Page 37 of Calling on the Matchmaker
“We’re not.” Father O’Kirwin spoke from his spot across the table.
She breathed out her relief. Her da was a supporter of the abolitionist movement. Everyone knew where he stood on the issue of slavery. And she was proud of him, proud of what their family stood for, and she wouldn’t change her stance for anyone.
Behind his spectacles, Father O’Kirwin’s eyes turned solemn. “But you must know a large portion of our constituents among the Irish immigrants have no wish for the slaves to be free because they fear free Black folks will take away their jobs.”
Finola had heard mention of such nonsense. “Even if that’s true about the jobs—which it is not—one group cannot excuse the suffering of another because it makes life easier for them.”
Grumbling began to resound around the table from some of the men. She’d obviously brought up a divisive issue.
“Regardless of what the constituents want,” she continued, “Riley has to make it clear that he’s against slavery.”
Riley leaned in and murmured near her ear. “Could we speak privately about this?”
She hesitated. At the pleading look in his eyes, she nodded.
He led her to a dark corner of the room near the printing press, which was now idle. The others from the campaign had also risen and were gathering their coats and hats in readiness to leave.
“I assure you I am most adamantly opposed to slavery.” Riley’s voice was low and earnest.
“But ...?”
“As you can see, we don’t have a consensus on how to handle the slavery issue among the campaign group. Thus, we’ve decided to not to bring it up.”
“You do know that your silence on the matter speaks for itself?”
He palmed the back of his neck. “We need the votes of the poor immigrants.”
A part of her understood his dilemma. After just one short meeting at his campaign office, her eyes had been opened to all the projects he and his team wanted to accomplish in St. Louis, particularly for the poor and the immigrants. Even so, they had to do what was right for all people.
She met Riley’s gaze levelly. “If you compromise your stance against slavery in order to win votes, then you will lose your honor in the process.”
“I won’t be comprising.”
“Then you’ll be a coward.”
Riley heaved an exasperated sigh. “It’s much more complicated than you realize.”
Before she could argue with him any further, the office door banged open.
“Saint Riley?” A ruddy-faced lad with a bloody nose and one eye nearly swollen shut scanned the office until his sights landed upon Riley. “The Bulldogs are fighting the Farrell Gang, and it’s not going well for the Farrells.”
“I’ll be right there.” Riley was already crossing the room to the coat tree.
Finola followed. There were many gangs all throughout the Kerry Patch and among other immigrant groups as well. Did Riley intervene often in their disputes?
As he swiped up his coat and began to shrug into it, his eyes held an apology. “Sorry I have to leave so quickly.”
“What’s wrong?”
“A gang of nativist fellas is stirring up trouble with the Farrells.”
She’d heard of the nativists who opposed the influx of immigration, especially of Catholics, but she hadn’t realized the nativists had resorted to fighting in the streets. The immigrants didn’t need another problem added to all those they already faced.
Riley tugged on his hat as though he had every intention of racing off and breaking up the battle. “You’ll go directly home?”
She glanced out the window, the streetlamp illuminating her family carriage. “Yes, my driver is waiting.”
He was already pushing wide the door. “Good.”
