No Sweeter Heaven: The Pascal Trilogy - Book 2 (5 page)

“And it is in mortal danger.” Father Mallet stalked forward to tower over her chair, and Lily did her best not to shrink back. “You will pass what remains of the night in prayer and beg forgiveness,” he announced. “Until the day you are married, you will spend every waking hour in the chapel saying penance for your sins. You will fast from dawn until dusk and take only bread and water in the evening. You will sleep in the chapel’s antechamber.” He paused only to draw breath. “You will not speak to anyone but myself or your father, should he wish it. You will purify yourself in body and spirit in the hope that you go to your husband a docile, respectful wife.”

Lily listened to this pronouncement silently, but the taste of copper filled her mouth where she had bitten the inside of her cheek and drawn blood.

“You may go now, Elizabeth,” her father said, dismissing her with a wave of his hand.

Lily stood, her legs feeling as weak as an infant’s. She managed a curtsy, knowing it would be foolish to show any sign of dissent now. What good would it do? “Good night, Papa, Father Mallet.” She turned to leave.

“Elizabeth!”

She looked at her father in surprise. “Yes, Papa?”

“You will be respectful to Mr. LaMartine!”

Lily, who had in truth forgotten all about his presence, winced internally. “I beg your pardon.”

She met the wretch’s eyes, and naturally there was nothing remotely readable in them, although they did look even darker than usual. “Good night, Mr. LaMartine,” she said dutifully, although she almost choked on the words. She dropped a final curtsy and walked quickly toward the door.

“Good night, Lady Elizabeth,” came his deep voice after her, in that maddening, nearly perfect English accent.

Lily suppressed a desire to pick up her skirts and run.

The minute Pascal left the room, quietly closing the doors after himself, the duke thumped his hands on his desk in complete glee. “Can you believe it, Harold? Can you believe it? How did such a stroke of good fortune fall into my lap?” He smoothed out Dom Benetard’s letter and beamed down at it. “A devout Catholic male from a good British family! What more could one ask?”

“Yet it says here that he is French by birth, your grace.” The priest bent down and pointed to the exact line.

“Yes, yes—but has lived in England since he was a child, Harold. I shall discover all the details tomorrow.”

“Excellent, your grace.”

“A humble man,” the duke pointed out. “He wasn’t the least interested in Elizabeth’s dowry, even though he said earlier that he has nothing of his own to bring to the marriage.”

“He is a man of God,” the priest said modestly.

“Yes. A man of God.” The duke sighed happily. “And straight from St. Christophe. God must be rewarding me for my work. Dom Benetard thinks highly of him as well. Look at this glowing testimony to his character.”

“Yes, your grace. I have read it,” Father Mallet said, disguising his annoyance. “Well. Elizabeth is to be married at last. It is indeed the grace of God at work.” He touched the tips of his long fingers together. “Perhaps Elizabeth will finally learn humility and piety.”

“Yes—one can only hope. Ah … Harold, do you not think Elizabeth’s punishment is perhaps slightly severe?”

“Severe? It is nothing next to what she deserves. If she is to go to her husband as a good wife should, she must be cleansed of sin. Prayer, fasting, and solitude—that is the only way.”

“Yes, I suppose so … ah, well. Never mind, then. We must write immediately for a special license. The sooner this marriage can be performed, the better. Just think, if Elizabeth does her duty properly, I might have a grandson within the year. I was beginning to despair that I had wasted all that time petitioning the Crown for the succession to pass through my daughter.” He peered up at Father Mallet. “Ah—be sure you instruct Elizabeth as to her marital duties.”

The priest jerked back in alarm. “Me, your grace?”

“Indeed. Who else?”

“Miss McCofferty, perhaps? Although I do not think she is a suitable influence. It is not the first time I have said as much, but after this latest incident—”

“I agree, and I intend to dismiss Miss McCofferty first thing in the morning. Elizabeth no longer needs her nurse.”

Father Mallet’s eyes lit up. He despised Miss McCofferty almost as much as he had despised the duchess, but he had not had the same success in driving the nurse away. “A wise decision, your grace. Leniency is no way to subdue a disobedient spirit.”

“So you have often said. But as you know, I kept her about so that Elizabeth would have a woman’s companionship. Well. Enough of this for now. This has been a fine night’s work, Harold. I shall sleep like a babe.”

He marched off to bed, thinking of grandsons.

The priest went just as happily to his own bed, thinking of a house with no females in it to disturb his peace.

Pascal sat quite still in his chair, trying to bear the endless interrogation with grace, but he was having trouble excusing the insufferable intrusion on his privacy.

“… I was born on the ninth of June, 1809, your grace, just outside of Paris.

“… My father was a bookkeeper, your grace. No, my mother was British. She moved to France in her youth. I beg your pardon? Oh. She came from Bath, I believe.

“… Yes, that is correct, your grace. I did receive an education, Father Mallet. I was initially tutored at home, and from there I went up to Oxford.

“… I have traveled extensively, your grace. Where? All over the East, India, China and Japan, Europe, of course … no, I have never served in the military…”

It went on like this for all of the morning and most of the afternoon. The minute Pascal was released from the duke’s study, he escaped into the sunshine to clear his aching head.

He had borne the insulting questions as best as he could, hoping he had given nothing of his feelings away. That would have been the final violation, knowing that they had seen either his humiliation or his disgust.

He had been required to give a review of his entire life, and he hadn’t enjoyed the process at all, most especially talking about the less stellar moments, such as the death of his parents, his year on the streets of Paris, and his rather grim arrival on the shores of England. But whatever the duke and his priest had been looking for, Pascal’s account must have satisfied them, for then had followed the tedious discussion of the marriage settlement, Lily’s unusual claim to succession, and the future of their possible offspring.

Pascal shook his head. In some ways it was little wonder that Elizabeth Bowes had become what she had, if this was the atmosphere in which she’d been raised. The duke excelled at arrogance. He was gifted at insensitivity. But his true genius was in the complete, utter presumption that his judgment was infallible. One would think that he and God played billiards together every Thursday by appointment, deciding the fate of the world and its inhabitants over a glass of port. His daughter had inherited his attitude just as surely as she had inherited his gray-green eyes.

Pascal rubbed a hand over his eyes, dismissing the duke, his daughter, and his priest in favor of the pleasures of the outdoors. He drew in a deep breath of fresh air. There was something distinctive about the smell of England in the springtime, when everything was coming to life. It made him think of his childhood at Raven’s Close, of happy hours spent digging and planting, of the mix of certain fragrances prevalent only at this time of year.

He quickly headed down the steps, toward what appeared to be a man-made lake with some fine gardens bordering it, stopping briefly to examine an interesting clump of evergreens on his way. “Hmm,” he murmured, then strolled on, passing the chapel, which sat off to one side of the path, its leaded-glass windows high and narrow. It was a good example of fifteenth-century architecture, although he very much doubted that Lady Elizabeth Bowes was engaged in admiring the construction of the nave.

His gaze fell on a weathered old gardener setting out some young plants in the far beds, and Pascal instantly set off in that direction, pulling off his jacket as a plan formed in his mind. Here was a perfect source of information, and he intended to take every advantage of it.

The gardener was muttering to himself under his breath as Pascal approached, and he couldn’t help smiling at what he overheard.

“Blasted papists,” the gardener grumbled, digging his trowel ferociously into the soil. “Locking a body away in a church with naught but bread and water and a bunch of rotting relatives—heathen, that’s what I’d call it.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” Pascal said, and the old man started, then glowered up at him, the lines drawn deep in his weather-beaten face.

“And who might you be?”

“Pascal LaMartine. I’m afraid I’m a blasted papist, too.”

“That comes as no surprise,” the old man said sourly. “I’m about the only one around here who isn’t, and that’s only because his grace likes his flowers and I know my gardens.”

“Yes, I can see that,” Pascal said. “I noticed the magnolias on my way down. It’s the hybrid
Magnolia soulangiana,
from the Chinese stock, isn’t it?”

“Good heavens,” the gardener said, giving Pascal a sharper look, taking in the shirt that was slightly frayed at the collar and the old trousers, and jumping immediately to the conclusion Pascal had hoped for. “How would you be knowing that, my boy?”

“I’m a gardener myself,” Pascal said. He dropped to his heels and picked up a spare trowel. “An extra pair of hands never hurts, does it?”

“And Albert Smith isn’t one to turn down an offer of help. It’s about time I had another pair of hands. Just arrived, have you?”

“Yesterday. Tell me,” Pascal asked, gently picking up one of the seedlings and examining it. “How do pelargoniums fare in this chalky soil? The Cape of Good Hope is a long way from southern England.”

“Well,” the gardener said, giving him an approving look, “it’s the first time I’ve set them out, mind you. I’ve grown them in pots before this. But it looks to be a warm May, so they’re safe enough, I reckon. Now the hollyhocks over there against the chapel wall, they’ve come along nicely.”

“Yes, they look as if they’ve naturalized well, and they must be enjoying the southern exposure. But then I’ve found
Althaea rosea
to be quite hardy. I wonder, do you alternate their wet-dry cycles?”

“I do …” The old gardener happily settled in to the conversation, and they chatted companionably for a while. Pascal took his time, gaining the gardener’s confidence and waiting for the right moment, and then he carefully brought the conversation around to the subject really on his mind.

“I suppose you must know the family well, having been here for so long.”

“Aye, that I do, and all I can say is sometimes I wish I didn’t, not with them and their—begging your pardon—their papist ways.”

“You needn’t beg my pardon in the least. A man’s entitled to his opinion, although speaking of papist ways, I think Father Mallet’s opinions might be a little on the extreme side.”

“That’s right, my lad—you have it exactly! Just look at that poor Lady Lily, dragged into the chapel at first light by that—that zealot, locking the door on her white face. I saw it with my own eyes, I did. Home one night, and she’s already in trouble. Lady Lily, I said to myself, must have really gone and done it this time if they’ve started locking her up in the chapel.”

Pascal leaned back on his knees. “Is Lady Elizabeth forever getting into trouble, then?”

“Trouble? The girl was born for trouble. Too much curiosity and spunk for her own good, that’s what it is. The trouble with Lady Lily is she hasn’t enough to do with herself, especially with her older brother gone these past few years.”

“Lady Elizabeth has a brother?” Pascal said, astonished, wondering why he wasn’t in line to succeed.

“A half-brother, anyway. Lady Lily dotes on him, not that he has much common sense either. They both take after their mother in that.”

“Oh, yes,” Pascal said casually. “I’d wondered. There doesn’t appear to be a duchess about the place.”

“Convent,” Mr. Smith said with a snort. “She took herself away when Lady Lily was all of eight.”

“Really?” Pascal said, trying to disguise his surprise. “The duchess took vows?”

“No, she’s no nun. She just lives at the convent. I told you it was a papist family, and that priest is right in the middle. Nothing happens without his say-so.”

Pascal absorbed this piece of information, which marched along very well with the conclusion he’d already reached. “It is an interesting situation, isn’t it?” He gathered the earth into a mound around the last seedling and reached for the watering can.

“He has his hands in every last thing that goes on around here,” Mr. Smith said, warming to his tale. “You watch your step, my boy, or you’ll be out the door.”

“No hope of that, I’m afraid,” Pascal said with a wry smile.

“You don’t think so? Look at what happened to poor Mary McCofferty, here for twenty-two years and out the door this morning, bags packed and crying her eyes out.”

Pascal’s head snapped around and he looked hard at the gardener. “Mary McCofferty?”

“That’s right, Lady Lily’s nurse, and a dear-hearted soul. Gone to her sister’s on the public coach, George—he’s one of the footmen—told me. Now who does Lady Lily have to comfort her? No one. It’s all something to do with that monk and the man who came with him last night. No one knows what happened, but you can depend on one thing—that priest had something to do with it.”

“Not really,” Pascal said. “He may have pushed his grace in the direction he wanted him to go, but Father Mallet didn’t actually say very much.”

“How do you know that?” Albert Smith asked eagerly. “Did you hear something about it, then?”

“Every word. Lady Elizabeth is to be married.”

“Go on!” the gardener said, and it was his turn to look astonished. “How do you know that?”

“Because she’s to be married to me.”

Albert Smith dropped his trowel.

Lily shifted on her sore, bruised knees and shivered in the dreadful damp of the chapel. She was amazed she hadn’t caught her death, although she almost wished she had, for after seven nightmarish days and nights she’d decided that she really might prefer oblivion to any more of this punishment.

She’d said every penance known to God or man, she’d said confession every single day, she hadn’t once complained of her sore back and aching legs, nor of the pain in her empty stomach. She’d said nothing of her night terrors, of the times she’d been so frightened that she’d pounded on the locked door, pleading to be let out, knowing there was no one there to hear.

She’d listened to Father Mallet drone on and on about humility and piety and obedience, her head bowed, her hands clasped together. Lily thought she’d behaved like a saint, but it had made no difference. She was still to be locked away in the chapel.

She heard the key turn in the chapel door, and she quickly bowed her head, knowing that it was Father Mallet by the rustle of his cassock and the thin voice behind her.

“Stand up, Elizabeth.”

She obeyed, nearly stumbling, for her legs had gone numb. “Good afternoon, Father.”

He looked at her pale face with satisfaction. “I can see that your penance is doing some good. Now, this afternoon I have a very important matter to discuss with you. Sit down.”

She sat.

“I have just come from your father. He wishes me to inform you that you shall be married on Sunday.”

Three more days, Lily thought with a rush of relief. Three more days, and she would be freed from this prison. An image of the wretch flashed into her mind, but she instantly dismissed it. After she had had time to regain her senses, she realized that her father was trying to frighten her. He would never, ever marry her to a person of no consequence—and certainly not to a lowly gardener. The idea was ludicrous, and she was embarrassed that she had let them see her fear.

“Are you attending me, Elizabeth?”

“Yes, Father,” she said obediently.

“Very good. Then it is—hahum. It is time to instruct you in your marital duties. Your husband will expect certain, hahum … certain things from you, which you are obliged in the eyes of God to offer him.”

Lily felt the heat creep into her cheeks as she realized what he was about to say. “I am sure that Coffey will tell me everything when the time comes. But thank you for your concern,” she added for good measure.

Father Mallet looked down his long beaked nose at her. “Miss McCofferty is no longer at Sutherby,” he said with a satisfied sniff.

Lily stared at him. “Oh … oh, no! But it wasn’t her fault, none of it was, it was all my doing!”

“Miss McCofferty was dispatched the morning after your return, and high time. Your father and I felt that she has long been a poor influence on you.”

Lily bent her head, trying not to let Father Mallet see her distress. She felt utterly helpless, as if the last person in the world who cared anything at all about her had gone away. Coffey had at least tried to protect her from Father Mallet. But now there was no one between Father Mallet and herself, and Lily couldn’t help cringing at the thought.

“Now,” he said, his voice dry as dust, “I shall begin your instruction.”

At first Lily tried to shut out Father Mallet’s monotone, for she wasn’t sure that she could bear the mortification, but for the first time ever she ended up listening to the priest with true fascination. It was impossible to understand half of what he was saying, for he spoke in an extraordinary combination of biblical references and euphemisms. When he started talking about rods and staffs and mighty fortresses she had an almost irresistible urge to burst into horrified laughter. She had long before grasped the basic essentials of human anatomy, but she wasn’t at all sure that Father Mallet had, given the way he was going about explaining things.

“… And so your husband sows his seed upon your fertile soil, the, hahum … the earth that bears his fruit.” He cleared his throat again, looking flushed and agitated. “The seed—should God will it—produces a child. Not always, which is why your husband might often wish to, to … to sow with you. Do you understand?”

She nodded mutely, not trusting herself to speak for fear of collapsing in hysteria. She wondered if she was not beginning to lose her mind.

“That is good,” he said quickly. “Just remember to surrender to your husband in all things, and I am sure it will become very clear. I will leave you to ponder my words. You will say the Hail Mary one hundred times before dinner.

“Father,” she said hesitantly, throwing her pride to the wind, for after dinner came the dark, and she really wasn’t sure if she could bear another night locked away. “I am truly sorry, I am, Father. Do you suppose I might sleep in my own room, if I come to the chapel at first light?”

“Certainly not. You will serve your full punishment, alone where there is no one but God to see you in your shame.”

He turned abruptly and left, and the key grated in the lock. Lily shuddered and squeezed her eyes shut, trying hard not to cry. She began saying her Hail Marys in earnest, just on the highly improbable chance that someone might be listening.

Pascal sealed his letter to Dom Benetard, then put the writing materials away. He stood and handed the letter to the monk, who tucked it carefully into his leather scrip. “Thank you, Julien, for all your help,” he said, smiling down at the young man. “I wish you a safe journey home.” Pascal swallowed against the hoarseness in his throat.

His eyes full of sympathy, Julien patted his arm.

“I know,” Pascal said. “I wish myself luck as well. This was not the outcome I had hoped for, but as the abbot says, it is not our job to understand God’s will, only to follow it. I wish I felt that confidence in my heart, but I have tried to take comfort from the words.”

Julien nodded vigorously, then pointed out the window toward the chapel with a questioning look on his face.

“Lady Elizabeth? I don’t know if even a year of solid prayer would do any good, not if the prayers don’t come from her heart. But I must confess that I am appalled at the severity of the punishment.”

Pascal watched carefully as Julien’s hands quickly and cleverly sketched in the air in his silent language. Pascal nodded. “Yes, you’re right. Father Mallet is a dangerous man. At times I find his theological opinions alarming. It’s a good thing you’ve managed to miss them, for I am sure you would have been horrified.”

Julien smiled happily.

“You’re a crafty one, aren’t you? You know that both the duke and his priest are under the impression that you’ve taken a vow of silence, although why it hasn’t occurred to them that Dom Benetard would never send someone under that vow out into the world is beyond me. Never mind, you played a good game, having your meals sent up to your room under the pretext of seclusion. I wish I’d been able to get away with that.”

Julien’s grin grew even wider, then he shook his head and touched his heart.

“Thank you for your sympathy, my friend. It is appreciated. Do you know, I still cannot believe any of this? And it’s all because that lunatic girl climbed onto the abbey wall, just to have a look inside.”

More of the silent language, this time expressing bewilderment mixed with real disapproval.

“I know. As I said, lunatic. Furthermore, I’ve never seen anyone so unpenitent in my life,” Pascal said, gazing out the window. “You should have seen the look on her face when she was sentenced. Oh, not to marriage—that genuinely distressed her—I would have burst into tears myself if I hadn’t gone into severe shock. No, I meant when Father Mallet gave her his list of punishments. Her head went up and her chin went out, and she would have taken on her father, Father Mallet, and the Good Lord Himself if she’d thought she had a fighting chance.” He shrugged. “Apparently, not only am I to be married, I’m to be married to an unbroken, unwilling, unholy child.”

Julien raised both his eyebrows.

“What, do you object to my calling her unholy?” Pascal asked with a curt laugh.

Julien slowly shook his head, then raised his hand above his head.

“Oh, I see. Well, she may be two-and-twenty, but she behaves like a ten-year-old. My sister Kate behaved with more maturity when last I was home, and she was only nine.” He gave Julien a rueful look. “I wish I could find something in Elizabeth to like, but I’m afraid that the most I can summon up is a sense of distaste. It would have been better to have had a few days to try to know her before being married to her, not that I expect anything more than what I’ve already seen and heard.”

The monk touched his heart again.

“Thanks. I’ll manage somehow. But I will tell you this—if I’m to keep my sanity, that girl will need some serious rearranging.”

That earned an enthusiastic nod, and Pascal laughed and clasped Julien’s slim shoulders. “Take care, my good friend. I shall miss you, I really shall. Keep an eye on the gardens for me. The camellias should be beautiful this year, shouldn’t they?”

Julien nodded sadly, tears sparkling on his eyelashes.

“You’d best go now,” Pascal said, releasing him. “You don’t want to miss your boat. May God bless you. And say a special prayer for me tomorrow.”

Reaching back, Julien pulled his hood over his short blond hair, and his face fell into shadow. Gone was the boy Pascal had known, transformed back into the monk he’d become. He picked up one of Pascal’s hands and pressed a kiss to its back, his eyes filled with pain.

“Save your homage for God,” Pascal said. “He is fortunate to have you in His service, Julien. Be happy at St. Christophe.”

Julien nodded and managed a smile.

Pascal saw Julien into the duke’s carriage and waved his hand as the carriage rolled down the drive. He watched it until it had turned through the gates. He was happy for Julien. The boy had taken to monastic life as if it had been water poured down a parched throat, water that had soothed and helped to heal the deep scars on Julien’s soul. But he really would miss him. There were a lot of things he was going to miss.

He closed his eyes for a moment, forcing away the ache of parting, then headed out to the gardens to find old Albert Smith, who was the only person at Sutherby who seemed to have any sense.

Lily blinked as she emerged from the chapel, then raised her face to the morning sun, drinking in the light and the blessed warmth. She looked about her. The grass was a vibrant green, and the apple trees were in full, glorious bloom. All the color hurt her eyes, but she reveled in it. She would have sent up a prayer of thanks to God, but she had lost all faith in His existence long before.

“Elizabeth, hurry along, please,” Father Mallet commanded, waiting impatiently on the path. “We do not have all morning.”

Lily obeyed instantly, but the short distance from the chapel to the house seemed to stretch ten miles, for each step she took shot knives of pain through her knees. She couldn’t wait to go to bed and fall into a long, dreamless sleep.

But two hours later she was being led back again along the same path. She’d been dressed in white silk and lace, her head covered with a lace veil that trailed to her shoulders. Her father’s hand rested under her elbow as if she might bolt if he let her go.

“Father Mallet explained everything to you?” he asked uncomfortably.

Lily nodded, thinking that the game really had gone on long enough. It was becoming frightening.

“I hope your time spent in penance impressed itself on you.”

“Oh, yes, Papa, it did. Very much so. I am so terribly sorry, and I shall never do such a thing again.” She looked up at him hopefully, sure that he would see he had scared her badly and would now give her the expected reprieve.

The duke looked down at his daughter. “From this day on,” he said, “it is nothing to do with me. You are your husband’s charge. Be a good wife and treat your husband with respect. Obey him in all things. Do not repeat your mother’s mistakes.”

They had reached the chapel, and for the first time Lily understood that this terrible thing was truly going to happen. “Oh, Papa—oh, Papa … please?” she said desperately. “I will marry anyone else you choose, I swear it. Please do not force me to marry this man, I beg you. I will be the model daughter from now on!”

“You will marry Pascal LaMartine, and you will do it now.” He looked down at her, his eyes snapping. “Do not think to disobey me, or it shall go very badly for you.”

He tugged on her arm and literally forced her over the threshold. She felt light-headed, disassociated from her surroundings, and wondered if this was how people felt when they were being led to the gallows.

He was there, of course. He stood to one side of the altar, dressed in a black coat and trousers, his waistcoat gray satin, his white shirt and neckcloth crisp, his dark hair shining. Lily couldn’t help but blink. Pascal LaMartine, rake, rogue, wretch that he was, looked every inch the correct gentleman, as if he’d been born to the position. Lily’s stomach turned over.

It took an hour. Mass had to be said. Vows had to be made. The wretch’s hand took hers, slid a wedding ring onto her finger, and his mouth briefly touched her cold lips. She hardly felt it. Lily moved through it all with a sense of distance, as if it were someone else who spoke the words, someone else who took that hard masculine arm and walked out of the chapel. She sat through the small wedding breakfast in silence, unable to eat the rich food, speaking only when spoken to, smiling at the handful of guests and hoping they took her silence for nerves.

And then she found herself being led to the carriage that had been given to them as a wedding present, her trunk strapped to the back, her traveling dress appropriate for a newly married woman—she’d discovered earlier that morning that a quick trousseau had been made for her while she had been locked away.

She suffered her father’s kiss on her cheek, the good wishes of the guests, the curtsies and bows of the staff, who had lined up in the driveway to see her off. The only people she really noticed were Phillpotts, who bowed to her, his eyes full of pity, and Albert Smith, who tugged his cap, then winked. As Albert Smith had never winked at her in her life, she was slightly startled, but touched nonetheless.