Cloudy with a Chance of Marriage

by Kieran Kramer

  “A meeting,” someone called out.

  Lady Duchamp made an ugly face. “I don’t approve of meetings. Too many people use them to plot against the government. I’ll call the constable on you people if you don’t disband immediately.”

  Behind her someone else walked in, the most arresting woman Jilly had ever seen. She had wide, slanted green eyes, high cheekbones, a mass of glorious blond hair, and a bold, aristocratic air.

  “Aunt! What’s going on?” The beautiful woman looked about the room. “Why are you here with these people?” She seemed to see Captain Arrow then, and her irritated expression dissolved and took on a nuance of curiosity. “Oh, very well. We may stay long enough for you to make a general introduction.” Her voice had lost a trifle of its scorn.

  “This is my niece Lady Tabitha, of the Dorset Bellinghams,” Lady Duchamp barked. “She puts all of you to shame.”

  Lady Tabitha appeared amused for some reason. Probably because every man in the room stared at her goggle-eyed, except Captain Arrow. He was too self-possessed to be goggle-eyed, but Jilly had no doubt he was as moved by Lady Tabitha’s beauty and presence as the rest of the males in the room.

  Lady Tabitha seemed to have eyes only for Captain Arrow when she said, “I do hope I’ll be entertained while I reside on Dreare Street.”

  Jilly seethed inside at the girl’s flirtatious manner, even though it was no concern of hers if the captain and Lady Tabitha took pleasure in each other’s company.

  Lady Duchamp angled her cane at Jilly. “What’s going on here?”

  “A meeting, my lady,” Jilly said with dignity, although suddenly she felt plain and frumpy in front of the two latecomers. “Dreare Street is in arrears, and we intend to find a way to pay what we owe.”

  “It will never happen,” Lady Duchamp said. “And I say good riddance to the lot of you.”

  Lady Tabitha was unmoved by her aunt’s vitriol. She merely cocked a brow and gazed around the company with a bemused expression.

  Jilly had no choice but to ignore her harpy of a neighbor. “We have another, equally important mission, as well,” she told the crowd, “to make Dreare Street a cheerful place to live. Not only will that make all of us happier residents, we might attract more customers to the businesses on the street.”

  “Bah,” the old woman said. “Give up. The fog’s never going to go away. No one can be happy in such fog. Not a soul will buy anything in such a fog, either.”

  “How can you trust the quality of merchandise you can’t see?” Lady Tabitha said with a light chuckle and a mysterious, pointed glance at Captain Arrow.

  Jilly noted he met the lady’s gaze, but his gave nothing away.

  The crowd’s murmurs grew louder, until one small, strong voice spoke above the noise.

  “But I don’t want to leave.” It was Susan. “I like my flat. I like Miss Jones.”

  Jilly’s heart warmed.

  Lady Duchamp swiveled around to look at Susan. “You should be among the first to leave, young lady. It’s not as if you get any business. A seamstress’s hands should be blistered and red from all the work she does, pushing needles through fabric, but I suspect yours are soft and white from lack of use. Show them to me.”

  Susan held up her hand slowly. Her fingers trembled.

  “See?” Lady Duchamp’s voice was triumphant. “They’re too pretty by half.”

  Susan clenched her fingers and jerked her hand back down. “I’m not ready to give up,” she said with feeling. “I’m here to find a way to pay that money. I’m a good seamstress, too, if anyone will give me a chance.” She looked around the room. “I also believe there are other kind neighbors here in addition to Miss Jones. I’ve never found out, but I’d like to. We have a lot of fog here, more than the average London street. But surely a kind word from a friend can outweigh the gloom the fog brings.”

  Jilly saw Nathaniel over in a corner eyeing Susan with curiosity, just like everyone else.

  “I agree, Susan,” Jilly said. “We can be a thriving community, the way Dreare Street used to be.” She reached into a pocket in her gown, pulled out Alicia Fotherington’s journal, and held it aloft. “This diary was written by someone who lived here two hundred years ago. Her name was Alicia Fotherington. I’ve only just begun it, but from the very start she tells about the happy life on the street. And one of the happiest things on Dreare Street at the time was—”

  Good heavens.

  Jilly felt as if her stomach had dropped out of her body.

  A man had just peered in the window behind Lady Tabitha.

  A man who looked like Hector.

  Jilly’s heart jammed in her throat, making it difficult to breathe.

  But then the man angled his gaze to the left and—thank goodness—she saw he wasn’t Hector at all, simply a man who looked eerily like her husband.

  And then he walked away.

  But it could have been Hector, a scary voice inside reminded her. And next time it might be.

  “What was the happy thing, Miss Jones?” Nathaniel called out.

  “Yes, Miss Jones,” Susan asked warmly. “What made Dreare Street a nice place to live?”

  Jilly felt her mouth open and shut like a fish. The hand holding the diary aloft began to tremble.

  “Excuse me.” She looked at Captain Arrow, and he seemed to sense her discomfort because he put a hand on her waist. “I feel faint,” she whispered.

  Immediately, he picked her up and set her on the floor.

  Around them, everyone stared and began murmuring words of concern.

  “Are you all right, Miss Jilly?” She heard Otis’s voice from the door.

  “We’ve no doctors on this street,” said Lady Duchamp, “so you’d best hope you’re not deathly ill, young lady.”

  “I’m fine,” Jilly assured everyone. She gave a nervous laugh. “I didn’t eat this morning. I should have.”

  Otis stared at her with wide, fearful eyes. Poor man, he could tell something was wrong. He knew she’d broken her fast with that toast, bacon, and a strong cup of tea. But she couldn’t tell him in front of everyone else about whom she thought she’d just seen.

  Captain Arrow lowered his head to hers. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” he said.

  They exchanged a silent look for a few seconds.

  “It’s nothing,” she whispered. “I simply grew faint for a moment. It must be the excitement of having the bookstore full of people.”

  “I don’t believe you,” he said in a low tone, “but now’s not the time to discuss it. Can you go on?”

  She nodded. “Of course.”

  He gave her a hand—his was strong and reassuring—and she returned to her chair.

  “Forgive me, everyone,” she said briskly. “I felt faint for a moment, but it’s passed.”

  The truth was, it hadn’t passed a bit. She was still buzzing from fear. She was having difficulty even concentrating on the task at hand.

  “Now,” she said, her voice quavering just a tad, “let me finally tell you what I think we should do, based on what made Dreare Street prosperous back in Alicia Fotherington’s day.” Her gaze swept the room. “They used to hold a small market here every Wednesday. It was really a lovely little street fair. Isn’t that delightful?”

  Otis clapped. “Yes!” he cried. “It’s very delightful!”

  “What’s your point, Miss Jones?” Mr. Hobbs asked her, his mouth twisted with impatience.

  “I believe we should hold a street fair,” she answered him in her brightest, most confident voice. But she didn’t feel bright and confident at all. She felt frightened. And vulnerable. What if that man had been one of Hector’s minions?

  Maybe Hector was waiting for her somewhere in London!

  “At first, we’ll hold just one,” she managed to suggest, despite her racing thoughts. “But then if it’s a success, we can repeat it.”

  “This is Mayfair,” Mr. Hobbs said in a flat tone. “And two hundred years later. No
one holds street fairs anymore.”

  “Besides which, no one likes the place,” Sir Ned said. “Dreare Street’s unlucky.”

  “And there’s too much fog,” said Lady Hartley with a moué of disgust.

  Jilly attempted to compose herself. “We can’t let a bad reputation or a little weather hold us back,” she said. “Think of it this way: we’ll raise money to pay our overdue leases. Won’t that be wonderful for all of us?”

  “Yes!” squeaked Otis.

  But no one else said a word.

  Jilly forged on. “Even those of us who have the money at hand will enjoy having some of that financial burden removed. We’ll split the profits. And with this street fair, Dreare Street will make a name for itself. We’ll be prosperous again. Happy.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Lady Duchamp bit out.

  “All residents,” Jilly went on earnestly, hoping everyone was ignoring the naysayers among the crowd, “whether you own a business or not, will be proud to call Dreare Street home.”

  She leaned back and took a breath, hoping her message had gotten through.

  Susan smiled, raised a finger, and opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something.

  “Yes, Susan?” Jilly asked hopefully. Finally, someone was going to agree with her!

  But Susan seemed to think better of it and put her finger down.

  Jilly’s heart sank. “Anyone else with a comment?” she asked in faint tones.

  Lady Duchamp sniffed loudly, but not a single person spoke.

  When Jilly gazed around the room, her spirits plummeted further. To her dismay, some faces, like Sir Ned’s and Lady Duchamp’s, were scornful. A few, such as Captain Arrow’s, Lady Tabitha’s, and Nathaniel’s, were unreadable. Surely, Jilly thought, if they were enthusiastic, they’d show some emotion, wouldn’t they?

  But no. They didn’t. Captain Arrow’s face was the worst of all. She was used to seeing him merry. An impenetrable expression didn’t suit him at all.

  Some expressions, like that of Mrs. Hobbs, were confused. Still more, like Susan’s, were simply sad and worried.

  Not a one of her neighbors appeared hopeful.

  Jilly stole a quick glance at Otis—

  His mouth drooped down, and he was staring into space with a big wrinkle on his forehead. But oh, when he caught her gaze, how he tried to be optimistic! He gave her a wobbly grin and a thumbs-up.

  But it was too late. She’d seen his disbelief.

  Her stomach tightened into a hard knot of tension. If even Otis couldn’t come up with authentic enthusiasm, her idea for saving Hodgepodge and all of Dreare Street must be a disaster. She clasped her trembling fingers in front of her skirt and racked her brain for a solution, but none came.

  Perhaps she must face an unwanted truth: her idea was doomed.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Stephen believed Miss Jones’s proposal was as likely to launch as a yacht with no rudder, sails, or crew. But to see this naïve yet well-intentioned campaign fail so quickly bothered him. Perhaps it was because he hated to see Miss Jones disillusioned. He was reluctant to admit it, but he rather liked her optimistic nature. And perhaps he was disappointed because none of these people on Dreare Street had volunteered to be put in their difficult position. They weren’t ready to fight their enemy. They were ill trained, taken by surprise—

  Vulnerable to attack.

  Stephen had made sure his ship’s crews were always ready. They’d been trained, and they’d known exactly what they’d signed up for.

  The people on Dreare Street were easy prey for the Mr. Redmonds of this world.

  It was a pity. But what was he to do? Go about protecting everyone? He couldn’t keep being a naval captain on land, urging the population of Dreare Street onward and upward.

  No. It wasn’t his place. He couldn’t take on other people’s problems anymore.

  He had his own.

  “Well, that’s that,” Mr. Hobbs muttered aloud, hitting his hat on his leg. “This meeting didn’t help at all. I’m on my way.”

  As one, the crowd turned toward the front entrance of Hodgepodge.

  “Don’t leave!” Otis cried, throwing his arm across the door. “Let’s play charades, shall we? I’ve a book title.” And he held up four fingers.

  “Four words!” called out Nathaniel.

  Otis held up one finger.

  “First word!” lisped Miss Hartley, a big grin on her face.

  Stephen saw Miss Jones’s jaw working hard, and was sorry to see her violet-blue eyes clouded over with distress. But then she looked at him, and those eyes turned almost black.

  “What have I done?” he asked her.

  She pursed her lips. “You know what.” She hopped down from her chair and stormed past him.

  He took her arm. “You can’t possibly expect—”

  She yanked her arm back. “If you’ve nothing to say to help me, then please—just play charades and leave with the rest of them.”

  She went over to her counter and bent below it. He heard a cupboard flung open, and saw the top of her ebony head, moving back and forth. She must be putting something in the cupboard and taking something out. Long lashes framed her cheekbones, and her delicious lips pursed as she created two stacks of books.

  She always moved things about when she was upset.

  Her idea about the street fair didn’t seem viable, but Stephen didn’t have a better solution, did he?

  “There’s more to this thing than trying to earn money to pay the lease and keeping the street’s spirits up, isn’t there?” he told the top of her head. “Maybe you don’t even realize it yourself, or maybe you do. But my instincts tell me you’re creating the street fair to keep something else at bay—something that’s worrying you besides the money. Something you’re afraid of.”

  She refused to answer. But then she looked up, distrust of him evident in her gaze. “Whatever my reasons, at least I’m trying to do something to help.”

  He laughed. “I’ve done plenty of helping, as you call it, in my time.”

  “Oh,” she said mildly, “is your time over, then? You’re awfully young to retreat from the world.”

  He pushed off the counter, too annoyed with her to speak.

  “Fourth word!” called Sir Ned at Otis’s antics.

  “Second syllable!” called the lively old man in the gray vest, the one who’d lived on Dreare Street his whole life.

  His whole life.

  And he’d never seen it happy.

  Stephen made a split-second decision.

  “Otis,” he said in a voice he knew would be heard above the crowd noise—it was his captain’s voice. Hadn’t he planned mere seconds ago never to use it on land again?—“please cease the charades and continue holding the door. I’ve something of importance to say.”

  “The Mysteries of Udolpho!” Miss Hartley cried out. Her mother stared at her in shock.

  Otis clapped. “Very good, Miss Hartley.”

  “She’s not supposed to read novels!” Sir Ned cried. “They’re nonsense.”

  “Shut up, you idiot.” Lady Duchamp poked Sir Ned in the chest with her cane. “I’ve better things to do with my time than listen to you or Captain Arrow or anyone else in this godforsaken shop. Get out of my way.”

  She managed to get to the front door, but Otis held fast to the doorknob. “You must stay, my lady. Captain Arrow is a man of passion, style, and good looks. He has something important to relate to all of us.”

  “You foolish clerk,” Lady Duchamp chastised him, “why should any of us listen to the captain? He’s more concerned with carousing than he is with the affairs of Dreare Street. If he could sell his house today, he’d depart faster than a ball from a fired pistol.”

  Stephen saw everyone turn and look at him with a great deal of skepticism.

  “Lady Duchamp does have a point.” He pulled out a cheroot and lit it on a candle taper. In a moment, he blew a small smoke ring. “Perhaps I haven’t shown much intere
st in Dreare Street.” He lowered his cheroot. “But I’m interested now, and that’s all that matters.”

  “Why should we believe you?” a young man asked with genuine curiosity.

  Stephen raked a hand through his hair and sneaked a glance at Miss Jones. She was looking at him with her brows drawn and her arms crossed.

  Just like a disapproving schoolteacher.

  “Oh!” said the old man in the gray vest. “I see how it is. You like her.” And he pointed at Miss Jones.

  “Is that true, Captain?” asked Mrs. Hobbs.

  He cleared his throat. How to answer that without inflaming Miss Jones’s temper even more?

  “He’s pursuing her,” explained Sir Ned with a great deal of self-importance. “But he’s waiting until he sells his house to declare himself. I’m right, aren’t I, Arrow?”

  “You don’t have to answer that, Captain.” Miss Jones looked neither right nor left but directly at him, as if she didn’t want anyone but him to see her mortified expression.

  It was a most uncomfortable moment, made even worse when most of the other women looked at him softly—except Lady Hartley and Lady Duchamp (both of whom were staring malevolently at Miss Jones) and Lady Tabitha. She wasn’t looking softly at Stephen at all but with a knowing look, as if she and he were the only two people in the room worthy of any attention whatsoever.

  As he often did in crisis, he ignored all distractions, both petty and large, and focused on his purpose.

  “Perhaps I’m helping because I like desperate causes,” he went on. “And at the moment, I want”—he looked at Miss Jones and thought, I want her, although God knows why—“I want Dreare Street to prosper.”

  Miss Jones’s scowl lessened by at least half but remained steady.

  “More than anything,” he added.

  She gave him a reluctant smile then, and he must admit, he loved knowing he’d pleased her.

  “Let’s get down to business,” he said. “Does anyone have any idea how to earn that money? Other than Miss Jones’s idea for the street fair, of course. If you have a better plan, now is the time to voice it.”

  It was an uneasy minute. No one spoke. Everyone stared at everyone else. Not even Sir Ned, the know-it-all, had an idea.