Cloudy with a Chance of Marriage

CHAPTER EIGHT

“It’s time to get serious about selling books,” Jilly said to Otis over supper that night. “We need money, and quickly.”

He paused, his fork in the air. “I hate to suggest this, but perhaps you shouldn’t have me selling the books.”

Good. He’d finally realized what she’d known all along. “Yes, well, we both know a female shopkeeper is anathema to some people,” she said. “Then again, so is a man who wears the kinds of shoes you do.”

She grinned and looked down at his feet. Today he had on turquoise slippers, each adorned with a single, short peacock feather on top. They were absolutely shameless.

“The point is,” Otis said, looking up from admiring his footwear, “I’m too emotionally attached to the books. I thought I adored only shoes, but the books—they’re like my children, too, even the ones I haven’t read. Their covers are grand, their pages smell sweet—in a musty, bookish way—and their titles are enchanting. Candide. Don Kicks Oat.”

“Don Kicks Oat?”

“You know, the one about the Spaniard and the windmills.”

“Ah, Don Quixote!”

“The very same,” Otis replied, unruffled, and drank a swig of beer.

“I can appreciate that sentiment,” Jilly said, “but we’ve got to do better.”

Otis put his tankard down and shook out his sleeve so that the lace showed to advantage. “You’ll sell all the books now,” he insisted. “I’ll stick with cooking, baking our daily scones, cleaning both the bookstore and our private living quarters, running errands, and keeping an eye on the latest fashions on Brook Street.”

“Fair enough.” Jilly smiled. “But even if I take over the selling of the books, we haven’t the customers to purchase them.”

“We need more people strolling by,” Otis agreed. “I do my best to attract notice with my waistcoats and shoes, but it’s not been enough. Especially if it’s foggy, as it is almost all the time. Who can see me through the shop window?” He cast a glance at her gown. “We’re going to have to work on your appearance, my dear.”

“Me? Why?”

Otis pursed his lips. “Now that you’re incognito, you’ve lost that je-ne-sais-quoi you frankly never had but were on the cusp of having—if you’d only let me spend your clothing allowance.”

“I put it away to buy Hodgepodge.”

Otis sniffed.

She gave a little laugh. “You must agree purchasing Hodgepodge was more important than my looking lovely for Hector.”

Otis shrugged. “Put that way, I must agree.”

“Besides,” she said, “you yourself said the fog gets in the way of people admiring your waistcoats and shoes. We have to have a plan that works not around my fashion sense but the fog.”

“And the street’s reputation for having bad luck,” Otis added with a shiver.

“And our lack of time. I’d have to sell half my inventory, at least, by the time Mr. Redmond comes round again, to make the kind of money I need to pay off the lease, and I just won’t have the hours in the day to do so.”

Jilly bit her lip. Three large obstacles to success: bad weather, superstition, and a shortage of time. What could one do about any of them?

“We can’t accomplish this enormous task by ourselves,” Otis said in a soft, hesitant voice. “We need people to help us. But we’re all alone in this world, aren’t we, Miss Jilly?”

“We’ve got each other,” she said firmly, and grasped his hand.

He nodded and gave her a misty smile. “I’m here to protect you. You do know that, don’t you?”

“Of course,” she said, although she was simply indulging her dearest friend. There was no way on earth Otis could protect her from Hector or anyone else. Throwing a shoe at Hector’s head—or the head of one of his minions, as Otis had at first supposed Mr. Redmond to be—wouldn’t stop her ogre of a husband from dragging her back to their village.

“We’ll come up with a plan to save Hodgepodge.” She kissed Otis on the cheek. “I’m off to bed now. I want to read some of Alicia Fotherington’s journal.”

In bed, she opened the diary and began to read about the young lady of good family who’d married a prosperous man named Lyle Fotherington and moved to Dreare Street two hundred years earlier.

It’s a happy place, this street, Alicia had written, and prosperous. Fat-cheeked children, smiling mothers, fine gentlemen, and pleasant shopkeepers abound. Lyle’s servants welcomed me with a bouquet of flowers picked from the back garden. The house is brand-new. Lyle had it built for us. It’s small but elegant, standing at the end of the street as if a sentinel over the rest of the houses. I believe I shall have great good luck in my new life as the wife of such a kind man.

Jilly’s heart warmed toward the woman. She remembered when she, too, hoped for the best from her marriage.

She felt guilty continuing to read when her candles were in short supply and she could ill afford more any time soon. But the words of the long-gone mistress of 34 Dreare Street fascinated her.

The bustling street fair is the highlight of my week, Alicia painstakingly put down in her tight scrawl. Every Wednesday I go down one side of the street and up the other with my cook and lady’s maid, bargaining with the vendors and exchanging greetings with our neighbors. We always come back to the house with the merriest grins on our faces. I purchased a fine bolt of rich damask which will become my gown for the Christmas ball and supper. And tonight Cook roasted a plump rabbit she bought at the fair. Lyle was well pleased, except for my cheeks, of course. They were pink from lingering too long in the sun.

The sun!

How fortunate Alicia Fotherington had been.

Jilly read only a few more pages, laid the book aside, and dutifully blew out the taper on her simple bedside table. As she drifted off to sleep, she thought about Alicia and how happily she’d lived on Dreare Street so long ago.

What a different place it had been then!

Sunny. Happy.

Prosperous.

Heavens. Jilly sat bolt upright in bed, and with shaky fingers, felt for her matches and lit her candle again. Springing out of her sheets, she wrapped herself up, grabbed the taper, and walked into the sitting room.

Otis was attempting to repair his shoe, the one he’d lost at Captain Arrow’s, by the light of the dying fire.

“I have an idea,” she announced, her heart beating fast with excitement.

“What?” Otis held the shoe up and squinted at the newly fixed heel.

“Maybe we don’t have a family, but we have all our neighbors, don’t we?” Jilly began to pace behind him.

Otis’s brow furrowed. “Beyond the artist and the seamstress you told me about, and Captain Arrow, they’re not very friendly. Lady Duchamp is a veritable devil.”

“I know, but we should have a meeting—a meeting of the whole street. Everyone else has to produce the money to pay off the lease, too. At dinner, I was thinking only of how to solve Hodgepodge’s financial woes, but no doubt all the businesses—indeed, all the residents—on Dreare Street are suffering.”

“True, but what about the residents who have plenty of money?” Otis laid aside his shoe. “We also have people like Captain Arrow. He wouldn’t mind leaving Dreare Street, and I’m sure he’s not the only one. Why should they bother to help us?”

Jilly thought about Mrs. Hobbs’s long, pale face. “Captain Arrow will help us because he needs to sell his house. And the others may help simply because … it’s dreary here on Dreare Street.”

“It is!” cried Otis, pushing out his chair and standing. “It would be such a pleasure to look out and see people walking up and down enjoying the weather.” He raced to the window and flipped back the curtain. Jilly could see the evening fog swirling about the sputtering gas lamps across the street.

“All right,” he said, turning back to face her, “mayhap not enjoying the weather but perhaps enjoying each other.”

“Yes.” Jilly chuckled. “Not to mention that if the others ever want to join Captain Arrow and sell their homes, they’ll have a much better chance to do so if the street appears prosperous.”

Otis clasped his hands beneath his chin. “Oh, my,” he whispered happily. “We’ll all get together and have a wonderful time making Dreare Street flourish. Do you think we could get rid of the fog?”

“I don’t see how that’s possible.” Jilly sighed. “I suppose we’re in some sort of valley between the neighboring streets. The fog simply rolls in and stays.”

“That’s a demmed shame.” Otis strode to a looking glass and adjusted his cravat. “But even with the fog, we can still be a happier street. What shall we do?”

“A street fair.” Jilly was so excited, she wanted to do a little jig.

But Otis’s face fell. “Those aren’t common anymore, especially in Mayfair.”

“That’s a good thing,” she replied happily. “It will be a special event.”

“What if we’re not allowed?”

“Who would tell us no?”

“Perhaps the Lord Mayor of London.”

“We’ll not worry about that quite yet. Let’s think about the fair. I need you, Otis, to be as enthused as I. Please.” She paused. The fire crackled loudly in the hearth. “Don’t be afraid.”

Otis grinned. “Very well.” He clasped his hands together. “We’ll have booths to sell things.”

“Yes. All sorts of things.” Jilly laughed. “First thing tomorrow, we’ll make a sign.”

“You and your signs.” Otis waved a careless hand. “If no one walks by, no one will see it. What you need to do is … employ a town crier.” His voice cracked with excitement.

“We can’t do that.”

Otis clapped his hands. “Yes we can. I’ve got a lovely scarlet jacket and a black tricorne hat. You have a bell. Now we have a town crier. Get the bell, Miss Jilly. Posthaste! I’ll be right back.”

The man was deadly serious. By the time Jilly had found the bell on the mantel, her faher’s ex-valet had groped his way through the dark to his room and arrived back upstairs kitted out in his version of a town crier’s uniform.

“Tomorrow,” he said fervently. “Tomorrow begins a new age for Dreare Street.”

“Yes,” Jilly said, adjusting the shoulders of his jacket. “Tomorrow we shall tell everyone about the street fair.”

“We’ll make loads of money.” Otis rang the bell.

“And if it’s a success, we’ll hold another one.”

Then Jilly had a brilliant thought: she was in a position to demand Captain Arrow act as a partner in creating the street fair. There’d be booths to construct, at the very least, and someone would have to organize the neighbors. Who better to do that than a ship’s captain?

If for some odd reason he balked at the idea, she’d remind him he had no choice but help her—if he wanted her to continue pretending to be the object of his affections, that is.