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

Pascal instantly dropped to his knees. She was alarmingly pale, and he quickly unfastened her cloak, opened the bodice of her dress, and loosened her corset. He felt for a pulse, which he was reassured to find, and he ran his practiced hands along the contours of her body, checking for broken bones and slipping his hands under her skirts to examine her legs. She seemed to have survived the long fall in one piece, but whether she had sustained any internal injuries was another question.

He was about to pick her up and carry her to the infirmary when stars exploded inside his head, and he lurched forward and fell on top of her, his hands clasping his temples as a shrill scream reverberated in his ears.

“God above…” he moaned, his head feeling as if it had just been caught in a vise.

“You depraved beast!” the lunatic cried from under his prostrate body. “You filthy excuse for a penitent!” She pushed him off her and rolled to her knees, glaring at him, her eyes snapping with rage. “How could you take advantage of a woman’s insensibility? How—how could you even think of mauling someone inside the walls of a monastery? Have you no shame?”

“Madame,” Pascal said weakly, his head still reeling from the blow she’d given it, “who are you? What are you?”

He was doing his very best to be compassionate and turn the other cheek, but as he’d never had any experience in dealing with madwomen, and since she had already lambasted both sides of his head between her fists, he didn’t think there was much room left in which to negotiate. He struggled to sit up, his head pounding painfully.

“What I am is a person not accustomed to being attacked! And do not think that I shan’t tell your superiors that, either, for I shall! I am sure they will be deeply disappointed that you have returned to your immoral ways!”

Pascal stared at her. “My … Woman,
what
are you going on about? Have you mistaken me for someone else, perhaps? Or is it your habit to beat men about the head when they are attempting to see to your welfare?”

“Ha!” she said, turning away and struggling with the strings of her corset, her hands shaking. “My welfare, you say? You have obviously been too long without the company of women if you feel you must strip one the moment you have the chance!”

“I was not attempting to strip you. I was merely attempting to ascertain whether you had injured yourself,” Pascal said as patiently as he could manage.

“Which is why your hands were wandering about under my petticoats?”

“Madame, you have an exceedingly high opinion of yourself if you think you are so irresistible that a man cannot help but grope at you the instant you happen to be unconscious.”

Lily, stung, glared at him. “I should not add insult to injury, you horrible man. You are in enough trouble as it is.”

“Oh, and what sort of trouble do you imagine that is?” Pascal retorted, his usually even temper stretched to its limit.

She pointed a shaking finger behind him while she hastily attempted to pull the bodice of her dress together with the other hand.

Pascal looked over his shoulder and saw young Julien and the abbot, Dom Benetard, hurrying toward them. “Oh, no,” he muttered under his breath. “Oh, please, dear Lord, have mercy.”

He slowly rose to his feet and turned to face them, a cold chill taking hold of his heart. The expressions of dismay on both faces were a clear indication of their thoughts. The madwoman’s next words only served to add to their consternation.

“Thank goodness you have come—your gardener attempted to assault me!”

Julien looked at her in horror, but the abbot had more self-control. He turned to Pascal and spoke in a calm, gentle voice. “Is this true, my son?”

“No, it is not true, Father. I was attempting to help the woman after she fell from the wall. I loosened her clothing and examined her for injuries.” He lowered his voice. “I fear she might be unbalanced in her mind.”

“Unbalanced?” Lily said indignantly. “I am no more unbalanced than I am deaf, so it is no good using that tactic to try to excuse yourself.”

“Then if you’re not unbalanced, you might explain why you were crawling along the top of the monastery wall hissing like a lunatic,” Pascal snapped, thoroughly out of patience and extremely annoyed to have been put in this ludicrous situation. “Such behavior is hardly normal.”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” she said, glaring at him. “You seem to forget that I am the person with a grievance, not you.” She turned her attention back to the abbot. “If you please, lock this man away, for I do not wish to look at him anymore.”

“I am afraid it is not that simple, my child,” the abbot said. “We cannot lock a person away when there is some doubt as to what actually occurred. Is it not possible that you might have been mistaken, and Monsieur LaMartine was attempting to see to your well-being?”

“By pawing at my…” She blushed furiously. “Under my …
you
know. At least I think you do.” She glanced at the slight monk, who was blushing even more fiercely than she. “And if you won’t lock him away, I think you should dismiss him from the abbey immediately. I can’t imagine what my father would have to say if I told him that you let such a thing go unpunished! I am sure you would be very sorry.”

“And who is your father?” the abbot asked.

“Oh. He is … he is no one,” Lily said, catching her lip between her teeth, her eyes dropping from the abbot’s.

“One’s father is always of significance, my child, and furthermore, by your manner, bearing, and speech, I suspect your father is not an insignificant man. It would be best, I think, if you tell us his name, and yours, and where you have come from.” Dom Benetard’s words, though gently spoken, brooked no argument.

“He is the Duke of Montcrieff,” Lily said, staring at the ground. “In England,” she added unnecessarily.

The abbot paled, and poor Julien swayed as if he might faint. Pascal felt a little queasy himself. The Duke of Montcrieff had been more than generous to the abbey. In fact, the abbey and its lands might not have been acquired at all eight years before if the duke had not offered his patronage and considerable funds.

Dom Benetard cleared his throat. “I see. And your name, my child?”

“Elizabeth Bowes.”

“Yes, of course. Your father has spoken of you to me.”

“Has he?” she asked, her eyes flashing up to meet his defiantly.

“Indeed he has,” Dom Benetard said equitably. “It is a natural thing, is it not, for a loving father to speak of his daughter?”

“It is kind of you to say so.” The defiance in her face fled as she saw that there was no judgment there, and Pascal wondered what had been behind that particular sortie. He felt slightly disoriented, as if they were suddenly having a pleasant social exchange, rather than being involved in a volatile situation with potentially far-reaching consequences. But Pascal knew that anything might be transpiring in the abbot’s head.

Dom Benetard was silent for a long moment, considering the problem. “Yes, indeed, Elizabeth,” he finally said, “I can understand your alarm under the circumstances. After all, you have been very carefully brought up. Although I can assure you that Monsieur LaMartine’s character is above reproach, we appear to be in a dilemma. I think it would be best if we discussed the matter at length. Brother Julien,” he said to his alarmed companion, “perhaps you would be so good as to escort Lady Elizabeth to the gate. Vespers is about to begin, and I do not think she will be seen exiting. Where do you stay, my child?”

“I have put up at the Lion D’Or, Father.”

“Very well. I will attend you there before Compline this evening.” He turned to Pascal. “My son, you will come to my lodging after Vespers. I feel confident that we can come to a satisfactory solution.”

Julien couldn’t leave fast enough, his legs taking him off at a pace that threatened to leave Elizabeth Bowes behind. Elizabeth Bowes, whom Pascal still thought completely unbalanced despite—or perhaps because of—her rarefied parentage, cast one scathing last look in his direction, then hurried after Julien. The sight of the two of them side by side created a complete contrast in both body and soul: one small, slight, and silent, the other tall, lithe, and lunatic.

Pascal sighed heavily and turned to face the abbot, but before he could speak, Dom Benetard held up his hand to forestall him.

“We will go into Vespers now. Use the time of prayer wisely, Pascal. I too have much to meditate upon. We will talk after.”

Doing as he’d been told, Pascal went directly to the church. It was not that Dom Benetard hadn’t believed him, he thought as he knelt and began the ritual of evening prayer. It was not even that he had betrayed the abbot’s trust and confidence. It was simply that this was a matter too inflammatory for the recently confirmed abbey to deal with without serious repercussions.

Scandal threatened if the right thing was not done. It mattered not why the woman had been on the wall, nor that she had accidentally fallen. Since she believed Pascal had been about to defile het, then the right thing would have to be done regardless.

Pascal’s blood ran cold when he contemplated what interpretation the abbot might put on “the right thing.” He closed his eyes and prayed in earnest.

“Oh, Coffey, I’ve gone and done it now,” Lily wailed, falling into the arms of her faithful old companion, who had been waiting at the inn for Lily’s return as calmly as she could manage, her anxiety turning to panic as the hours had gone by with no sign of the girl. Now here Lily finally was, but badly disheveled, with streaks of dirt on her face and hands. Coffey shivered with a sense of foreboding.

“What have you done, pet?” she asked, patting Lily’s back uncertainly. “Did you not find your monk, then?”

“It’s far worse than that—there was a dreadful man who I thought could help me, and then when I fell, he attempted to—oh, Coffey … he attempted to ravish me!” Lily burst into tears, caused more by hunger and exhaustion than anything else.

“No!” Coffey gasped, deeply shocked. “He didn’t take … take
advantage,
did he?”

“No, he didn’t, because two monks arrived just in time, but I cannot think what might have happened if they hadn’t. I knew he was a rake, just by looking at his face, but then I never thought to fall.”

“No, of course you didn’t,” Coffey said soothingly.

“It was only because I hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and my head spun.”

“Oh, dear heaven, child! How dreadful for you!”

Lily nodded in vigorous agreement. “It was. I never meant to get so close to him, I promise, for I know what you’ve always said about the wickedness of men, but I was at least ten or fifteen feet above his head, so what could he have done? And anyway, he was inside a monastery, for heaven’s sake, so being ravished was the very last thing I expected!”

Miss Mary Matilda McCofferty, nurse to Lily from the time Lily had been an infant, and a good Scots Catholic, released her charge suddenly and crossed herself in horror. “You didn’t actually fall
into
the monastery, Lily? You don’t mean to say you were climbing about on the abbey wall?”

“Well … there really wasn’t any other way to find my monk except to go looking for him from above.”

Coffey paled. The deep sockets of her eyes seemed to have sunk even further, but her little button eyes blazed black against her white skin. “You are telling me that a monk tried to ravish you? And you expect me to believe you? A Benedictine monk, my girl, a man of God? Surely you must have misunderstood?”

“But he wasn’t a monk,” Lily said, desperate to have someone believe her after the terrible experience she had just been through. “He was only a layman, a gardener who works for the abbey. Oh, Coffey, don’t be cross—I know I ought not to have been on the wall to begin with, and I don’t know exactly why I was, but it was all for Jean-Jacques, and anyway, you agreed to come along.”

Coffey sat down on the one chair in the sparsely furnished bedchamber and folded her hands tightly together in her lap. “I agreed to come with you, my lady, because I would not see you chasing off across the French countryside on your own. Now look at what has happened. What did I tell you when you came up with this scheme of yours?”

Lily swallowed. “It’s worse than you think. The abbot is coming to see me. He knows Papa, of course, for I made the terrible mistake of blurting Papa’s name out before I thought of the consequences…”

Coffey passed a hand over her eyes and whispered a quick prayer to the Blessed Mother for help.

“I know,” Lily said miserably, knowing exactly what her old nurse must be thinking. “Papa is bound to be told everything. I shall just have to think of a way to soften the blow.”

Coffey glared at Lily. “You don’t intend to compound your sins by lying to an
abbot,
my lady?”

“Oh, please don’t call me that, for then I know you are truly put out with me. No, I don’t intend to lie, but then I don’t think the abbot really needs to know about Jean-Jacques and his troubles, do you?” Lily tapped her mouth with her finger. “I’ll have to think of something milder by way of an explanation. Something harmless.”

“You’ll only make more trouble for yourself, Elizabeth, by not telling the truth,” Coffey said sternly. “It is bound to come back to you. Take my word for it.”

“Nonsense,” Lily said impatiently. “Anyway, I can’t think at all unless I have something to eat. Do you think you could ask the innkeeper to send up a supper tray, and perhaps some hot water so that I might wash? I ought at least to look respectable for the abbot when he comes.”

Moving astonishingly quickly for a woman who needed a cane to get about, Coffey disappeared through the door.

Having successfully distracted Coffey from the tonguelashing she knew was forthcoming, Lily breathed a sigh of relief and began to undress, looking ruefully at her ruined stocking. It was extraordinarily lucky that her stocking was the only thing that had been ruined.

“But, oh, how is it that I am always getting myself into trouble?” she moaned and threw herself onto the bed, arms flung over her head.

Lily washed, changed, and managed to eat a good dinner before Dom Benetard was scheduled to arrive at the inn, and she felt much better for all three. Not much could put Lily off her food, which she always approached with relish. That was why her usual punishment of bread and water for a week was so aggravating. Father Mallet’s philosophy held that starving her greedy body would feed her needy soul—but then Father Mallet never looked as if he enjoyed anything.

Lily arranged a private parlor for the meeting, the innkeeper suitably impressed that she was receiving Dom Benetard. She gathered that the townspeople were in great awe of the man. Well, that was all well and fine, as it secured her the parlor with no trouble, but Lily was not nearly as impressed as the innkeeper. Dom Benetard was merely an elevated priest, and she knew from bitter experience how to deal with that breed. Keep one’s eyes down, pretend humility, agree with everything, say a penance or two, then go one’s own way.

She settled herself in a chair by the fire, pulled her dress down to be sure it covered her ankles, and placed her hands demurely in her lap. She hoped she looked the picture of innocence, although the picture would be destroyed if her father had said anything to Dom Benetard regarding what he considered to be her impossible behavior.

Coffey had brushed her hair until it shone and arranged it primly atop her head as the old nurse felt befitted a young lady. Lily could only hope that Dom Benetard would not be put off by the fiery color that Father Mallet called the taint of the devil, for she needed the abbot to think her beyond reproach. Satisfied that she had done all she could to deflect the repercussions of the plan that had so badly gone awry, she took a deep breath and prepared to receive the monk.

In the end, it felt more as if it were Dom Benetard who received her. He arrived in his simple black habit, politely refusing her offer of fruit and wine, instead focusing his clear, tranquil gaze upon her. Lily realized instantly, and with strong confusion, that this was no Father Mallet. This was a man the likes of whom she had never met, whose very presence seemed to wrap her in a cloak of peace.

He sat opposite her and she focused on the large but simple wooden cross that hung on his chest. Her eyes crept up again to his strongly boned face. His features were even and pleasantly arranged; she judged him to be somewhere in his early forties, young for the weighty position of abbot. But there was something about Dom Benetard that defied age. His face held a wisdom and a serenity that made one want to gaze upon it, to find stillness and safety there.

Her belligerence fled as it had in the monastery when she had been prepared to lie through her teeth about her father’s identity. Lily would never have believed it of herself, having fought her entire life against authority, but she found she longed to tell the abbot everything. And yet she knew she could not. She’d sworn to protect Jean-Jacques.

“Tell me, my child,” the abbot began in his deep, lyrical voice. “How did you come to be inside the monastery walls? It was as Monsieur LaMartine said? You fell?”

Lily nodded and prepared to tell the tale she’d constructed, feeling terribly guilty. “I did. I know I should not have been there, but I could not help myself. My father has spoken so often of his devotion to the Abbey of St. Christophe and I was curious.”

“Curious?” the abbot asked calmly.

“Well, yes. I wanted to see its beauty with my own eyes and being a woman, I knew I would never have the opportunity.” She smiled sweetly, hoping she looked positively angelic.

“Go on, my child,” the abbot said.

“Well, um … my companion and I were traveling through Montebon and I did not think there would be any harm in looking, if no one saw me. So I climbed the elm tree just outside the wall.”

“I see.” Dom Benetard folded his hands into a steeple.

“Once I was on the wall, I overbalanced and fell,” Lily said, unnerved by his complete lack of expression, “and when I did, your gardener took advantage of me. But if you are prepared to forget the incident, then I am also. I am sure you would wish to avoid scandal. You need not put him in your jail,” she added generously, “although I do not think he is suited to life inside a monastery, not if he is inclined to temptations of the flesh.”

Dom Benetard actually smiled, and in his eyes she was astonished to see a natural joy that radiated from within his being and lit up his entire face.

“I can say with all honesty that I had not considered incarcerating our good brother. I cannot help but doubt that he was succumbing to temptation.” His smile faded, and Lily felt as if the sun had just disappeared. “Still, the facts themselves do create a problem.”

“But they don’t have to,” Lily persisted. “I really am prepared to forget all about it. And I am deeply regretful that I climbed onto your wall,” she added for good measure.

“It is beyond dispute that you ought not to have been observing the abbey from its own walls. I believe you have some forgiveness to ask of God for that. However, that is another matter. What weighs on my mind is the responsibility I have to your father.”

“Oh—but you have no responsibility to my father at all! I won’t say a word, and it is not as if you knew I was on your wall in the first place.”

“Yes, child, but your claim that Pascal LaMartine assaulted you cannot be ignored.”

Lily deeply regretted having ever opened her mouth—not an uncommon regret, as her mouth was her usual downfall. “I don’t see why not,” she said in a small voice.

“Elizabeth. You have brought a serious charge against Monsieur LaMartine. Your father must be informed, and Monsieur LaMartine must be given a chance to clear his name. It is up to your father to judge the truth of the matter. I can think of no other way.”

“But—but surely it is your job to discipline the man,” Lily said, faltering. “My father really has nothing to do with the running of the abbey, has he?”

“No, he has no authority, only our gratitude. But you must also understand that although Monsieur LaMartine has been with us for two years, I have no ecclesiastical authority over him, as he has not taken any vows. Do you understand?”

Lily swallowed. “Yes. I-I do.”

“That is good. So you understand that this must be left to your father. I’ve decided that the most sensible thing to do is to send one of our brothers to escort you to Sutherby Park along with Monsieur LaMartine.”

“You—you will send me home in the company of the man who attempted to
defile
me?” Lily asked incredulously.

“As I said, one of the brothers will go with you. Brother Julien has offered his services. I shall entrust a letter to him, describing the events that have transpired today.”

The fire snapped and crackled in the grate, and Lily stared into it, contemplating the full repercussions of this appalling announcement. Her gaze slid back to Dom Benetard as she struggled for speech. “That man—Monsieur LaMartine, I mean—surely he will not agree to go, knowing what my father will do to him?”

“Monsieur LaMartine has already agreed. Your father, having contemplated the matter, will then determine what must be done. We must all agree to abide by his decision.”

“What … what sort of decision?” Lily asked nervously, not entirely sure she was grasping the point.

“It is not for me to say, child.” The abbot tucked his hands securely within the sleeves of his habit. “It would be best if you remained in these quarters until you hear from me regarding arrangement for your travel to England.”

He stood, said a blessing over her bowed head, and quietly departed, leaving Lily in a state of shock.

Pascal spent the entire night in the church in prayer and contemplation, but his last hours at St. Christophe de Montebon passed in anything but peace. The outcome of his talk with Dom Benetard had come as no surprise. His disquiet stemmed more from his lack of understanding of why such an unwarranted situation should have befallen him. It seemed an odd conclusion to a spiritual quest, a quest that had taken him halfway around the world and ended up in St. Christophe.

Pascal rose as the chill of dawn spread through his bones. He took one last look around the long, narrow church, topped by a gracefully vaulted ceiling that gave it such balance, gazed one last time at the extraordinary sculptures of the saints, their stone faces so lifelike. The scent of frankincense from last night’s Compline still lingered in the air, rich and dark.

Pascal turned and walked out into the daylight.

He went wearily to the bare room in which he had lived for the last two years. There was not much to collect, only a few items of clothing, some books, and a small, well-executed painting. It had been done five years before, and although Nicholas and Georgia would look much the same, the children would have changed considerably since he had last been home.

He’d missed them—Charlie would be nearly a man now at eighteen, and Ghislaine, at sixteen, would soon be ready to trade her braids for the finery of a young woman. As for Willy and Kate, they were still bound to be trouble, racing about, looking for mischief in every corner. If there was one small measure of comfort to be found in being forcibly sent to England, it was the thought of seeing them all again.

He carefully placed the painting in his satchel with the rest of his possessions, covering it with a cloth to protect the surface. He fastened the straps, his fingers struggling with the leather that had become stiff from lack of use. He then left to find Dom Benetard.

Pascal knelt before the abbot, accepting the Benediction being said over his head. He rose from his knees, feeling quite sick.

“It is not such a bad thing, my son,” the abbot said, placing his hand on Pascal’s shoulder. “You have benefited by your studies, and our gardens have benefited from your devoted work, as have the people. But this is perhaps an answer from God to the question that has been troubling you, no?”

Pascal regarded Dom Benetard’s serene face, his familiar, beneficent smile, and he wondered how his mentor could be feeling quite so calm at consigning him to such an unwanted, unexpected, and uninvited fate.

“Father…” he said haltingly, “I do not know. In all truth, I cannot say. Why would God throw a deranged noblewoman off a wall at my feet as an answer to my question?”

“I cannot speak for God,” the abbot said with a slight twinkle in his eye, “but should it come to that, marriage is not such a bad thing. There are many whom it suits very well, and it is an esteemed state in God’s eyes.”

“But I don’t even know the woman! It makes no sense.” Pascal clamped down hard on his anger, fighting for selfcontrol.

“Perhaps it makes no sense just now, but God has a hand in everything. You have long prayed for resolution, and perhaps it has been given to you.”

“This has nothing whatsoever to do with marriage as I understand it,” Pascal said tightly. “As you know, I had not thought to marry at all. I have none of the usual things to offer a wife.”

“But it is not a finished thing. The duke might decide no harm has been done.” Dom Benetard hesitated for a moment, one hand moving on his cross as if he were looking for guidance. “I think I must tell you,” he continued, “that Montcrieff has spoken of his daughter to me, but not as lovingly as I implied to Elizabeth.”

“Oh?” Pascal said, raising an eyebrow. “Why am I not surprised?”

“He is a forceful man, Pascal, and Elizabeth has lived a life of rebellion. There has not been peace between them, although I am not sure that the duke has handled the matter as well as he might have. Nevertheless, he knows his daughter is prone to impulsive behavior. I do not think he will lay any blame at your door, especially given your curative skills, which I have mentioned in my letter.”

Pascal gave the abbot a look of real alarm. “Father—”

Dom Benetard held up his hand. “It is only natural that a man with medical training should examine someone who has taken a fall,” he said.

Pascal exhaled.

“Still,” Dom Benetard said, “there are other factors to be considered. Whatever Montcrieff decides, I know I can trust you to accede to his wishes.”

Pascal dutifully bowed his head in submission, although what he really felt like doing was throwing something across the room. “I shall do your bidding, and make the best of a bad situation, if that’s what is required. I would never think to bring disgrace upon you or St. Christophe.”

“No. I know you would not, but as I told you last night, this is not so much about disgrace as it is about finding your way. You are nearly thirty years of age. It is time for you to discover where God means you to be.”

“Father,” he said desperately, his control slipping for one unguarded moment, “if I knew where God meant me to be, I would have been there a long time ago! At least I have found a measure of peace at St. Christophe.”

“I understand. But it would be wrong for you to stay at St. Christophe if you have not truly been called to an ascetic life. Go, my son, and find the life that the Good Lord has in mind for you. Go out to where you do belong.”

Fighting bitterness and anger, Pascal, followed by Julien, walked out through the great arch of the Abbey of St. Christophe du Montebon. His heart twisting painfully, he rested his satchel on the dry earth and stopped for a last look at the honey-colored stone of the abbey, bathed in soft, early morning light. Julien waited patiently, as if he knew Pascal needed to fix the image in his mind, a memory he could draw upon in the years to come.

“Go out to where you belong,” the abbot had said to him. But the truth was that he didn’t belong anywhere. He never had, and he had a terrible feeling that he never would. Nevertheless, despite his confusion, one thing was clear: he most certainly did not belong with Lady Elizabeth Bowes.

Pascal picked up his satchel, nodded to Julien that he was ready, and walked away.