Chapter 2
“Today is the day, Bellamy.” Oscar’s voice boomed through the apartment, stirring Bellamy to wakefulness.
He stretched on the sofa where he slept most nights. Even with his eyes closed, the bright daylight coming in the open windows indicated that it was at least midmorning.
A shadowy presence stepped above him, one containing the waft of strong coffee. “You better have a good and decent fellow lined up for the senator’s daughter.”
What a great way to start the day, with Oscar nagging him just as he had all day yesterday.
“I’ve got it under control, so I do.” Bellamy draped his arm over his eyes and pretended to sleep so Oscar would go away and leave him alone.
“Ach, it doesn’t look like you have control of anything.” Oscar’s loud slurp filled the quiet of the apartment. “Least of all that young woman.”
Bellamy inwardly sighed. The only word Deirdre Whitcomb knew was no. She’d said it to at least twelve candidates he’d presented to her, including an old flame he thought she still cared about.
Even using his unconventional methods, Bellamy hadn’t convinced her to fall for any of the men. And rightly so, if he was honest with himself. None of them had been good for her. But then, who was her true love?
His thoughts jumped back to the conversation he’d had with Zaira yesterday when he’d run into her on his way to one of the galleries.
Even just thinking about that woman again sent a jolt of heat through his gut.
Ach. Whyever did she have to be so beautiful every time he saw her?
Not only had her rosy cheeks and bright green eyes been prettier than usual, but the gown she’d been wearing had molded to her body, showing every blessed hill and valley of her figure.
Thankfully her stunning red hair had been mostly tucked out of sight.
Because whenever it was down, he could hardly think coherently around her and usually made a total bumbling blaggard of himself .
. . Although he’d acted like a bumbling blaggard around her yesterday, too, letting himself get carried away with staring at her.
“Well?” Oscar hadn’t budged from the spot beside the sofa.
“Doncha be worrying.” Bellamy forced his thoughts from Zaira to Deirdre. “I have just the right man for her.”
It wasn’t entirely a lie. He might not know the right man, but Zaira did.
“Oh aye. I can help you, Bellamy. But if you don’t think so, then go ahead and keep looking for a match. I’m sure you’ll figure it out since you’re so smart.”
He’d have to humble himself and tell Zaira he’d been wrong and that he needed her help after all.
He nearly groaned at the prospect of doing so.
Not that he was opposed to apologizing. He’d had to do his fair share of that over the years.
But the idea of having to admit he was wrong to Zaira was like having to eat dirt.
Oscar took another noisy slurp of coffee. “I don’t need to be reminding you that everyone is watching how you handle this. Everyone. And if you don’t form the right match, you’ll be setting yourself back.”
Bellamy was just beginning to earn his reputation as a good matchmaker, and he couldn’t afford any mistakes now.
Aye, the stakes were high.
Part of him wanted to shrug and pretend he didn’t care.
He had his artwork, and that fulfilled him.
He’d sold a decent number of paintings already as W.
B. M., which stood for William Bennett Moore.
Bellamy had chosen the name of an American because no curator wanted to buy paintings from an Irish immigrant.
He’d discovered that in his early days of trying to gain interest in his work.
Only after switching and taking a new identity had his paintings started to sell.
Until the cholera outbreak, he’d been doing well.
Mr. Davenport, the curator at Templeton & Evans, had started to ask about Mr. Moore having a show at the gallery.
Of course, Bellamy had told Mr. Davenport that Mr. Moore was not open to the idea, that he was too unsociable.
Regardless of the opportunities starting to open up, Bellamy had anticipated inheriting the matchmaker role for most of his twenty-two years.
Every oldest son in the McKenna family had taken up the job through the centuries—his da, granda, great-granda, and more as far back as they could recall to the Middle Ages and even beyond.
Bellamy couldn’t be the first to walk away from it or, worse yet, fail at the job. No, he had a responsibility, and he took it seriously.
Not only that, but he’d learned over the past six months of helping the Shanahans find their matches that he was good at pairing couples.
He hadn’t been sure at the beginning with Finola Shanahan.
But once he’d started down the road of matchmaking, he’d realized that the matchmaker blood ran thickly through his veins.
He’d loved every moment of finagling and scheming and planning.
He’d even enjoyed the challenges and overcoming the difficulties.
More than anything, he’d felt an incredible sense of satisfaction when he’d been able to bring two people together in real love relationships that would last forever.
The McKenna matchmakers might be unlucky in finding love for themselves, but they had a magic touch when it came to finding love for others.
That was all that truly mattered. If Bellamy could spend his life helping others succeed where his own family had fallen short, then maybe he could make up for all their mistakes.
Oh aye, he was ready for the full responsibility of matchmaker, had dreamed of the day when he would take over for Oscar. But if Bellamy didn’t prove himself with the senator’s daughter, no one would want to come to him. It wouldn’t matter that he’d had success with the Shanahans.
No, everyone would hear of his failure and assume he didn’t have what was needed to be a matchmaker.
They would likely take matters into their own hands and form matches without any help.
Already many among the younger generation were doing so and forgoing the wise input of the matchmaker.
After time, a new generation would believe the role of the matchmaker was no longer necessary, and it would fade into oblivion as an antiquated relic of bygone years.
If he didn’t prove that a matchmaker was capable and necessary, then the loss would be his fault, at least in St. Louis.
Bellamy blew out a noisy breath, opened his eyes, and met Oscar’s probing dark gaze.
The older man’s face was ruddy and perspiring, and the day had barely begun.
His thick gray hair was combed into submission but wouldn’t stay that way for long.
At sixty, he was slowing down, the years of living by the philosophy that “it was never too early for a decent draught” showing in his heavy paunch and big veinous nose.
“Did you hear me now?” Oscar’s voice boomed louder.
“How can I be forgetting the consequence of failing when you’ve told me a few dozen times a day for the past week, so you have.”
“Instead of being direct with the lass, have you tried a subtle approach?”
“Aye—”
“The matchmaker is all about being able to feel the pulse of a relationship, expecting the unpredictable, and not controlling love—only guiding it.”
“Naturally.”
“She might be grazing in the same pasture every time and need help seeing that the grass is greener elsewhere.”
Bellamy knew the job of the matchmaker was to keep the lass from getting stuck on the same kind of men and turning her out to a new pasture with someone she might not have expected but who was actually better for her.
Bellamy stifled a sigh. “I’ve heard your advice plenty and am doing it just so.”
“Then get yourself up and make haste.” This time Oscar lumbered away from the sofa through the tidy but sparsely furnished apartment.
With two bedrooms and a main living area, the place was spacious enough for all of them, though Bellamy didn’t have his own room.
He didn’t mind, since he wasn’t in the apartment often.
A moment later, Oscar exited and started down the creaking steps to the pub.
Bellamy pushed himself up until he was sitting on the edge of the sofa.
With the late hours they worked at the pub every night, they usually weren’t early risers.
Bellamy kept even later hours painting in the shed, so it wasn’t unusual for him to sleep away the mornings, sometimes not getting up until almost noon.
But today, he knew as well as Oscar that he was wasting time abed when he still had the looming challenge of finding a partner for Deirdre Whitcomb.
Somehow everyone had learned of the senator’s challenge and of Bellamy’s confident response that he would find a match for the man’s daughter. If only the senator had given him longer than a week.
But Bellamy had discovered the senator was getting pressure from Senator Snyder, who held the position of majority leader and was a powerful man.
It had taken only a little asking around for Bellamy to learn that most of the younger senators did Snyder’s bidding or ended up with ruined reputations and short political careers.
The rumor circulating around St. Louis was that Snyder wanted to marry Deirdre.
But since he was a widower in his forties, Deirdre had refused, and her father didn’t have the heart to force her into the marriage.
He’d come to Bellamy to form a love match for his daughter, probably hoping a hasty marriage to a man Deirdre loved would provide a feasible excuse for why she wasn’t available to Snyder.
Regardless, Bellamy was failing the mission. Now he had no choice but to talk to Zaira and see if she could help him.
“So?” Jenny’s question came from the kitchenette off to the side of the living area.
Bellamy rested his elbows on his knees, then buried his face in his hands. He loved his sister, but he wasn’t in the mood for a lecture from her this morn any more than he’d been needing the lecture from Oscar.
Her agile footsteps crossed the room toward him. She stopped in front of him and held a cup of coffee low enough that the waft of the strong brew rose to fill his senses.
He took the mug from her. “Thank you.”
She smoothed a hand through his hair just like she’d always done since he’d been a wee babe. “You’re a grand man, Bellamy McKenna. Doncha be forgetting that because I sure won’t be.”
With twelve years’ age difference, Jenny had been more like a mother to him than sister.
In fact, Jenny had been the one to raise him for most of his childhood.
She’d fed and clothed him, rocked him to sleep when he’d been fussy, hugged him when he was scared, and kissed his scrapes when he’d been hurt.
She’d been there for him every step of his life with a fierce, motherly love he’d never gotten from their mam.
The only thing he’d gotten from Mam was his love of painting.
During the rare times when Mam had been around and available, she’d taken great pleasure in teaching him how to paint.
She’d always come to life when she held a paintbrush in her hands.
Her melancholy had disappeared for a short while, and in those moments, she’d been someone he’d admired and someone he’d wanted to be like.
If only Oscar had accepted her for who she was, painting and all. But he never had supported his wife’s talent or efforts. He’d only criticized her and made her feel bad about painting, the same way he had with Bellamy.
Bellamy had long ago determined that he didn’t care what Oscar thought of his painting. Oscar could criticize him all he wanted, but it wouldn’t change Bellamy’s desires or plans to paint. He intended to carry on and do everything his mam had dreamed of and never been able to accomplish.
Jenny’s fingers smoothed back his hair again before she cupped his cheek. “You know that even if you make this match, you’ll still have to do the one thing you don’t want to if you plan to solidify your place as the next matchmaker.”
He knew what she was referring to—the pressure for the matchmaker to get married.
It wasn’t necessarily a requirement, but most people would be more willing to take marital advice from a married matchmaker than from a single one.
Bellamy understood the logic. He just hoped to prove he was different.
He offered his sister a half grin. “So, you’re trying to scare me away from following in Oscar’s footsteps, are you?”
Her beautiful brown eyes regarded him seriously. She had such pretty features, but over recent years she’d grown more haggard, especially her eyes, which had taken on a perpetually tired and sad look.
Bellamy suspected some of the sadness had to do with the fact that she’d never been able to have any children of her own.
Now that she was nearing her midthirties, perhaps the reality of her childlessness weighed more heavily.
Whenever he asked her about it, she always denied that she wanted children, claimed that raising him had been enough for her.
But he suspected if given the chance, she’d take a baby or two of her own.
She bent and kissed his forehead, then straightened. “I’m just wantin’ you to be happy, Bellamy.”
He offered her a grateful smile. “I know. And I thank you, Jenny.”
She pressed both hands to his cheeks and held him in place. “Regardless of what you think, you weren’t meant to do this life alone.”
She was hinting again at his need to take a wife, but he ignored it. “That’s why I have you.”
“Oh aye. You’ll always have me.” She held him for a few more seconds, her eyes still sad. Then with a sigh, she released him and started toward the door.
He wanted to reassure her he’d be fine without a wife, but he’d already done so on other occasions. Yet she still persisted in pushing him toward marriage.
She was as well aware as he that every matchmaker in their family had problems with their spouse leaving, cheating, or divorcing them. Their marriages had apparently started with renowned love and passion, but each one had eventually combusted with disaster.
Bellamy wasn’t sure why the matchmakers were lucky with others but so unlucky in love for themselves. A part of him suspected his family was cursed, and that no matter how hard he might try to avoid the curse, he’d end up unlucky too.
Curse or no, he couldn’t put off marriage forever.
But he intended to delay it as long as he could—hopefully for years, until he was older and more mature.
Maybe after growing in his matchmaking skills, he’d eventually have the discernment to choose a partner wisely and be able to break the unlucky streak or curse or whatever it was.
For now, though, he wasn’t rushing into anything. No matter what Oscar or Jenny might say, he was waiting to get married.