No Sweeter Heaven: The Pascal Trilogy - Book 2 (41 page)

“Well, you might know, but at least you had some control over your decision. I had nothing but a short note and the rest of my life ahead of me that I didn’t want to live at all, not until I found out about the baby. But to come all the way here and be turned away just because you didn’t feel like talking to anyone—”

“What?” Pascal thought he might keel over in shock. “What—what did you say, duchess?”

“I said we’re going to have a baby.”

He stared up at her, trying to absorb the news. A sudden, sharp joy seized him as it finally penetrated. “My God, Lily—you’re pregnant?”

“Yes,” she said simply. “I had no idea until four days ago. Coffey had to point it out to me. I thought I was suffering from grief.”

“Oh, Lily—sweetheart—this is wonderful! A baby…”

“I’m pleased to see that you’re so happy about it, but I must say, to have to tell you from a monastery wall just because you were too stubborn to hear it any other way—”

His heart slammed against his ribs. “The wall! Oh, God, we have to get you down from there. It’s dangerous. Don’t move. I’m getting a ladder. Don’t move. Please, don’t move.”

He took off, found the ladder, badly barking his shin in his haste, and made his way back to her, infinitely relieved to see she was still sitting in the same place. Lily. Impetuous, amazing Lily. Impetuous,
pregnant
Lily. The thought of her falling was enough to make the sweat break out on his brow. Lily did not have a reliable history on that wall.

“Don’t move,” he said again, solidly positioning the ladder. He climbed at lightning speed.

“It took you long enough,” she said when he reached the top. “Now what do you intend to do?”

“I intend to get you safely down,” he answered, scooping her up and putting her over one shoulder. Lily made only one token squeak of protest, which indicated to him that she didn’t mind at all being removed from such a height. He very carefully made his way back down again and deposited her on firm ground, then looked at her for precisely one heartbeat and did what the moment demanded. He took her into his arms and kissed her so hard that it left them both shaking.

“Don’t you ever, ever do this to me again,” he said. “Ever.”

“Don’t you ever leave me again,” she murmured against his neck.

“My God, duchess, do you think I wanted to? Do you have any idea? I thought I was—I truly thought I wasn’t going to survive. I felt as if I’d been severed in half.” He grasped her by the shoulders. “You and I, this connection we have, it’s so damned strong it’s frightening.”

“Then why didn’t you know the truth?” she asked in a very small voice.

“Because,” he said, his own voice choked, “I’m only a man, Lily. I’m not omniscient.” He pulled her against him and held her tightly, length against length, savoring the feel of her. It seemed an eternity had passed since he’d last had her in his arms.

“You were with me at night,” she said, resting her head against his chest. “Always at night.”

“I know,” he replied, his arms tightening around her back. “I tried not to sleep. It didn’t work. I tried to push you away. That didn’t work either. But I didn’t dare to truly look. I knew that if I did and found what I thought I’d find, it would finish me off.” He sighed. “I suppose if I had, I would have known you were with child and spared us both a lot of misery. Lily?” he asked tentatively.

“What?” she replied, gazing lovingly into his eyes.

“The baby? May I feel it?”

A little sob escaped from her throat. She parted her cloak and pressed his hand against her. He gently covered the slight swell with his palm and closed his eyes. He was quiet for a moment, concentrating. And then he opened his eyes, smiling, his entire being filled with joy. “A boy,” he said. “Oh, Lily! We’re going to have a son, a fine little soul. Do you sense him?”

Lily shook her head, her eyes bright with tears. “Not the way you do. I feel love, and tenderness, and a need to nurture him, but I don’t know him yet. I only know he’s part of you and me, and that’s enough. I—I thought he might be the only real thing I had left of you.”

She gave a hiccup against his jacket, and he cupped her head tenderly. “I love you, duchess.”

“I love you too,” she murmured, and turned her face up for his kiss.

Oh, to have Lily’s lips under his again, her sweet body real and firmly pressed against his, to have the unceasing torment vanish as if it had been a bad dream instead of a lifelong sentence. He felt like a condemned man being given a reprieve.

He was about to tell her that when he spotted Dom Benetard coming across the lawn toward them. He winced. “Ah, Lily. The abbot’s caught us. Again.”

“Oh, no,” she murmured, trying to hide her smile. “These monks have such a prurient interest. I’m sure it comes from all that celibacy.”

Pascal gave her a severe look, then turned to meet the abbot. “Father,” he said, “forgive me. I—There was an unexpected, um … my wife appeared.”

To his surprise, Dom Benetard laughed. “Never mind, Pascal. I’m happy to see you have worked through your troubles. Father Chabot alerted me that your wife might have done something unorthodox to command your attention, and we both thought we knew what it was. It seems we were correct.”

“Forgive me, Father,” Lily said, embarrassed. “I must be a terrible trial to you, but I could think of no other way.”

“I do understand, Elizabeth. You love your husband with a great devotion. He is a fortunate man.”

“Extremely fortunate, Father,” Pascal said with a grin. “And doubly blessed. Lily is with child.”

“Yes,” the abbot said, smiling at her. “So I understand. I had a most elucidating talk with Father Chabot in the church while we waited for you to resolve your differences. I learned many interesting things.” He regarded Pascal with an expression that clearly asked whether Pascal knew what he was referring to.

Pascal sighed. He hadn’t given much thought to the repercussions of his birthright, not ever intending to act on it. “I had a letter a week ago, if you refer to the change in my worldly status, Father.”

“What are you talking about?” Lily asked, perplexed.

Pascal rubbed his thumb over his mouth, wondering what Lily was going to do with this piece of news. “It seems, sweetheart,” he said after a moment, “that I’m not Serge’s bastard after all.”

“No? Oh, Pascal … how wonderful! So Henri LaMartine
was
your father.”

“No,” Pascal said with a rueful smile. “He wasn’t.”

Lily regarded him as if the last three months in the monastery had affected his reason. “I know you have some unusual talents, Pascal, but
someone
has to have fathered you.”

Dom Benetard chuckled, and Lily colored fiercely. “I’m sorry, Father, I didn’t mean…”

“It’s quite all right, child,” the abbot said, his eyes sparkling with amusement. “I begin to see for myself why Father Chabot said you were meant for each other.”

Lily smiled softly. “I do think God intended for us to be together; he certainly went to a great deal of trouble to see that we married and ended up in Saint-Simon. But speaking of that,” she said, turning back to Pascal, “if you’re not Serge’s bastard, and you’re not Henri’s son, then who are you?”

“I’m ah … I’m a legitimate duke, Lily. Serge and Christine de Saint-Simon were my parents.”

Her mouth dropped open.

“Your mother wrote to tell me. She is certain of it. Apparently Michel has known all along, but couldn’t speak.”

Lily drew in a shaky breath, then let it out again, and he couldn’t for the life of him tell what she was thinking.

.”Lily? Sweetheart?” he asked uncomfortably. “You don’t look very happy. It’s not such a bad legacy to hand down to our child, is it?”

She looked up at him, a sparkle of tears in her eyes. “Does this mean that we have to move out of our cottage?” she asked with real sorrow.

Pascal gave a choked laugh. “Oh, sweet duchess, only you. But yes, I suppose we will. Never mind. We’ll need something larger anyway, with all the children I plan to give you.”

“Oh …” she said, her hand creeping to her mouth. “But Pascal, what about Jean-Jacques? I know he hasn’t been a good duke, and the people will be thrilled to have you instead, but still—what will happen to him?” She gazed at him gravely.

“I promise you, Lily, he will not suffer for this,” Pascal said. “He is family, flesh and blood, and I will see to his welfare.”
I actually have a flesh-and-blood relative,
he thought with amazement as he heard his own words. With an inward groan he finished the thought.
But oh, God, why did it have to be Jean-Jacques?

“What will he do? Where will he go?” Lily said, her brow knotted with worry.

Pascal considered the problem. “I think I might have a solution,” he said, as an idea began to take shape. “It’s one that Jean-Jacques might well be happier for in the end. I’ll tell you about it later.”

“Oh, good,” she said with relief. “You do have a talent for making everything work out, Pascal.”

He looked down into her sweet, trusting face. “I’ll do my very best,” he said, hoping he could live up to her expectations. He was going to spend a lifetime trying.

Dom Benetard smiled at them both. “I think it would be wise,” he said tactfully, “if we left the grounds before you’re seen, Elizabeth. Why don’t we repair through the back of the church to where Father Chabot awaits us? Now that the duchess has told you the truth, Pascal, he is finally free to speak, and he has things to explain to you.”

“As you wish, Father.” Pascal took Lily’s hand and started after the abbot, wondering why, when it came to the details of his life, he was always the last to know.

Word spread quickly of their approach, and people lined the road even before they’d reached the village. Since the three of them sat up on the box, they received the full roar of approbation.

“The duke has returned!”

“I think the people approve, Monsieur le Due,” Lily said.

Pascal could only take her hand in his, speechless. He had been dreading his return, thinking that once the people knew the truth, they would be confused, perhaps a little resentful that a duke had moved among them as one of their own, and was now much grander than they. He certainly hadn’t expected such a warm reception.

It hadn’t been an easy thing, learning the truth, as gentle as Michel Chabot had been with it. He was shaken to his very foundation, and yet it was an enormous relief to have answers to so many questions. There were times that he still felt as if he were moving through a dream. He’d spent so many dark hours away from everything and everyone he’d come to love—now it was as though he was emerging into a daylight that was blinding, even more so for what it signified.

No, it was not an easy thing suddenly becoming a duke. But it was far easier than being set apart. It was infinitely easier than being severed from Lily. And in the end, being with Lily was everything.

He embraced her with his free arm. She’d been amazingly relaxed about everything that had happened, quietly listening as Michel had told him the heart-wrenching story of his mother’s last hours, holding him close to her that same night in the inn, taking him into her body with gentle acceptance and love, allowing him to heal himself in her. Later, after they’d spoken the words that helped to soothe the painful breach of their separation, he had taken her again, this time a fierce act of reclamation. The third had been for simple joy.

Lily looked up at him, happiness glowing in her eyes. “They’re so excited, Pascal. It’s as if they’re declaring you their very own.”

He shook his head, his throat too choked for speech.

“You’re more like your father than you realize,” Father Chabot said, giving him a sidelong glance. “The people always turned out like this to welcome him home.” He pointed ahead to the thronging village.

“How did they know?” Pascal asked in wonderment.

Father Chabot glanced at Lily. “I told your mother about your coming child just before we left,” he said apologetically. “It seemed only fair that she be given the opportunity to do the right thing.”

“You did well,” Lily said softly. “My husband deserves a proper welcome home.”

“Amazing, isn’t it?” Pascal said hoarsely. “They really do look pleased.” He skipped the turning to the chateau and headed straight into the village square. People swarmed around them, the cheers deafening.

Pascal leaned over and shouted to a beaming Alain Lascard to hold the horses’ heads. And then he stood up and waved his arms, signaling for silence. It fell, a sudden, expectant hush.

“Friends,” he said, thinking how true it was. They were all there, Pierre, Charles, their wives, old Monsieur Jamard, so many people he’d come to care for. “I…” His voice broke, and he had to swallow hard, for suddenly he couldn’t speak at all.

Lily saw his dilemma and stood up next to him, taking his hand. “Friends,” she said clearly, “my husband is so happy to be back among you that he is at a loss for words. It’s not often that it happens to him, mind you, but at least it gives me a chance to get a word in edgewise.”

That received a roar of laughter, and Pascal blessed Lily for her tact and for giving him the moment he’d needed to collect himself. He cleared his throat. “I did want to say a few words. This news has come as much of a surprise to me as it has to you.” He smiled. “Probably more of a surprise to me—I understand you’d all had me named as Serge’s son, anyway. I’m pleased to say that I’m proof my father was an honorable man.”

More laughter and a few ribald comments, which pleased him. He might be a duke, but apparently they still intended to treat him like a great, rutting commoner.

He gestured for silence again, his expression now serious. “As my father’s son I have a pledge to make to you. As long as I live, I will see that you are cared for and that the land is looked after, and after me, my son will do the same.” Pascal gave up trying to speak. He couldn’t hear himself think over the uproar.

“And when can we expect this son, eh?” Pierre Marchand called out when the noise died down.

“According to my wife you can expect him next June,” Pascal said, smiling down at Lily.

The villagers went wild. They would have picked Pascal up and carried him away if he’d let them. Instead, he climbed down and accepted handshakes and congratulations and words of encouragement. And then he returned to the carriage, leaving Michel Chabot to answer the countless questions.

Well,
Pascal thought as he turned the horses toward the chateau,
it probably feels good to Michel after keeping his silence for thirty long years.
Now it was his turn to deal with the consequences of that silence.

He looked up toward the château. He would never forget the first time he’d seen it, all those months ago, perched on its rock, the limestone of the outer walls and turrets softly glowing in the evening light. Even then he had felt called to it, called to the land without knowing why. Now it made perfect sense.

He’d been born to it.

He’d been born to love it, to protect it, born to perpetuate it. And he would. As God was his witness, he would.

He let out a long breath against the aching twist in his chest, then turned the horses’ heads for home.

“Large, isn’t it?” Pascal said, poking his head into yet another room.

“After the cottage, it seems immense,” she said.

“Drafty too,” he noted. “We’ll have to do something about that. I can’t have my pregnant duchess running around in a draft.”

Lily grinned. “I really am your duchess, aren’t I? It’s funny, that.”

Pascal chucked her under the chin. “Not what you expected when you married me, was it?”

“Pascal, nothing about you has been what I expected. I’ve had one shock after another from the moment I first saw you, never mind married you. First I thought you were a gardener with a wife and a few children. Then I saw your face and decided you were a fallen angel.”

“Oh, yes, the hellish rake with no moral scruples.”

“Well, how was I supposed to know you were a virgin? You didn’t look like one.”

“Oh?” he said with a huge grin. “And how does a virgin look, duchess?”

“Not like you,” Lily said adamantly. “Virgins are supposed to look innocent. You looked as if you had all the knowledge in the world and then some.”

“You just assumed in the wrong direction,” he said, amused.

“And you accused
me
of keeping secrets? I didn’t hide anything nearly so important as being able to produce miracles out of thin air. Can you imagine my astonishment when you brought Joseph-Jean back with no warning?”

Pascal kissed her nose. “Oh, all right,” he said. “Maybe I should have told you first.”

“Yes, although I should have guessed something was up after that time you plastered yourself all over my soul.”

“I’ve paid the consequences for that in full measure,” he said. “You don’t have to worry about my ever leaving you again. I have a healthy respect for my sanity.”

“Good,” Lily said, “because I intend to keep you right here next to me, Monsieur le Due. For someone who was supposed to be born into the bourgeoisie, you’ve come quite a way in the world.”

“I do have a well-rounded background, haven’t I?”

Lily smiled. “Comfortable in cottage or castle? I wasn’t very pleased about
that
when you first installed me in the hovel down the road.”

“I just wanted you to be as well rounded as I was,” he said, putting his arms around her. “I was successful, wasn’t I?”

“I’ll never be as well rounded as you, Pascal. I’m a simple duchess. You’re a duke, a botanist, a physician—speaking of which, why didn’t you tell me you had a medical license when I first asked about your training? I learned about it from Jean-Jacques. You made it sound as if you’d only taken a few courses here and there.”

“I didn’t want you to think me
too
well rounded,” he said with a smile. “No, to be honest, I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to have to explain why I couldn’t take money for my work. You believed exactly what I wanted you to—that I couldn’t because of the law.” He chuckled. “I took the medical degree because it seemed practical, and I didn’t want any legal questions arising. But I had to become a botanist to support myself.”

“Well, now that you have all these vineyards, be grateful you are a botanist—and that you’re handy at carpentry. You have a large house to keep up, monsieur. Look, here’s the duke’s bedroom.”

“I feel a little strange, Lily…” he said, as they approached it. “After all, I’ve just displaced Jean-Jacques.”

“Nonsense,” she replied briskly. “You were very diplomatic with him outside. I think your idea of having Jean-Jacques manage Saint-Simon’s wine trade is brilliant.”

“He’ll enjoy himself in Paris, but his loss of position will still be a wrench,” Pascal said tightly.

“Actually, I thought he looked relieved in an odd way. He never enjoyed the responsibility of the dukedom, and you did let him keep the fortune he won, after all. I thought that was
very
generous. “She smiled mischievously. “Of course, I suppose you don’t really need it, now that you’ve finally backed off your pride and agreed to use my dowry to support us…”

“Saint-Simon is worth for more to me than a small piece of my pride,” Pascal said, reluctantly returning her smile. “It’s Jean-Jacques’s pride that I’m concerned about. I may have left him his blasted fortune, but I also took the profits from the crop away. I don’t think he was very happy about that.”

“It was only fair. Without you there wouldn’t have been a profit. It’s no good feeling guilty, Pascal. You can’t change anything.”

“No, I can’t, but Jean-Jacques’s anger was obvious, and he has every right to it. He’s spent years in this role, only to have it snatched away from him through no fault of his own. What else has he ever had?”

Lily lightly touched Pascal’s cheek. “He’s always had himself. Maybe it’s time he discovered who that person really is. Maybe this is even a blessing in disguise for Jean-Jacques. It seems to me that there have been rather a lot of blessings handed out lately, and perhaps this is just one more. How are we to know?”

“How indeed?” Pascal answered with a smile. He covered Lily’s fingers with his own. “You are becoming positively wise, Lily.”

Lily smiled. “Wiser than when you found me, anyway. Wise enough to know that you should let it be and accept your destiny.

Oh—and speaking of that, thank you for your graciousness toward my mother. I could see it meant a great deal to her.”

Pascal shrugged a shoulder. “I don’t envy her the battle she had to wage with her conscience. At least she won it, and in the end that will be a comfort to her. As for me … well, I suppose you’re right. I will just have to learn about dukedoms.”

“And no better place to start than here,” Lily said, opening the bedroom door.

Jean-Jacques had already moved out, and the room was empty of any personal belongings. Pascal stuck his head in, looking over the huge bed, the canopy worked in rich embroidery. The ceiling was painted with improbable scenes of heaven, discreetly draped men and women floating about on puffs of clouds, with an occasional cup of wine being offered to them.

Pascal gave a snort of laughter. “Not very accurate,” he said, “but we’ll let it go.” He walked over to the bed and looked down at it, then up at Lily. “I wonder,” he asked with a little smile, “if I was conceived here.”

“If your father was anything like you,” Lily replied dryly, “you might have been conceived anywhere at all.”

Pascal’s smile faded. “I wish I’d known them, Lily. I know they loved me, but it feels odd not having any memory of the people who brought me into this world. My mother carried me for nine months under her heart, yet I have no sense of her—or of my father.”

“You know they were good people and well loved,” Lily said, thinking how inadequate that sounded.

“Yes, I do know that,” Pascal said, “and it was good of Michel to try to describe them, but that’s not what I mean. I feel empty, somehow, as if a part of me is missing. I don’t even know what they looked like.”

Lily’s face lit up. “I have an idea, Pascal. Let’s go to the gallery. There are bound to be portraits of them in there.” She grabbed his hand and dragged him out of the bedroom, down the hall, and down a flight of steps. The portrait gallery was in another wing. Lily knew; she’d been in it once before, although she hadn’t been paying much attention at the time. Had she known she would later be married to the seventh Due de Saint-Simon, she would have looked
a
good deal more closely.

The gallery was as odd as the rest of the house, and Lily shivered when she opened the door. “Meet your family,” she said.

“Good God,” Pascal exclaimed, walking into the long room, whose walls were covered with portraits of varying sizes and shapes, from miniatures to life-size renditions. “Look at them all—and here I’ve gone through my life thinking that I had no relatives.”

Lily looked at him with amusement. “Well, you are the only person I know who can lay claim to three separate sets of parents, but these people do share your blood. Goodness, who’s this dreadful-looking old crone?”

She peered at a woman with an enormous powdered wig and a high-bridged nose. It was Pascal’s nose, but far more attractive on him—and Jean-Jacques’s nose too, she realized with surprise. She wondered that she’d never noticed the resemblance before.

“Lisette Marie de Saint-Simon,” he read from the plaque underneath. “Painted in 1604. She looks a real battle-ax, doesn’t she?”

“Awful,” Lily agreed, straightening and turning to scan the room. And then she saw it. There, at the end of the far wall, was a portrait of a man, dressed in the clothes of thirty years before. He had been painted standing, a tall man, powerful in build. A slight smile turned up the corners of his mouth, and his eyes reflected the same gentle humor.