Chapter 26
Bellamy stepped into the room, and his gut churned as he took in his paintings. Some were on silver easels, a handful hung in frames on the wall, and still others were situated on pedestals.
The Templeton & Evans Gallery was spacious, with large windows overlooking an elaborate garden with a maze.
The evening sun was dropping low and casting a burnished glow over the shrubs and flower beds, and it slanted through the windows, adding an amber light to the lanterns lit strategically to showcase the paintings.
Several guests, older women, appeared to have arrived early, and they were already near one of the paintings and were discussing it while sipping champagne from crystal flutes.
Mr. Davenport, the curator who had been working with Bellamy over the past months and helping to sell his paintings, was talking with the group but facing the door.
When Bellamy had approached him several days ago about having a show, the curator had been all too eager to finally get to meet the talented W. B. M.
At the sight of Bellamy, Mr. Davenport nodded his way, then excused himself from the guests before sidling through the displays toward Bellamy.
A tall, middle-aged man with lean features, Mr. Davenport wore a blue silk tailcoat over an embroidered velvet vest paired with light gray trousers.
He carried himself with a stately elegance, one he’d probably perfected in order to be seen as a higher class than he really was.
Bellamy hadn’t needed to pry much amongst the pub’s customers to discover Mr. Davenport was from Pennsylvania and the son of a cobbler.
He’d left home and lived in Philadelphia for a number of years, where he’d worked as a clerk for a local art collector.
He’d eventually learned the trade and started collecting on his own.
“Mr. McKenna.” Mr. Davenport’s forehead creased with worry as he scanned the lobby, likely hoping for a glimpse of Mr. Moore. “Is everything all right?”
Bellamy removed his black felt hat, the best one he owned.
“Everything is as it should be.” Like Mr. Davenport, he was attired in his evening wear, except his was simpler with his black tailcoat matching his vest and trousers.
He’d polished his leather shoes and slicked back his hair and given himself a fresh shave for the occasion, and he’d left the sling at home against Jenny’s protests.
Even so, he guessed he would be underdressed compared to many wealthy patrons of the art.
But he didn’t mind. He wanted them to accept him as he was, a young Irishman, an immigrant matchmaker who owned a pub with his family.
He didn’t want to put on airs, didn’t want to act differently, didn’t want to try to impress anyone, didn’t want to be anyone but himself.
Bellamy followed Mr. Davenport’s gaze into the lobby with its high-vaulted ceiling. Fountains and plants and bird cages decorated the open area, along with the paintings and artwork of the more established artists of St. Louis.
Bellamy wasn’t sure he’d ever rise to such ranks.
However, fame and fortune weren’t important.
He hadn’t painted to make a name for himself.
And he didn’t need the fortune, apparently not with Oscar’s real estate investments.
No, Bellamy had painted because it had connected him with his mam.
He’d believed in bringing his paintings to life that he would be honoring her memory and her spurned efforts.
As it had turned out, her efforts hadn’t been spurned. Oscar hadn’t been the one destroying her painting career. She’d done it to herself through her choice to use drugs.
Over the past few days since Oscar’s revelation about Mam’s problems, Bellamy had thought a lot about her.
She might have had a difficult life while growing up with a da and mam who’d been too busy fighting and drinking to love her, but Oscar had offered her his love and a better future.
Why hadn’t she chosen a new way, one filled with hope?
Why had she clung so tightly to the pain of her past?
In thinking about her, Bellamy was realizing that being the matchmaker wasn’t the problem, that he wasn’t cursed because of being unlucky in love. Instead, he’d only be cursed if he continued to wallow in the past—like his mam had—and let the tangles of hurt bind him and hold him back.
When Bellamy had gone to mass a couple of days ago, he’d stayed longer, praying that God would help him to release the pain of his past—for never being enough for his mam, for her rejection, for her never loving him the way he’d wanted. He had to stop clinging to her brokenness and making it his.
As he’d left the cathedral, he’d still felt burdened by all he’d learned about his mam pushing away Oscar. Bellamy had feared that maybe he’d already pushed away the woman he loved, that maybe he was too late.
But here, now, he straightened his shoulders and prepared himself to let go of all fear and to choose a new way that was filled with hope.
His mam had made her choices, and it was time for Bellamy to make his.
His choices could be better, stronger, and wiser, starting with taking a stand for who he was and being proud of his Irish heritage.
Mr. Davenport was peering again through the lobby toward the wide front doors of the establishment. “I’d hoped Mr. Moore would be here by now.”
Bellamy swallowed the last of his resistance, then whispered a prayer for courage. “Mr. Davenport, W. B. M. is here, and I am he.”
The crease in Mr. Davenport’s forehead deepened. “I don’t understand.”
“I am W. B. M.—William Bellamy McKenna, the painter of all of the works I’ve been bringing you.”
Mr. Davenport stared for a long moment. “This cannot be.”
“Oh aye, ’tis a fact if there ever was one.”
Mr. Davenport cast a nervous glance toward the guests, then lowered his voice. “You said the painter was a reclusive Englishman.”
“I regret that I presented the painter under false pretenses, so I do. But would you have given me a chance if I’d told you the paintings were mine?”
A sheen of perspiration began to form on the gentleman’s hairline. “As the Irish matchmaker, I doubt anyone will take you seriously.”
“If they don’t, then I will remove my paintings from your gallery and repay you for any losses you incur.”
One of the guests was approaching, a gray-haired lady wearing enough jewelry to fill the shelves of Chaseman’s Jewelry Store. Each finger was covered in rings, multiple bracelets decorated her wrists, and pearls along with other necklaces dangled around her neck.
She was smiling, her lined face filled with anticipation. “Mr. Davenport, is this the talented artist?”
Mr. Davenport hesitated, his eyes flashing with panic.
Bellamy gave the woman what he hoped was one of his most charming smiles. “Aye, I’m the artist, so I am.”
She stopped in front of Bellamy and surveyed him from his head to his toes, her expression growing sultry. “Mr. Davenport, where have you been hiding this handsome young man?”
Mr. Davenport cleared his throat and started to answer, but Bellamy spoke first. “I’ve actually been the one hiding. Mr. Davenport has been pressuring me to have a show for some time now.”
“Well, I, for one,” the woman purred, “am very pleased you came out of hiding.”
Mr. Davenport’s mouth was hanging open, and he closed it.
Bellamy let some of the tension ease from his shoulders, the pain from the gunshot wound having dulled. All it would take was a few wealthy patrons, like this woman, to accept him. Then the others would find it easier to overcome the social barriers that relegated the Irish to an underclass.
The woman batted her lashes at Bellamy. “Mr. Davenport, you must properly introduce me.”
“Of course.” Mr. Davenport finally spoke, clearing his throat as he did so. “Mrs. Chamberlain, this is . . . this is . . . our fine artist.”
Mrs. Chamberlain? Everyone in St. Louis knew of the Chamberlain family, since they were one of the wealthiest in the city, even more so than the Shanahans.
Mrs. Chamberlain had lost her husband about a year ago.
He’d been among the first industrialists to make St. Louis his home, building a dozen different successful factories and businesses over the years.
Bellamy took the woman’s offer of her hand and kissed the back. “I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs. Chamberlain. Please call me Bellamy.”
“Bellamy?”
“The full name is William Bellamy McKenna.”
“Oh, I see. I thought it was William Moore. I was mistaken.”
A part of him wanted to let her think she’d been the one to misunderstand. But another part of him knew he had to be honest. “’Twas not your mistake, ma’am. Up until now, I’ve used the pseudonym Moore instead of McKenna. But tonight, I’ve decided to reveal my true name.”
She cocked her head and gave him another once-over. “Very well, young man.”
He waited for her to question him further, to at least make a comment about him being Irish, which was obvious with his accent and now his name.
But she linked her arm through his and tugged him closer.
Not only did she wear an extraordinary amount of jewelry, but she also was wearing an entire bottle of perfume, or so it seemed.
“I would love for you to take me around to each of your paintings and explain your inspiration. I’m of the inclination to purchase them all. ”
“You can’t purchase them all, Charlotte,” said another older woman who stood nearby and had been eavesdropping on their conversation. “You must save some for the rest of us.”
Mrs. Chamberlain dismissively waved one of her jeweled hands, the rings and bracelets clinking. “I was introduced to Bellamy first, which means I get first claim on his paintings.”
With the women practically fighting over him, Bellamy smiled at Mr. Davenport. The curator smiled back nervously, then turned to greet another older lady who was breezing into the gallery with her husband.
Bellamy let Mrs. Chamberlain monopolize his attention for a short while, grateful for her words of praise over each painting—praise the other guests could hear. She continually stopped to introduce him to newcomers, more important and wealthy people from among the upper echelons of society.
A few raised their eyebrows when she explained that the initials stood for McKenna and not Moore. But her acceptance of him seemed to be all the permission everyone needed to put aside his Irishness and focus on his paintings.
After the first hour, all the paintings had sold—most to Mrs. Chamberlain, but a few to her friends. Mr. Davenport had already placed Sold signs on each painting, which only served to heighten the interest.
Bellamy knew the evening had been successful, probably more so than Mr. Davenport could have imagined.
The worried lines and perspiration had disappeared from the man’s forehead.
Instead, he was smiling broadly as he took orders for more paintings, his eyes alight and his praise of Bellamy flowing smoothly, as if he’d never imagined another outcome of the evening.
Bellamy pulled out his pocket watch. The top of the eight o’clock hour was almost upon them. He glanced into the lobby, hoping for a sight of Zaira. At that moment, a barouche halted in front of the lobby doors.
The Shanahan barouche.
His pulse picked up speed. He excused himself from the couple he’d been talking to and stepped out into the lobby, straightening his cravat as he did so.
The coachman was opening the door of the barouche, and Bellamy’s breath snagged in his chest.
Oscar had said he’d come and help with the plan to win over Zaira, and now Bellamy wished he’d taken up Oscar’s offer to be there.
Bellamy had sensed the turn in his relationship with Oscar for the better, but he’d decided he had to atone for his past mistakes and dishonesty without anyone coming to his rescue. And repairing his relationship with Zaira was something he had to do on his own.
James Shanahan was the first to step down out of the barouche. He lifted a hand to aid his wife next. As James extended his hand again, Bellamy held his breath, the anticipation inside him swelling.
He’d gone nearly mad staying away from Zaira for the past week. Not only had he missed seeing her and talking to her, but he’d been worried that she would think he didn’t care about her.
Oscar had assured him the gifts would alleviate any doubts she might have. He’d also insisted that the time apart would help her to see her own feelings more clearly so that when she came to the gallery, her heart would be tender and she would be ready to forgive him.
Bellamy hoped Oscar was right.
As she placed her foot onto the carriage step and took her da’s hand, he was able to get a full view of her. His racing heart slammed to a halt, his breathing ceased, and every thought evaporated. Except one.
Zaira Shanahan was absolutely the most spectacular woman in the world.
She was wearing a flaming garnet–colored gown. The color matched her hair, which was arranged halfway up and contained under a small matching bonnet with the rest of it hanging down in a cascade of ringlets.
She paused in the carriage doorway and pressed a hand against her throat, touching the garnet necklace there.
She’d worn the necklace he’d given her. That had to be a good sign.
As she stepped down to the ground, she released the necklace and straightened, giving him another perfect view of her striking beauty. Not only was the color the perfect match, but the gown showed off every elegant curve of her body and also contrasted with the silky cream of her skin.
Even though he had the urge to rush to her and draw her into his arms, he made himself remain where he was.
He had to stick to the plan. This was his chance to show her he’d always loved her and always would .
. . and that he really did want to marry her and not because anyone was pressuring him to.
He could only pray his and Oscar’s plan would work.