“Pascal,” she whispered shakily, “what was it?”

“Some people call it God,” he said very, very quietly. “Others call it the touch of the soul.”

“You know—you know, then, what I mean?”

“I know,” he said, then reached out to her and wiped away the wet trails of tears with his thumbs.

“Where does it come from? How did you make it happen?”

“You made it happen,” he said, smiling gently. “I think you must have been doing a very good job of listening.”

“Were you there too? Did you feel it?”

His smile widened. “I was there too. And yes, I felt it.”

Lily thought about this for a moment. “Can you make it happen again?”

Pascal burst into laughter. “Ah, Lily. You really are amazing.”

“But can you?” she persisted, wanting nothing more, for she felt a sense of real loss.

“That depends entirely on you,” he said, grinning, and he suddenly looked completely normal, quite like the wretch she was accustomed to.

She shook her head as if to throw off a spell. “Are you sure this is part of healing?” she asked doubtfully.

Pascal stretched out in the grass, resting his cheek on the palm of one hand. “It is if you believe that the body and the soul are connected,” he said, tracing two interlocking rings in the grass with the other. “You can tell the body to heal until you’re blue in the face, and use every medical trick you can think of, but it won’t do much good if the other part isn’t listening.”

Lily’s brow furrowed in concentration. “Yesterday … was Alain listening?”

“Yes,” Pascal said in a matter-of-fact tone. “If Alain hadn’t wanted to stay here, he could have gone easily enough. But he did want to stay, and he was listening very carefully indeed.”

“You knew that?” Lily asked, fascinated.

“Yes, I knew that.”

“How?” Lily demanded.

Pascal let out a deep breath, amazed at how quickly Lily had grasped the essentials—amazed at how quickly and sweetly she had opened herself to his touch—but he was now in the difficult position of deciding how much to tell her without frightening her away. Then again, no one had ever questioned him so forthrightly before, and in a way it was a relief.

His family and the monks had simply accepted his gift, as had Father Chabot. Doctors either ignored it or called him a charlatan. The people he’d treated over the years had been grateful, but behaved as if he were not altogether mortal.

Lily, on the other hand, was regarding him as if he were very mortal indeed, and she didn’t look the least bit worried about it either way. If anything she looked slightly skeptical.

“Well?” she persisted.

“I can’t really explain it in words,” he said. “It’s a feeling more than anything. You probe with that feeling just as you might probe a body with an instrument. Does that make sense to you?”

Lily stared at him. “Make
sense
? You wretch!
That’s
what you did to me just now, isn’t it? You went probing. I should cuff your ears for taking such liberties with my person.” She pulled up a handful of grass and threw it at him.

“I didn’t take a single liberty with your person,” he said indignantly, deflecting the grassy shower with his forearm. “Only with your soul. That’s quite a different matter.”

“So you admit it. I
knew
it.”

“There was a point to be proved,” he said mildly. “I didn’t think you’d mind.”

“Well, I think you’re very presumptuous indeed, marching about in other people’s souls without so much as a by-your-leave. You’d think you were Christ himself, the way you behave.”

“I see that your opinion of me has gone up by leaps and bounds,” Pascal said, but he was relieved that she wasn’t really angry. “As I last remember, you considered me no more than a common gardener. No, wait—an ill-bred, common guttersnipe variety of a gardener.”

“Well, not much has changed as far as that is concerned. The only difference is that you are an ill-bred
and
fiendish guttersnipe of a gardener with a penchant for poking about in people. Not that I don’t think there isn’t a scientific explanation for this probing of yours.”

“Oh?” he said, his eyes dancing. “What would that be?”

“How am I supposed to know? You’re the scientist, not me.”

“Oh, so you finally noticed,” he said dryly. “I confess, I’m surprised.”