No Brighter Dream: The Pascal Trilogy - Book 3 (33 page)

Jo-Jean took her hand. “How are you feeling?”

“Perfectly dreadful,” Ali replied, attempting to smile. “Where’s Andre?”

“He’s speaking to the captain. He’s going to ask him to change course so that we can get you to shore.”

She drew in a shallow breath. “You want to take me to Saint-Simon, don’t you? I heard you outside.”

“Did you? I’m sorry. I suppose we became a little loud.”

“Mmm, you were,” she said after a moment. “I— I’m not going, Jo-Jean.”

“Oh, yes,” he said roughly, “you’re going. You’re going whether you like it or not, whether Andre likes it or not.”

“Why? What good will it do? Why cause a catastrophe when there are other physicians?”

Jo-Jean sank to his knees, keeping her hand in his. “No, Ali. You don’t understand.” He covered the hand he held clasped with his other. “There are things the duke can do for you that other physicians can’t.”

“You only feel that way because he saved your life, Jo-Jean. But you’re not thinking.” She moistened her lips. “If we go to Saint-Simon, and Pascal can’t help me, all it will do is create more damage between him and Andre.”

“Ali, listen to me … you are very ill. You need the duke’s help.”

She shook her head. “I think I finally know what caused the rift between Andre and his father. It was what you said outside.” Ali closed her eyes against a renewed stab of pain. “It was about Genevieve, wasn’t it?” she said when it had passed. “Pascal couldn’t help her, and Andre never forgave him.”

“It’s much more complicated than that. Even I don’t know all the facts.” He squeezed her hand. “But this is different, Ali. Please believe me.”

“No, Jo-Jean. I won’t be the cause of more trouble. I won’t. If I’m going to die, it’s best if I do it under someone else’s care.”

“But suppose the duke could make you well?” he persisted.

“If I’m going to get well, then someone else can take the credit. It’s too much of a risk. It will take a miracle to save me, Jo-Jean. Even I know that.”

“That’s the point!” he cried. He raised his eyes toward heaven, and muttered something she couldn’t hear, but she had the distinct impression that he was saying a prayer of guidance. And maybe asking for patience, because he looked thoroughly frustrated.

“All right,” he said. “All right then. I’m going to tell you something now, and I want you to listen to me very carefully, since this is not the sort of thing that the duke cares to have discussed. Ever.” He took a deep breath. “You know that he saved my life. But what you don’t know is that it wasn’t in the ordinary sort of way that doctors save their patients.” Jo-Jean gazed at her intently. “I tell you the story only because I think you need to hear it now, so that you understand why this is so important. And maybe you will understand why the duke never speaks of it.” He paused. “I was born dead, Ali.”

Her eyes widened. “What?”

“According to my mother, I was dead when the duke delivered me. He brought me back to life.”

“Oh,” she said, dismissing his statement, “well, of course he brought you back to life. Many babies don’t breathe at the beginning. They need a little help.” Ali turned her head to one side. “If you’re trying to be persuasive, I already believe him to be competent,” she said.

“Ali. He is more than competent. This had nothing to do with medicine, or with not taking my first breath. There was not a shred of life in me.” He smiled down at her. “What I am trying to tell you,” he said softly, “is that the duke can work miracles. And he worked one of those miracles on me.”

“Miracles?” Ali whispered, thinking she must be delirious.
“Miracles?”

“Yes,” Joseph-Jean said. “Miracles. Do you understand now? And do you understand why no one has spoken of this to you?”

Ali closed her eyes, thinking of Pascal. So good, so gentle, so wise. She thought of his wonderful understanding of God and His angels, his easy acceptance of heaven, and how easy he had made it for her to accept it too. It was really not so hard to imagine his working miracles.

She thought of his love for Andre and his great sadness at their estrangement, his only child gone from him.

Andre has misplaced his faith in many things, Ali…

She thought of lovely Lily, who missed Andre so terribly and suffered in silence.

And last, she thought of Andre, and knew that his real pain lay in the loss of his family, his true home, and his belief in God, and there was only one way for him finally to heal.

Ali’s fingers crept to the angel Gabriel on its chain around her neck as a tear slid down her cheek. Of course. It was all suddenly so clear.

God was, as usual, working in His typically mysterious fashion. What was a little pain next to that?

She opened her eyes, a beatific smile on her face. “Take me to Saint-Simon.”

Andre held Ali’s unconscious body in his arms, his dark head bowed over hers. He wished the train would go faster. He wished she’d open her eyes. He wished a million things he couldn’t have.

The fear was the hardest to bear, the heart-stopping, gut-wrenching fear. The idea of losing Ali was beyond him. He couldn’t believe this could happen to him twice in a lifetime, to have someone he loved taken from him. But Ali was right: Genevieve had been like a moonbeam, delicate, fleeting, impossible to catch hold of. Ali was the exact opposite, a ray of sunshine, someone who lived life so ferociously, so fully, that is was impossible to imagine it being taken from her at all.

“Oh, God, sweetheart,” he groaned, resting his cheek on her hair. “Please, Ali. Please hold on.”

But there was no response to his anguished plea. He knew by the cold, damp feel of her skin and the rapid rate of her breathing that she was in shock.

Ali had very little time left.

She’d been drifting in and out of consciousness for hours now, and each time she was gone a little longer. “Sweetheart,” he whispered. “You promised not to leave me again. Remember? You swore. Twice.”

Ali’s eyelashes fluttered. Her eyes half opened and she hazily focused on him. “I always keep my promises,” she said groggily.

“Ali—oh, thank God. Thank God,” he said, his voice cracking. “Please—try to stay with me. It’s not much longer now. We’re nearly at Beynac.”

“Mmm,” she said. “Good.”

He smoothed her brow. “My father is very proficient. He’ll have you better in no time.”

“I know,” she whispered. “You have to believe it too.”

He swallowed hard against the knot in his throat. “I do,” he said.

“No, I mean
really
believe it. I won’t die, Andre. I promise. Your father will make me a miracle, I know he will.”

A stab of pain ran through him at her words. He put his head back and blinked against the sudden sting of tears. “Now who’s been telling you stories?” he said when he could speak again.

“Jo-Jean told me so that I would agree to go. Andre, whatever happens to me, you must make peace with him. Please.”

“Ali, you don’t know what this is all about.”

She rested her cheek against his chest. “Yes. I do. He didn’t make a miracle for Genevieve. That’s it, isn’t it?”

Andre brushed his hand over her hair. He’d have dropped the subject like a hot brick, but he’d do anything to keep her talking. And oddly, the thought of talking about it helped him to prepare himself to see his parents again.

“In a way,” he said. “But to understand why he acted as he did, you have to understand that he and my mother opposed our marriage plans. Not vocally, but I knew nevertheless.”

“Why?” she whispered.

“The same people who brought me up to believe that all people are equal privately were complete hypocrites. They believed that Genevieve wasn’t highborn enough to marry me.”

He gazed out the window, bitterly remembering his shock at their reaction to his announcement, politely enthusiastic, but laced with anything but enthusiasm beneath. “Naturally, I persisted. And then Genevieve became ill. My father didn’t lift a finger to save her.” He sighed. “The only miracle is that I didn’t kill him.”

He felt Ali’s hand close on his with surprising strength. “You must find out the truth,” she said. “You must.”

“The truth? It’s either that there is a God, and He and my father are both liars and thieves, or there is no God, and my father is still a liar, a fraud who allows people to believe that he lives in God’s back pocket.” He looked down at her. “Which is worse? I’m not sure.”

Ali shook her head. “No, Andre. Something is wrong with the story. Something doesn’t ring true.”

“Jo-Jean really has been filling your head, hasn’t he?” He glanced over at Joseph-Jean, who sat across from them, staring out of the window, clearly sick with worry. “Never mind,” Andre said, trying to sound casual, “he can’t help himself.” He smiled at her and pushed a damp strand of hair off her forehead. “He believes the village legend that he was brought back from the dead. I think it makes him feel glamorous.”

“Andre … you have to believe. You have to believe for me,” she said. And then her eyes closed, and she was gone again.

T
he carriage rattled along, the road becoming achingly familiar to Andre as they approached the village of Saint-Simon. Ali lay stretched out on one full seat, covered with blankets, her face stark white, her body trembling with the chill that came with fever and the onset of severe shock, her breathing rapid and shallow.

Andre hunched on the floor, cradling her head, torn by anguish. Joseph-Jean sat opposite in silence. Andre knew Jo-Jean shared his sense that Ali was very close to death.

He really didn’t see what anyone, including his father, could do for her now.

The carriage made a gentle turn and he glanced up. Inadvertently, his eyes caught the towers and sloping roofs of the chateau sitting on its hill, and his heart did a somersault. Nine years. Nine long years since he’d seen his beloved home. And now he was returning as he had left. In grief.

They climbed the hill and crossed over the drawbridge, and finally the carriage came to a halt in the courtyard.

Andre swiftly picked Ali up and cradled her in his arms as Joseph-Jean opened the carriage door from the inside. She felt so light to him, so incredibly fragile.

“We’re here, sweetheart,” he murmured against her cheek. “We’re home.”

He started across the courtyard, wondering what the fastest way to find his father would be. It was approaching harvest, so he might still be out supervising in the vineyards. On the other hand, he might be down preparing the winery.

But incredibly enough, the huge front door of the chateau opened at that moment, and his father appeared, his head bent in conversation with someone Andre didn’t know. Andre could only stare at him, a mass of conflicting emotions running through him. He couldn’t even find his voice to hail him.

His father glanced up at that moment and froze, but only for a split second. “Andre,” he said, taking in the situation instantly. “Dear Lord. Ali. What’s happened?”

“She’s dying, Papa,” he said, his voice so choked that the words barely came out at all. “Please. Help her.”

His father didn’t hesitate, didn’t for a moment behave as if any time had passed at all, that there was a bitter quarrel hanging between them. “Quickly, get her inside. Take her to the surgery. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

Andre didn’t stop to think, to wonder how his father would even know it was Ali he held in his arms. He moved past him into the hall, feeling as if the matter had been taken out of his hands. And feeling unbelievable relief.

He gently placed Ali on the long table and arranged the blankets over her. “All’s going to be well now, sweetheart. All’s going to be well.” He wished he believed it.

“I’ve sent Joseph-Jean to the winery for your mother,” Pascal said, coming into the room behind him. “He told me everything.” He bent over Ali, swiftly opening her clothing and moving his hands over her belly, an expression of intense concentration on his face.

Ali stirred and moaned under his touch.

“Andre. Call for hot water and get the sterile sheets.” He lifted his head and met Andre’s eyes. “I’m operating here and now. There’s no time to wait for your mother to assist me.”

Andre swallowed hard. “Do you want me to—”

“No. You’d be useless. I wouldn’t ask that of myself—it’s your wife, for God’s sake. Get the things I asked for.”

Andre tore off, ordering an alarmed servant to send hot water, fetching the sheets, watching his father soap his hands and arms.

Pascal laid out the instruments, and Andre was sickened by the thought that they would be slicing into Ali’s flesh at any moment.

“Maybe it’s time for you to leave?” Pascal suggested, glancing up at him. “I know you have a strong stomach, but…”

“No. Not yet. I want to speak to Ali first.” He bent down and smoothed her cheek with his hand. “Ali. Please. Fight for me, for both of us.” He kissed her cold lips. “Remember your promise.” Andre moved away.

Pascal touched his hands to the side of her head. “Listen, sweet girl. I want you to sleep now. Really sleep, deeply and quietly and peacefully. When you wake, you’ll be much better.”

As Andre watched, Ali’s breathing slowed and became even. He released a deep breath of his own. At least some of the old magic was working. He knew she’d feel no pain.

“Go now.” Pascal picked up the scalpel.

Andre swiftly left the room.

The little chapel that sat against the west boundary of the chateau’s walls was cool, quiet. He didn’t really know why he’d sought it out. He supposed it was because it had given him comfort in the past, at a time when God had been his ally, not his enemy.

Andre sank into a pew and lowered his head onto his knees. Ali couldn’t die. She couldn’t.

For he finally understood that he loved her in a way that he’d never loved Genevieve. That had been the pure, idealistic love of childhood, which had carried over into his early manhood, never resolved, never fulfilled. It probably would have grown into something more mature had she lived, had they been given the chance.

But she hadn’t lived. And Ali had come into his life in the most unexpected fashion, sneaking her way into his tightly guarded heart, lighting its darkened comers, bringing him unexpected joy, and finally—finally forcing him to realize what everyone had obviously been trying to tell him for the last year. He loved her with all of his heart.

It was a love that only a full-grown man could experience, born in the depths of suffering, nurtured in memory, fully sprung in marriage. And, blind, frightened fool that he was, he had never let her know how he felt. Now he might never have the chance.

Andre covered his face with his hands and wept.

And then he sank to his knees and he prayed with everything he had in him to the God he’d abandoned nine years before.

Ali had an extraordinary sensation of colors running through her, blue, pink, silver, and gold. She was floating, she discovered, somewhere very high. And the agonizing pain was gone, she realized. Now
that
was nice.

She could hear voices faintly talking from far away, and she strained to listen.

“Lily, thank God you’ve come … quickly, hand me another clamp—she’s bleeding heavily into the peritoneal cavity … Suction as fast as you can … No, not a pregnancy, a ruptured cyst … Damn, what a mess.”

Ali thought that it all sounded extremely dreary, but at least she knew where Andre had gotten his blaspheming from. She floated away, higher and higher, and then she found herself in the most beautiful garden she’d ever seen. There were orange trees in full blossom, and the air smelled of their sweet scent, mingled with … jasmine. Yes, it was definitely jasmine. A waterfall cascaded into a pond, the color of the palest blue, so clear that she could see the pebbles on the bottom.

And flowers grew everywhere in the thick green grass. She wiggled her bare toes in it, reveling in the feel of cool earth.

Then she noticed a shimmer of light off to one side, and she turned, the light growing so bright that she had to shade her eyes. As she watched, a magnificent figure walked out of the light toward her. With delight, Ali realized it was an angel, for it looked just like the angel on her necklace, with great golden wings and a golden halo to match. The very air seemed to fill with joy and love as the angel approached.

A low stone bench materialized, and the angel settled onto it and adjusted its wings. “Hello, Ali. How do you like my garden?”

“It’s a very fine garden,” Ali said, lowering herself to the grass at the angel’s feet. The angel wasn’t wearing shoes either, she noticed.

“Thank you. I’m fond of it myself.”

“Am I dead?” Ali asked the angel.

“Oh, no. You’re just here for a time while Pascal fixes your body. You were very sick.”

“I know,” Ali said. “I was awfully worried that I was going to be taken from Andre. And I’d only just been reunited with him after all that misery. But I’m not going to die after all?” she said, filled with a fresh rush of happiness that she would see Andre again.

“No. Ali. God wants you down on earth, loving Andre and the children who are waiting to be born to you.”

Ali looked at the angel sadly. “But I haven’t been able to conceive, angel, and it’s been a whole year.”

“Pascal will fix that too. Bringing Andre home to his parents wasn’t the only reason for your illness.” The angel smiled at her. “I can promise you, Ali, you will have a son in your arms by this time next year.”

Ali clapped her hands together gleefully. “Then I will give Andre children after all? Oh, I’ve been so worried!”

“You will have sons and daughters to give you great joy.”

“Angel … I’ve been wondering. Why did Pascal and Lily have only Andre? Surely they would have liked lots of children. If there was something wrong with Lily, why didn’t Pascal fix it?”

“There was nothing wrong. Andre was meant to be their only child, a special child,” the angel said. “Pascal and Lily understood that.”

“Oh …” Ali said. “Well, he certainly is special. And I thank God for giving me to him.”

The angel chuckled merrily. “It’s been quite an adventure, hasn’t it?”

Ali nodded. “Sometimes I really did wonder what Allah had in mind for me.”

“You’ve been a good servant, Ali. Despite everything you went through, you never lost faith.”

Ali sighed. “I just wish that Andre hadn’t lost his.” “But he hasn’t, beloved. I think you will find that he has come to a new understanding of his Heavenly Father, as well as his earthly one. He has learned the lessons put before him.”

“I’m so glad. He’s been very lonely all these years. Thank goodness he had Jo-Jean to look after him or I don’t know what he would have done. Jo-Jean deserves a big reward.”

The corners of the angel’s mouth turned up in a mysterious smile. “Joseph-Jean has paid for his gift of life with his love. His reward is imminent.”

Then the angel leaned forward and pressed a kiss that felt like the purest of light on Ali’s forehead. “It is time for you to go now.”

“Will I ever meet you again?” Ali asked anxiously.

“Of course. I am with you all the time, beloved. Who do you think has been attending to the details of your life?”

Ali grinned. “You certainly made them complicated.”

“All in my work. But your pain is over, sweet one. And the only traces left are the ones lodged in your heart, those that have brought you wisdom.”

The angel stood and moved away.

“Wait,” Ali called. “Your name—what is your name?”

“Why, Gabriel, of course.” The angel disappeared back into the blinding light, but the sweet trill of its laughter lingered behind. When Ali looked down, she discovered that she was holding a lily in her hand.

Andre had no idea how much time had gone by. He didn’t know if he had been praying for an eternity, or for only a moment. But when he opened his eyes, despite the acuity of his pain and worry, he felt as if an enormous burden had been lifted from him.

“Andre.”

His head jerked up, his father’s voice snapping him out of his daze. “Oh, God … Ali?” His heart began to pound in panic. “What happened? Is she—”

“She’s fine. We’ll have to watch her carefully for a week or so, but she’s fine. Sleeping.” Pascal sat down next to him.

Andre threw his head back. “Thank God! Oh, thank God.” He didn’t know whether to burst into tears or hysterical laughter. He settled on something in the middle, covering his face with his hands, not caring what his father thought.

Ali had made it through. That was all that mattered.

Pascal smiled at Andre. “You did well in assessing the severity of Ali’s condition—she was very close to dying. I’m glad you brought her to me.”

Andre gave his father a sidelong glance, unmoved by his approval. “Why? So you could perform a miracle?” he asked coolly. “Unlike the last time around?”

His father didn’t answer, looking down at his hands.

“It’s not that I’m ungrateful,” Andre said. “I am, of course. But this changes nothing between us.”

“Have you ever heard me say that I can perform miracles, Andre?” Pascal finally said, his voice very quiet.

“No, but I don’t see what difference that makes. Are you saying you can’t? Or are you saying that you can? It has to be one thing or the other.”

The silence beat heavily in the little chapel as Andre waited for his answer. This was it, finally, the matter that had hung between them for all these years—a matter that could not possibly be reconciled by either the ways of man or heaven.

His father looked at him then. “The truth?”

“The truth. It’s long past time for that, don’t you agree?” He wasn’t entirely sure that he really did want to hear it—it wasn’t pleasant to hear any man condemn himself, especially not one’s father. But then his father had condemned himself years before by his actions. What difference would words make now?

Pascal ran his thumb over his lower lip. “I wonder if you truly are finally ready to hear the truth,” he said after another long pause, in an echo of Andre’s thoughts.

“I’m as ready as I’ll ever be,” Andre said, steeling himself. “I’m just curious to see what your answer is going to be.”

His father glanced up at the altar, then he looked back at Andre. “Yes,” he said, and Andre could see the effort it cost him to speak. “Yes,” he continued, his voice tight with strain. “If you really wish to know, the truth is that I can. Work miracles, that is.”

“Dear God.” Andre didn’t know why, but hearing him admit to it came as a shock. He passed a shaking hand over his face. It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense. Admitting to such a thing was as good as admitting to having murdered Genevieve, even if his father hadn’t laid a hand on her—which was the point.

“Was that not the answer you wanted?” Pascal asked, his eyes intent on his son’s face.

Andre swallowed, trying desperately to collect himself. “If that’s the case,” he managed to say through a tight throat, “then why didn’t you save Genevieve?
Why?
How can you explain yourself? How can you offer up any defense against your actions? You
let
her die, damn you, without raising a finger to help her!”