Page 87 of Calling on the Matchmaker
In fact, just a short while ago as he’d been changing, Big Jim had informed him of a dozen more cases of cholera that had sprung up over the past two days. Riley had sent word to several of the Irish leaders and asked them to gather tonight at their usual Front Street meeting place to rally more men, even women. It was time to step up their efforts to combat the spread of the cholera. And he needed all the help he could get.
Winston pressed against the door again. “I really cannot say when Miss Shanahan will return.”
“Is Finola visiting the immigrants with the Sisters of Charity?”
“Riley?” A woman’s voice came from the winding staircase.
Riley’s pulse skipped ahead. Was Finola home after all? He tried to peer into the entrance room, but Winston blocked him.
A moment later, however, Winston stepped aside, and Enya sidled beside him, wearing a fashionable day dress with her red hair tied up into a neat chignon. Though she was a pretty girl, she couldn’t begin to compare to Finola’s mesmerizing beauty.
When had Enya returned? And where was her husband? Riley glanced beyond her, expecting to see the fellow. But from the quiet of the interior, he guessed no one else was home.
He shifted his attention back to the prodigal daughter who’d caused the entire Shanahan family heartache over the past month. He was glad, especially for Finola’s sake, that Enya was back and appeared to be safe. “It’s pleasant to see you, Enya. I hope you’re well.”
“Thank you, Riley.” Her eyes welled with sudden tears, andhe had the sinking feeling that not all was well and that Enya’s story wasn’t ending but just beginning.
He didn’t know what to say, didn’t want to probe, but he also didn’t want to ignore her obvious distress. Rather than say the wrong thing, he stood silently and waited.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she said after a moment. “Maybe you can put a stop to the nonsense.”
“What kind of nonsense?”
“Da went over and met with the Mother Superior this morn and made arrangements for Finola to enter the convent, with plans to give them her dowry.”
That sounded official, and each word drove a nail of dread deeper. Was he too late? “Has she already gone then?”
“I’m not sure when she’s moving, but I suspect it will be soon, so it will.”
Bother it. He should have come earlier this morning, maybe even left the farm last night. Regardless, he needed to go now and find her. In fact, he had no time to waste. “Do you know where she is?”
Enya pressed a hand to her stomach, and her face blanched, almost as though she might be sick to her stomach. She wavered, and Winston gently steadied her. “Careful now, miss. Maybe you should be resting.”
Enya nodded and then drew in a deep breath, allowing Winston to guide her away.
Riley waited just outside the door, hoping Enya wouldn’t forget about him and would give him more information about Finola’s whereabouts.
But as Winston led her up the stairs, he called over his shoulder, “Do be kind, Mr. Rafferty, and close the door as you take your leave.”
That was Winston’s way of telling him that he’d gotten more information than he deserved, and he’d get no more.
Within minutes, Riley was racing his gig as fast as the muddystreets would allow. First, he went to the tenements that the Sisters normally visited. A few Sisters were there, but Finola wasn’t among them, and the Sisters claimed they didn’t know where Finola had gone.
He drove to the tenements closer to the waterfront. After asking around and not finding her anywhere, he decided he needed assistance. And there was only one person who would be able to help him get Finola back. If anyone could do it, Bellamy McKenna could.
Riley rushed to Oscar’s Pub, hopped out of the gig, and barged inside.
As usual during daylight hours, the interior was quiet with only a handful of regulars, mostly older men. And Bellamy was at the bar counter, this time with what appeared to be a financial ledger spread out in front of him.
“Bellamy!” Riley shouted, the flood of memories returning from the last time he’d been at the pub right before he’d gotten sick with cholera. He’d been in a similar situation that night, Finola having rejected him. He hadn’t fought for her that time. But starting today, he would always fight for her.
Bellamy was writing with a stubby pencil in the book and didn’t glance up.
“Bellamy!” Riley called again as he strode around the tables through the familiar waft of cigar smoke and beer. His pulse was still charging forward, hadn’t seemed to have gotten the message that the horse and gig had come to a halt.
“Bellamy.” As he reached the bar counter, he slapped both hands down, startling Georgie McGuire, sipping from his Guinness, so that he jerked his mug and spilled liquid on the bar.
The older man set his mug down and turned to the matchmaker. “Bellamy, Saint Riley is here to see you.”
