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    He Who Waits
    He Who Waits
    He Who Waits
    Ebook104 pages1 hour

    He Who Waits

    By Susan Cronin

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    About this ebook

    In the wilds of Louisiana, Maison LeBeaux has sat abandoned for over two hundred years. The townspeople whisper that Lucien LeBeaux still waits within the old walls, and no one dares go inside. That is, until Veronica Lewis and her father decide to renovate the house. Is she the one for whom he waits?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCaddo Nine Tales
    Release dateMay 24, 2012
    ISBN9781476233352
    He Who Waits
    Author

    Susan Cronin

    Susan Cronin lives with her husband and children in Louisiana.

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      Book preview

      He Who Waits - Susan Cronin

      He Who Waits

      By

      Susan Cronin

      Smashwords Edition

      Copyright 2012 Susan Cronin

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

      Chapter One

      April 30th 1812

      Lucien LeBeaux paced the length of his second story balcony, more animal now than man. He stopped momentarily to gaze down upon his family’s graveyard that lay behind an arched wrought iron gate to the east of the house. Four generations of LeBeaux lie resting under the cold marble stones, the oldest were entombed in the walls of the small stone chapel that was at the far end of the graveyard, his father, only dead two months, lay buried near the entrance. Lucien stood still, as if listening to his ancestors crying out for his action. Anyone that might have passed would have sworn they looked upon the Devil surveying Hell had they looked upon Lucien at the moment. His normally immaculate black boots were scuffed and soiled. His skin tight black riding breeches were ripped and exposed a length of muscled thigh. His black tailcoat carried thorns and leaves, and his frilled white cravat had disappeared two days ago, leaving his shirtfront open to reveal a chest that in the moonlight might have been carved of marble. Long, aristocratic fingers raked through curls of hair as black as the night sky that hung overhead. Eyes as silver as the full moon searched the dark forest that covered the hill below. They searched the faint lights that flickered in the town that, until today, had been named Bayou LeBeaux. Now it was to be called Pottersville. Lucien spat at the thought.

      Where are you, ma belle? Lucien asked the darkness. For three days he had searched. Where had her father, the fat American, taken her?

      As if the darkness knew him for its own, an answer drifted to him on the night wind. A peal of church bells from the newly constructed Protestant church in town wafted to him on a wisp of ghostly fog.

      Impossibly white teeth snarled as he turned, taking the stairs three at a time. His body was tuned from desperation, listening only to the part of his mind that controlled his animal impulses. Mounting his stallion, a steed as black as Lucien’s mood, he disappeared into the wood as if made of shadow.

      The plain pews, still raw with new wood had been transformed by the labors of the church women. New transplants, most of them had had little joy in the new territory of Louisiana, just this day made a state, and they threw themselves into the joy of the pastor’s wedding wholeheartedly. Boughs of fresh spring greenery festooned the end of each pew, and Mrs. Thomas had lent her magnificent standing candelabras that now blazed the fresh white walls with warmth. A night wedding was most unusual, but the bride’s father had insisted on the marriage taking place as soon as the pastor returned from Baton Rouge, which he had done only an hour hence.

      Twas that French devil, that’s why.’ Mrs. Boyd had whispered just that afternoon to Mrs. Anders as they had arranged the freshly cut flowers in Mrs. Beckham’s vases. ‘Much more time left on her own, and something might have happened. I can’t imagine what Mrs. Petrue was thinking introducing that child to him.

      Mrs. Anders had cast a nervous glance toward Mrs. Petrue and her daughter Amanda, both of whom were hanging greenery. I’m sure none of this was her intention. She had the highest of purposes, I’m sure,’ she sighed, not sure at all. ‘Well, Reverend Potter will straighten her out.’ Her hand had waived to the back of the church, where the sound of men pounding on lumber could be heard. ‘They had better finish the Pastor’s quarters soon if he is to be a married man!

      Now, the two women sat placidly in the third pew, surrounded by all of the townsfolk that were God-fearing, i.e. not Catholic, and admired their handy work. Pastor Franklin had been called over from Hapsburg, and he now stood in Pastor Potter’s usual spot.

      Pastor Potter now stood a step below and to Pastor Franklin’s left, a nervous wet stain spreading under the arms of his plain black topcoat. A shaking hand mopped his face with a muslin handkerchief, but his pince-nez glasses still threatened to slide down his damp nose.

      The bride surveyed the entire scene, her father’s fingers digging into her right arm. She looked down at Amanda Petrue’s gold satin gown, overlaid in ecru lace with its sheer lace sleeves and fashionably high waist. She knew it made her ebony hair shimmer, and she imagined the tears in her eyes made them glow a deep emerald. How beautiful it all would have been if only…

      Stop it, now, girl, her father growled lowly into her ear, as if he had read her thoughts.

      She turned her head to look at her father as if she had never seen him before. Stop what, sir?

      Stop crying for the papist fiend, that’s what. If he dares show himself here tonight, I’ll see him damned to Hell, and I’ll see you follow your Mother into the grave. Now, here’s your husband waiting for you. Mind you don’t embarrass me tonight, hear?

      A laugh bubbled up to her lips and she bit her tongue. Looking down the short aisle at the skinny, balding man that was about to be given the right to do anything he willed to her, she knew that if she gave voice to the laughter, she would laugh and laugh, maybe never stop laughing until they locked her in an asylum down in Baton Rouge. For a moment she considered that option as infinitely preferable to her current predicament. As her father parted from her, giving her hand into the slimy fingers of Alan Potter, she hung her head as if in prayer, but it was no God to which she prayed.

      Lucien, je suis tout a toi,’ she whispered in the language that he had taught her, ‘Sauve-moi.

      In answer, she felt the rush of the night air blow her hair into dark spirals and she turned at the sound of her name wrenching from deep within her savior’s chest.

      Vivian!

      Turning, she saw for an instant the vision of Lucien, wild as the wind, framed within the doorway of the church, his shirt hanging open, his black tails flying behind him as he strode madly into the church. She fell to her knees, opening her arms wide in grateful supplication.

      Lucien! Save me!

      Just at that moment, a violent gust of wind swirled into the church, blowing out all of Mrs. Thomas’ beautiful candles.

      In the darkness, she could see Lucien, framed for moment in the rectangle of moonlight that flooded through the front doors, before he disappeared.

      Glass shattered, and Vivian heard Mrs. Beckham scream. Her father’s voice bellowed out. Catholic Dog! Tonight you die!

      There was shuffling, and she felt Alan Potter step on the hem of her borrowed dress, his clammy fingers brushing her arm. She moved to step away from him, and she heard the satin give way with a terrible ripping sound. Cool air swirled around her legs before two arms lifted her up against a hard, heaving chest. She lifted her fists to pound on her abductor before a velvet whisper stilled her hands.

      It is I, ma belle. I have you now. I will have you forever.

      Her head fell gratefully against the rock of his shoulder, feeling his legs move the two of them out into the darkness. In her relief, she whispered simply, Lucien.

      With a single move, Lucien set her upon his horse and swept up behind her. Instantly, they were in flight, followed closely by the men folk of the town, led by her cursing father.

      "Vivian! I command you to stop this instant!

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