Chapter 24
Bellamy released a frustrated sigh. What was he doing hiding in his shed painting in the dark of night when he should be standing out in the open with his easel and his paints and capturing a landscape?
He rolled his injured shoulder, then pressed a glob of white oil paint from the tube onto the palette before fishing the paintbrush from behind his ear and dabbing it in the white.
As he lifted the brush to the canvas, he made a mental image of Dover’s Pond and the glassy surface with all the lily pads.
He’d been to Dover’s Pond several times over recent months.
He should be able to recreate the landscape with no trouble at all.
But even as he added the white to the water to help with the shimmering reflection, the vision of Zaira as she’d looked that day when he’d gone out to visit with her about Deirdre Whitcomb’s match took up most of the space in his head.
Who was he kidding? Zaira took up all the space in his head. And she always had regardless of how hard he’d tried to prevent it. Even while avoiding his feelings for her, he’d been slightly obsessed with thinking about her.
He tucked the paintbrush back behind his ear and stared unseeingly at the canvas, the lantern hanging from the ceiling illuminating the painting he’d been working on since his return from the Shanahans’ two days ago.
He’d only stayed in bed there for one day and one night, not nearly long enough to recover.
But the next day, he’d forced himself to get to his feet after the doctor had fashioned a sling for him to use to immobilize his shoulder.
That had been all he’d needed to give himself permission to stop lying around.
Besides, he hadn’t wanted to impose on the Shanahans any longer, especially Alannah, who’d been the one tending to his needs since Zaira had returned to Oakland.
She’d left without saying good-bye.
The truth was, he hadn’t given her a reason to see him again.
In fact, since the start of their relationship, he’d done just about everything he could to push her away.
And it had worked. She’d been gone from the house before the priest had arrived to marry them, much to Mr. Shanahan’s dismay.
The gentleman had stormed about and finally said he would ride after her and demand that she return.
Bellamy had sensed there would be no making Zaira change her mind, so he’d asked Mr. Shanahan to wait, to give him time to plot a different way to encourage the union without force. Bellamy had assured Mr. Shanahan he’d use his matchmaker skills to finalize the match with Zaira.
So far, Bellamy hadn’t been able to come up with a plan. Why was he so cunning and intuitive for everyone else, but he couldn’t form a coherent thought when it came to Zaira?
Bellamy reached for the tube of yellow oil paint, unscrewed the lid, then lifted it above the palette. But as he started to squirt out a dollop, he halted. There was already enough yellow there to paint the entire canvas.
Was yellow on his mind because of all the yellow in Zaira’s room? Or because she reminded him of yellow and sunshine and wildflowers and golden beauty?
He managed to secure the lid back on the yellow tube, then tossed it on the tall worktable beside him.
Her accusation had been rolling around his mind for the past few days—that he was looking for a perfect relationship with a perfect woman so he could have a perfect marriage.
Had he been looking for perfection so he could break his family’s curse? In himself and in a woman?
Although he knew that such perfection was unattainable with humans, that only God was perfect, the fears still lingered in his heart. He worried that somehow, no matter what he did, he would fail in his marriage, especially that he’d fail Zaira and make her terribly unhappy.
At a firm rap against the door, Bellamy froze. The knocking didn’t belong to Jenny. Hers was usually soft and hesitant, as though she didn’t want to disturb him. This was the kind of knocking that belonged to a man.
“Bellamy?” It was Oscar.
Surprise rippled through Bellamy. What was Oscar doing up in the middle of the night? And why was he at the shed? He never came out when Bellamy was painting. Never. As if by ignoring the painting he could pretend it didn’t exist.
The door rattled, the inside latch keeping Oscar out.
“Can I come in?” Oscar asked none too quietly.
If he got any louder—which could easily happen—they’d risk waking up the rest of the neighborhood, including Moya and Seamus, who were still living with Jenny and Gavin and seemed to be content with the arrangements.
Gavin had been the one to ride down to Carondelet to check out the lead for Mr. O’Reilly.
Seamus had wanted to ride with, and Gavin had allowed the lad to share a horse and had taught him some horsemanship during the morning together.
While they hadn’t located the children’s father, Seamus had come home excited about being atop a horse.
Oscar knocked again more forcefully.
Swallowing an irritated sigh, Bellamy crossed to the door, unlatched it, and swung it open.
In the glow of the lantern light coming out of the shed, Oscar stood hatless, his shirt untucked, and one of his suspenders hanging down. He dug his fingers through his thick gray hair, combing back unruly strands.
With his heart picking up tempo, Bellamy waited for Oscar to speak. Was something wrong with Zaira? Or were the Shanahans in a bit of a bother? Was that why Oscar had come out in the middle of the night?
At a dog bark from down the alley, Oscar glanced over his shoulder into the darkness before peering past Bellamy to the interior of the shed. “Can I come in?”
Bellamy wanted to tell Oscar no, that the shed was private, that he wasn’t welcome there. On the other hand, from the creases in Oscar’s brow, Bellamy he stepped aside and waved him inside.
Oscar, smelling heavily of whiskey, lumbered past him.
With the ban on beer still in place, they’d been serving more hard liquor. Even so, more customers had dropped away. Now they had only a dozen of the regulars who came out at night to the pub.
Truthfully, Bellamy was grateful for the lull in business over the past days, since he’d been unable to help as much as he usually did.
Still, he would be happy along with the rest of St. Louis when the cholera was officially done.
Today they’d gotten news that the death count from yesterday had been the lowest it had been since back in early June.
They’d almost allowed themselves to hope that with the coming of August just around the corner, the end of the epidemic was finally in sight.
That didn’t solve the issue with homeless children, though. Saint Riley had stopped by the pub earlier and picked up the list of families willing to serve as temporary parents for children left orphans by the disease.
Bellamy had hoped to have a longer list, but with his injury and the lack of customers in the pub, he’d had a difficult time getting the word out about the need to house the orphans.
He’d found himself wishing for Zaira’s help in raising the awareness, knowing she would have loved being a part of the recruiting.
As it was, however, he hadn’t seen her since the morning when he’d regained consciousness in her bedroom.
While Oscar crossed directly to the easel and canvas, Bellamy closed the door and then leaned against it, trying to maintain a casual air even though Oscar’s presence in his sanctuary was creating a tempest inside him.
Oscar was quiet as he took in the half-finished painting of Dover’s Pond. Not that the landscape was recognizable yet as Dover’s Pond. And if it had been, Bellamy doubted Oscar could identify the place. Probably had never been there.
For long seconds—almost agonizingly long—Oscar studied the work in progress. He cocked his head one way and spoke softly. “The contrast with the lighting is good, Bellamy.”
Bellamy looked at the painting now too. What did Oscar know about contrasting colors and lighting?
Oscar examined the painting for another moment before he turned around and met Bellamy’s gaze. “You’re a better artist than she was.”
The compliment was so unexpected Bellamy couldn’t think of a response. Oscar never talked about his painting, much less offered a compliment about it. He’d never even spoken the word painting, only called it you-know-what. So why now? Why tonight?
Bellamy shook his head. No, Oscar couldn’t come in here like this and pretend he cared either about Mam’s art or his.
“Wait, Bellamy.” Oscar held out a hand as though he could sense the storm escalating within Bellamy and wanted to prevent it from unleashing.
But it was too late. Bellamy had been waiting for years to say something—anything—about Mam and all that had happened. Now was his chance, and he planned to take it. “She might have been a better artist if you’d supported her and her painting instead of trying to keep her from it.”
“Is that what you think?” Oscar’s eyes widened, revealing a despair so profound that it almost took Bellamy’s breath away. “That I didn’t support her painting?”
“You were always trying to keep her from going away to paint. And when she was home painting, you complained about it all the time.”
Oscar sighed, his shoulders sagging, probably under the weight of guilt.
“I’ll never do that to Zaira with her writing.” Bellamy wasn’t sure why he felt the need to tell Oscar his resolution. But the truth was, ever since Mr. Shanahan had called her writing “nonsense” and “childish,” Bellamy had privately vowed to support her writing no matter what it took.
“I know you’ll be a better husband than me, Bellamy.” Oscar’s voice was laced with sadness and regret. “But you should know, I never tried to keep your mam from her painting.”
“I heard all the arguments. And Mam told me how much you disliked that she painted.”