No Sweeter Heaven: The Pascal Trilogy - Book 2 (42 page)

She knew him immediately for Pascal’s father, not for any strong physical resemblance but more for a similar quality. She walked over to the painting and looked up at it.

Serge Alexandre, 6th Due de Saint-Simon,
the plaque read. The portrait had been painted in 1808, a year before his death.

“Pascal,” she said simply, “I’ve found your father.”

He came across the room without a word. Nor did he say anything as he looked upon his father’s image for the first time. His face reflected his feelings far more eloquently than words ever could. Sorrow, regret, love, they were all there.

“I don’t look much like him, do I?” he eventually said.

“You do in a way,” Lily said, considering. “But Father Chabot did say that he thought you resembled your mother more than your father.”

Lily noticed a portrait hung only a few feet away of a beautiful, fair-haired woman in a high-waisted blue dress. Her eyes were the same shape as Pascal’s, and she had a sweet, wide mouth, the lower lip full and squared. “Look, Pascal, I wonder if this isn’t your mother over here. You do have a similar expression, and it’s the right period.” She pointed.

Pascal’s reaction stunned her.

“Dear God,” he whispered. “Dear, dear God.” He stared at the portrait as if he’d just seen a ghost. “It’s her…”

“Who?” Lily asked, wondering why he’d gone pale. “Who, Pascal?”

He didn’t answer. He walked over to the portrait and reached out a trembling hand, touching the painted surface very gently. “My mother,” he said, his voice thick, barely audible. “All this time. My mother. I never knew.”

“You never knew what?” Lily asked in confusion.

He turned to her, his face alight with a joy so profound that it took Lily’s breath away.

“Do you remember when I told you about the shipwreck and what happened in the light?”

Lily nodded.

He looked back at the painting. “She was my angel.”

The chapel sat on the west side of the chateau’s boundaries, its back built into the fortifying wall. Pascal pushed the heavy oak door open. Although the sun was setting, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimness inside.

It was a peaceful place; he felt that instantly. It was also beautiful, a transverse arch suspending the dome, various elaborately carved tombs lining the walls leading up to the chancel.

It didn’t take long to find the ones he was looking for.

Serge Alexandre. Christine Vironique.
Their dates of birth and death were engraved alongside.

He ran his finger over the inscriptions. “Thank you,” he whispered. “Papa, thank you for giving me life and this land. But oh, thank you, Mama, for looking after me when I was so badly in need. Thank you for loving me so well.”

And then he traced his own name, the name that he’d been given at birth.
Alexandre Andre Philippe. Born April 9th, 1809
… No wonder the LaMartines had named him Pascal. He’d been born at Eastertide.
Died April 30th, 1809.

But he hadn’t died,
Pascal thought with tremendous gratitude.
He’d been allowed to live, to find Lily, to find his place on earth.

He dropped to his knees and gave thanks to God, who had finally seen fit to bring him home.

Father Chabot cupped his hand and dipped it into the baptismal font, pouring water over the back of the infant’s head. He drew the sign of the cross in oil on his little forehead. “I baptize thee Andre Nicholas Serge,” he said solemnly, “in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”

Andre’s face screwed up and his lower lip began to tremble in indignation. Lily had to suppress a laugh as he burst into tears. She glanced over at Pascal, who appeared to be relieved to have it over and done with. For someone as relaxed about the Kingdom of Heaven as he was, he’d been surprisingly anxious to see his son baptized.

“I’ll have you know that Pascal was just as vocal when I baptized him,” Father Chabot said, as Georgia wrapped Andre up and handed him back to Lily. “He howled for a good five minutes before he let himself be consoled.”

Pascal looked down at their son, who had ceased crying and fallen into hiccups. “We’re sensible people. Neither of us likes having his head soaked.”

Georgia ran an adoring finger over the dark down on Andre’s head. “He does look like you, Pascal, I must say.”

“I certainly hope so, madame,” Pascal said with a straight face. “It would be disconcerting if he looked like someone else.”

Nicholas nodded. “A sentiment any father could understand.” He looked around him. “It’s a handsome chapel. Early sixteenth century, is it?”

“You have not lost your eye, monsieur. It is, indeed.” He began to point out some of the more interesting architectural features, Father Chabot adding his comments.

Lily felt a tug of happiness as she watched Pascal with Nicholas and Georgia, who had arrived from England only an hour before and been dragged off to Andre’s baptism as soon as Father Chabot could be fetched. Pascal had written them the day of Andre’s birth, asking them both to be godparents, for reasons he felt would be immediately evident. He’d been waiting impatiently ever since and had finally been rewarded.

“Your husband has a look of true contentment about him, don’t you think?” Father Chabot spoke from behind her.

“He does, Father,” she said, turning. “I was just thinking that the last time he saw Nicholas and Georgia he looked very different. Of course, he was unhappy and angry, and being Pascal, naturally he’d bottled everything up. Thank goodness he doesn’t do that anymore. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? He’s changed, even over the last few months.”

Father Chabot considered. “Knowing where he belongs has helped, and having a son has given him great happiness. But it seems to me, Lily, that what has made the most difference is how well you have loved him. God must be pleased indeed.”

“Father…”

“I must get back to the village. Tell Pascal that when he has a moment, Maurice Latvier has taken to his bed with another attack of boils.” He smoothed a hand over Andre’s head, gave her a swift smile and left, pretending not to notice the tears in her eyes.

Lily observed Pascal over dinner that evening, thinking about what Father Chabot had said. It was true. Pascal looked happy, fulfilled, very much at ease. He had grown naturally into his role of duke over the last seven months, intuitively finding his way. For a man who had always had the simplest of needs, she thought he’d done very well.

The people adored him, of course. They were more deferential toward him, but he understood that it was a necessary part of his position, that he had an obligation to live up to expectations. Still, the deference didn’t go so far as to separate him from his people in any way, and he’d been amusing about it.

“It’s very difficult for people to be overly deferential when you have them at their most vulnerable,” he’d said to her. “Monsieur Perotte never remembers to call me anything other than torturer when I have his backside bent over a chair.”

Pascal did enjoy his life.

But she knew that the moment of his greatest joy, the same moment that had set the church bells to wild ringing and the villagers to mad celebration, had been Andre’s birth.

“Brave, clever duchess,” he’d said, love shining in his eyes as he received his son into his hands after a tedious but unexceptional labor. “Brilliant, beautiful duchess. He’s perfect—just perfect.” Lily had been so dazzled by the golden light surrounding them that she thought she might float away. And in that light, she could have sworn she saw the image of a lovely angelic being, remarkably similar to the portrait of Pascal’s mother.

Lily rested her chin on her fist, gazing at Pascal with a dreamy smile, thinking what a lucky, lucky woman she was.

He met her eyes and smiled in return, a smile that spoke of warm, private things and made her desperately wish she didn’t have to wait to do something about it. Pascal hadn’t worried for one minute about restraining himself before Andre’s birth, but he’d been adamant about keeping himself away for the month since. It really was a nuisance—she desperately wanted to be with him, to have him with her, inside her, in more than just spirit.

Pascal read her mind. She knew by his swiftly lowered eyes and the sudden tightening of his hands on his fork and knife.

“How is your brother, Lily?” Nicholas asked with an amused expression that Lily knew meant he’d intercepted their silent exchange. “I understand he’s been very successful in promoting Saint-Simon’s wines.”

“He’s well, thank you,” she said, trying to suppress a blush. “Jean-Jacques loves Paris.”

“A Paris cleansed of the Comte de Passy, thanks to you, monsieur,” Pascal added. “I’m not sure Jean-Jacques would ever have gone back if it hadn’t been for Passy’s going to prison.”

“Arranging for Passy to be turned over to the Bourbons,” Nicholas said with satisfaction, “was an extreme pleasure. And thank you again, Pascal, for the list of conspirators. That really was a stroke of good fortune. We think that Bonaparte will try another coup in August, but he is now guaranteed to fail miserably.” He looked back at Lily. “Your brother was far more useful than he’ll ever know.”

“Well, I’m happy he was good for something,” Lily said. “I was very annoyed with Jean-Jacques for having brought Passy here in the first place.” She didn’t think it worth bringing up Passy’s role in bringing her father and his priest down to Saint-Simon—any mention of Father Mallet only made Pascal’s blood boil. But to her surprise, Pascal brought the subject up himself.

He put down the apple he’d been about to peel. “I don’t think I ever told you,” he said, idly testing the edge of his knife with his thumb, “that Passy wrote a letter to Lily’s father, in which he accused both Jean-Jacques and myself of mistreating Lily. I imagine he was angry that we’d foiled his plan to use Saint-Simon for his meeting place.”

“I did like your diphtheria epidemic,” Georgia said. “It was a masterly touch.”

“Thank you, madame. I was quite pleased with it myself. Passy, however, was not, so he took his revenge.”

“I don’t know what he thought a vitriolic letter was going to accomplish,” Lily said. “There wasn’t much my father could have done even if the things Passy wrote had been true.”

Pascal glanced down the table at her. “Oh, I imagine your father could have found a way to stir up some trouble for me and embarrass Jean-Jacques if he had decided to put some effort into it.”

“How very interesting,” Nicholas said. “A typically underhanded Passy maneuver. What happened? Did Montcrieff come roaring straight down?”

“He did,” Pascal replied, “and he brought his priest with him. Of course, by then I’d found out the truth about my parents, and we were living here.”

Nicholas sat back and folded his arms across his chest. “I must say, Pascal, when you decide to do something, you don’t hold back. First you marry the heiress to a duchy, then you become a duke yourself, and finally you produce a son who will eventually be a duke twice over—and all in the space of a year. Impressive work.”

“Thank you, monsieur,” Pascal said with a grin, “although the only part I can really take credit for is the last. Everything else was sheer accident. At least my title helped placate Montcrieff, as did Lily’s pregnancy, but Montcrieff wasn’t very happy to find Lily’s mother in residence, poor man. That gave him quite a shock. Father Mallet was even unhappier.”

“Why is that?” Nicholas asked, watching Pascal play with his knife as if he intended to do some serious damage with it.

Pascal didn’t answer for a moment, and Lily knew exactly what he was thinking.

Because he was finally caught out on every filthy point of his lies and perversions. Because I nearly put my hands around his neck and strangled him.

That had been a formidable moment, when Pascal had confronted Father Mallet about the awful things he’d done to her. Yes, better the entire truth remain between them. It was not a subject she wished to address either. They had put it to rest, and that was where it would stay.

Pascal put his knife down. “Because he was a miserable, corrupt excuse for a priest,” he said mildly enough, his tone belying the anger in his eyes. “He’d interfered between husband and wife and succeeded in destroying a happy marriage. Once Montcrieff realized the damage Mallet had done, he expelled him.”

“My goodness,” Georgia said. “That must have been interesting.”

“You’ve always been a master of the understatement, madame.” Pascal let out a sigh. “Ah, well. It was too late for Lily’s parents, but maybe Sutherby will be a happier place now that Mallet is gone. At least Lily’s mother is happier for having her children back, and she and Coffey seem to be enjoying their travels. But never mind that. Tell me about Charlie. How do you think he’s doing in Bombay? I had an enthusiastic letter from him, saying that he’s having a wonderful time, but I don’t know how well that bodes for the business.”

Nicholas chuckled. “Let me tell you about Charlie and Bombay.” He soon had them all in fits of laughter.

Pascal refilled Nicholas’s glass and put the crystal decanter back on the table. “I’m pleased that you approve of my cognac, monsieur. You have very discriminating taste.”

“I approve of your wife, too, and I have discriminating taste in that area as well. Lily has come a long way since we last met her. You seem very happy together.” He leaned down and rubbed Bean’s ears.

“We are very happy together. I love Lily with all my heart.” Pascal returned to the armchair and picked up his own glass. “A year ago I never would have thought it possible. Now, I can’t imagine life without her. Actually, I discovered that I don’t have any life without her.”

“Oh, you mean that last sojourn you made to St. Christophe?” Nicholas casually held his glass up to the light, examining the clear amber liquid. “Yes, that sounded bloody awful. Well, at least it finally penetrated that stubborn head of yours that you weren’t meant to be a monk.”

“No,” Pascal said ruefully, “I most certainly wasn’t. Keeping my hands to myself this last month has been next to impossible.”

Nicholas grinned. “I’m happy to hear it. I always did wonder how you managed those long stretches locked away from the world.”

“You can’t miss something you know nothing about,” Pascal said, amused by Nicholas’s incredulous expression.

“No …” Nicholas said on a long exhale. “I don’t believe it.” He rubbed his neck. “Then again, maybe I do.”

“It was worth waiting for,” Pascal said with a smile. “Lily was worth waiting for. It was … it was important that we came to each other virgins.”

“Why, if you don’t mind my asking? It’s not the usual state of affairs for men to go to their marriage beds inexperienced.”

Pascal thought. It was hard finding the right words. “I suppose,” he said slowly, “that it had to do with claiming each other. We’d done that in spirit in a place where we were both pure. To take each other in body—we needed to be the same.” He frowned. “Am I making any sense at all?”

“Pascal, you’ve been places and done things that most of us can’t even begin to understand,” Nicholas said. “Nothing you say surprises me, not really. For you to approach the sexual aspect of life from a spiritual level makes perfect sense. But tell me something. Does Lily understand about you, about your gift?”

“Oh, yes,” Pascal said quietly. “She thinks I’m perfectly ordinary. You see, that was God’s real gift to me. Lily sees heaven too.”

Later that night Pascal turned the handle to the bedroom door and eased it open. Lily lay curled on her side, her hands tucked under one cheek. She was asleep.

He slipped into the room and quietly undressed, carefully sliding under the sheets. The look in her eyes tonight had told him she was ready for him. Very, very ready. He couldn’t wait another moment.

He rolled toward her and gently dropped a kiss on her mouth, molding her lips to his. Her eyes opened halfway and her arms wrapped around him, pulling him close.

“Pascal,” she murmured. And then her eyes opened wider. “Pascal … you’re not in the dressing room. You’re in bed.”

“You’re so observant,” he said, kissing her neck, warm and sweet-smelling.

Lily twined her fingers in his hair and kept them there as he raised his head and kissed her soft mouth.

“Does this mean we don’t have to wait any longer?” she asked happily.

“Not if you’ll have me, duchess.” He stroked his hand over her full breast.

“Always,” she murmured, moving onto her back and reaching for him. “Oh, always, Pascal. I’ve missed you so much.”

“I’ve missed you too, sweetheart.” Pascal bent his head and began to love her in earnest.

Later, as Lily slept in his arms, Pascal looked up at the ceiling of the bedroom, painted with all those absurd clouds and cavorting angels. He smiled every time he saw it, thinking how little it resembled the real thing.

“Well, Lord,” he whispered, “you may have made me different, and I honestly don’t mind reaching into heaven to do a miracle here and there for You. But as an ordinary man, I have to say that there’s nothing sweeter than the heaven I’ve found right here in my own home and my own bed.”

He released a contented sigh, pulled Lily a little closer, and closed his eyes.