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 wordpainting, only called ityou-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.”
“I loved her paintings. And I loved her—” Oscar’s voice caught, and his eyes turned glassy. He quickly turned away and drew in a deep breath. “What I didn’t like was her using opium and cannabis to help her with her inspiration.”
Bellamy had known his mam had turned to alcohol to drown out her problems, but he hadn’t realized she’d also been using drugs.
“I tried to get her to stop,” Oscar continued in a low voice filled with heartache. “And she did stop for a while after we got married and had Jenny.”
“She used drugs before you met her?”
“She came from a hard life, and I thought I could give her a better one.”
Bellamy nodded. Mam had always thought her marriage to Oscar would give her a better life too. But maybe she’d been the one to ruin her chances by falling back into using drugs.
“I was naïve,” Oscar admitted. “I hoped I would beenough, that Jenny would be enough, that having another babe—you—would give her reason to be sober.”
Bellamy had always known he wasn’t enough for Mam, that she didn’t really care about him the way other mothers did for their children. And now he understood why. Her erratic behavior, moodiness, distance—it all made more sense.
“All I wanted was for us to be together.” Oscar still was halfway turned away and was pressing his thumbs into his eyes. “But she could never resist using drugs for very long. They were always more important than anything else.”
In those last years, she’d started being gone for longer periods too. Bellamy had always assumed Oscar’s lack of support and love had driven her from home. But had the drugs drawn her away? Where had she gone? Who had she stayed with?
