No Sweeter Heaven: The Pascal Trilogy - Book 2 (9 page)

It had made all the difference at the time. Unfortunately there was nothing Nicholas could do or say now that would make any difference at all.

Pascal walked to the window and leaned on the sill, looking down over the gardens that he and Georgia had worked so hard to bring back after they had been allowed to go to ruin by the previous Lady Raven. The shrubs he had brought Georgia from the Himalayas on his last trip home had taken hold and were thriving, their vivid colors cheerfully bright, caught in the setting rays of the sun. He let out a shaky breath. It was all so familiar, exactly as he remembered it, and yet his life had changed beyond recognition.

Suddenly desperate to be outside, he quickly washed and changed, then went downstairs and out the back door into the walled garden.

The absolute peace of the garden at dusk was only heightened by the gentle call of doves, the low hoot of an owl, the treble songs of wren and robin above, the swift whir of a random bird on the wing. Subtle shifts of wind brought individual fragrances to him, each unique, each delightful. The collaboration of color and smell had been designed to calm the senses rather than to excite, to soothe the soul and offer comfort. Comfort? Where was that to be had? It seemed that everything even vaguely resembling comfort had vanished from his world.

Pascal shut his eyes tightly.
Don’t think. For God’s sake don’t think or you’ll fall apart.
He stood very still for a moment, then walked past the stone statue of a young boy, to the bench set beneath the willow tree. He leaned over and put his head in his hands, breathing deeply in an effort to quiet the terrible pain in his chest. He felt as if it might rend him in two.

Seeing Nicholas and Georgia had nearly undone him. The numbness that had wrapped itself around him from the moment Elizabeth Bowes had made her ridiculous accusation had instantly been stripped away when he saw Georgia running across the lawn toward him, her face wreathed in unquestioning welcome. Georgia, his friend, his teacher, and Nicholas, the man whom he loved more than any other man alive—both of them, always there for him, his only family, everything that he had in this world. His beloved monsieur and madame, names he had given them in childhood, which had somehow stuck. He had missed them even more than he’d realized.

And yet he knew as clearly as he knew anything that he could not stay. To stay would be to be reminded every minute of every day what marriage really meant, to see what love was and to know that it would never be possible for him. To stay would be to make a travesty of everything he held dear.

The thought of leaving wrenched a groan from his chest, and he dropped his hands to his sides, clenching them into fists, struggling for control. He needed to draw on all his strength, for the last thing in the world he wanted was for Georgia and Nicholas to see what he was feeling and be upset by his misery.

Tomorrow he would make inquiries. Anything, anywhere, to leave this raw, agonizing pain behind.

He rose to his feet, feeling far older than his twenty-nine years, and returned inside to take his high-born fishwife to dinner.

“Pascal, Pascal—no, let me tell, Willy! It was my catch, after all.”

Lily watched the young, dark-haired girl grab her brother’s arm—Ghislaine was her name, she thought, trying to sort them all out. But Lord Raven, or Nicholas, as she was supposed to call him, inadvertently corrected her, and Lily realized that it was Ghislaine, the blond older girl, who was laughing about something with her mother at the other end of the table.

“Kate,” Nicholas said, “do go ahead, will you, before we have all-out war at the dinner table? Willy, let your sister speak.”

“Well, it was my line that tugged. So I pulled at it gently, just as you showed me, Pascal, and then I gave it a slight jerk, and the fish was hooked. But it wasn’t so easy as all that. You remember the place, beyond the stand of oaks where it’s so shaded?”

“Yes, of course,” he said. “Tell me, what did you do next? You were subtle, I think?”

Lily listened in silence. She did not know how to respond to this enthusiastic family, where the conversation leaped from one thing to the next and everyone seemed to talk at once. Lily didn’t understand, not any of it. She felt like an outsider. Worse, she felt like a fool, for the wretch had obviously told her the truth about his place in the family.

She frowned, watching as he quietly conversed with the youngest girl, the one who had caught the fish. All the children had vied for his attention throughout the evening. He was clearly popular with them, and she was amazed by the difference in his manner. She’d never seen him behave like this before, attentive, congenial. He even
appeared
agreeable instead of cold and forbidding, and she found it oddly disconcerting.

She looked away and studied Nicholas instead. He was so similar in looks to the wretch that he might have been his natural father. The wretch was tall and well built, as was Nicholas. They shared the same dark hair and full mouths, the same dark eyebrows, although where Nicholas’s were winged, the wretch’s were nearly straight.

They had something else in common too, although she couldn’t quite place it; it was more of a natural affinity they shared, as if there was a deep, unspoken understanding between them. Lily instantly dismissed that thought. The wretch was incapable of understanding. No, she decided, it was just that Nicholas was a generous man who made an effort to make people feel comfortable, unlike his adopted son. He and Georgia had been nothing but kind and welcoming to her. Their easy warmth had wrapped her in acceptance, though she didn’t really know what to do with it.

She was trying her best to fit in, but she wasn’t any good at this sort of thing. She was accustomed to a house where any display of affection was considered wicked, where joking and laughing were reason for punishment. She and Jean-Jacques had been conspirators, players in a daring game of consequence. But here no one was silenced.

Charlie, who had his father’s gray eyes but his mother’s fair hair, turned to her with a wicked smile. “So, Elizabeth. How does it feel to be introduced to Bedlam?”

“I—it is different. I am not used to large families.”

“Never mind. It won’t take long. Those who consider themselves well brought up are generally appalled—children at the dinner table?
Quelle horreur!
We do make rather a lot of noise, don’t we?”

Lily nodded. “We always had a priest at our table. We weren’t meant to speak except about religious things.”

“God forbid! Oh, sorry. So, out of habit—oops, never mind—I meant out of practicality you went and married Pascal. It’s about time someone did. I suppose it makes sense, both of you being Catholic. What I’d like to know is how you got him out of that monastery he’d shut himself away in. What a victory. You must have made quick work of it, too.”

Lily flushed a horrible red and, surprisingly, her husband came to her rescue.

“Charlie, enough of your questions, if you please. You are embarrassing my wife, and in any case, it’s none of your business. So. What’s this I hear about your going to India? Monsieur tells me you are entering into the business. What, no university?”

Charlie shrugged. “I’d rather apply myself to practical things, like wine, women, and song.”

“Charlie,” Nicholas said on a note of warning. “You shan’t be going anywhere if you carry on like this.”

“Sorry,” Charlie said cheerfully. “Anyway, I thought I’d make my way down to Italy and catch one of Papa’s ships from there. You’ve done it. And you loved India—and the Himalayas. You made them sound like magic. Just think, all those teachers of yours might have a beneficial influence on me. Maybe you’ll give me some introductions. What do you think?”

“Tomorrow, Charlie. It’s too long a subject to go into now. Anyway, I doubt I could give you the sort of introductions that you might be seeking.” He turned toward Nicholas. “Which branch do you plan to start Charlie in? Bombay?”

“No, I think not. Bombay would not bring out the best of Charlie’s character.”

Pascal nodded, his face serious. “No,” he said, “I think perhaps you’re correct. Bombay isn’t the place for Charlie. So, what shall it be—what’s the most staid office you have in all of India? This is where Charlie must go.”

“Papa!” Charlie launched instantly on a line of defense, and the two were on him, teasing unmercifully.

Lily was left alone to think her own thoughts. She wasn’t sure she could make sense out of what she observed. She knew that her husband was a wretch and a scoundrel. He was also an opportunist. He had not been brought up in the common sort of family she had originally thought, and it was clear that these people were extremely fond of him. They were mistaken in their fondness, for how were they to know what sort of life he had led away from the confines of their home? It was far from what he had led them to believe. In fact, she found it extremely irritating that they were so adoring, so loving to him.

And yet … there was something about him tonight, something different, that belied her experience. Look at the way the little girl leaned toward him, took his hand in hers, so trusting, the way he bent his dark head and gravely listened to her.

But no. She refused to be taken in by such chicanery. It was obviously the method he used to fool people. That was always how it was—she knew well. People behaved one way and intended something else entirely. People lied and manipulated, anything to obtain their own ends. Her own father was a perfect example—charming in public, brutal in private.

Typical.

Lily had ended up with a younger version of her father. Next would come the priest at the dinner table. She shuddered.

Life was just not fair.

Lily woke at first light to the sound of some very noisy birds scrapping outside of her window. She rolled over and tried to go back to sleep, but it would not come. Between the birds, the growing light, and her own unhappiness, she could see that she was to have no peace that morning. Thinking about it, she realized she hadn’t had a peaceful morning since she’d encountered the wretch.

She dressed, her fingers still unaccustomed to doing everything for herself, although she’d had plenty of practice in the chapel. She hadn’t bothered to ask why there were no servants in the house—she could just imagine what sort of reply she would be given. No doubt the wretch would tell her she was spoiled just for inquiring. Oh, she really did loathe him.

Lily crept down the stairs. There was not a sound in the house, no other presence. There had always been someone about at Sutherby, if only a parlormaid lighting the fires. In an odd way it felt nice, knowing she was completely alone—with the exception of the wretch, but he was upstairs fast asleep.

She looked around the ground floor curiously, strolling through the drawing room, the library, then the kitchen and dining room. But what truly drew her eye was a garden outside the window. A thick silver mist floated and shifted delicately among magnificent shrubs and flowering plants. The moon had not yet finished its course and hung a more fragile, fading silver in the gray sky. She found the door and let herself out.

The garden was enclosed by thick stone walls beaded with moisture, and a vine she’d never seen before, a buttery yellow in color, tumbled heavily off the end of the wall nearest to her. She walked down a few steps, her shoulder brushed by the purple flowers of clematis that cascaded over an arched hoop. Her feet immediately became soaked by the dew, but she didn’t mind. She found herself drawn into the sense of the garden.

She’d never seen anything like it in her life. A long bed of roses, just beginning to open with delicate, pale petals, lined a path that curved off to the left; on the right was a low border filled with what Lily thought must be medicinal herbs, for she recognized rosemary, sage, lavender, and foxglove. There were a great many other things that she did not recognize, but she could at least appreciate the color and the groupings. She wandered down the path, drinking in the smell of honeysuckle, the sight of primrose, alium, pansies, forget-me-nots—wherever she looked there was something different and wonderful. There was order but no order. Unlike her father’s idea of creating a carefully controlled and rigid landscape, here there was a freedom, an imagination that had been allowed to run unfettered.

Beehives sat along the edge of one wall where iris and tulips grew. In the center of the garden was a statue of a child, with more bulbs pushing up about its feet, and a silver carpet of lamium ran over the ground beyond. Lily bent down and ran her fingers over the moist, springy stuff, gently touching the tiny pink flowers that danced among the leaves.

All of this was counterbalanced by a variety of trees and shrubs, some in flower, some evergreen. There was even something that looked like a blackberry bush, covered in lovely white blooms. It was magic, pure unadulterated magic. Even though Lily had never taken much interest in gardens, she felt as if she were a child again, safe in a place where nobody could hurt her, where the world couldn’t find her. Yet she couldn’t resist the temptation to reach out and push on the great wooden door to the outside, to see if it would open, and also to see what was out there.

The door creaked, but it swung open easily enough. Lily gasped, and her hand crept to her mouth in wonderment. Directly in front of her the sun was climbing over the horizon, a huge blood-red circle pushing through the mist to hover over the valley as if reluctant to leave it. She looked and looked, trying to drink in the sight, for she couldn’t believe that the sun could look quite so—so enormous, so very beautiful. “Oh…” she whispered.

“It’s not bad, is it? I hadn’t realized that you enjoyed this sort of thing.”

Lily squeaked and jumped around. He stood there, one hand resting on top of the door, the other hanging easily at his side. His shirtsleeves were rolled up and his collar was open. He wore no jacket. “I don’t,” she said out of sheer contrariness.

“Oh?”

“I—I couldn’t sleep. There was nothing better to do.”

“I see. So to alleviate your boredom, you decided to come outside for the sunrise, even though you don’t enjoy watching?”

“There’s no need to be rude,” Lily said indignantly.

“I beg your pardon. I was merely perplexed. The last time I saw you up at this hour you were extremely disgruntled.”

“It’s not a crime to enjoy one’s sleep,” Lily informed him, “and I see no reason for you to be so argumentative.”

He looked at her, and there was a faint gleam of amusement in his eyes. “Coming from you, that is laughable.”

Not quite sure how to respond to that, Lily said, “How long were you standing there?”

“Long enough to know you’ve just told me one enormous lie. Really, Elizabeth, where is the shame in admitting to enjoying one of God’s miracles?”

“It was just there,” she said. “And anyway, I don’t believe in God.” She waited for him to explode, but, oddly, it didn’t happen.

“Really?” he said equitably. “Somehow I’m not surprised. Do you suppose He believes in you?”

“What sort of a question is that?” she demanded. “Of course He does—or He would if He existed, which He doesn’t.”

“Do you know, when I was a very young child,” Pascal said, looking at the huge sun, “I used to worry that we were all just one of God’s dreams. I thought that when He woke up from His night’s sleep we would vanish as if we had never existed at all.”

“You are a very strange man.”

“Probably. But at least I’ve moved beyond that particular piece of theology—well, more or less. In the very simplest of terms, I accept that we are a part of God’s dream, but I no longer worry that we’re in danger of vanishing. It seems to me that what’s happened to you is you have woken up from the most beautiful dream possible, and it is you who has made God vanish. That’s quite a clever trick.”

Lily stared at him. He really was the oddest man she had ever come across. “I have no idea what you are talking about, but I think you are extremely foolish.”

He shrugged, then lifted his arm. Elizabeth followed the direction of his wave and saw Charlie coming toward them, two fishing poles in one hand and a saddlebag in the other.

“Good morning,” Charlie said cheerfully as he reached them. “Are you coming along with us, Elizabeth? How nice.”

She rubbed her toe in the grass. “No—I’m not. I wasn’t invited, and in any case, I don’t know how to fish.”

“What?” Charlie looked at her in astonishment. “How can anyone not know how to fish? It’s a sin! I mean—it’s a shame. Well, you’re certainly invited, isn’t that right, Pascal?” he said, grinning broadly. “It won’t do, your having a wife who can’t fish, not with you being one of the world’s great fishermen. Look here, you can have my pole, Elizabeth. Together we should be able to teach you to catch a fish or two.” He started to turn. “Come on, we should get started before the sun gets any higher.”

“No,” Pascal said suddenly. “You take Elizabeth. You and I will fish together another time. There’s something else I really should do, if I might borrow your horse?”

“Yes, of course, but I confess I am deeply disappointed—I have a thing or two to show you. I’ve been waiting to impress you for two whole years.”

“I’m sure I’ll be awed by your wizardry, but this is also important, and now you have Elizabeth to concentrate on impressing. I’ll see you a little later, yes?”

“Yes, all right. Later—and watch my horse. He’s skittish.” Charlie turned to Elizabeth and smiled. “Ready?”

A refusal was on her lips, but then she couldn’t help herself. Charlie was too charming to resist, and besides, it would be pleasant to be with someone who seemed disposed to be nice to her. Anyway, it sounded like fun, especially without the wretch there to ruin her pleasure. “Oh—all right,” she said, and picked up her skirts, hastily following Charlie over the wet grass.

Pascal mounted Charlie’s gelding and urged him toward the woods. It took him only ten minutes on horseback to reach his objective, a beautiful little grace-and-favor cottage that sat behind Ravenswalk. He tied the gelding to the mounting post and swung down, pushing open the gate and walking past the lush front garden, which he was pleased to see was flourishing.

He knocked and waited, confident that Binkley would be up at this hour, as was his habit. After a minute, he heard footsteps, and then the scrape of the latch. The door opened slightly, and Binkley’s bald head peered out. He looked sleepy and surprised to be having a visitor so early, but his eyes shot open when he saw who it was. The door flew wide.

“Master Pascal! Oh, good heavens—you’re home!”

Pascal laughed with pleasure at seeing his old friend again. “I am.”

“Fancy that,” Binkley said. “I thought you’d forgotten all about us, but here you are, and it’s a fine day indeed.”

“I’m happy to see you also. Do you think I might come in?”

“Of course, of course, my boy. How delightful, to be sure. When did you return?” He stood aside, and Pascal ducked his head to pass through the door.

“Last night.”

“You have seen his lordship?” Binkley asked severely.

“Yes, it was the very first thing I did. Don’t worry, Binkley, Nicholas and Georgia were not unduly disturbed by my sudden appearance.”

“Very good. And the reason for this abrupt return?”

“I don’t suppose you have a kettle on the stove? IVI love a cup of tea.”

“Naturally I have. What a foolish question. Come and sit down and I will bring tea out directly.”

“Binkley, there’s no need to wait on me. I’m happy to do it.”

Binkley looked insulted. “I may be an old man, but I have not lost my abilities nor my senses. Do as you are told and sit down.”

“You are supposed to be retired, my friend.”

“Once a butler, always a butler, and proud of it too. Don’t you go trying to take away my pleasures, young man. I have few enough of them left.” He shuffled away, and Pascal shook his head in amusement. There had never been a more loyal servant, nor a more loyal friend than Binkley, and Pascal valued him as much for his crustiness, which had only increased over the years, as for anything else.

When Binkley came back, he had not only a teapot but a tray laden with fresh scones, sweet butter, and his own homemade blackberry jam, and he laid it all out on the little dining room table that overlooked the back garden.

“Now,” Binkley said, when they had finished the satisfactory meal, “what brings you to my door, other than the obvious? My eyes might not be as keen as they once were, but you look troubled to me.”

Pascal hesitated, and Binkley scowled at him. “Come, come, get it off your chest. I’m not going to live forever and my time is precious.”

“Your pardon,” Pascal said, trying to keep a straight face. “I had forgotten you have been at death’s door these last ten years.”

“No need for impertinence. I have enough of it from Charles and the others. A disrespectful lot, those Daventry children, and both his lordship and her ladyship should be paddled for allowing it. I don’t know what happened to good manners. It is all these modern ideas, no doubt.”

“Why, Binkley!” Pascal said, leaning back in his chair and assuming an incredulous expression. “Are you saying that the Daventry children are anything less than perfect?”

“Perfect!” Binkley pursed his lips. “Perfect indeed. I cannot think what the dear queen, God bless her soul, would say if she saw how things went on at Ravenswalk—children running wild, shouting all day long, into scrape after scrape, playing practical jokes on me, and at my age. Why, just last week William and Katherine left a basket of frogs on my doorstep. Why they thought that amusing I do not know, but I had the devil of a time chasing those blighted things out of the garden, I can tell you.”

“The children?”

“Certainly not. I refuse to chase children, but I absolutely will not abide reptiles among my periwinkles. Weeding is bad enough on an old man’s back, but let me say that crawling about on one’s hands and knees after leaping frogs is quite beyond reason, not to mention dignity.” He grunted. “So. You have decided to return to the world. Why?”

“It was not a matter of choice, exactly.” Pascal was touched that Binkley had made such an effort to put him at his ease. Binkley had always been like that, though, as Pascal remembered from the very first day of his arrival, or at least from the day that he had recovered enough from his fever to find himself not only alive but safe and warm and dry as well.

“It must have been a matter of something. People do not generally hop about between countries, let alone in and out of monasteries, without reason.”

Pascal, thoroughly sick of the story, nevertheless explained. Binkley’s round face registered nothing during the telling, nor did he interrupt. But as soon as Pascal had finished, Binkley laced his fingers together and looked at Pascal over them in a gesture that unconsciously imitated Nicholas—or who knew? Perhaps it was the other way around. Master and servant had been so close for so many years that one hardly knew where one began and the other left off.

“Well?” Pascal asked, uncomfortable with the scrutiny.

“What sort of idiotic comment is that? Do you expect an analysis of the situation, or even my sympathy? You will get neither, young man. So what did you really come for?” He unlaced his fingers and started drumming them on the table, his bushy eyebrows wiggling up and down in time to the beat.

Pascal swallowed a laugh. Binkley’s eyebrows looked like two beetles facing off against each other. He’d always been fond of Binkley’s eyebrows.

“Well?” Binkley demanded. “I haven’t all day.”

“I—I didn’t expect your sympathy, Binkley,” Pascal said contritely. “Actually, I was looking for some advice.”

“Good. And here it is. You are, whether you like it or not, a married man with a wife to look after. Get to it, and stop feeling sorry for yourself.”