No Sweeter Heaven: The Pascal Trilogy - Book 2 (21 page)

“Hold him steady—he’ll be all right now,” he said shortly. “And send someone to the village for the boy’s parents. Quickly!”

He ran back to Alain, who writhed in agony between the two sets of wheels.

“Help me!” Alain cried, clutching at Pascal’s shirt with one hand. “Help me, please! Don’t let me die!”

“It will be all right, Alain,” Pascal said in a calm, steadying voice, much like the one he had used on the horse. “I will help you, I promise, but first I have to move you to a place where I
can
help you. I’ll try not to hurt you.”

He took Alain under the arms and slowly, carefully pulled him out from under the wagon, then dropped to his knees and gently pried the boy’s hands apart, speaking softly to him at the same time. “Let go, Alain. I can’t help you unless I can see. Let go. Don’t worry, I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Alain squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, but he did as he was told, and as Pascal gently examined him, Alain’s eyes opened wide. He looked over his head at the silent crowd that had gathered a slight distance away, his eyes darting about as if he might find solace there. But Lily noticed that no one met that pleading gaze. Instead, they looked away as if they were embarrassed—and then their eyes returned to Alain’s gaping abdomen in morbid fascination.

Lily moved closer, wondering what Pascal could possibly do. Perhaps he just intended to offer solace while the boy died. She couldn’t see how Alain could live, not with such a terrible wound. She swallowed hard.

Pascal looked up, and his eyes immediately found her.

“Lily,” he said in the same voice he used to Bean when he expected absolute obedience. “Run to the house as if your life depended on it. Open the chest in the comer next to the bam door—the key is in the front pocket of my satchel next to it—and bring me die leather bag inside. I’ll need blankets, too. Hurry!”

She ran, faster than she had ever run in her life. She paused just for a moment outside the house, realizing something astonishing.
Lily,
he’d called her, the name only a few people had ever used—and those the people who were fond of her. But there was no time to wonder about it now.

The key was where he had said, and with trembling fingers she fitted it into the lock and threw the lid of the chest open. She grabbed the square-shaped bag, pulled two blankets from the walnut armoire, and tore back out the door, ignoring Bean’s frantic barks from the barn.

Alain lay in the same spread-out position, his face white, his lips blue, his body shivering violently. Pascal bent over him, doing something she couldn’t see as a round man with a red face held Alain’s shoulders down. From one side of the crowd she heard the sound of a woman softly weeping and a deeper voice trying to comfort her.

As she came closer she saw that Pascal had a bucket of water and a cup, and he was washing the coils of intestine with the water, then methodically replacing each coil back into the open cavity.

“Here is your bag, Pascal.” She placed it down very carefully. She’d never seen anything like this in her life—and for some reason, instead of being shocked she was fascinated.

Pascal glanced up at her as if to assess her condition. “Good girl,” he said. “You’re doing beautifully. Put one of the blankets over Alain’s chest and one over his legs, then open the bag. Inside you’ll find a blue bottle. Pour the contents into the bucket of water.”

She did as she was told, and he continued to wash the loops of bowel and tuck them away. She couldn’t believe she was standing over Pascal’s shoulder, watching him calmly replace someone’s insides as if it were a normal thing to do. There was a radiance coming from his hands, a shimmer like the road on a hot day, but it had a pink tinge to it.

“Lily,” he said, when nearly all the loops of intestine woe back in place, “in my bag there is a small wooden box. Take out the needle and a piece of the thread. Thread the needle. It’s an odd shape, but you should be able to manage.”

She did manage, although it was no easy task—her fingers were shaking badly with nerves. She’d never been required to do anything so important before.

“Good,” Pascal said when she held the threaded needle out to him. “Now, listen carefully. Take out the pads of linen, but don’t put them on the ground. They need to stay as clean as possible. I’m going to sew Alain up, and I want you to blot any blood away so that I can see what I’m doing. If you don’t think you can do it, tell me now, and I’ll ask someone else. Can you manage?”

His eyes met hers, and somehow, from somewhere deep inside, Lily knew that he was asking something of her that was far more important than a strong stomach or mere courage. There was something in his eyes that insisted, but at the same time they offered her strength and confidence. She nodded.

“All right. Let’s begin.”

Pascal grasped the right side of the abdominal wall with his thumb and forefinger as his other hand forced the curved needle through the skin, careful not to nick the intestine. He then brought the needle up toward the left edge of the tear, pushing at the underside of the skin until the needle came through. He pulled the thread taut, forcing the edges of the skin together, tied a knot, and repeated the procedure.

The next half hour passed in a blur. Lily became so focused on what Pascal was doing that she almost forgot she was looking into someone’s innards. Twice Pascal asked her to thread another needle and she did, then went back to blotting away the blood.

Alain didn’t seem alert, nor did he react much, save to jerk once and elicit an oath from Pascal. She couldn’t think of anything else to do, so she began to talk to the boy.

“It’s really a lucky thing that my husband was here to help you—he’s a most resourceful man,” she said. “Just wait and see when the harvest comes in and you’re dancing with everyone else. You can dance, can’t you?”

His eyelids lowered.

“Good, because you’re going to have to dance with me. I have to warn you, I’m a terrible dancer, but you’ll have to dance with me nonetheless, since you will owe me a very great favor for not swooning directly on top of you while my husband practices his sewing.”

Pascal’s eyes flicked up at that.

“I’ll have to find him something more suitable, I think,” she continued. “It simply will not do, going about embroidering his laborers.” Lily knew she was babbling, but she didn’t care, not if it was helping Alain.

“Lily,” Pascal said with a catch of laughter in his voice, “you can stop chattering now. I don’t know whether it was shock, my stitching, or the idea of dancing with you, but Alain has mercifully fainted. I need some more thread.”

Lily took the needle, threaded it yet again, and handed it back to Pascal. “Will he recover?” she asked anxiously.

“I hope so,” he said in English, beginning the next set of sutures. “The immediate danger is past. Alain was damned lucky that the intestine itself wasn’t ripped open or he wouldn’t have stood a chance—not that it’s fun to be eviscerated in any manner, but at least the bowel stayed intact.” He inclined his head toward the bucket. “The biggest thing is to pray that infection doesn’t set in, but the solution you put in the water should help with that.”

He bent his head back to his task, and not much later he was finished. Alain’s firm young belly had a long, slightly zigzagged line of stitching across it. The flesh around the stitching was puffy and angry-looking, but at least it resembled an abdomen again.

Pascal gently rubbed some ointment into Alain’s flesh, then covered the wound with a linen bandage and wrapped some strips of linen around the boy’s hips and waist to hold the pad in place. Alain began to stir, and Pascal smiled down at him. “Welcome back, my friend. It’s all finished now.”

Alain opened his eyes hazily and looked around as if surprised to find himself there. “Oh. Monsieur … I am still alive?”

“Indeed you are.”

A spontaneous cheer went up from the workers, and the woman who had been crying throughout came forward and dropped to her knees, first kissing Pascal’s hand, and then Alain’s face, her tears liberally sprinkling both.

“Maman—” Alain said faintly. He looked down at himself as if not quite sure what he would discover, and saw only the large white bandage. “Ah…” he said on a shallow breath of acute relief. “Thank God!”

“And Monsieur LaMartine, Alain. He is a savior! How will we ever repay you, good monsieur? You delivered our only son from certain death!”

“I assure you, madame, I did nothing that any person with some water and a needle on hand could not have done. You might thank my wife for having produced that needle so quickly, or we would have been in a fix.”

Alain’s mother bestowed a beaming, if tearful, smile on Lily. “Forgive me, madame. Your speed and your courage in assisting the good monsieur are most appreciated, and permit me to say that you are very, very fortunate in your husband.”

Lily bowed her head, confused but humbled by what she had just witnessed. She felt horribly guilty about the wicked thoughts she’d had about Pascal’s mysterious locked chest, when it contained only books and the materials necessary to save a life.

Alain’s father pounded Pascal on the back and vigorously shook his hand, then took his beret off and bowed to Lily. “Our eternal thanks, monsieur, madame. I don’t know how we can ever repay you. I saw with my own eyes how it was and what you did. It is a miracle!”

“No miracle, monsieur, only common sense and a little training. As for repaying me, work as hard as you can in the fields and let us see a harvest in together.” He dug in his bag. “Apply this salve to the wound three times a day, and keep the dressing clean. I’ll be by daily to check on Alain. In ten days’ time the stitches can come out, but Alain is not to do anything but rest between now and then.”

“As you say, monsieur.”

Lily thought that Alain’s mother was going to kiss Pascal’s feet any moment, and Pascal looked quite accustomed to such idolatry.

“Feed him only clear fluids for the first three days,” he said. “White willow bark tea will help with the pain and keep the fever at bay. Have you any? No? Then I’ll bring some over to you later this evening. For now, let’s see to a litter on which to carry your son home.” He looked down at Alain. “You’re a brave boy to have withstood that. I’m sorry for any pain I caused you.”

“I thank you, monsieur,” Alain murmured. “I owe you my life.”

“Get well and you’ll owe me nothing. But should you fail me, I’ll be mightily put out. Put all your mind and your energy to healing.”

“I will, good monsieur. I swear it.”

“It is all I ask.” He chuckled. “Besides, you wouldn’t want to miss out on all those exciting experiences life has yet to offer, would you?”

Pierre Marchand, who had been kneeling by Alain’s head, gave a bark of laughter, and Alain managed a faint smile. “Indeed, no, monsieur.”

“Good. Sleep now.” He smoothed Alain’s forehead with his fingers, then rose to his feet and turned to Lily about to say something. He stopped abruptly. “What is it? Are you all right, duchess? Here, sit down. Put your head between your knees—you look very pale. I asked too much of you. I shouldn’t have expected you to—”

“I’m fine,” she said quickly. Lily’s head was spinning, but in shock rather than illness.

She had an absurd desire to burst into wild laughter. The truth—the real truth of the matter—had finally penetrated her brain. It was the word “miracle” that had set the thought off, not unlike it had the village priest.

There is a monk at St. Christophe with the ability to work wonders with living things,
Father Chabot had said.
A maker of miracles, they call him.

The only thing Father Chabot had gotten wrong was the part about the monk. Lily had, if she was not badly mistaken, literally fallen at the feet of the man she’d gone to find. Now, by a bizarre twist of fete, she was married to him.

She really didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry.

“All
right. Suppose you tell me what’s going on in that convoluted brain of yours.” Pascal paused in the middle of peeling a potato, aware that Lily had been staring at his hands as if they were something she’d never seen before. It was not that he was unaccustomed to people gaping at him, but the last thing he wanted was for Lily to think him a freak on top of everything else.

“I was thinking how extraordinary it was that your hands were inside someone’s body a few hours ago,” Lily said. “Now they’re doing something as mundane as peeling a potato.” She laid out a bunch of carrots and started to chop them.

“Well, that’s honest,” Pascal said carefully. “Does the thought disgust you?”

“No—just the opposite, although I admit that if you had asked me the same question this morning, I’m sure I would have said yes. Now … well, I suppose I’m curious. How did you know what to do?” The words came tumbling out all in a rush, as if she’d been waiting all afternoon to ask.

Pascal breathed a sigh of relief. Healthy curiosity was a far sight better than awestruck worship, or whispers of mystical powers. For the first time, he was almost glad Lily didn’t believe in God, since he was thoroughly sick of being regarded as some sort of saint. In truth, certain aspects of life with Lily were refreshing, since she rarely treated him as anything other than a complete cad.

“Pascal? Shouldn’t I ask?”

“What? Oh. No, of course you can ask. It’s quite simple. I was taught.” He picked up the potato and went back to peeling it with quick, deft strokes, feeling self-conscious. He wasn’t about to tell Lily the full truth, but then, he hadn’t done anything today that was truly unusual, only dramatic, so he felt fairly safe.

“Where were you taught?” Lily asked, her own chore of cutting up carrots forgotten. Instead, she propped her chin on her fist, her smoky eyes glittering with fascination.

“Here and there. It all started with Georgia, who is a skilled healer herself. I learned a tremendous amount from her over the years—she started me on gardening, too. Then in university I took some medical courses, and since then I’ve picked up what I could.”

“Oh,” Lily said. “What was in the blue bottle?”

“An infusion of St. John’s wort,” he said, surprised that she’d even asked.

“And the balm?”

“Lanolin and marigold mixed with comfrey. That will help the incision to heal.”

“And the needle?”

“It was given to me in China. The curve is specially designed for suturing skin.”

Lily nodded. “Yes. I saw that.”

Pascal glanced up at her, then cut the potatoes into chunks and tossed them into the cast-iron pot. “You surprised me today. You kept your head, you didn’t faint or even flinch. You were a great help.”

Lily’s flush extended from her cheeks all the way down her neck. “I was happy to help. You surprised me too. Not one person I know could have done what you did.”

“No, probably not, because it wouldn’t have crossed their minds to try.”

“Well, it certainly wouldn’t have crossed mine, but should it ever come to it again, I’ll know what to do—well, a little bit, anyway. I wish I knew more.”

He gave her a long look. “You really are interested, aren’t you?”

She nodded shyly. “I don’t know that I’d be any good—I’ve never been much good at anything, except making people cross. But today when I saw that poor boy dragged under that wheel and—and split open like that, I thought he was finished. I felt so helpless.”

“Yes, I can imagine,” he said more comfortably.

“I thought you were only being kind by pulling him out from under the wagon the way you did. It never occurred to me that you could fix him.” She frowned. “Pascal…”

“Hmm?”

“Why would no one meet Alain’s eyes? Why did they all shy away like that, as if he were a stranger, when they must have known him perfectly well?”

“Accidents like this bring people too close to their own mortality. They need to distance themselves for fear of being overwhelmed,” he said, glancing up at her, interested that she’d noticed.

“Then why didn’t they go away altogether instead of standing around and staring like a herd of silly cows?” Lily hacked at the poor carrots as if she meant them grievous harm.

Pascal smiled, watching her. Lily’s finely etched eyebrows were pulled together in righteous indignation, her mouth in full pout. The beauty of it was that her indignation was over someone other than herself.

“You’re right, you know,” he said as he prepared the fire. “Most people can no more keep themselves from standing about staring at those more unfortunate than themselves than they can keep themselves from breathing. It can be a nuisance when one is trying to get something done. I had to ask three separate people to bring a bucket of water before anyone actually went for it.”

“Oh, yes. The water. What was it for?”

“To clean the intestines, for one,” he said, looking up over his shoulder. “They also need to be kept moist while they’re exposed to air. Thirsty things, intestines.”

“Yes, I noticed. They went all dry and tacky almost immediately. What were you looking for when you first examined Alain?”

“I was looking to see if any of his bowel had been pierced. I also wanted to be sure that there weren’t other internal injuries.”

“Such as what?” Lily asked.

Pascal stood and chucked her chin. “You are a bloodthirsty thing, aren’t you?”

“No,” she said indignantly, pulling away and fumbling with the strings of her apron. “I only want to learn. I don’t see anything wrong with that.”

“There’s not a thing wrong with it. In fact, I’m delighted that you want to learn. I’d be happy to teach you what I can.”

“You would?” she said, her eyes lighting up. “Truly? You don’t mind?”

“Truly, and no, of course I don’t mind. I could use the help. I have a feeling that after this I’m going to be even busier.” He smiled at her. “There’s a great deal to study, but I’ll give you books to read if you like, and you can be helpful by learning to identify herbs and how to cull and blend them correctly. I always need to restock.”

Lily bit her lip. “Why do you keep your chest locked?”

“There are all sorts of things in it that could be dangerous if not used correctly. Why?”

She hesitated for a moment, then gave him a lopsided smile. “I thought there was a body in it. Or at least some very terrible secret you were hiding.”

Pascal stared at her for a moment, then howled with laughter, collapsing onto a chair. “Oh, God, duchess, where do you come up with these things?”

Lily’s smile widened. “I’m not entirely sure myself. I think it comes from knowing what a fiend you are. It only follows that you would have something fiendish in your trunk.”

“Are you now convinced that I haven’t and I’m not?” he asked, straightening and regarding her intently.

“Well,” Lily said slowly, “we shall have to see. Perhaps if you stay on your best behavior and don’t do anything fiendish for a week or two, I might consider the notion.”

“Consider
the—” He rose and lunged for her.

Lily squealed and vanished out the door in the direction of the garden.

Pascal dropped back into the chair and watched her go. Lily was one of a kind. But the smile slowly faded from his face. Was he ever going to rid her of the idea that he was a fiend, and what would happen if he did? What would happen when she discovered the truth about him? That might almost be worse. He knew it was inevitable—eventually something was bound to happen. It always did. Could he bear Lily’s looking at him as if he were a saint? He doubted it. But how else would she treat him—what other choice would she have? She’d never understand how it really was. How could she?

The entire situation plagued him and he didn’t have the first idea what to do about it.

He rubbed his stiff neck, then finished preparing supper.

Lily lowered the shirt she was mending and surreptitiously stole a glance at Pascal. He was doing the accounts at the table as he always did after supper, his head bent in concentration. He didn’t seem to be aware that she was even in the room. Just as well.

Her head had been swimming with all sorts of speculation ever since her realization of who the wretch truly was. A botanist. She had brought her brother a botanist after all … and a physician of sorts, too.

It all made sense now—well, not all of it. She still didn’t know what he’d been doing in the monastery, and she certainly didn’t believe any of the nonsense about miracles. He was an educated man, a scientist, highly skilled.

Lily sighed with pleasure. The wretch was going to teach her about medicine. It almost made up for what he’d done to her—almost, but not quite. She couldn’t change the circumstances of their first meeting, nor ignore all the dreadful things he’d done to her since then.

But to be given the chance to learn how to do what he had done this afternoon—that was worth a lessening of hostilities without its being a betrayal of her vow.

It wasn’t going to be easy, of course, working in close quarters with him, as she would no doubt have to do. His physical presence never failed to make her feel flushed and agitated—and empty somehow, as if his touch was the only thing that would complete her.

How could she feel this way toward a man who had treated her so abominably? How could she feel this way about a man who resented her brother and his station so much that he had deliberately withheld funds Jean-Jacques so desperately needed? How could she feel desire for a man who resented her own station so much that he forced her to live like a peasant, to work her fingers to the bone and sleep on the floor like an animal?

She’d become no better than a beast, the most appallingly carnal thoughts constantly running through her mind, thoughts that no lady of breeding would ever have. It showed how low she had sunk—she was even beginning to think like a peasant. And it was all his fault.

Even now, she couldn’t help but want him. He was so … so beautiful. So strong and well made, all superbly shaped muscle and bone and height and breadth. Her hands smoothed over the material of the shirt in her lap, as if by touching it she was touching a small part of him.

Even Jean-Jacques, whom Lily thought perfect in every way, could not compare in physical splendor to the wretch. It wasn’t fair that he should be so magnificent.

He looked up, his gaze locking with hers. Lily blushed fiercely, but she couldn’t seem to tear her eyes away. Her breath involuntarily quickened at the expression on his face, naked, filled with need.

“Lily,” he said. It came out a strangled whisper.

“What?” She ducked her head, fiddling with the shirt, trying to compose herself.

“You were giving me the strangest look. What were you thinking?” Pascal wore a pained expression, which she didn’t understand at all.

“I was—I was thinking about Jean-Jacques,” she said.

His face changed instantly, becoming cool and shuttered. “What about Jean-Jacques?”

“Just that I—I’m glad he’s coming home.”
Maybe seeing him will remind me of what’s important,
she thought desperately.

“I’m sure you are delighted.” He put his pen down. “Was that really all you were thinking?”

“I wish you wouldn’t interrogate me,” Lily said, terrified that he was going to get the truth out of her. She jumped up, the shirt spilling from her lap onto the floor. “I have the right to a little privacy, haven’t I?”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “It was just that I—never mind. Never mind, it isn’t important.” He picked up his pen again, then threw it down and rose. “I’m going to check on Alain. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He collected his bag and left before she had a chance to speak. It was obvious that he was upset, and it was her fault.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered miserably, going to the door and pressing her hands against it as if she could shut him out. “I’m so sorry. But I can’t tell you the truth. Oh, God, why do I feel this way?”

She leaned her forehead on her hands and burst into tears.

Pascal saddled his horse, a dry, hot anger burning through him. He was not angry with Lily so much as with himself. He had no right to ask her what she was thinking. Her thoughts were her own affair. But like the idiot he was, he’d intruded upon them, only to discover she’d been thinking about her damned brother.

When she hadn’t looked away, but met his gaze squarely, her eyes wider and smokier than usual, her mouth slightly parted, he’d thought that she was feeling the same thing he was: pure, unadulterated desire. To discover it was Jean-Jacques she’d been thinking about—Pascal kicked the horse into a canter.

He probably deserved everything he was getting.

He opened the door to Alain’s bedroom, his mind still half on Lily, but stopped short when he saw there was a priest in the room, sitting by the side of the bed with one of Alain’s hands clasped between his own, saying prayers over the sleeping boy. The priest looked up when he heard the door open.

“Excuse me, Father,” Pascal said. “I didn’t mean to interrupt you. I’ve come to see to Alain, but it can wait.”

The priest’s mouth dropped open, his face draining of color. “Holy Mother of God,” he whispered, making the sign of the cross.

Oh, please, not this again,
Pascal thought wearily. “Shall I leave you?” he asked politely.

“No. No, my son. You … you are Pascal LaMartine?” the priest asked, making a visible attempt to recover himself.

“Yes, Father, I am.” He put his bag down by the side of the bed. “And you are?”

“Michel Chabot. I am the Catholic priest for the village. This has been my parish for many years.” He stood and made room for Pascal at the bedside.

“Has it? Then you must know quite a lot about the history of Saint-Simon,” Pascal said, as he picked up Alain’s wrist and felt for his pulse.

“Sometimes too much,” the priest said cryptically. “Still, I go where I am needed.” He continued to stare warily at Pascal.

“You need not worry, Father. I won’t harm the boy.”

“I realize that. Alain’s parents told me about what you did today for their son. I am most grateful for your skill. The villagers are in a stir, naturally.”