No Sweeter Heaven: The Pascal Trilogy - Book 2 (26 page)

He was beginning to wonder if Lily didn’t have something of the true healer in her, if perhaps that explained her quick grasp of medical knowledge, her lack of shock and revulsion at the more gruesome aspects of treatment. Perhaps it explained her ability to see auras…

“Lily,’! he asked, wiping the neck of the bottle and corking it, “how long have you been seeing these colors? Has it been always, or just recently?”

“I really don’t know. I was rarely in the hands of a doctor. But there was the time when I was ten and had the fever and a sore throat.” Frowning, she wrapped her arms around her middle as if to protect herself. “It was the only time I ever did see a doctor. His hands were dirty, and there was a nasty brown light coming from them that had nothing to do with dirt. I remember now—it was murky, like mud, and I didn’t want him to touch me.”

She looked at Pascal sheepishly. “I threw a terrible tantrum, and he was forced to go away and take his lances and leeches with him. I was better almost instantly.”

“I am glad you had the good sense to pitch a tantrum.” So it was a natural thing, deeply ingrained in her. He ought to have known, considering what had happened in the meadow.
Lily, my love,
he thought with a longing so intense it physically hurt,
when are you going to let me back in?

“I don’t know,” she said, her arms tightening around her waist. “It might have been more sensible to let him bleed me. Father Mallet took the cane to me in the worst way, for being ungrateful to those who knew better. I couldn’t sit down for days.”

Pascal’s hand froze on the cloth he was using to wipe the bottles. “Did Father Mallet take the cane to you often?”

“Oh, yes. I think it was his favorite pastime—other than praying. Whenever I’d done something wrong his eyes would light up, and the next thing I knew, I was in the chapel, bent over the altar rail, my skirts over my head ‘to blind my eyes and muffle my mouth so as not to offend God,’ he said. He never bothered to mention that a cane on one’s naked backside stung twenty times harder than it did when delivered through the layer of a petticoat, as my father did it. I don’t think Father Mallet liked me very much. Why do you look so appalled? Jean-Jacques got much worse … surely you were caned?” she asked uncertainly.

“No. I wasn’t,” Pascal said, struggling against his rage. Had Father Mallet been in the room, Pascal would not have been accountable for his actions. “Go on,” he said tightly.

“There’s not much more to tell you. Father Mallet would always be much nicer to me afterward. He would give me a sweet, as if that helped, and pat me as if I were a dog, telling me that God would forgive me if I was a good girl. Well, he and I both knew that I was never going to be a good girl, but I’d pretend, because I knew that if I didn’t pretend, I’d just get caned again. I’d learned that lesson. So I pretended humility. Then he’d smile—you know that horrible little smile of his?”

Pascal nodded stiffly as a bone-deep chill cut through him. He stared at the floor, not trusting himself to look at Lily, to let her see the outrage that gripped him. No wonder she had repudiated God if this was how one of His priests had treated her. “Is that all?” he asked harshly.

“No,” Lily said. “Then came the worst part, although at least this time I had my dress to cover me. I had to turn back to the altar and bend over again in supplication to God for having sinned, and Father Mallet would say absolution over me and rub this dreadful hard thing over my sore backside while he said it.”

Pascal’s head snapped up. “He did
what
?”

Lily shivered as if she, too, were cold, and shrugged a shoulder, her posture one of misery and defeat. “He rubbed something hard over me. I think it was a crucifix, but I’m not sure. And then he’d put his hand on me where he’d hurt me and say a
Sanctus.
He always managed to shame me, no matter how hard I tried to pretend that it didn’t matter.”

“How long did this go on?” Pascal asked, his hands clenched so tightly on the bottle that the skin of his knuckles showed white against the bone.

“My father made him stop the canings when I turned fourteen. I think it really infuriated Father Mallet to have only bread and water and penances to punish me with. Coffey tried to keep me out of his way, but she didn’t always succeed.”

Lily looked down at the tears falling onto her hands, then touched her face and furiously wiped them away. “I don’t know why I told you that,” she said tightly. “You must think me ridiculous. I can see that you’re angry.”

Pascal didn’t answer as he carefully put down the bottle, afraid he might break it. In three strides he crossed the room and dropped to his knees, pulling her against him, holding her close, saying nothing. He smoothed his hand over her hair as if she were a child, cradling her head on his shoulder, listening to the sobs she tried so hard to contain, feeling her tears sink into him, all the way to his soul.

Angry? Oh, yes, he was angry. But how could he tell her why? She was so damned innocent, and he could only be grateful for that innocence. It had saved her from realizing what Mallet had done to her. A crucifix? Not bloody likely, but Lily didn’t need to know that. It was bad enough as it was.

He waited until there was nothing left in her body but shudders, then stroked her hair off her face. “Better?” he asked.

Lily lifted her head. His clear dark eyes looked into hers with sympathy, his expression so tender it made her want to burst into tears again. “I do feel better,” she said, and it was true—there was a strange new peace in her mind, as if an open wound had closed up and the pain was finally gone. She sighed. “I still feel like an idiot for having told you.”

“Don’t,” Pascal whispered as he cupped her face in his hands. “What Father Mallet did to you is unforgivable, the act of a sick man. It had nothing to do with God, Lily. You must realize that by now. If it’s any comfort, I’ve never heard such a load of fanatic, deranged nonsense come from the mouth of a priest. Can you imagine Father Chabot spouting off like that?”

Lily rubbed her sleeve across her eyes and managed a trembling smile. She’d become fond of Father Chabot, who often dropped by in the evenings to ask about the villagers Pascal was treating, or simply to chat over dinner. He
never
droned on about theology.

“No,” she admitted, taking the handkerchief Pascal offered her. “But then he’s not really like a priest, more like a round little Friar T\ick, with the same sense of humor. He’s awfully worldly, isn’t he?”

“Yes, which is how it should be. How else could he attend to his worldly flock?”

“I like him,” she said simply.

“He likes you too, very much. So do the villagers. Did you know that?”

Lily gave him a look of patent disbelief. “Are you trying to make me feel better?” she asked, disengaging herself from him.

“No, it’s true, I swear it. Father Chabot wouldn’t come around so often if he found you unpleasant company, would he? You make him laugh. And the villagers have nothing but nice things to say about you.” Pascal rose to his feet, but remained in front of her, looking down at her as if he were willing her to listen to what he said, to really hear him and believe him. “They say you are down to earth and pleasant, and they marvel at how you calm the children when they’re frightened about being treated. ‘Where did Queen Elizabeth go?’ they ask me. I shrug and tell them that as far as I know, Queen Elizabeth died some years ago. I live with a simple woman who knows how to look after her house and her husband and is kind to those around her.”

Lily colored hotly, with a combination of pleasure and embarrassment. Pascal was not lavish with praise, but when he gave it, she knew he meant it.

He leaned over to squeeze her hands, then went back to filling and corking the bottles.

Lily picked up her book again, but the pages went unread. With every day it became harder to keep him at arm’s length. She knew she had become far too vulnerable to withstand very much more from him. Eventually her last fragile walls would crumble, and she would crumble along with them. Just look at what he’d managed to pull out of her tonight, her deepest humiliation, and he’d done it without any effort.

Pascal made her feel safe, and that was the most terrifying thing of all. To feel safe was to trust, to trust was to love and think that one was safe in that love, only to learn it was not so.

And the hell of it was that it was already too late.

Bean’s ears cocked up and she barked once, alerting Lily to the sound of carriage wheels rattling over the road leading up to the chateau. Lily glanced out the window to see a cloud of dust rising behind not just one, but at least five or six carriages.

“It’s Jean-Jacques!” she exclaimed, running to the door and swinging it open. “He’s home at last!”

“Timely,” Pascal said dryly.

“Oh, don’t start being horrible now,” Lily said, her face shining with excitement. “I must go to see him.”

She tossed aside the bundle of dirty bandages and ran out the door, ignoring Pascal’s frantic call.

The chateau was alight as Lily ran over the bridge of the dry moat and into the courtyard, her throat pounding painfully. She stopped to catch her breath, her lungs heaving for oxygen. There were carriages everywhere, and liveried footmen, and people in fine dress milling about as their baggage was attended to. Lily blinked, dazzled by such a display. She looked desperately around for her brother, and finally, with a gasp of relief, she spotted him, over near the front door, laughing heartily with a large, florid-looking man with a gold tooth and gold braiding to match on his waistcoat.

She pushed her way through the crowd, ignoring the sounds of dismay as she went. Manners were not uppermost in her mind at the moment.

“Jean-Jacques!” she called, her voice a cracked whisper. “Jean-Jacques?” She pulled at his sleeve to get his attention.

He turned with annoyance, his eyes barely skimming over her. “Go away, woman,” he said, flicking his hand as if to dismiss an irritating fly. “My God, home only a few minutes and already the scavengers are descending. Go on, away with you or I shall have the law after you.” He turned back to the florid man with a grimace of distaste. “Beggars, the lot of them.”

Lily froze. “Jean-Jacques,” she said again, her throat so tight from his scorn that she could hardly speak at all. “Jean-Jacques. It is Lily.”

His body stiffened, then he slowly turned to face her. He took her by both arms, his fingers biting into her flesh as he looked her up and down, first in recognition and then in dawning horror. “Lily? What is this? What in God’s name has become of you?” He dropped her arms as if she were infested with lice.

“What do you mean?” she asked, then looked down at herself, belatedly realizing that she still wore her dirty apron and that her hair was in its usual braid down her back. “I forgot to change. Pascal and I were lancing a boil.” She laughed. “It did make a mess, didn’t it?”

Jean-Jacques’s face paled, and he cast a quick glance over his shoulder at his friend, who watched with keen interest. Other people stared as they tittered behind their finely gloved hands.

“For God’s sake, what are you trying to do to me, Lily?” he hissed, moving her well away from earshot. “You’ll ruin my reputation. You always were trouble and taking me with you every chance you had. Go now, before you manage to destroy everything I’ve worked so hard to accomplish. Quickly, before anyone realizes who you are!”

Lily stood paralyzed by the distaste in his expression, the cold rejection in his voice. “You cannot mean that?”

“I damn well do,” he said desperately.

Lily reached out to him, but lowered her arm helplessly at her side as he jerked away from her touch. She bowed her head. “You will not acknowledge me, then?”

“I cannot,” he said in an undertone. “Look at yourself. How could I? That man must have a powerful influence over you—and I, for one, will not be a part of it. Now, please, leave before you cause me any further embarrassment. People are already talking. I would hate for them to know you for my sister.”

Lily clenched her hands at her sides and glared at him. “Damn you, Jean-Jacques,” she cried, her tears burning angry trails that scalded her cheeks. “Damn you for a betrayer,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper, her throat too choked for anything else. “Damn you for a fool, and damn you for turning away the
one
person who loved you more than anyone ever loved you. I wanted only the best for you—I wanted only happiness for you—”

But he had already turned away, dismissing her as if she were nothing more than a common whore.

Pascal found Lily standing on the small patch of lawn in front of the river, her arms crossed over her middle, her eyes fixed on the horizon, dull with pain.

He dropped his medical bag and enfolded her in his arms. “He hurt you,” Pascal said bluntly, without trying to soften it in any way.

“Yes,” she said in a ragged whisper. “I don’t think he meant to, but he found me an embarrassment in front of his friends. I—I am an embarrassment … oh, God! What has become of me?” She buried her face in his shoulder, weeping as if her dearest friend had just died. In a way, he had.

He held her close for a few moments, wishing he could take her into himself, hold her fast and safe against all the cruelties of the world. And then he took her tear-soaked face between his hands and looked her directly in the eye, hating for the first time in his life the demands that same world placed on him.

“We’ll talk about it later, sweetheart. Right now, I need you to help me. There’s a baby to deliver. Monsieur Jamard’s just been here to say that there’s trouble with his granddaughter, Emelie. There’s not much time to waste.”

Lily drew in a deep, shaky breath and stepped away from him, her expression under tight control. “Yes, of course,” she said. “Wait one minute. I need a clean apron.” She started toward the house, then turned back in sudden alarm. “A baby? I’ve never seen this done before.”

“There’s no time to worry about that. Just follow my lead as you always have, and we’ll all be fine.”

Lily nodded, pushing Jean-Jacques and his betrayal out of her mind—she would have ample time to worry about that heartbreak in the morning.

If there was one thing she’d learned from Pascal, it was that medical matters always came first.

Emelie Claubert was in trouble.

Pascal pulled the sheet back and ran his hands lightly over her abdomen, bunched into a position that was clearly abnormal. He’d met Madame Claubert many times before in the village, a pleasant woman with a ruby birthmark high over her left cheek and a cheerful attitude.

Now she lay hunched up, her hands clutching the tight, unnatural mound of her unborn child, her face pale and drawn, her body soaked with perspiration.

“Madame Claubert,” Pascal said, taking her hand in his. “It is Pascal LaMartine. May I examine you?”

She nodded tersely, no spare strength left for conversation.

He washed his hands, then inserted his fingers into the birth canal and gently pressed over the swollen mound of her womb with the other hand. Emelie cried out in agony and he quickly removed his hands, waiting as she recovered.

“How long has she been like this?” he asked her husband, who was sweating as freely as his wife.

“Hours, monsieur. Three, more perhaps.”

“But straining?” Pascal asked. “How long has she been straining like this?”

“As I said, monsieur. Three hours perhaps.”

“Ah, no!” Pascal pounded a fist against his thigh in sheer frustration. At this late stage the baby was already badly compromised and there was little time left. “Why did no one call me?”

Charles Claubert hung his head. “I did not want another man touching my wife,” he said with acute embarrassment. “I was waiting for the midwife.”

“Who obviously is unable to come, Charles.”

“I have called the priest,” Charles said in a shaky whisper, blinking back tears. “I fear this is the will of God.”

“Nonsense,” Pascal said impatiently. “Your wife has a malpresentation—this is Emelie’s third child?”

Claubert nodded soundlessly.

“Well, at the moment, Charles, your wife and unborn child are in far more need of immediate physical help than they are a priest, and if we get on with it, perhaps we’ll be lucky. It’s best if you leave now. You don’t seem in any frame of mind to cope with this, and your wife will be better off without your nerves.”

Charles left willingly enough, and Pascal turned instantly to his task the minute the door had closed.

“Emelie,” he said, stroking her sweat-soaked hair. “I can help you. Will you let me?”

Emelie made a strangled sound of assent in her throat.

“It will soon be well, and you’ll have your baby in your arms. Just bear with me and do your best to relax. I have to turn your child so that he can enter the world.” As he talked he touched her gently on both sides of her head and held his hands there. She squeezed her eyes shut, but gradually her face began to soften into something almost akin to sleep.

Pascal immediately spread his hands over her abdomen. “Lily, come feel this.” He put her hands beneath his. “Feel the hard head, the shape of the shoulders. Here, the soft bottom and the feet tucked under, yes? The child is lying sideways, so we need to turn him. It is done like this…”

He literally began to shift the baby around, working swiftly and surely, the mother unresisting, in a soporific state, her womb relaxed. “Look for the turn of the shoulder, always—make certain that the head is positioned with the back of the skull facing you. If the body resists one direction, then try the other way. Here, feel the head moving down, and the bottom going up around?”

Lily nodded, amazed.

“There,” he said, positioning the head in the pelvis and releasing her hands. “Get towels—and scissors and thread from my bag.”

She obeyed immediately. There was an urgency to him that she hadn’t ever seen before, not even when Alain had been hurt.

He turned back to the mother. “All right, Emelie,” he said, touching her forehead. “It’s time.”

Emelie opened her eyes as if from a deep sleep. She looked up at Pascal, dazed.

“Push,” he ordered. “Push for all you’re worth. Your baby must be born as quickly as you can manage.”

She obliged, her eyes locked with his, seeming to gather strength from him, pushing hard, her eyes never leaving him as his hands gripped hers.

Lily watched in awe as Pascal did his work. His concentration was absolute, and there was an intensity about him, a sense that he was literally
with
Emelie.

She imagined that he probably was.

A knock came at the door, and she opened it to find Father Chabot there, panting from the exertion of running all the way from his house.

“Hello, Elizabeth,” he said, looking into the room with a worried frown. “How is Emelie?”

“She’s exhausted,” Lily said in a low voice. “Pascal is practically willing the baby out.”

Pascal glanced over his shoulder as Emelie rested briefly between contractions. “Ah, Michel. Thank God you’re here. Go down and give Charles a strong glass of something medicinal, will you? He’s probably falling to pieces.”

“He is,” said Father Chabot, “and everyone else with him. What should I tell them?”

“Just say something religious and reassuring. You know the sort of thing. Then get back up here, quickly.”

Father Chabot met Pascal’s worried eyes, and he nodded with understanding. “I will be back directly,” he said, and quietly shut the door after him.

Lily sponged Emelie’s forehead as Pascal spoke to her, encouraging her in her efforts, willing strength into her. Father Chabot soon returned, taking his place against the wall without a word, making himself an invisible presence as he held his stole and a vial of holy water.

Lily rinsed out the cloth, telling herself that everything would be all right. It had to be. Pascal knew what he was doing. Pascal wouldn’t allow life to slip from his hands.

He ignored everything but the laboring mother. “Take courage, take heart,” he said to Emelie gently as she faltered. “Think of your child now. He’s nearly here. Push again. Breathe. In. Out. Think of the rhythm of life. Push now, Emelie. Push!”

She gripped her thighs and groaned, and suddenly Lily saw the top of the baby’s head, the dark hair filling the entrance to the birth canal. It was the most extraordinary, beautiful thing she’d ever seen.

Pascal cupped his hands beneath the baby’s head, supporting it, encouraging Emelie even as his expression became more grim.

“All right, Emelie,” he said. “One last time. You’re almost there.”

She cried out, a thready wail that spoke of lost strength and failing will. The child’s head emerged into Pascal’s hands, then one shoulder and the other. A small, still body slithered out all at once. It was a little boy.

But his flesh was a waxy blue, his limbs limp. He didn’t move, didn’t make a sound. Lily watched in heartbroken dismay as Pascal slapped him on the bottom of his feet, cleared his mouth, then breathed gently into it again and again and again. Nothing. The infant’s chest remained still, his body lifeless.

“Oh, Pascal,” she whispered. “Can’t you do something? Oh, please … there must be something?”

Pascal raised his head, and the expression on his face was one she had never seen before, stark with anguish and desperation.

“God help me,” he said, his voice breaking. “Lily, don’t go from me—please, don’t go from me.”

“I’m here,” she answered helplessly, feeling his pain in the depth of her being. Never before had she wanted—needed—to take another’s anguish onto herself as she did now, but there was nothing she could do.

Pascal tied and cut the umbilical cord, then whispered a quick prayer under his breath as he gathered the lifeless child into his arms, supporting the infant’s body with one arm, his large hand cupping the head. He placed his other hand over the tiny chest and closed his eyes.

“Come back, little one,” he whispered. “We need you here. It’s not your time.”

A radiance Lily had never seen before shimmered around Pascal, a vibrant golden aura that slowly grew in brightness, spreading outward, veiling man and child in ethereal light that became life itself, sustaining them both. He stood as still as the infant in his arms, the light reaching into all corners of the room, turning the air to brilliant gold.

Lily felt an extraordinary swell of love for Pascal as she watched him, a love that seemed as clear and pure and holy as the light that surrounded him. He looked peaceful, as if he were in a place filled with a quiet joy, just him and the ageless child in his arms, two angels standing together in a farmhouse bedroom, separated from life yet a part of it still.