The Matchmaker (33 page)

Cyrus never tired of looking at her. And he never
ceased to feel a sense of wonder. During the last months,
her love, given so freely and completely, had deepened
the bond between them. Cyrus never felt lonely now,
and the place inside him that had been empty was filled with her love and his own. "Revolt won," Noel said.

Glancing aside at his friend, Cyrus said, "Did it?"

"Yes.
By ten lengths.
How'd you know?"

Mildly, Cyrus said, "A paddock tip, as I told you."

Noel made a rude noise. "The nag was a thirty-to-one
long shot, and the jockey was so surprised he nearly fell
off at the finish. I made a small fortune, thank you very
much, but I'd like to know how you knew which horse would win the race."

"A lucky guess."

Sighing, Noel shook his head a little. He'd expected
that sort of answer. "Well, take a lucky guess about
tomorrow's races, would you?"

Looking at his wife again, Cyrus said absently, "I
shouldn't have done it yesterday. You don't need to make
more money, Noel, and I shouldn't abuse knowledge for
the sake of gain."

"Not even for a friend?" Noel's voice was dry, and he
wasn't surprised when he received no answer. Wherever his friend's peculiar talents came from, they had grown stronger—and even more mysterious—during the past months. Cyrus had changed a great deal since returning to Richmond the summer past. There was a new calmness about him, a vivid wisdom in his black eyes, and
Noel had come to the conclusion he was now literally
incapable of raising his voice; it remained always soft and
unruffled.

His humor was kinder and never sardonic, and not
even the most cynical person in Richmond doubted that he absolutely adored his lovely wife.

Still, people occasionally commented on the strange events of the past year, and eyed Cyrus in puzzlement. Thinking of those events himself, Noel said, "The last time we spoke, your Pinkertons hadn't managed to dig up any more information about Prescott; is that still the
case?"

"The case is closed," Cyrus replied, looking at Noel again. "They traced him to an orphanage in New York, but the place burned shortly after he left."

"Burned," Noel murmured. "He did like fire, didn't he?"

"Apparently.
Two people died in that particular fire,
including the priest who ran the place. If Prescott
wanted to obliterate every trace of his beginnings, he did
a good job. All the records were destroyed."

After a moment Noel nodded to the gold-headed cane
under Cyrus's relaxed hand. "What about that?"

Cyrus lifted the cane and held it in both hands,
studying it thoughtfully. "This is still a mystery." Even
more so than his friend knew, he thought.

The night of the fire, Julia had clung to the cane long
after he'd carried her from the burning house. In fact,
he'd had to gently pry her fingers off it, even though she'd been unconscious. When she'd first awakened, he had seen her eyes flicker to the nightstand where he'd
placed the cane, but she hadn't said anything about it
then. Only later did she tell him it had saved her as well as him from Prescott.

It had also been Julia who had first noticed the
birthmark on Cyrus's arm—or, rather, its disappearance.
The day of the fire it had marked his arm with a
blood-red crescent; the day after, it was gone.

Cyrus had stopped asking himself questions about any
of it. Like Julia, he felt sure there would be answers
eventually. In any case, he was so happy with her and so delighted by a new appreciation of life and
love,
he was
perfectly willing to be patient.

He wasn't particularly surprised, on that May after
noon, to find a visitor awaiting him and Julia when they
returned home. But when they walked together into the parlor, he stopped and stood staring in wonder at the woman who rose to face them.

She couldn't have been much above fifty, and was stylishly dressed, elegant. Her hair was thick and richly black, her face still strikingly beautiful. None of those attributes, however, was responsible for Cyrus's shock.

Her eyes were black.

In a voice that was the feminine counterpart of his own lyrical tone, she said, "My name is Catherine Wingate. I—I believe you know who I am."

Cyrus nodded slowly. "You're my mother."

Perhaps oddly, Cyrus felt no bitterness and, in fact, no
discomfort at all with the stranger who had borne him.
Instead, he felt very calm and, curiously, had few
questions now. It was as if her appearance had opened a
locked door in his mind.

Moments later he was on the settee beside Julia as they both looked at Catherine, and she was speaking
softly. No further introductions had been necessary, and
she told her story simply from the day a seventeen-year-
old girl had found herself pregnant and unmarried.

"My family was wealthy, and didn't disown me, but
insisted I not keep my child. There was no choice for
me. So they sent me away, to relatives, where I wasn't
known. I was told my child would be given to strangers.
That was when a Gypsy caravan passed through town.
I—I'm not sure why I went to the Old One, the Gypsy.
It was as if I was drawn to her."

Catherine drew a deep breath and quietly related the Gypsy's predictions and warnings. Then she said, "I couldn't kill my child, I couldn't. If I had known then
what harm he'd do, perhaps I might have found the
strength, but how could I believe such a terrible thing of the child growing inside my body?"

Julia, one hand resting over her rounded belly and the other clasping her husband's hand, looked at the older
woman with compassion and understanding. "You
couldn't," she murmured. "Of course you couldn't."
Catherine sent her a fleeting smile in return, so like Cyrus's, it caught at Julia's heart.

Catherine went on. "The Old One told me what to do,
though she knew I was making a mistake. She told me
precisely where my sons were to be taken after they were born, and dictated the written messages I was to leave with them. I managed to persuade my aunt to help
me, though she naturally didn't believe a word the
Gypsy had told me.

"When the two of you were born, my aunt pointed out
triumphantly that my firstborn was the dark one—you."
She looked at Cyrus, her gaze turned to the past. "He
was fair, almost angelic. But his eyes were lifeless even then. Yours were filled with delight." She blinked,
then
shook her head a little. "I did what I had to do. And for thirty-two years I lived with the knowledge of what I'd done, even though my life was a normal one afterward.
I married a good man; he died ten years ago, and we had
no children together. I never attempted to see my sons, because of the Gypsy's warning."

Catherine unfolded a newspaper that had been tucked beside her in the chair, and held it out to Cyrus. "Then,
last summer, I saw this."

He studied it. There was a photograph and article about him, done when he'd returned to Richmond. Also on the page was an article about the newly elected city
council, with a photograph of the nine men.

Softly, Catherine said, "I knew Fortune had given you
his name; the Gypsy said he would. I didn't know his name—but I knew his eyes."

Almost to himself, Cyrus murmured, "He was able to hide the emptiness from all of us for so long. But a camera sees what's real, without illusion."

"I knew, when I looked at the pictures, that the Gypsy
had been right about it all," Catherine said. "And I
realized the enormity of my mistake. I had tried to break the pattern, to alter destiny, and because of that your life was in danger."

"Is that when you sent me the cane?" Cyrus asked,
glancing toward it where it leaned against the settee.

Catherine nodded. "From the article about you, I judged you weren't aware of the gift you'd been given.
The cane was your father's, and I knew it would be a—a
spur to your understanding. He had told me he wanted
his son to have it."

"Who was my father?" Cyrus asked quietly.

She hesitated, then said, "I can tell you only what I
know, and what I sensed. The Gypsy was right—he was
no ordinary man. He said his name was Fate. There was
a kind of power in him, a positive force I've never felt in
anyone else.
Except you."

Cyrus's eyes held hers steadily. "He knew he'd have a
son, yet he didn't stay with you?"

A slight smile played at Catherine's lips, a smile that held vast understanding. "He couldn't stay with me, I knew that. But he gave the world a gift.
You."
She
nodded slightly, and her voice was certain.
"To fight for
love.
To guard and protect love.
To be the guiding hand love sometimes needs. That would be your destiny, he said. Just as he was Fate, you would be Fortune.
Love's Fortune."

Cyrus didn't look away from her, and his lean face was still calm, his eyes still tranquil. "So I'm to be a matchmaker?" he asked mildly.

"You don't need me to answer that." Catherine smiled again. "Once you fell in love with Julia, your course was set. Without her you would never have understood what love could be; now that you do, your instinct is to help
others find what the two of you share."

"A tall order," Cyrus
said,
a sudden hint of amusement in his eyes. "And a lifetime's commitment."

"Isn't love worth that?" his mother asked.

Cyrus didn't have to reply aloud; his agreement was
plain in his smile. He turned his head and looked at
Julia, his face softening in an expression of wonder and delight.

"Yes," he murmured. "It certainly is."