Page 30 of Calling on the Matchmaker
“It was good, to be sure.” How was it possible she was still very much alone with Riley?
He reclined against the settee, stretching out a leg and resting one of his big hands on his other knee. He seemed comfortable enough, didn’t appear to be nervous.
“Another steamer full of immigrants arrived today,” he said. “I don’t know where they’ll all go since there’s not a room available anywhere that I know of.”
“They’re having to live in crowded conditions, two and even three families per apartment.” What should she do first from the list? Hold his hand, run her fingers through his hair, maybe rub his arm?
“I suspect the overcrowding will ease in the spring when a good number will head out to the West.”
“Even if the overcrowding does ease at some point, ’tis maddening to go into their homes and find so many struggling to survive.”
She didn’t interact with many people—other than the Sisters of Charity—who cared about the problems of the immigrants as much as she did. The topic was too important not to give her full attention, so she temporarily put aside her plans to make Riley dislike her and instead found that she could carry on an intelligent conversation with him about the immigrants and their needs.
She lost track of the time as they discussed the many issues the immigrants were facing upon arrival in St. Louis, as well as in other big cities throughout America.
He talked about what he’d accomplish for the foreign newcomers if he was elected mayor, and she shared more about what she wished she could do for them if she had unlimited means. He had good ideas, but he also listened well to her, asking questions and forcing her to think about ramifications she hadn’t considered before.
At some point, the conversation led to the immigrant stories of their parents.
Her da had left Ireland as a lad of eighteen. As a younger son of a well-to-do silk manufacturer, James Shanahan hadn’t had much to look forward to in Ireland, where the land had already been divided up and distributed so there simply wasn’t enough to go around. He’d decided to take his chances in America and had been among the early settlers to arrive in St. Louis. He’d used the little he’d brought with him to invest in land and sawmills. With his profits, he’d continued to buy more land in St. Louis and the surrounding area. Eventually he’d sold his sawmills and invested in iron.
Riley’s dad had a similar story. He’d immigrated to Cleveland at sixteen years of age to help an uncle on his farm, but after arriving, he’d learned his uncle had died. Fortunately, alocal wagonmaker had taken William Rafferty into his care and apprenticed him. It had taken him until he was thirty to become a master craftsman and save enough to open his own shop. By then, he’d been married with three children, including Riley, who’d been seven.
“Dad was always fascinated that Lewis and Clark began their exploration of the West in St. Louis.” Riley leaned forward and braced his elbows on his knees. “My dad believed even more people would start their journeys west there and would need wagons. So he packed up our belongings, loaded them on a steamship, and we started down the Ohio River.”
Something changed in Riley’s voice, and Finola sat forward now too. “We made it all the way to the Mississippi when the steamboat had a boiler fire.”
Finola guessed the direction his story was going, and her heart sank.
“We had no choice but to abandon ship or burn up with it.” His back turned rigid. “Since it was spring, the current was swift and difficult to swim.”
She had the sudden need to reach out and comfort him, to at least lay a hand on his back. But she forced herself to keep her hands in her lap.
A muscle ticked in his jaw. “My dad was only able to save one of us. Me.”
“Holy mother, have mercy,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, Riley, that I am.”
He hung his head, and his shoulders slumped just a little, the pain of the loss clearly still as vivid for him as Ava’s loss was for her.
“He dragged me out onto the shore and went back in for the rest of my family.” Riley stared down at his tightly clasped hands. “But he was too late. We found my mom and younger brothers downriver later. They drowned.”
She didn’t know what to say to comfort him, guessed wordswere inadequate to ease the ache inside, just as words had never eased the ache inside her.
She twisted the delicate claddagh ring he’d given her. He’d said it belonged to his mother, which meant it was special. She needed to give it back, tell him she couldn’t take something that was so important to him. Not only didn’t she deserve the beautiful ring, but wearing it was irreverent since she wasn’t planning to keep it.
The hearth fire had dwindled so that now only small flames flickered, not enough to ward off the chill of the January evening, and she shivered.
At her motion, he straightened and turned his attention upon her. “You’re cold.”
“Only a wee bit—”
Before she could finish her sentence, Riley was already standing and striding toward the ornate wood box beside the hearth. While most of the rooms in the house were heated by coal stoves, the parlor still had the more elegant but less efficient wood-burning fireplace.
As he worked to stir the embers and add a few logs, she studied his profile, the angular edges, the hardness of his jaw, the ripple of muscles in his neck. Saint Riley of the Kerry Patch. He was strong, daring, and selfless.
She didn’t know of anyone else who’d chance getting clobbered and run over by a team and hackney to rescue a careless woman stuck in the mud. But he’d done it and countless other good deeds.
What was becoming clearer with each encounter she had with Riley was that he was not an ordinary man. He was someone special.
