St. Leger 1: The Bride Finder

by Susan Carroll

"Damn you! Why? Why did you have to come here?"

  She hardly expected him to answer. She feared he'd already lapsed into unconsciousness. But his lashes fluttered, and he peered through their thickness.

  "Had to. Fitzleger told me… and I saw the vision myself."

  "Then, you should have stayed away!"

  "Needed to make sure you were safe. See you… one last time."

  His words sent a sob racking through her, and she was furious with herself. Wailing like an idiot when she needed to be doing something sensible, something to save him.

  Drawing in a deep breath, she wiped her bloodstained fingers on her cloak. Hiking up the hem of her gown, she began tearing ruthlessly at her petticoats, attempting to form a makeshift bandage until help arrived.

  It came far sooner than she dared hope. From a great distance she could hear something stirring down the hill, the sound of an approaching horse, someone anxiously calling out to her through the mist.

  Marius.

  A strangled cry escaped her. Somehow she managed to clear her throat, answer him. "Marius! We're over here!"

  She turned joyfully to Anatole, "Oh, hold on, my dearest lord. It will be all right. Marius is coming."

  But Anatole shook his head. "No hope of defeating the vision, my love."

  His eyes clouded, and she knew that she was losing him. The look of resignation on his face frightened Madeline more than his growing pallor.

  Her eyes blazed with fierce tears. "We will defeat it, do you hear me, Anatole? You are not going to die because of—of some stupid prophecy from a piece of glass. I won't let you. I love you too much."

  "Forever and ever?" he whispered.

  "Yes," she choked.

  "That will be just about… long enough."

  Despite his pain, Anatole St. Leger smiled, his eyes drifting closed as he surrendered himself to the welcoming darkness.

  Epilogue

  The funeral took place a week later, only Madeline and Fitzleger in attendance. Sunlight spilled through the trees, bringing a sense of warmth and peace to the shaded grave site. More than Evelyn Mortmain had known in her entire troubled life, Madeline thought.

  As Madeline watched Evelyn being laid to rest amidst her ancestors, she reflected that perhaps she should not even be here attending services for someone who had attempted to murder her husband. She should feel nothing but hatred. If Evelyn had succeeded…

  But she had not. And Madeline could mourn, not for the bitter woman who had thrown her life away in a quest for revenge, but for the girl Evelyn had once been, alone, frightened, orphaned by her own father's mad obsession for destroying the St. Legers.

  Evelyn had been found washed ashore but yesterday morning, her face battered beyond recognition, identifiable only by her shock of flame-colored hair. Little trace of her existence remained, her possessions kept at the cottage found to be meager. Some powdered wigs, the elegant trappings of her disguise, a small cache of coin. Nothing of real value except for the miniature of a dark curly-haired child. A little boy somewhere in France waiting for a mother who would never return.

  Madeline cradled the miniature in her hand as she and Fitzleger turned from the grave site, making their way slowly back through the churchyard. As the vicar closed up his prayer book, Madeline was able to ask him the question that had been on the tip of her tongue all morning.

  "Were you able to talk to Bess Kennack?"

  "Aye, I did." Fitzleger's troubled expression warned Madeline the interview had not gone well.

  "Bess was not able to tell me much more about the Mortmain woman than we already know. The girl was very stubborn about answering my questions, but she finally confessed to the part she played in these events. In the end I think Bess had grown a little frightened herself of Evelyn Mortmain, what she had helped to set in motion.

  "I have arranged for Bess to leave this place, find a fresh start by taking service with a family in the north. She seems glad to go."

  "I am relieved to hear it," Madeline said, but she was also disappointed Bess had been unable to provide any further information. The agent of inquiry's report, discovered among Roman's things, had been very sketchy, providing the barest details of Evelyn's life in Paris. Nothing had been said of a child.

  Madeline displayed the miniature to Fitzleger. "The night of the supper party, Evelyn showed me this and told me the boy's name was Raphael and he was away at school."

  Fitzleger squinted at the portrait. "A handsome little lad. But, my dear, are you sure he even exists? Perhaps this tale of a son was only one more part of the woman's elaborate disguise."

  "No, Fitzleger," Madeline said, remembering too well the spark of pride, the genuine emotion in Evelyn's eyes when she had spoken of her son. "I am sure the child is real, and I am dreadfully afraid he has been left all alone. He must be found!"

  "It will be difficult. And you must consider, if you do find him, he has likely already been poisoned with hatred for the St. Legers. The feud between Anatole's family and the Mortmains is of long standing."

  "Then, it must end. If this hatred is, as you say, a poison, then perhaps love and kindness can be its cure. Anatole and I are determined to try."

  "Then, I wish both of you Godspeed, and I will do my best to help."

  "Thank you, Fitzleger," Madeline murmured gratefully, tucking the portrait away. "I was certain you would."

  He linked his arm companionably through hers, giving her hand a gentle pat as he walked her to the gate.

  "And how is my young master faring today?" he asked.

  "Oh, Anatole is doing very well. Marius is astonished at the speed of his recovery."

  "And relieved." Fitzleger chuckled. "I daresay my lord has not been the most docile of patients."

  "You are quite wrong, Fitzleger. Anatole acquiesced to every one of Marius's orders for his convalescence."

  Fitzleger's bushy white brows shot up in wonderment. Madeline did not blame him. There had been a stillness about Anatole these past days that both surprised and worried her a little.

  Of course, she had always done most of the chattering, but Anatole was unusually quiet. When she hovered over him, fussing, as he once would have growled, he said very little, merely following her every movement with his eyes. But the man had nearly died, she reminded herself. Small wonder he should be somewhat subdued. She was certain Anatole would be more himself when he had fully recovered and now that all of their guests were gone.

  Roman's death had brought the entire St. Leger family descending upon them. Uncles, wives, cousins. Given Anatole's condition, it had been left to Madeline to move among them offering explanations and consolation.

  Roman's death had not produced a profound sorrow among the St. Legers, but a great deal of regret. He had, in the end, proved himself one of their own. Madeline had helped arrange for his wake, assisted Hadrian in settling Roman's estate, wrote letters canceling the orders of materials for the house at Lost Land that would now never be rebuilt.

  By the end of each day, Madeline had frequently felt exhausted. But somehow during that time, she reflected with a soft smile, she had finally become a St. Leger herself. And in more than name only.

  Still, she had been relieved to see the last of her new family depart, even Marius returning to his own home early that morning. Madeline looked forward to being alone with her husband.

  She was anxious to return to Anatole as Fitzleger handed her into the waiting carriage. But she paused long enough to squeeze the old man's hand and reassure him.

  "You need not worry about Anatole anymore. I promise to take very good care of him."

  "I am sure that you will." Fitzleger beamed. "You are exactly the right lady for that most difficult task."

  Madeline pulled a wry face. "Thank you, although I am sure I gave you much cause to doubt that was so."

  "My dear Madeline, it was never really you I doubted so much as myself. I feared I had finally lost my talent for choosing St. Leger wives."

  "You
did not. You remain as ever, our best and wisest of Bride Finders." Leaning down, she brushed a kiss against the old man's withered cheek.

  Fitzleger blushed to the white wings of his hair. He stepped back as the groom clucked to the horse and set the gig into motion. The vicar remained at the gate, waving until Madeline was out of sight.

  But the memory of her smiling face lingered pleasantly in Fitzleger's mind long after she had gone. He had laid to rest two troubled souls within the past week, Roman St. Leger and the unfortunate Mortmain woman. He should be feeling that somberness he always experienced upon attending any of his parishioner's deaths.

  And yet his soul was flooded with light, a serenity such as he had not known since he had made the match between Madeline and Anatole St. Leger.

  That brooding darkness, that unsettled sensation that had troubled the entire village was gone, blown away with the mist that day Madeline had defied destiny itself to save her husband's life.

  Matters had resolved themselves far more happily than he had ever expected, and Fitzleger had gone down on his knees and humbly thanked God. After all his fears and doubts, Madeline had indeed proved to be the one fated to bring good to Anatole St. Leger, ease the longings of his lonely heart. Fitzleger's bride-finding instincts had not failed him after all.

  But, Lord, another match as difficult as this one would prove the death of him, Fitzleger thought wryly. The best and wisest of Bride Finders was more than ready to surrender the reins of his office as soon as a likely candidate presented himself.

  That is, if one ever did.

  Heaving a deep sigh, Fitzleger made his way up the stone pathway leading to the vicarage. Before he reached the stoop, the front door flung open and his little granddaughter marched out.

  Her brassy blonde curls bobbing indignantly, Elfreda wagged one small finger at him. "You are late for tea, Grandpapa."

  "Am I indeed? A thousand pardons, milady." Fitzleger proffered the little girl a solemn bow, fighting hard to suppress his smile.

  The child was a comical sight in her feathered bonnet. An India muslin shawl that was far too large for such a small girl draped around her slender shoulders and trailed the ground. But Effie did adore her finery.

  She had been overindulged in this regard by her doting parents. Quite spoiled by them, in fact, and Fitzleger feared that he was no better.

  * * * * *

  He held out his arms to the child and was agreeably surprised when she ran into them. Effie was usually inclined to complain that hugs wrinkled her frocks and crushed her bonnets.

  But as Fitzleger lifted her up, she wrapped her small arms tightly about his neck and planted a smacking kiss on his cheek.

  "Bless me! What's all this?" Fitzleger cried in delight.

  The child drew back to peer solemnly at him with her great brown eyes. "I thought you needed a kiss, Grandpapa. You were so very sad."

  "Well, I did indeed. But I am not sad, child."

  "You made a sad sound when you were coming up the walk. I heard you from the window." Effie's small shoulders heaved as she gave an imitation of Fitzleger's own deep sigh.

  "Ah, that was a sound of relief," he said, lowering the little girl back to her feet. "Something that I had been concerned about has turned out much better than I hoped."

  "And what is that?" Effie demanded.

  Fitzleger started to put her off with one of those vague explanations usually offered to children regarding adult matters, but something in the girl's earnest gaze stopped him. Effie seldom evinced interest in anything beyond the pert tip of her own small nose.

  So Fitzleger tucked her small hand in his and explained, "I was worried about some young friends of mine. You remember, Madeline, the beautiful lady who stayed with us here at the vicarage for a short while."

  "She's the lady who belongs to the dark man who lives in the castle." Effie sniffed, adding with disapproval, "The one who forgets to comb his hair."

  "That is correct." Fitzleger bit back a smile. "I suppose Beamus told you that Madeline is Lord Anatole's lady."

  "No one told me," Effie replied haughtily. "I already knew when I saw the lady riding with the dark lord on his great horse. Looking at them made me feel all spingly."

  "Spingly?" Fitzleger echoed in confusion.

  "Yes, you know, Grandpapa. Spingly. When you get that funny feeling right here." Effie thumped her fist over the region of her heart.

  Before Fitzleger could question the child further, Effie tugged her hand free and wandered off. Like the distractible butterfly she was, she pursued the kitten she had recently acquired. The gray tabby eluded her grasp and dodged beneath the rosebushes.

  Fitzleger stared after his granddaughter, stunned. Dear Lord. Could it truly be possible? That the next Bride Finder had been before his eyes all along, and he had never guessed it?

  The office had always been filled by a male descendant of the Fitzleger line. And yet… there was no reason that it had to be, none that Fitzleger had ever heard of.

  Effie had just described the same sensations that he himself experienced when he knew that a match was right. Only he had never had a word for it before.

  Spingly. It fit perfectly.

  Trembling with excitement, Fitzleger bent down beside Effie, where she peered into the rosebushes, imperiously demanding, " Gray Paws, come out of there at once. It is time for tea."

  Fitzleger gathered both the child's hands into his own. "Oh, my dear little Effie," he murmured.

  She frowned at him, clearly annoyed at having her pursuit of the kitten interrupted. "Why, whatever is the matter, Grandpapa? Why do you look at me so?"

  His heart flooded with joy at his discovery, Fitzleger was almost too overcome to speak.

  "My dear child," he said thickly. "I have just realized you have a remarkable destiny before you. You are going to be the next Bride Finder."

  "What's that?"

  "You are the one who will find brides and husbands for all of the St. Leger family. Like Grandpapa does now."

  Effie crinkled her nose, clearly unimpressed. Her bonnet feathers waved as she shook her head. "No, I won't. I shall be far too busy finding a husband for me!'

  Fitzleger was momentarily daunted by Effie's response to his great tidings. But he smiled fondly, remembering the girl was full young. There was plenty of time to teach her the importance of the special gift she had inherited.

  Helping retrieve Gray Paws from the bushes, he handed the kitten to Effie and allowed the child to lead him inside for tea.

  * * * * *

  When Madeline returned to Castle Leger, Anatole was nowhere to be found in the house. But she was able to guess where he had gone.

  Slipping through the dining room, she plunged out into the enchanted tangle that was Deidre's garden. She followed the worn path that led through the fragrant burst of color and soft petals, picking her way carefully as the trail began to slope downward, leading to the cliffs at the back of the house.

  When she'd cleared the last of the rhododendron trees, she spotted Anatole in the distance. He stood where the land ended so dramatically, his face angled toward a flock of gulls wheeling their way back to the sea. His black hair and broad shoulders etched against the brilliant blue sky, he made a stark figure, as strong and solitary as his rugged sweep of land.

  Madeline staggered to an abrupt halt, hesitating. This was Anatole's place, where he had often vanished before. To escape from the house, from bitter memories, even from her. She suddenly felt like an intruder. Perhaps it would be better if she returned to the house and—

  But it was already too late for that. Anatole had stiffened, sensing her, though he took great pains not to make it obvious. He came about slowly, beckoning her toward him. Lifting up her skirts, she made her way down the hill.

  As she approached, Anatole smiled, holding out his hand to her. She slipped her fingers into the strength of his. She knew she had to stop treating the man like an invalid, but she could not refrain from an anxious scan o
f his features.

  He was still a trifle pale, his face thinner than it had been, deep lines etched by his eyes, but she was not certain they stemmed from any physical pain.

  "My lord," she said. "Are—are you sure you should be pushing your recovery this way, walking about so soon?"

  "I cannot stay in bed forever, Madeline. At least not alone."

  She blushed. They had been through so much together during their short marriage. It almost felt like a lifetime. And yet the man could still fluster her with but a word, a look.

  She glanced away from him, drinking in the vista that spilled out before her, the sea so far below lapping against the shore, the sun casting diamonds of light upon the restless waves.

  "So this is your special place," she murmured. "It's beautiful here."

  "I've always thought so. So did my mother. Perhaps that is why she chose to come here the night… This is where she died."

  "Oh." The beauty dimmed somewhat for Madeline. She became more conscious of the staggering height of the cliff, the jagged rocks below. It was easy to forget that Castle Leger could be a cruel and unforgiving place to those who did not belong here.

  She understood now why Anatole had never wanted her to come down here. Even now his hand tightened on hers, drawing her back a pace from the cliff's edge. She studied his face for any sign of the pain he always experienced when mentioning his mother, but his eyes were more pensive than sad.

  "I've always come here to be alone, to think," he said. "And I've been doing a great deal of thinking while I've been laid up."

  "About what?" she asked softly.

  "Many things. About my mother, my father. Even Roman. Myself… wondering why I am still alive."

  "Oh, please don't, Anatole," Madeline cried, shivering. That was something she did not even want to consider, why the terrible vision had not come true. It was absurd, she knew. But she felt as though questioning the miracle might undo it, somehow result in the dread prophecy yet reaching out to snatch Anatole away from her.

  Appearing aware of her distress, Anatole abandoned the subject. Wrapping his arm about her waist, he drew her close to his side and spoke of Roman's death instead.