No Sweeter Heaven: The Pascal Trilogy - Book 2 (13 page)

Pascal put the puppy down on the ground, first taking the precaution of attaching her leash to her collar. “Sit,” he told her, and the puppy reluctantly parked her bottom on the ground, tongue lolling out of mouth, tail wagging furiously. “Good Bean,” he said. “Now, let us go for a dignified walk. Forward.” He let out a little leash and immediately pulled it back when she attempted to dive into a ditch after a squirrel. Bean had the good sense to realize she was defeated, and obediently pulled back her pace and trotted in front of Pascal, ears held alertly forward, tail high. “Good girl,” he said, bringing her alongside his heel. “Now sit.” The puppy sat, looking enormously pleased with herself.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Lily wailed. “You make it look so easy, and it’s not at all.”

“Elizabeth, it hasn’t escaped my attention that you have a strong will. If you use that will to a positive end, you’ll have a well-behaved animal who will also be eternally loyal to you. Be kind but firm. All right? Here, you try.” He handed her the leash, and Bean instantly bounded forward, dragging Lily along behind her.

“Hold her in!” Pascal shouted.

Lily put both hands on the leash, leaned back and dug her heels in, and after flying up in the air in surprise, Bean obligingly stopped. But the sudden release of tension took Lily by surprise too, and she toppled over backward. Bean took this as great good fun and pounced, giving Lily’s face a thorough, good-natured victory wash.

The sight of the would-be duchess lying pinned to the ground by a small ball of fur, leaves in her hair and dirt on her face, was too much for Pascal. He laughed until his sides ached and tears rolled down his cheeks. “Oh … oh, no,” he said, making a valiant attempt to recover. “B-Bean, stop it now. D-down.”

Bean paused only for an instant, and then, seeing that her master’s heart wasn’t in the command, she went back to showering her struggling mistress with enthusiastic affection. Pascal burst into laughter again, dropping to his knees in helpless hilarity.

Lily finally managed to extricate herself from Bean and sat up. “You’re laughing at me,” she said accusingly.

Pascal looked up at her, still gasping for breath. “S-sorry … it’s just that—it’s so … ah—”

“Funny?” Lily asked indignantly.

“Yes. Funny.” He wiped his eyes. “I—I’m sorry, I’m not laughing at you, just at the—the situation.”

“I’ve never seen you laugh before.” She tried to stand up, but her skirts were caught under her legs and she had only one hand free; the other one was full of Bean. “Oh!” she said, felling back down. She let out a startled laugh, then bit her lip as if embarrassed.

Grinning, Pascal walked over to her and took the puppy, then offered her his hand and easily pulled her to her feet. “I suppose I haven’t had much reason to laugh recently,” he said. “Just as you haven’t had much reason to smile. Smiling suits you.” He reached out and disentangled a twig from her hair.

“It does?” Lily said, blushing fiercely. “No one has ever told me so before.”

“No? Perhaps there hasn’t been reason,” he said gently. “One needs to do it for people to comment.” He gazed down at her, and what he saw surprised him.

She looked open, vulnerable, suddenly very young, certainly pretty, her cheeks and lips rosy. Her eyes locked with his, the green soft as smoke. He had a sudden, absurd desire to brush the dirt off her cheek with his fingers, to kiss that rosy mouth back into a smile. But he quickly pushed that thought to the back of his mind, not able to believe he’d thought it at all. She spoke, surprising him again.

“Maybe you’re right,” she said, looking down at the ground. “I don’t know, really. I don’t think I’ve ever made anyone laugh before, except for Jean-Jacques—oh, and Charlie, but he seems to think nearly everything is funny.”

“Charlie has a highly developed sense of humor, yes. You and he got along well, didn’t you? Bean,
sit.”

“I’ve never known anyone like Charlie. He doesn’t seem to expect anything of a person, good or bad. He just accepts what is there.” She raised her eyes to his again. “I suppose that must be the mark of a friend.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Pascal said slowly, wondering what had brought on this sudden and remarkable transformation in his wife. She looked sad, and he wondered just how lonely Lily had been in the years of her growing-up. His heart suddenly ached for her, for from the little she’d said, and from much he’d observed for himself, he was beginning to think that the situation must have been truly dreadful.

For the first time he saw the young child she’d been, suffering at the hands of Mallet and her father, with no mother to protect her or offer comfort, only a brother caught in an equally helpless situation. Had she been brought up at Ravenswalk with all of the laughter and love that abounded there, she might have turned out to be a very different person.

Maybe beneath that prickly, self-serving surface there was a sweet young woman lurking. He was well aware of the game Lily had been playing ever since she’d decided to try to win him over to her brother’s cause. Her performance had been so transparent that it was ridiculous. But in this moment he sensed truth, although he didn’t think she was aware that she’d let her guard down. Lily reminded him of a mistreated animal, desperately in need of love but terrified of taking it for fear of being beaten down again.

“The mark of a friend,” she had said. Charlie had done a far better job than he, her husband, had. He had been indulging himself in anger rather than looking for a way to make things better for her, seeing only her obstinacy and his misery, and he was suddenly ashamed. What Lily needed was not anger and coldness—she’d had enough of that already. She needed fresh air and laughter and a sense of being cared for, like any living creature. Lily needed a friend.

But now was not the time to ponder any of that at length, for it was growing late, and if they were to reach Bergerac by nightfall they would have to hurry. He’d have time enough to think while he was driving.

He picked up the puppy. “Come, Elizabeth—we only have another three hours of daylight, and we should put them to best use.”

She nodded and turned abruptly toward the carriage.

Pascal looked after her, then glanced down at Bean, who had begun to wriggle. “So,” he said softly, scratching the puppy’s ears, “there is a chink in your mistress’s armor after all, little Bean. I wonder … I just wonder. Maybe what the girl needs more than anything is a chance to heal, and maybe what I ought to do is give it to her. What do you think?”

The pup vigorously washed his neck in reply. Pascal started after his wife, mulling over the possibilities.

Lily glanced once more at Pascal. Something was different tonight and it puzzled her. Her gaze traveled over his dark head, down to those long, square fingers, which at the moment were employed in cutting a piece of meat. She frowned. What had changed? He seemed more approachable to her, less forbidding, but he hadn’t said or done anything in particular that should make her think so.

A picture of the forest that afternoon flashed into her mind, and Lily flushed as she remembered the sight of Pascal on his knees in helpless mirth. It had completely transformed his face, drawing laugh lines about his eyes and little grooves around his mouth. She realized that he must have laughed often to have put them there. He had pulled her to her feet and looked down at her almost—almost tenderly, then taken a twig from her hair. His touch had been as gentle as his voice, and it had made her feel most peculiar, almost like crying. No one had ever touched her like that before. It was the last thing she had expected, and from the wretch, of all people.

Lily tore her gaze away from him, terribly confused. She hated him—she
detested
him.

His eyes unexpectedly lifted and met hers full on, and Lily’s stomach turned over with that strange, unnerving sensation she had first experienced at the monastery and had been trying to avoid, as she had him, ever since.

“Elizabeth? You’re not eating. Doesn’t the meal agree with you?”

“I—it was very nice. I’ve had my fill. But perhaps you would … you would care for more mutton, Mr. LaMartine?” Lily gestured feebly toward the platter on the table. “There are still a few appetizing pieces.”

“Thank you, but I’ve also eaten my fill. And please, call me by my given name. I’d find it much more comfortable. After all, we are married. There’s no need to stand on formality.”

“As you wish,” Lily said tentatively, remembering that she was meant to be acquiescent.

“Thank you. It’s a relief to have you give in to the matter without a fight.”

“I have no desire to fight. Why should I?”

Pascal cocked an eyebrow. “Do you really wish me to answer that?”

“I … no.” Lily forced herself to meet his eyes, and wished she hadn’t, for that
look
was in them. “I mean, no thank you. It’s not necessary.”

“I thought not. I don’t suppose this means you’re willing to bury the hatchet?”

“The hatchet?” she said in confusion, nervously chewing on her bottom lip.

Pascal leaned his chin on his hand, watching her steadily. “Yes. The hatchet. The one that you first swung at me at St. Christophe. The one that you were probably planning to bury in my back while I was sleeping. But I must confess, ever since we left Ravenswalk I’ve felt more confident about surviving the night.”

“I don’t understand,” she stammered.

“‘To bury the hatchet’ is just an expression,” he said. “It’s derived from the habits of North American Indians and means ‘to make peace.’ I’ve had the feeling that you’ve been trying to make peace and wondered to what I might attribute this change of attitude.”

Lily froze for a moment. “My change of attitude?” she repeated, wondering if he had realized what she was up to.

“Yes,” he said, putting his knife and fork together on his plate. He tossed his napkin onto the table and pushed back his chair with a slight scrape on the bare floor.

They were not staying at a stylish inn, and although it was clean enough, it was short on luxury, including rugs. He’d sold the carriage and horses they’d been given by her father, buying something more simple and using the rest of the money to pay their way to Saint-Simon.

“I don’t suppose it has something to do with my taking you to your brother?” he asked as he warmed himself by the fire that burned in the small grate.

She wound her fingers together in her lap and stared down at them, thinking how best to deflect his question. “You have shown every kindness by agreeing to help my brother,” she said after a long pause. “The least I can do is try to be pleasant. As you said, you don’t wish my brother to see that we’re at odds, so we should try to be civil to each other. I have no wish to distress Jean-Jacques. He has enough troubles.”

Pascal nodded and examined the toe of his boot. “That’s fair enough, and it’s an eminently sensible attitude.”

“I thought it through and realized that I have reason to be…” The word stuck in Lily’s throat. “To be grateful to you.” She was damned if she was going to mention her right to her own money.

“I see.” He propped his shoulder against the mantelpiece, looking down at her. “I shouldn’t be too grateful, Elizabeth. You might find yourself choking on the sentiment.”

She looked at him hard, but instead of his usual cold and unreadable expression, Lily saw amusement. “Do you make fun of me?” she asked hotly.

“Yes, I do, and it’s no good working yourself up over the matter. You must learn to laugh. There’s more than enough unhappiness and pain in the world, and I see no need to compound it, do you? Scowling seems a terrible waste of time.”

Lily forgot all of her resolutions to be sweet and humble. “You’re no one to talk—you do nothing but scowl, and almost all of the time.”

“Do I?” he said, not the least troubled. “I assure you, it’s not my usual habit. You don’t suppose it’s the natural arrangement God gave my features, do you? That would be distressing. Have you a mirror by any chance?”

Lily stared at him, thrown off balance.

“What’s wrong? Are you afraid it might shatter? I can’t be that unfortunate in my face, can I?”

“I don’t—I don’t think that is your problem,” she managed to say. “And furthermore I think you know it.”

One corner of Pascal’s mouth lifted. “Oh? Are you now accusing me of extraordinarily
good
looks? I find you a very contradictory person, Elizabeth. I can’t work out whether I strike you with horror or with awe. Up until now I could have sworn it was horror.”

“You strike me with neither,” she said tartly, “and I think you are very conceited. Did Dom Benetard never tell you that vanity is a sin?”

“I don’t remember his mentioning it, no. I think he was more concerned with other aspects of my character.”

“Such as?” Lily asked smugly.

“Well … let me think. I’m only a simple gardener, so it’s hard for me to retain things. Yes, that’s it. I believe he said that he thought me prone to forgetfulness.”

Lily’s eyes sparkled with reluctant amusement. “Really. What else did he tell you? If you can possibly bring yourself to recall, that is.”

Pascal cocked his head back and regarded the ceiling. “He told me that I was better suited to growing vegetables than to cooking them, for when I did a shift in the kitchen the infirmary ended up full. I believe it was the cabbage that did it. But I don’t suppose you could consider that a character flaw, could you? It’s more a case of incompetence. Let me see. Character flaws. Gracious me. Do you know, I cannot think of a one.”

“Vanity,” Lily said helpfully. “And arrogance.”

“Well, really, they are one and the same,” Pascal said. “Surely you can do better than that?”

“Avarice?” Lily supplied.

“Come, Elizabeth. I think that’s unfair, given everything.” Pascal gave her a wounded look.

“Oh, very well. You do seem to thrive on pauperism.” She ran through Father Mallet’s standard list. “I have it—false humility.”

“Hmm. Perhaps. That’s a tricky one, isn’t it? I’ll have to think it over, for I can never tell if I’m being humble or merely stupid.”

That earned a choked laugh from Lily. Father Mallet would have gone very red in the face if he’d heard that particular remark. “Sacrilege,” she said with a grin.