No Sweeter Heaven: The Pascal Trilogy - Book 2 (19 page)

“Oh. I wouldn’t have thought that a rabbit would be large enough to break a wheel.” She dug into her second helping, feeling no sympathy for the rabbit, too happy to eat it.

“It wasn’t,” he replied, serving himself. “The farmer was annoyed that he’d allowed his wheel to become so loose. I wasn’t about to argue when he handed the poor thing over, along with the sack of vegetables, since I wasn’t sure what we were going to have for dinner.” He smiled apologetically. “I have to confess, I’m not the best provider when it comes to meat. I’m willing to eat it if it’s already dead, but I’m hopeless when it comes to the act itself.”

“No? What about fish?” she asked, remembering what Charlie had said.

“Only marginally easier.”

“Birds?”

Pascal winced. “No, I can’t eat anything that flies. Chickens are all right for some reason, but nothing with proper wings. I must sound like a lunatic.”

No, you sound like a very sweet and dear person,
Lily thought, and then brought herself up short. A sweet and dear person was nothing that meshed in any way with her understanding of this man. The wine and her own exhaustion were causing her mind to play tricks on her. She refused to have tender feelings for the wretch who had caused her such misery to begin with.

“I am sure you have your reasons,” she said instead.

“Actually, I do, but they’re not worth enumerating. I’m pleased you enjoyed the stew.” He turned his attention back to his meal, and Lily felt as if he’d just shut a door in her face. It bothered her, although she didn’t understand why. She’d had doors slammed in her face all of her life.

“Pascal,” she said tentatively, after a few minutes of silence had passed, “did I say something to make you angry?”

He looked up at her, his eyes puzzled. “Why would you think I was angry? Because of what I said earlier about the water? I was only joking.”

“I know,” she said, a flush creeping into her cheeks at the reminder of her thoughtlessness.

“Thank God you do,” he replied, leaning back in his chair. “I was beginning to think your sense of humor had been misplaced. But you didn’t answer my question—why did you ask if I was angry?”

“Because your expression turned aloof.”

“Really?” Pascal said, gazing at her with fascination. “What do I look like the rest of the time—other than when I’m scowling? I’ve never had such an analysis of my face as I’ve had in the last few days. It’s quite an education.”

“You look—I don’t know. You don’t look so forbidding.”

Pascal thought this over. “Forbidding. That sounds exactly like Father Mallet. How depressing.”

“Oh, no—it’s nothing like Father Mallet,” she said quickly. “It’s just as if you’ve gone away and I can’t tell what you’re thinking.”

“Does what I’m thinking matter to you?” he asked softly, turning his glass around on the table.

Lily shifted uneasily. “No, of course not.”

There was a small silence. “I see,” he said and looked away.

Something in Lily’s chest rolled over as she sensed she had touched another nerve. “That’s not true,” she amended. “It does matter. It’s difficult to know where one stands with you.”

The firelight flickered across his face, highlighting the strong bones, casting parts of his skin into shadow. She realized he had a slight touch of sunburn on the tip of his nose.

He brushed away the lock of hair that kept falling onto his forehead and regarded her steadily, his cheek resting on his palm, his fingers curved into his hand. “Not
everything
you say has a negative effect, you know.”

“Are you teasing again?” she asked uncertainly.

“No, I’m not,” he said quietly. “I’m quite serious.”

Lily pulled her eyes away from his, suddenly uncomfortable under his scrutiny. When he looked at her like that, she felt vulnerable, exposed, as if he could see straight through her. “I suppose I’m accustomed to having a negative effect, so that’s what I expect,” she mumbled.

“I know,” he answered gently. “I think in a perverse way you use that as armor, so that no one can get near.”

A shock ran directly through her, and she sat bolt upright. “What a presumptuous thing to say!”

Pascal, instead of taking offense, smiled. “Case in point.” He abruptly changed the subject. “I think it’s time for you to go to bed. Don’t worry, I’ll do the dishes.”

Lily, who had not even considered washing the dishes, stood. “Very well,” she said glacially. The last thing she wanted was for the wretch to see he’d shaken her.

“I’m going out with Bean,” he said, with a catch of laughter in his voice. “I doubt I’ll see you in the morning, but I’ll bring some bread and milk and cheese back from the village and leave them on the table.”

“Oh—I don’t know what I could have been thinking. I forgot to ask you about the vineyards. Are you going to be able to fix them?”

“I don’t know. I hope so, and I intend to try, but you might say a prayer or two.”

“I don’t pray,” Lily said curtly, starting up the stairs.

“I know that too. But it’s never too late to start—you might be amazed by the results.”

She tossed her head, but all that accomplished was to make her wince. Every muscle in her body ached. “You can do the praying. I’m going to sleep.”

“Good night, duchess,” he said softly.

“Good night, gardener,” she replied, and went the rest of the way up the stairs. But as she readied herself for bed, she couldn’t help but wonder why his last words had felt like the gentlest of touches on her soul.

She hated the house, she hated the backbreaking work, she hated her life.

For the next three weeks Pascal disappeared after dinner and returned after sunset with something for the pot. Lily was usually too tired to care what it was, though she was always grateful to eat it. They would talk a little about the day as Pascal painted her some colorful portraits of the villagers. Why he found them so interesting was beyond her. Her previous contact, although limited, had caused her to despise them, just as much as they despised her and her brother. She imagined it was how all peasants felt about their betters.

For the first few days she had been sure that Jean-Jacques was playing one of his silly tricks on her and would come and rescue her from her misery. Instead, he didn’t come at all. After nearly a week she had swallowed her pride and trudged up the hill for an explanation of his desertion.

“I am sorry,” the servant who opened the door said. “Monsieur le Due left for Paris five days ago.”

“Paris? Without telling me?”

The woman only shrugged. “I am sorry. I know nothing more.”

Lily trudged back to her hovel, her spirits lower than she would have thought possible. Pascal later informed her that Jean-Jacques had gone to finance a loan for the vineyards. They’d had a raging argument over that—or rather, she raged and the wretch simply did not listen. He didn’t back down from his ridiculous position either.

“Jean-Jacques has to take responsibility for his own property, Elizabeth. It won’t be any good to him or anyone else unless he does. Think about it for a minute—he wouldn’t have come to Saint-Simon at all unless he’d been forced to when he ran out of funds in Paris. What do you suppose he’d been doing with that part of his inheritance?”

“I won’t have you talking about my brother in such a way!”

“I’m not trying to insult him, I’m only pointing out the obvious. What did you see when you came to visit your brother earlier in the year? Did you see him doing anything to improve his situation?”

“He was despondent,” she said defensively. “He didn’t know what to do. That is why I went … never mind.”

“That is why you went where?” he asked, looking up from his papers.

“Why, I … why I was going back to my father,” she improvised, not about to disgrace herself by offering him the truth. “I intended to ask him for his help, or at least to release some of my dowry to me so that I could help Jean-Jacques.”

“You can’t be serious! You don’t really expect me to believe that? You yourself told me that your father and Jean-Jacques fought constantly, that there was no love lost between them.”

“No. There wasn’t. But I couldn’t think of anything else to do, or anyone else to turn to.”

“No. I suppose you couldn’t. But really, Elizabeth, you must let your brother fend for himself.”

“Why? Why should I? We have only each other in this world. Why should I not want to see to his welfare?”

“As he has seen to yours?”

Lily tilted her chin forward. “It is only because he can afford nothing else.”

“And neither can we, so let us leave the subject alone.” He bent his head back to the accounts, effectively dismissing her. Lily seethed for the rest of the evening, banging pots and pans and generally being as disruptive as possible, but it had no effect aside from eliciting a few irritated shakes of the wretch’s head as he tried to concentrate.

She furiously wrung out his wet trousers, pretending she was wringing his neck. She felt utterly deserted, left to her fate in the hands of a mule-headed man who had no sympathy for her or her brother, or what should have been their proper positions in life. What did he care? What did he even know about it? He had not been born to wealth or privilege. His miserable blood did not carry the generations of breeding that would enable him to understand the finer points of life.

He went off every day into the fields like the laborer he was, mingling happily with the peasants, coming home with filthy clothes that she had to wash—which was exactly what she had to do at this time every morning so that the sun would have a chance to dry them before the blasted evening dew made them wet all over again.

Lily stood up, her back aching, her knuckles raw. She threw the wet clothes into a basket and heaved it up, going to the washing line and hanging the clothes out in neat rows. And hadn’t
he
thought it was funny, the first time he’d seen the results of her labor.

“Oh, dear, duchess,” he said. “I think you have some learning to do. Look, if you hang shirts by their ends rather than their cuffs, they’ll look better when all is said and done, and it’s much less ironing for you to do.” He showed her, rearranging her painstaking work. “It goes the same for skirts and petticoats. And look here, one peg will work as well to hold two pieces together if you put them side by side like this.”

She’d felt like pinning him onto the washing line by his ears. Then there had been the time that he found her on her hands and knees, trying to figure out how to cut up the chicken he’d brought home. He’d plucked it for her, thank God, but still, she couldn’t make out how to turn it into small, neat pieces. She finally took the ax to it, which was not very successful. The wretch laughed until he cried.

She really did not see the amusement.

When it came to crying, Lily was too tired at night to indulge herself. But every morning when she opened her eyes she was forced to face her miserable destiny. Every morning the tears streamed down her face as she washed it, as she went out to the dreadful privy, as she faced the prospect of the day ahead, the never-ending chores, knowing that there was no end in sight to any of it.

Bean was the only comfort she had, and she talked to the puppy all day long. Bean seemed to like it, though, for she stayed nearby, sunning herself while Lily slaved in the vegetable garden that the wretch had insisted on laying out, and finding a comfortable place near the hearth when Lily slaved inside. At least Bean was there for her, even if no one else cared about her misery.

“A person needs someone to talk to, doesn’t she, Bean?” Lily said, drying her hands. “Do you know, even Father Mallet’s droning would be preferable to all this silence. Well, maybe not. Come on, the laundry is done. It’s time to do the weeding—and this time stay out of the lettuce.”

At least the weather was warming and the wretch had given up his constant worrying about frosts hurting the vines before they flowered. One would have thought they were his children, the way he fussed over them. Lily knew she should be happy that he did, but she was jealous, for not only did he spend all day with the vines but when he came home at night he did nothing but read about them, trying to educate himself, and then he went back out to sleep in them. Vines, grapes, diseases were the wretch’s world. Weeding, washing, crying were hers. Oh,
what
she would give to escape, if she could only think of a way.

Lily thought about the small chest again. It had come with the wretch from Raven’s Close and sat in the corner of the room.

“I wish I knew what was in that chest, Bean. What deep, dark secret could the wretch have that would necessitate keeping something locked and the key hidden? Money? No, I don’t think so, do you? If he’d wanted money he could have helped himself to mine. It’s obviously something that he doesn’t want me to know about.” She yanked out another weed and put it into her basket.

“Maybe he has compromising love letters hidden away … that would be typical, wouldn’t it? Or maybe there’s some evidence of a terrible crime he committed.” She sat back on her heels. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful if there were something as awful as a body in there? I realize that the chest’s too small for a body. Well, I suppose one would fit if it had been hacked into small pieces, but still, there would be the smell.”

Bean wagged her tail vigorously.

“Anyway, if I could find something, some sort of incriminating evidence, then I could annul this terrible marriage and regain my life.”

Lily closed her eyes. Visions of servants and soft beds and suitors vying to kiss her white hands danced before her eyes. She would never scoff at another suitor as long as she lived, she swore it. There would be constant banquets—oh, lots of lovely food. She could see it now, tables and tables of food. Sweets and savories and great joints of meat … and no wretch anywhere in sight.

“Whatever it is must be enthralling,” a deep voice said above her head, and Lily started, jerked out of her fantasy.

Her gaze fell on a pair of boots and traveled all the way up to her husband’s face. Her hand crept to her mouth, wondering how long he’d been standing there and whether she’d been talking to herself or not.

“I—what are you doing home at this hour?” she demanded, badly flustered.

“What, is that all the welcome I get? Actually, I thought I’d work on the house. You’ve been very patient about waiting, and now that we’ve neatly finished the last of the pruning, I’m going to take an afternoon off.” He squinted up at the cottage. “I’m going to start on the shutters. Some nails, a few bolts, and a fresh coat of paint ought to do wonders.”

Lily nodded.

“Why in God’s name are you looking so guilty? Do you have a lover hidden under your skirts, or were you thinking of various diabolic ways to dispatch me? There has to be some reason for that beatific smile I saw on your face.”

Lily gave a horrified laugh, thinking he was far too close to the truth on the latter guess. “Actually, I was thinking of soft beds,” she said.

“Oh, well that explains everything—I think.”

“I can’t think it means anything to you, since you seem happiest sleeping on the ground.”

“I like sleeping under the stars. Well, to be honest, I like sleeping under the stars when the weather is fine. It’s actually not so bad, duchess. You ought to try it sometime.”

“Not on your life. I’ll take lumps in my mattress any day.”

“You would, being too stubborn to try something different. I brought home a treat to have for a midday meal. I thought we could eat outside since the weather’s so nice.”

“What did you bring, Pascal?” she asked with a surge of excitement.

“Go inside and see for yourself,” he said, holding out his hand to help her up from her knees. She pointedly refused it and he shrugged.

“It’s no feast, but it’s better than the usual fare of bread and cheese.”

Lily wanted to cry when she saw the nice fat pâté he’d somehow managed to produce. Wrapped in another bundle were a pickled
tite de veau
and a shiny head of lettuce. A luncheon. They were actually going to have a luncheon. It was too good to be true.

She quickly laid the table that sat outside under the walnut tree and spread the food out, opened the bottle of cold white wine, then stood back to admire her efforts.

Perfect. It almost looked civilized. Well, perhaps not civilized, since there was no cloth to cover the warped wood of the table and only the usual stubby glasses for the wine instead of fine crystal, but as the wretch had said, it was better than the usual. At least it was a warm day, and the sun was shining, and Pascal was finally going to mend the shutters.

She followed the banging of a hammer, intending to call him for lunch. But as she rounded the corner, she came to a sudden halt, her hand creeping to her mouth.

He was up on a ladder, nailing two of the long shutter boards together, his shirt casually looped over one of the middle rungs of the ladder. The sun beat down on his bronzed back, a faint sheen running over his powerful shoulders and the long, smooth muscles that divided his spine and ran across his shoulder blades, shifting beneath his skin as he rhythmically drove the nails home.

Lily had never seen anyone’s naked back before, save for glimpses of her own when she’d craned her neck over her shoulder to look in the mirror, and it certainly hadn’t looked like
that.
He was magnificent, a perfect balance of grace and power. He looked like the Da Vinci sketch of a nude male she’d found in a portfolio in her father’s library. She’d taken it out and hidden it in her room to study in private—until Coffey discovered it and took it away, reading her a stern and alarmed lecture about the sins of the flesh. Everyone forever lectured her about the sins of the flesh, as if she were in constant mortal danger.

Lily could see why. Something hot and unfamiliar radiated outward from deep in her belly, making her feel disoriented and breathless, heavy with a nameless wanting.

She swallowed, thinking she was fortunate that Father Mallet wasn’t anywhere around to read her thoughts or he’d have flailed her alive. It was no wonder he and her father had filled the house with ugly men. They must have realized that she was prone to these fits of lust.

She shut her eyes for a moment, hoping the terrifying feeling would go away as quickly as it had come, but when she opened her eyes again, it was still there, the wretch’s back was still bare, and she still wanted nothing more than to run her hands down over the muscles, to feel those hard curves under her fingers, to put her mouth to his warm skin and taste the salt with her tongue…

He turned and looked down, as if he’d felt her scrutiny.

“Is it time for … what is it, duchess?” he asked. “You look as if the sky just fell in.”

“It did,
she thought miserably, noting that his front side was just as magnificent as the back, a beautiful, solid wall of sculpted muscle. And she had thought Leonardo da Vinci had been idealizing the male form.

“You didn’t drop the pat6, did you?” he asked with a grin. “I can’t think what else would make you look so shaken.”

“No. The pat6 is on the table. I came to tell you that everything is ready. You should come before the wine grows warm.”

He nodded, giving her a puzzled look, but obligingly descended the ladder, picking up his shirt on the way and shrugging it on. Lily averted her eyes, then turned away, quickly heading back to the table.

He appeared a few minutes later, his hands and face still damp from washing, and sat down opposite her.

He picked up the bottle to pour the wine, and Lily stared at the fine, dark hair that was lightly scattered over the back of his hand. She knew now that the same fine, dark hair grew on his forearms too, and she couldn’t help but admire the shape of his fingers as he took a piece of bread from the basket.