No Sweeter Heaven: The Pascal Trilogy - Book 2 (17 page)

The puppy looked at her in bafflement.

“You’re supposed to eat it,” she said as patiently as she could manage. “It’s food. What were you expecting, beef?”

“She might take it a bit more easily if you didn’t thrust the entire stale loaf at her.”

Lily swung around to see the wretch standing in the doorway that led from the barn. He was holding an armful of wood and wearing an infuriating smile on his face. Worse, he didn’t even look exhausted.

“I—I was trying to feed her. She’s being difficult.”

“If you go outside, you’ll find a pail with some milk that I took from an obliging cow. Tear up the bread into pieces, then find a bowl and soak the bread in the milk for a few minutes and put it outside the door. Bean is too little to be able to manage the bread like that.”

“Oh,” Lily said.

“But in the meantime,” he continued, carrying the wood over to the fireplace, “I think what she really wants is to be let outside to relieve herself. She’s probably desperate.”

“Oh,” Lily said again, embarrassed that she hadn’t thought of that herself.

“It’s fairly simple, Elizabeth. Think of what you need, then apply the same criterion to Bean and see to her needs first. As you remember, the privy is out back. Isn’t Bean fortunate? She has the entire outdoors.”

“You might have let her out yourself,” Lily said grumpily.

“At five in the morning? Bean had no intention of leaving her bed. She ignored my suggestion and went straight back to sleep. Like her mistress, I don’t think Bean is an early riser.”

He turned back to light the fire. Lily would have liked to take that proverbial hatchet to his head, but Bean’s imploring look propelled her toward the door.

When Lily came back inside, Pascal was laying out a breakfast of eggs and fresh bread. He’d even managed coffee. Lily looked at the table, then at her husband, then back at the table again, her mouth watering despite herself.

“How—how did you do that?”

“I went into the village earlier,” he said nonchalantly, handing her a bowl of bread and milk and gesturing to the door.

“Thank you,” she said stiffly.

“You can make it tomorrow. Sit down and eat your breakfast before it grows cold; we didn’t have much of a supper last night, and you must be hungry. I have to be off to look at the vineyards. Will you be all right alone here?”

Lily desperately wanted to tell him that she wouldn’t, but her pride prevented her. “Of course I will.”

“Good. There’s much to be done and you can make a start. If I were you I should concentrate on cleaning up the inside. I found a broom and some rags in the barn. Ah—you do know how to clean, don’t you?”

Lily glared at him, wanting to scream with anger and humiliation, but she managed to hold it in. “I’m not helpless, you know. Go to the fields, but don’t expect a meal when you get back.”

“I wouldn’t think of it. Have a pleasant morning. I’ll give you a full report when I return.”

Lily waited until he’d closed the door, then threw a tin cup after him. She looked at the chipped dishes and the greasy pan to be washed. She looked at the filthy room, the filthy windows, the ceilings and walls hung with cobwebs. She thought of the shining, magnificent life she was supposed to have had, of all the dreadful suitors she might have accepted who would have given it to her. And she had been reduced to this.

But worst of all, Jean-Jacques hadn’t even lifted a finger to help her. Lily put her head in her hands and she cried.

Pascal walked every field he could find. It didn’t take all that long, for he saw the same thing in each one. At least someone had seen that the vines had been pruned midwinter, but now many of them appeared to be suffering from a form of fungus. It wasn’t erysiphe, from what he could tell, nor botrytis, the “noble rot” that was useful only when it attacked certain varieties of ripe white grapes. He wasn’t exactly sure what it was, for he found oily patches on some of the leaves, and he’d never seen such a thing before.

But it was still a form of mildew, and the vines would have to be treated immediately or the mildew would destroy the leaves and later shrivel the grapes. Fortunately, he thought he knew of an effective remedy, for he’d had a long discussion with a notable oenologist in Vouvray on the subject of fungoid diseases and the very latest strides made in their treatment.

He doubted the mildew was the only problem; it seemed merely an opportunistic attack on a weak stock. Lily had said that this failure had been going on for some time, so there had to be other factors involved. He was fairly sure that the soil was depleted, which explained the sickly, almost yellowish hue of the leaves.

He bent over and picked up a clump of earth, first smelling it, then sifting it through his fingers, once again analyzing the contents. It was consistent throughout the fields: clay, chalk, and silica, an adequate—even desirable—combination for growing good grapes, but it had been overused and the minerals not correctly replenished. Ideally the earth should have been fertilized after the last harvest—but in this case, who knew when the last harvest had been? Still, the leaves were young, the vines not yet in flower, and there was a thread of hope.

Pascal looked up at the chateau, then drew in a deep breath. Lily’s brother. It had not been difficult to assess that particular situation. What might be done to change it was the challenge. Jean-Jacques suffered from what Pascal was coming to think of as the Sutherby syndrome, a disorder brought on by a combination of lack of love, religious fanaticism, and constant drivel about the importance of money, station, and oneself. It was as debilitating to human nature as mildew and soil depletion were to vines.

However, whereas Lily had a natural fire to her spirit, Jean-Jacques struck him as weak. Pascal still could not believe that a supposedly loving brother had consigned his own sister to a cottage in such a state of disrepair and had forgotten to send his man with food and blankets to ease her first night. Sutherby training, he was sure. Jean-Jacques probably thought that someone else would take care of it and put the entire idea out of his head.

Pascal shook his head. In an odd way, the situation was exactly what he had prayed for, although he hadn’t been quite so explicit about the dirt and cobwebs. God’s idea of a joke, he imagined—but poor Lily. The look on her face had torn him between laughter and tears. Nevertheless, they would make the best of it, and if it meant Lily had to experience the sharp edge of poverty for a time, so be it. He would see to it that they didn’t starve, or freeze, and she would be kept so busy that she wouldn’t have time to think about anything else.

Jean-Jacques was another matter. He would have to be persuaded to some severe measures, and Pascal would have to see that he took them.

“… In order to correct the situation you’ll need large amounts of copper sulfate and slaked lime—
Bouillie Bordelaise
is the name of the mixture. Then sulfate of iron, among other minerals, liberally applied to the soil to cure the chlorosis of the vines—”

Jean-Jacques waved his hand impatiently, nearly knocking over his ale. “Never mind the details, man. How much will it cost?”

Pascal calculated the materials, adding a generous portion for the laborers into it, for they would need a good incentive to work as hard as they would have to. He added an extra margin, then named what he considered to be a reasonable price.

“I cannot possibly afford such a sum of money. Surely Lily has told you I am nearly penniless?”

“You have assets all about you,” Pascal said. “There are things that can be sold. There are banks from which you can borrow; a mortgage can be taken against the estate if need be. It is really not so large an amount that I am asking for.”

“Are you mad? You are asking for a small fortune, you fool! How do you think I am going to raise money against vineyards that have done nothing but wither for thirty years? Tell me that.”

Pascal waited a moment before speaking, for it was obvious to him that Jean-Jacques was not listening as he paced about the room, pulling at his hair, and generally acting like an overgrown child, a tendency he shared with his sister.

“If you don’t heed my advice,” Pascal said as patiently as he could manage, when the man had finally flung himself into the chair behind his desk, “I can guarantee that you will not have a crop this year, or in the years to come. Your problem is serious, but it is mendable. You should count yourself fortunate that you don’t have to tear up all your stock and cleanse the soil, as sometimes happens.”

“I cannot see what difference that makes, given what I have now.” Jean-Jacques drained his ale and scowled into his empty glass.

“It is simple. If you carry on as you are, you’ll only continue to drain the estate. This is an investment in the future and one that has a chance of succeeding.”

“Why should I believe you? No one else has been able to offer me a solution, and you are nothing but a gardener.”

“Ah, but you can afford me, for I have asked no more pay of you than a gardener would. I have also been studying viticulture in my spare time. What I don’t know about the subject, which is considerable, I do have access to.”

“Oh?” Jean-Jacques asked sarcastically. “You actually confess to ignorance, then?”

Pascal summoned every last drop of forbearance he had left. “To a certain amount, yes. I plan on writing letters to some specialists today. However, I won’t waste my time unless you are personally prepared to take on this project. You already know what sort of financial commitment you must make. Everything now rests on your decision.”

Jean-Jacques’s eyes flickered. “How much of a profit do you think I can make this year?”

Pascal shrugged. “It’s impossible to say. You may make none at all—it depends on whether there is time to turn this year’s crop around. I think there is hope for it, but I can make no guarantees. I can’t guarantee the weather either, which, as you must know, is critical.”

“Yes, of course I know that,” Jean-Jacques said with annoyance.

“Good. Then you know that the weather has to hold reasonably well. But even if you have no profit this year, you’ll be making a start on next year’s crop. You won’t have any good wines to sell for a few years, but you ought to be able to sell a portion of your crop to other vintners, should it be healthy and of fine quality. If not, you have less than nothing anyway. What’s another painting or two against what you know will otherwise be a loss?”

“Then why won’t you make me a loan yourself if you are so confident, Monsieur LaMartine?” he said testily. “It seems the easiest of solutions, doesn’t it?”

It was not as if this hadn’t occurred to Pascal, and he’d wondered how long it would take Jean-Jacques to bring the subject up. But although it would probably be the quickest way to get the necessary funds, the idea went against his grain. Jean-Jacques needed to commit himself to the land, and Pascal suspected that money out of Jean-Jacques’s own pocket was the best way to ensure that he followed through with his commitment.

“I can’t do that,” Pascal said levelly. “I’m sorry, for I can see that it would solve many of your problems. I’m here to offer my services, not to act as your banker. You must decide if you are willing to trust me. If you are not, your sister and I will leave this afternoon.”

He watched Jean-Jacques struggle, his long face pinched. It was interesting, the family resemblance, or lack of it, for though Lily and her brother shared the same thick auburn hair and strong cheekbones, they had little else in common save for a slim frame. Jean-Jacques’s eyes were brown, and his nose was long and high-bridged, unlike Lily’s, which Pascal could only describe as pert. Jean-Jacques’s mouth thinned when he was angry or worried, whereas Lily’s mouth did something else entirely. If rosebuds could be angry, that was Lily’s mouth in a full-fledged pout. Then there was that sharp little chin that thrust forward, as obvious a sign of incipient rage as a red flag.

“Very well,” Jean-Jacques said abruptly, breaking into Pascal’s thoughts, “I’ll do it. Go ahead, order the necessary ingredients on my credit. I’ll find the money somewhere. Just get me a crop. And don’t bother me with any of the rest, for I understand nothing about it, nor do I care to.”

“As you wish,” Pascal replied. “I’ll report to you only when necessary—but I will need to know when you have the funding, so that I can continue with the various things that need doing. I can’t order on credit forever, and I have to keep the books updated. You also need to think past the crop to the tasks beyond. It we are successful, then we must be prepared for the
vendange.”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Jean-Jacques said, sounding bored.

“I haven’t yet had a chance to see the winery, and naturally, should it come to that, you will need a properly trained wine-maker. It’s imperative that the winery is in good order, for when the picking is complete, the vats have to be ready. Agreed?”

Jean-Jacques rubbed his eyes. “Yes. Agreed. Whatever.”

“Good. Oh, and would you send that man of yours with the things you promised last evening? Your sister is not accustomed to such spartan conditions as currently exist at the cottage.”

Jean-Jacques colored. “Oh. Yes, of course. How is Lily?”

“Coping, thank you, although she would be grateful for linens and candles and some warm blankets. Good day, then. Please, don’t trouble yourself. I’ll let myself out.”

Pascal left him standing by the crackling hearth looking like a sulky schoolboy. He reached the outdoors, drinking in deep breaths, for his encounter with Jean-Jacques had left him feeling airless.

The next order of business was to find the Monsieur Jamard whom Jean-Jacques had mentioned the evening before. Luckily enough, he was alive and well and sitting in the village square enjoying a cafe-cognac.

“Monsieur, may I?” Pascal asked, approaching the table in the sun that the
patron
had pointed to.

The old man glanced up, narrowed his eyes, then nodded at the chair opposite.

Pascal sat down and ordered a coffee from the hovering waiter, who appeared very interested in his business with Monsieur Jamard.