No Sweeter Heaven: The Pascal Trilogy - Book 2 Read Online Free Page B

to your father. I’ve decided that the most sensible thing to do is to send one of our brothers to escort you to Sutherby Park along with Monsieur LaMartine.”
    “You—you will send me home in the company of the man who attempted to defile me?” Lily asked incredulously.
    “As I said, one of the brothers will go with you. Brother Julien has offered his services. I shall entrust a letter to him, describing the events that have transpired today.”
    The fire snapped and crackled in the grate, and Lily stared into it, contemplating the full repercussions of this appalling announcement. Her gaze slid back to Dom Benetard as she struggled for speech. “That man—Monsieur LaMartine, I mean—surely he will not agree to go, knowing what my father will do to him?”
    “Monsieur LaMartine has already agreed. Your father, having contemplated the matter, will then determine what must be done. We must all agree to abide by his decision.”
    “What … what sort of decision?” Lily asked nervously, not entirely sure she was grasping the point.
    “It is not for me to say, child.” The abbot tucked his hands securely within the sleeves of his habit. “It would be best if you remained in these quarters until you hear from me regarding arrangement for your travel to England.”
    He stood, said a blessing over her bowed head, and quietly departed, leaving Lily in a state of shock.
    Pascal spent the entire night in the church in prayer and contemplation, but his last hours at St. Christophe de Montebon passed in anything but peace. The outcome of his talk with Dom Benetard had come as no surprise. His disquiet stemmed more from his lack of understanding of why such an unwarranted situation should have befallen him. It seemed an odd conclusion to a spiritual quest, a quest that had taken him halfway around the world and ended up in St. Christophe.
    Pascal rose as the chill of dawn spread through his bones. He took one last look around the long, narrow church, topped by a gracefully vaulted ceiling that gave it such balance, gazed one last time at the extraordinary sculptures of the saints, their stone faces so lifelike. The scent of frankincense from last night’s Compline still lingered in the air, rich and dark.
    Pascal turned and walked out into the daylight.
    He went wearily to the bare room in which he had lived for the last two years. There was not much to collect, only a few items of clothing, some books, and a small, well-executed painting. It had been done five years before, and although Nicholas and Georgia would look much the same, the children would have changed considerably since he had last been home.
    He’d missed them—Charlie would be nearly a man now at eighteen, and Ghislaine, at sixteen, would soon be ready to trade her braids for the finery of a young woman. As for Willy and Kate, they were still bound to be trouble, racing about, looking for mischief in every corner. If there was one small measure of comfort to be found in being forcibly sent to England, it was the thought of seeing them all again.
    He carefully placed the painting in his satchel with the rest of his possessions, covering it with a cloth to protect the surface. He fastened the straps, his fingers struggling with the leather that had become stiff from lack of use. He then left to find Dom Benetard.
    Pascal knelt before the abbot, accepting the Benediction being said over his head. He rose from his knees, feeling quite sick.
    “It is not such a bad thing, my son,” the abbot said, placing his hand on Pascal’s shoulder. “You have benefited by your studies, and our gardens have benefited from your devoted work, as have the people. But this is perhaps an answer from God to the question that has been troubling you, no?”
    Pascal regarded Dom Benetard’s serene face, his familiar, beneficent smile, and he wondered how his mentor could be feeling quite so calm at consigning him to such an unwanted, unexpected, and uninvited