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 thepain 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 accepthim. 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?”
