Chapter 35

35

Another painting nearly complete. Bellamy McKenna swiped yellow into the crimson along the Mississippi River horizon, lending the sunrise more light.

Then he stood back, tilted his head, and examined the landscape, narrowing his eyes critically and taking in every detail.

The river needed another shadow.

He stuck the paintbrush he'd been using for the sun behind his ear and pulled out the one resting behind his other ear that he'd used for the darker paints. He dipped it in the sapphire on the palette and added a stroke below one of the sycamores that leaned out over the riverbank.

The lantern hanging above him from the rafter of the shed gave a flicker, as if to remind him that the oil was burning low and the night would soon be over, leaving him little time for sleeping.

"Who needs sleep anyway?" He set the palette down on the tall, wobbly table that held his paint box. Of course, after the past few hours of working, his paint box was mostly empty, and his supplies were now scattered across the table—brushes, rags, paint tubes, lids, bottles of varnish and turpentine, stubs of chalk, and the other items he used to create his artwork.

The artwork he created in his studio.

He snorted and glanced around the shed.

Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined one wall and were filled with crates of all the various spirits sold in the pub. The wall closest to the door was crowded with casks of beer, ale, and, of course, Guinness.

A large trunk sat on the other side of his worktable and was where he locked away his easel and everything during the daylight hours—everything except for the paintings that were drying, which he laid on the top shelves on crates that no one ever disturbed.

Now that he'd actually started selling his work, he'd been painting longer hours, sometimes until the wee hours of the morn.

He wasn't complaining. Not at all. It had taken him years to reach this point, years of practicing and perfecting his skills, years before finally selling anything and making a name for himself.

Ach, he wasn't making a name for the Irishman Bellamy McKenna. No, he was making a name for the good American man William Moore.

He crossed his arms and studied the scrawled initials at the bottom of the painting. W. B. M. If only he could tell everyone the initials stood for William Bellamy McKenna instead of William Bennett Moore. If only people weren't so set against Irish immigrants.

With a tired sigh, Bellamy swiped up the closest rag, already saturated with turpentine, and began to clean the paint from his fingers as meticulously as always. His chest burned with an indignation that was getting harder to ignore with every painting he sold under his false name.

But what choice did he have? None of the curators, patrons, or shopkeepers had taken him seriously when he'd tried to sell his realistic landscapes as himself. But as a courier and servant for an eccentric and reclusive and entirely made-up St. Louis artist named William Moore, he'd garnered interest.

Finally last autumn he'd made his first sale, and he'd had a steady stream of requests ever since. In early May, there had been a span of a week or so when the interest in William Moore's paintings had gotten almost too serious. One of the patrons had wanted to meet William, had insisted on it, actually.

But with the resurgence of cholera and then the devastating fire that had swept through the city several weeks ago, the interest in William Moore and his paintings had dwindled, and rightly so. Many had lost everything in the fire. Those who hadn't had their livelihoods destroyed by the raging flames were busy trying to escape the deadly grip of cholera.

Even so, Bellamy had several orders to finish. And when those were delivered, he'd keep painting just as he always had, whether he sold anything or not, because he loved it. Painting was in his blood every bit as much as the matchmaking, if not more.

A soft tap on the door broke through the quiet of the night.

The windowless shack didn't afford natural light, but through the crack in the back wall, it was easy to see that darkness hadn't yet been broken by dawn.

It was still too early for Jenny to be up and puttering about. But maybe his sister had had a bout of sleeplessness as she did from time to time and was coming to watch him paint. She was the only one he ever allowed in while he was working, the only one who knew about his painting besides her husband, Galvin.

Of course, Oscar also knew, but he acted like he didn't, was too embarrassed to have a son who painted to admit it to anyone. Whenever any of the customers asked about the paintings on the pub walls, Oscar refused to acknowledge that Bellamy had painted them. He claimed he'd gotten them from someone when he'd first opened the pub.

Maybe once upon a time, it had mattered that Oscar was ashamed of him. But now the secrecy was working to his advantage. Or was it?

Another rap came against the door, this time louder.

"Mind you, I'm coming." He wiped at the last streaks of paint on his hands, tossed the paintbrushes to the table, and then crossed to the door. He lifted the latch he'd installed long ago to keep anyone from barging in on him. As he started to swing open the door, he halted at the sight of a man, leaving only a crack to peer through instead.

"Bellamy McKenna?" The fellow's voice held a strong Irish brogue, one with a County Kerry accent. A recent immigrant, no doubt.

"Oh aye, I'm he." From the sliver of soft light coming from inside the shed, Bellamy got a glimpse of the man's face—lean but hardened, young but aged beyond his time like so many of the immigrants.

Beneath his cap, his hair was fair and overlong, covering a scar on his forehead. He wore spectacles that shadowed his eyes but couldn't hide the worry there. "Are you the matchmaker?"

Bellamy always believed a person's eyes could tell a great deal about them. And in this case, this fellow's eyes were calling out for help.

Bellamy slipped out of the shed and closed the door behind him. "Right enough. I'm the matchmaker." After forming two matches for the Shanahans, he had every right to call himself the matchmaker, didn't he? It didn't matter that he hadn't matched anyone else since Shrove Tuesday. "Who is wanting to know?"

The man glanced around the alley behind the pub as though to make sure they were alone. The pub windows were all dark, including those on the second floor where he made his home with Oscar, Jenny, and Galvin. The buildings on either side of the pub—a grocery and a barbershop—were both equally as dark. The sheds and privies and stables that lined the alley were also quiet. As far as Bellamy could tell, even the rats were asleep.

"The name is Torin," the fellow whispered. "Torin Darragh."

Torin Darragh. Bellamy sifted the name through his mind. It was familiar. Where had he heard it?

Torin again glanced around, shifting nervously. "Can you help me with a match?"

Did the fellow suspect he was being watched, perhaps followed? This time as Bellamy cast about the alley he spotted two other men, both on each end of the street, as though standing guard.

What were these fellows doing out at this time of night? And why was Torin visiting him so secretly? Something wasn't right. Usually only gangs or thieves were out in the wee dark hours.

Gangs. Aye, that's how he knew the name. Torin Darragh was one of the leaders of Saints Alley. Although not as dangerous or violent as some of the other gangs, Saints Alley was still a gang, and Bellamy didn't want to have anything to do with the lot of them.

He'd managed so far to stay uninvolved and neutral for the ten years he'd lived in St. Louis, and he had no intention of being dragged in now.

He gave a curt shake of his head. "Sorry. I can't—"

"The match isn't for me." Torin spoke in a rush, his voice still low. "'Tis for my sister, Alannah."

"Is it now?"

"Aye, so it is."

Bellamy's mind set to work again. Who was Torin's sister? From the little he knew about Torin Darragh, the fellow had arrived last summer without any family. That wasn't necessarily unusual for a young man like Torin. Maybe he'd been sent ahead by his family to work and earn passage for the rest of them. Or maybe he'd lost most of his family during the Great Hunger.

Whatever the case, 'twas difficult for a penniless man to make his way in St. Louis, and gangs offered the promise of safety and help and family for those newly arrived fellows who had no one else. The trouble was, the gangs not only fought amongst each other, but the fighting was spilling over to the nativists, the Protestant and native-born who resented the Irish Catholics.

Apparently sometime recently, Torin's sister had arrived in St. Louis. He'd likely put her in danger because of his involvement in his gang. Or maybe she was falling prey to the debauchery of the Kerry Patch slums. Being the good brother that he was, now Torin was trying to find Alannah a match, hoping to save her.

No one could fault the man for caring for his sister. In fact, Bellamy liked him because of it. But still, he wasn't willing to risk his own family's safety and livelihood. "Ach, I'd like to help you, that I would. But it just wouldn't work."

Torin pushed up his glasses, even though they weren't sliding down his nose, likely a nervous habit. "I heard you made matches for the Shanahans."

"Aye, so I did."

"I work for Kiernan Shanahan, at his glass-cutting factory."

Kiernan was a good man, and Bellamy liked him. Did Torin expect that the connection with Kiernan would help his cause? Because it wouldn't.

As if sensing another refusal, Torin lowered his voice another decibel. "Kiernan's been helping me keep Alannah safe, got her a job. But now her mistress is going away, and she'll be without work."

Bellamy needed no other information to piece together the puzzle. Alannah was likely working for Enya in the house that Sullivan had bought for her. But now with the rapid spread of cholera, Sullivan was moving his wife down to New Orleans. Bellamy had learned of the plans just yesterday.

"If I can find Alannah a nice fellow, that'll solve all the problems."

What kind of danger was she in? Bellamy was tempted to ask. But it wasn't his place since he had no intention of getting involved.

"Please," Torin whispered, as if seeing Bellamy's resolve.

"I'm sure you'll be finding someone for her soon enough on your own."

"I don't want anyone from the Patch." His tone turned hard. "I want someone better for her."

Better? Really? What did Torin expect, that Bellamy would be able to waltz into a family like the Shanahans and set up a match for Alannah with a wealthy man like Kiernan?

The Shanahans would never—not in a hundred years—consider such a match, especially not Kiernan. As decent as the fellow was, he was too ambitious to marry beneath him.

Final words of denial crowded to the tip of Bellamy's tongue. But at the desperation etched into Torin's face, he expelled a sigh. How could he refuse? But how could he possibly help Torin—and Alannah—when doing so would be inviting a whole load of problems upon himself that he didn't want?

The only way such an arrangement would work was if Torin didn't say a word about it to anyone. Was that why he'd come so secretly? Did he realize the same?

Torin didn't move, didn't blink, just watched him hopefully.

"Fine," Bellamy whispered. "I'll see what I can do."

Torin nodded. "That would be grand—"

"Dontcha be getting your hopes up, now," Bellamy said in a rush. "And you'll not be telling nobody."

"I won't."

"It'll stay right here between you and me?"

"Aye, so it will. You have my word." Torin gave a final nod, then pivoted and began to jog away.

Bellamy watched until the fellow disappeared around the corner, taking his lookout men with him. Then Bellamy leaned against the shed door and peered up at the sky, the few remaining stars winking at him.

Whatever had he gotten himself into now?