Page 77 of Calling on the Matchmaker
The ride back to her house was silent. As he drew the wagon to a halt, she clasped her hands together on her lap and stared at them.
For a moment, he had the strange sense this was the end. Last time when they’d sat in front of her house, she’d beenthe one to part ways with him—or at least tried her best to do so. Now it was his turn. And this time, the breaking of their match would be final. It had to be. He had to accept once and for all that her desire for him wasn’t strong enough to push her into marriage.
Darkness was settling, but the Shanahan mansion was aglow from within, a small staff of servants having returned to the city to care for Finola. Regardless, he’d refrained from going into the home over the past week, hadn’t wanted to cause any further gossip about their relationship.
But that didn’t matter anymore. Nothing else mattered except what she wanted.
“Tell me one thing, Finola.” He spoke softly, unable to keep the sadness from his voice. “Would you have agreed to marry me if you had no worry of the mayoral election or of your father’s steel contract?”
She fiddled with her mittens.
“Please. Just be honest with me.”
After a moment, she sighed. “No, Riley. Probably not.”
The words, like earlier, stabbed him. He sat back against his seat, hardly able to breathe.
“But I promised I would marry you, and so I will.” Her words rushed out, as though she sensed his pain and wanted to make him feel better.
The problem was, nothing could make him feel better ... except one thing—knowing that she wanted him. She didn’t have to love him, probably couldn’t love him the same way he loved her. He didn’t expect that. But at the very least, he needed her to give him—give them—a chance.
Maybe she’d agreed to marry him. But she was just as set against letting him into her life now as the day Bellamy had first brought them together. And as much as he wanted Finola, for as beautiful and kind and amazing as she was, he had to let her go, let her fulfill her vow to enter the convent, let herease her guilt, let her live in such a way that would make her happy and peaceful.
Because ultimately, that’s what he wanted for her. Happiness and peace. If he couldn’t provide it for her, then he wanted her to find it at the convent. Even though everything in him protested the prospect of losing her, he knew he had to set her free. This time was good-bye. And this time he intended to mean it.
With his heart crushed against his chest, he helped her down from the wagon and walked her to the front door. Winston met them as he usually did. But instead of moving into the house as she normally did, Finola paused, as though sensing he had more to say.
He was tempted to lean down and steal one last kiss from her. But he hadn’t kissed her since getting caught in bed with her. And what would be the point of kissing her now, except to stir up more emotion between them that didn’t need stirring?
He squeezed her hand, then released it and took a step back. “I want you to know I have loved you as I have no one else, and I’ve only wanted you and nothing else.”
In the light of the hallway, her eyes glowed a bright blue, and her pretty lips parted with the escape of a short breath.
His muscles tensed in anticipation, and he willed her to say something in response. Anything he could take as a sign that she wanted him enough to fight for their match. But in the next instant, she bowed her head. “Good night, Riley.”
The hurt rushed in again, this time more forcefully, like the tip of a bayonet plunging in for the kill. He bowed his head at her in return. Then he turned and walked away and didn’t look back.
26
The baby’s wails echoed louder. But no matter where Finola looked, she couldn’t find the infant—not in the cradle, not under the bed, not in the hallway, not on the long marble stairway.
Another cry echoed, this time the sobbing of a young woman, growing closer with each step Finola took. The woman was weeping uncontrollably at the bottom of the stairway. One of the immigrant women. She was rocking a lifeless bundle in her arms, the child wrapped in blankets that were frayed and thin and dirty.
Finola’s legs trembled, and as she reached the mother, she peeked down to find that the baby in the bundle was Ava, her face pale, her eyes wide open, but her body too silent and still.
Horror welled up within Finola. “Ava?” She shook the baby. “Wake up, Ava! Wake up!”
Bile rose swiftly as she took the infant from the immigrant woman. Finola tried to scream, but nothing came out—except a gasp.
The gasp woke Finola to her bedroom bathed in morning light, and she covered her eyes with her hand, needing to avoid the brightness and ward off the remnants of the nightmare.
As wakefulness rushed in, the memories of yesterday in the tenement came back, the sick children, the frantic efforts to save the baby, the horror of failing—so similar to that helpless feeling she’d had when she discovered Ava’s lifeless body.
The infant’s mother hadn’t blamed Finola for the loss. And deep inside Finola knew she wasn’t at fault for the death. The baby had been too sick, and even though she’d worked with the mother, doing everything they could to save the child, not even their best efforts had been enough to keep the breath of life flowing through that baby’s lungs.
Riley had been right when he’d told her,“You’re not God, andHe’s the only one capable of performing miracles.”She hadn’t wanted to hear it yesterday. But all last night, his words had whispered within her over and over.
He’d also told her she wasn’t to blame for the immigrant baby’s death any more than she was to blame for Ava’s. Was he right about that too?
