Kay Hooper - The Matchmaker

A MYSTERIOUS MAN WITH A STRANGE TALENT...
A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN WITH A DARK SECRET...
AND A LOVE FATED TO BREAK ALL THE RULES
His name was Cyrus Fortune . As enigmatic and elusive as the mysterious forces that had brought him to Richmond, he was secretly desired by a score of women and openly envied by dozens of men. But only the ravishing Julia Drummond ignited his restless soul. She was the beguiling society beauty who had never known the thrill of true passion. A strange and wonderful fate had led him to her door. Now Fortune would win her tender heart.
Something about the mesmerizing, black-eyed stranger aroused Julia as no man had ever done. Powerfully drawn to him, she would defy convention and scandalize society by breaking her most sacred vows. But dangerous forces beyond her control soon threatened her newly won happiness.... Lady Luck had smiled on her once. Would she now lose the only man she could ever love -- before they'd fulfilled their rapturous destiny?

It was early one chill November morning in 1870 when he was found in a basket on the doorstep of an elegant mansion in Richmond, Virginia, wrapped snugly in several spotlessly clean and seemingly new woolen blankets. A housemaid, coming out to sweep the step, nearly fell over him. He didn't seem the least bit concerned by his apparent abandonment, chortling hap pily at the young girl who, after a shriek that should have brought the neighbors bolt upright in their beds, seized the basket by its handle and dragged it into the house. (The baby boy, though obviously an infant, was not a small one. The housemaid, though an average-sized specimen, was totally unfamiliar with babies and had no idea if she could get this one out of his basket even if she could lift him. Which she doubted.)

Within minutes, a small group of servants surrounded the basket, all staring down at its occupant in varying degrees of bemusement or consternation. The infant blew a bubble at them with the greatest of goodwill and waved one pudgybut surprisingly well-formedlittle hand, in which was clutched a much-wrinkled and rather damp piece of paper.

The butler, no more familiar with babies than the housemaid but aware of his responsibilities nevertheless, bent down and wrested the note from the child's hand. Actually, he didn't have to wrest very hard, because the boy gave it up willingly, almost as if it were his idea rather than the butler's.

The butler, whose name was, oddly enough, Stork, fastidiously smoothed the note, held it out, and read aloud in a tone of mounting astonishment: "This child is The Sun, born for great things. His father was a prince, his mother"

"The son?" one of the footmen said. "That's a peculiar way to put it"

"Not s-o-n. S-u-n," the butler corrected the footman. "Like in the sky. Now, where was I? Oh. Born for great things... His father was a prince, his mother a poor girl, but a good girl seduced"Stork cleared his throat rather loudly, cast a quick glance at the young house maid who was blushing furiously, then went on stolidly"seduced by one immeasurably above her."

"Wonder if he really was a prince?" the same footman murmured, nudging contemplatively the basket with the toe of his boot.

Stork ground his teeth audibly. "by one immeasur ably above her. An old and wise Gypsy foretold"

"Gypsies and princes?" the footman queried critically. "Doesn't sound right to me."

"Tom, if you say one more word!" Stork glared at the footman until he assumed the properly respectful ex pression, then cleared his throat again and read the remainder of the note in the firm tones of a man who didn't mean to be interrupted.

"The Gypsy foretold a special destiny for the The Sun, provided he was put into Fortune's hands. I so deliver him to Fortune, in good health."

The servants looked at one another, and it was the cook who said practically, "Well, of course the poor mother wanted her babe brought up in comfort, and Mr. Fortune's is the finest house in Richmond. I don't doubt the girl chose him because of that. And it's natural she'd make up a fine-sounding story, hoping to make the babe more acceptable."

Tom, venturing a comment since Mr. Stork was obviously finished reading, said with a heavy emphasis, "She picked right all the way around, didn't she?"

Stork was so much in agreement with the spirit of this remark that he could only sigh and look somewhat mournfully toward the stairs. "I suppose I'd better..."

The other servants vanished promptly, giving no more than one or two muffled grunts as elbows and feet collided in the doorway, leaving only the timid house maid and the butler in the entrance hall. She twisted her apron between nervous fingers and said hesitantly, "Sir, shouldn't we get the baby out of that basket?"

Stork looked down his nose at the infant, who was sucking one fist as he stared gravelyand unblinkinglyback with very wide, very black eyes. "He looks comfortable enough to me," the butler decided. "Stay here with him, Mary, while I go inform Mr. Fortune."

He went up the stairs with a stately tread, returning some minutes later wearing a resigned expression. He stood eyeing the child for a moment, then bent and grasped the handles of the basket. A peculiar sound, a gasping grunt, escaped him when he straightened. The basket was a solidly made affair and with the large baby in it made a very heavy burden indeed.

Stork, aware of the housemaid's scrutiny, strove for an appearance of ease and staggered only a little as he carried it upstairs. He had to rest a moment on the landing, but it was all right as he realized that Mary couldn't see him. The child was perfectly quietand perfectly still whenever Stork lifted his basket, as if he were fully aware of his precarious balance.

The butler delivered the basket to the master bedroom, suffering the indignity of being greeted by a shout of laughter and the words: "Storks do bring babies, after all!"

He had expected it. He knew Mr. Tate Fortune rather well.

The entire neighborhood, in fact, knew Tate Fortune. So well did they know him that not a soul was surprised to discover he'd not only taken in the baby boy found in a basket, but also bestowed on the child his own surnameand the Christian name of Cyrus. The Sun might be the boy's given name, Tate explained when asked about the matter, but it was a cursed confusing one. And, besides, Cyrus meant sun.

No one had the nerve to ask if he'd considered the idea that "The Sun" might well have been only a misspelling and undue emphasis on the part of an overwrought mother.

In any case, young Cyrus thrived in his adopted home. He proved to be an amiable infant, sleeping a great deal in those first months- and not at all fussy about what he ate. He ate a great deal. He was not a fat child; those who lifted him eventually discovered that his frame was constructed of large bones and very firm flesh that resembled muscle far more than it did fat.

He was, actually, a rather peculiar baby. When the first pangs of teething woke him from a sound sleep in the middle of the night, his bellow held more startled outrage than pain and roused the household from attic to cellars. Ears ringing, Tate gave the boy one of his best leather gloves, and young Cyrus seemed satisfied to chew on it. The first word out of the child's mouth was "Tate," spoken with perfect clarity. Tate had said several times in the boy's presence that he'd rather not be called Papa but, still...

Cyrus didn't crawl. One morning, sitting on a thick rug in Tate's study, he simply maneuvered himself upright and began walking. He never so much as staggered, and fell once only because Tate's big hunting dog accidentally knocked him over.

He was no more than three when he began reading, and his precocious curiosity seemed insatiable. Tate, highly entertained, spoke to the boy as he would an adult, answered his questions with total frankness, and generally encouraged him to think for himself , to ignore society's conventions whenever they didn't appear to make sense, and to carve his mark upon the world.