Page 1 of Calling on the Matchmaker
1
ST. LOUIS, MISSOURI
JANUARY 1849
“Nip along with you now, Finola.” Madigan bounded onto Broadway, dodging an omnibus that was slogging through the thick mud. “The matchmaker is waiting.”
“Have patience.” Finola Shanahan followed her younger brother and tiptoed into the mire. She bunched up the black habit the Sisters of Charity had so graciously provided for her to wear whenever she accompanied them for charity work. “I’m going as fast as I can.”
“Mam and Da are done putting up with your impertinence.” Madigan shot her a warning look. The sixteen-year-old was already a handsome fellow with his big blue eyes and brown hair, turning the heads of the local lasses wherever he went.
Of the six Shanahan children, everyone claimed she and Madigan resembled each other the most. And aye, she had the same blue eyes and brown hair. But when God had been doling out the freckles, He’d forgotten to spread them out between her and Madigan. She’d ended up with them all.
The winter wind rustled against her hood and sent a chill down her back. “I’m a dutiful daughter.”
Madigan released a snort. “And I’m the pope.”
Guilt nudged at Finola. Shewasa dutiful daughter in almost every way except one.... She wasn’t cooperating with her parents’ efforts to find her a husband.
Madigan leapt over a half-frozen puddle. “They’re just trying to make a good impression on the matchmaker, dontcha know.”
“I’m well aware, to be sure.” They might want to impress Oscar McKenna, the local Irish matchmaker. But she wanted to frustrate Oscar enough that he’d refuse to help her parents. And being late for the meeting was a good start to that effort.
As she took another tentative step into the busy thoroughfare, the mud sucked at her lace-up ankle boots.
A faded yellow hackney rumbled down the street toward her. The coachman sat slouched, his head down, the brim of his top hat pulled low. He didn’t seem to be looking where he was going. Rather, he held the reins loosely, as if the team of horses knew the route well and didn’t need his directing.
Finola forced her feet to move more swiftly after Madigan. In the late afternoon of the dreary January day, the St. Louis traffic was heavy, especially on Washington at Broadway so close to the riverfront where factories, warehouses, and stores crowded the mostly unpaved streets. Apparently now that the gray skies had finished spitting a mixture of rain and sleet, everyone had come out to finish the day’s work.
As a beer delivery wagon filled with casks lumbered from the other direction, she paused. The driver wasn’t paying attention to her any more than the hackney. A dray from the levee followed, piled high with boxes of merchandise and hogsheads of tobacco.
Madigan was already on the opposite side, and as he spun to check on her progress, his eyes widened. “Holy thundering mother, Finola! Get out of the street before you get run over.”He waved his arms, motioning her back, his gaze darting to the hackney coach that wasn’t slowing—not even a fraction.
It was less than two dozen paces away from her, and the driver’s head remained down, the reins still loose, the horses trotting forward with no intention of stopping for a lone woman standing in their path.
“Hurry, Finola!” Madigan’s voice took on an urgency that prodded her pulse into a gallop. She tried to make her feet follow suit, but as she spun, one of her boots snagged in a rut. In the next instant, she felt herself going down.
She braced her fall with her hands and knees, the layer of mud cushioning the impact. But at the nearing rattle of harnesses and the creak of wheels, she scrambled to push herself up.
Horse hooves pounded closer.
She clawed at the mud, slipping and sliding and attempting to find footing.
Several shouts—including Madigan’s—advised her with increasing fervor. But her heart was suddenly beating too hard to hear anything clearly ... except the toll of the death bell.
She was going to die. And there was nothing she could do to stop it.
“Hail, Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.” The words clogged in her throat, the rest of the plea for mercy drowned in a frustrated cry as she tried to wrench herself free.
But with each move she made, the mud coated her more, seeming to lock her in place.
“Lie flat!” A deep voice penetrated her panic.
Even as she began to brace herself for the impact of the horses and carriage, a man slammed into her and rolled her to her back, throwing himself over her and covering her body with his just as the horses passed by her on either side. Their hooves slapped so close, she held herself stiffly.
The man shielding her also held himself rigidly, clearly intending to take the brunt of the harm from the horses. Heducked his head next to hers, near enough that his cheek bumped against her bonnet and his heavy breathing echoed in her ear.
She cringed, waiting for a hoof to hit him, but only mud splattered against them.
