Chapter 9 #2
She emptied the supplies onto the worktable.
Once they were all arranged, she found his easel hidden behind another barrel.
Then on the top shelf, she located a canvas that looked like it was only half finished.
She positioned it on the easel and stood back to admire it, just as she’d admired all of Bellamy’s other paintings.
There was no doubt about it. He was a talented artist. It was just too bad—actually a tragedy—he had to hide what he did and couldn’t take credit for the incredible paintings he was selling.
But as with the last time she’d been tempted to say something to encourage him to be more open, she only had to consider her own duplicity with her published segments.
Oftentimes, situations were more complicated than they appeared.
Bellamy would be downright frustrated to find out she’d gone through his painting supplies.
But if she could rouse his irritation, maybe he would conclude he had nothing to worry about in forming a partnership with her.
He’d understand that the two of them were enemies more than anything else.
If he could see that, he’d worry less about any attachments forming between them during a fake match.
Aye, she was doing the right thing by coming tonight, and it had been a bonus to pretend for a few moments that she was her heroine sneaking out of the house undetected to meet with her love.
The story had been very fun to write, and the rewriting had been fun so far too. But Zaira had ideas for another story formulating, and she’d been eager to jot down the thoughts before she lost them.
She peeked through a crack in the shed door.
The light in the kitchen window at the back of the pub was still burning.
That likely meant Bellamy was tending to the few customers who remained at the late hour.
She wasn’t sure if he was planning to paint tonight.
But when he finished his duties, he would see the light in the shed and come out to investigate.
At least that’s what she was counting on.
In the meantime, she would make herself comfortable and start working on plotting her next great novel.
Since there were no chairs in the shed, she sat on one of the crates in the corner and formed a makeshift chair.
With the lantern casting a glow over her, she pulled out the notepad she carried with her everywhere and began to jot down ideas.
She wasn’t sure how much time had passed when the rattle of the door drew her attention away from the new story world and back to the present. Bellamy was finally coming.
Her heart hopped several beats—from nerves and not desire. But she forced herself to keep writing, pretending to be engrossed in the words she was penciling on the page.
The door opened slowly, and from the corner of her eye she could see Bellamy scan the interior and then find her.
She kept her head down and continued to write, although she had no idea exactly what was coming out any longer.
He sighed rather laboriously, then stepped inside and closed the door quietly behind him. She could hear him latch the lock before silence descended.
She fastidiously—she rather liked that word—scratched away with her pencil on the paper, also liking the sound the writing made, as if she were busy and inspired and caught up in the scene rather than writing a bunch of gibberish.
He leaned back and crossed his arms, obviously waiting for her to acknowledge his presence. Should she? Or should she wait for a few more moments?
While nibbling on her bottom lip, she pretended to reread the last sentence she’d written. Did she look deep in thought? She hoped so.
“I know that you know I’m here, Zaira.” His voice contained a note of humor.
How had he figured it out? Inwardly she huffed.
It didn’t matter. She would act as though she’d been too busy to acknowledge his presence. She crossed a random t and then dotted an i before laying her pencil down on the journal page and looking up at him. “Good to see you too, Bellamy.”
“I never said it was good to see you.”
If he thought his smirk and cocky attitude would annoy her, he was wrong. She loved his arrogance, and it only made her want to banter with him all the more.
“I know you didn’t say it,” she countered. “But I can tell you’re ecstatic that I’m here.”
He raised an eyebrow. “If you’re thinking I’m ecstatic at the moment, then I can see how your writing realistic emotion might be lacking.”
“Perhaps that’s why I like to practice.” She tried to infuse sultriness into her voice. “Maybe that’s why I’m here.”
When Bellamy’s other brow rose, she guessed she’d failed to sound sultry and instead sounded like she was suffering from a stuffy nose.
“I know you didn’t come to practice anything.” Bellamy’s voice turned wry. “Except maybe your acting skills.”
She set aside her journal and pencil, then stood. “I came to watch you paint.” She nodded at the table where she’d laid out his supplies.
He crossed to the table, opened his painting box, and began to place all the items back inside. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, so I am.” Even though outwardly he remained composed, she could feel the tension emanating from him. “But you’ll not be getting a show tonight.”
This time she smirked. “Now who’s practicing the acting skills?”
He paused in picking up a paintbrush before resuming at the same measured pace. “I assume your visit has to do with the other acting job you’d like me to take?”
“It does.”
“The answer is still no.”
Disappointment stabbed her and hurt more than she’d anticipated. She should have known what his silence all day meant. But she’d been hoping she could persuade him anyway. Was there still a chance, or did he have his mind so solidly made up that he wouldn’t be budged for any reason?
The only thing that had seemed to give him pause last night was the fact that her own reputation was at stake. Could she play upon that?
It was worth an attempt. If that tactic didn’t work, she’d have to talk with Kiernan again tomorrow and come up with another solution to her dilemma.
She gathered up her writing items. “You leave me with no choice, Bellamy.”
He closed the lid on his art supply box, then leaned against the table as if he was settling in for the next performance.
She had to make it good. She paused, let her shoulders slump, and dropped her chin.
“You know how strict my da is.” She waited several heartbeats, hoping Bellamy would remember some of the gossip about her da—how he never let his daughters spend time alone with suitors, how he always required a chaperone, how he had stringent requirements for callers to sit on opposite chairs, and how he guarded their virtue religiously.
When Bellamy didn’t respond, she released a long-suffering sigh—or at least hoped it came out that way. “Once Da learns of my—our—kissing, he’ll never allow me a moment of privacy or freedom until I’m married.”
“Naturally.”
“He’ll lock me away.” She spun then and tried to remain stricken. “Probably in my chamber at Oakland.”
Bellamy shook his head, almost as if he didn’t believe her.
Was she laying on the drama too thickly? Perhaps she needed to be more realistic. “At the very least, he’ll restrict me from leaving Oakland and won’t let me go anywhere by myself.” That was the truth. “Then how will I deliver my weekly manuscript segments to Mr. Knapp at the Daily Republican?”
A line formed in Bellamy’s forehead, as though he was seriously contemplating her dilemma. “Maybe I could take them for you.”
“Maybe.” She pressed a finger to her lips, trying to maintain the seriousness of the situation. “My guess is he’ll attempt to form a match for me right away to hide my indiscretion, just like he did with Enya.”
“Your situation is far different than Enya’s.”
Her sister had been with child from a husband who had run off and abandoned her, and Da had been in a hurry to find a new spouse who would be willing to count the baby as his. Bellamy located just the right man at just the right time.
Bellamy’s forehead furrowed deeper. Was he thinking the same thing?
“You wouldn’t have me marry a stranger, would you, Bellamy?
” She let sorrow infuse her voice, which wasn’t too hard since the thought of marrying a stranger really was distressing.
“You may have found someone quickly for Enya, but what guarantee do you have of finding me the perfect match so quickly too?”
He shrugged. “I have the luck o’ the Irish, that I do.”
“Surely you’re not so lucky that you can accomplish the same feat twice.” She fluttered her hand over her chest. Then she closed her eyes, hoping to make herself look more distraught.
He was quiet for so long she finally cracked open one eye only to find him smirking again. As she opened both eyes, he clapped. “Bravo. Grand performance.”
This time she stomped a foot, unable to contain her irritation. She stuffed her journal and pencil into her pocket, then began to make her way toward the door, swiping up her discarded cloak from the top of a barrel where she’d draped it.
All the while, he watched her, his arms still crossed, his smile only growing.
“It was a mistake to come.” She flipped up her hood, then unlatched the lock on the door.
Though the night was still humid, she allowed herself a lungful of air before starting down the alley in the direction of her family’s home on Third Street.
The streets of St. Louis were dangerous at night, abounding with thugs and thieves, but she’d been careful on the way over, and she’d be equally as vigilant on the way back.
She made it only halfway down the alley before footsteps slapped behind her and a hand grabbed her arm, drawing her to a stop. She spun to find Bellamy towering above her. Though the darkness shrouded him, she could sense the tension in his grip.
“Doncha be thinking you can walk home alone this late at night,” he whispered, his voice threaded with exasperation.
Was he thinking about that time when he’d walked her home many years ago after being chased from the park?
Well, she wasn’t that little na?ve thirteen-year-old anymore.
“I walked here alone just fine.” She jerked her arm free and started on her way once more.
She only made it two steps before he latched onto her arm again.
“I’ll be going with you, so.”
“No thank you. I’d rather be alone than be with you.” She didn’t need to act anymore. It was the truth.