Cloudy with a Chance of Marriage

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 interest 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.

And damn it, neither did Stephen. Try as he might, he could think of no idea to save the street other than Miss Jones’s.

He glanced at her.

Was she smirking at him?

He believed she was. Reluctantly, he must concede victory to her and sound happy about it in the bargain.

Dear God. He felt testy but was determined to be a good sport. After all, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d been forced to follow someone else’s ill-conceived plan. He’d done it in the navy many a time.

He inhaled deeply on his cheroot and exhaled. “We have less than a month to raise the funds to send Mr. Redmond, the collector, packing. And it appears we’ll be conducting a street fair. We’ve nothing to lose. Have we?”

Almost everyone shook their heads.

“I think it could be fun,” Nathaniel piped up.

“I do as well,” echoed Miss Hartley.

“My Thomas will love a street fair,” said Susan. “I say we try it. Why not?”

“We could have theatrics,” said one matron.

“I know of a, hmmm, what you English call an up-and-coming acting troupe who might do it,” said Pratt. “They’re performing at the Royal Coburg Theater. I shall take Miss Hartley and her parents with me. We shall run these actors to dirt.”

“Run them to ground, you mean,” said Miss Hartley, clasping her hands together.

“Yes, we will find them and not let them go,” said Pratt. “Not until they say yes.”

His last comment was met with much enthusiasm.

“And we’ll need someone with influence to appear at the fair,” said one middle-aged man who’d never spoken until this moment. He was a frequent dog walker, but he’d yet to visit Hodgepodge to browse.

“You’re so right!” exclaimed Jilly. But which person of influence? she wondered. And how would they get him or her to come?

“Excellent ideas, all,” said Stephen. “Any others?”

“Of course, we’ll have booths,” said Susan shyly. “I’ll sell gowns and fancy caps.”

“I’ll sell my paintings,” said Nathaniel.

“I’ve boxes of china to get rid of,” said one lady.

“And I’ve old silver!” said another.

“I’ll cook something,” said Mrs. Hobbs. “Meat pies!”

“No you won’t,” said her husband. “You can barely boil water.”

Mrs. Hobbs bit her lip. “But I can try!”

“I’ll provide drinks,” said someone else, a stout older gentleman. “I make a fine beer in my cellar.”

“We need a band,” said someone. “My hotel manager knows someone.”

“And a children’s parade,” Susan added with a delighted smile.

As everyone shouted out their ideas, Stephen marveled at the change in Miss Jones. Her odd nervousness was gone. So was her anger. Her eyes were sparkling again.

“All these plans we’re making are splendid,” she said with a happy smile. “And now I need to know how many of you are in. Please show by a raise of hands.”

Otis, Susan, Nathaniel, the Hobbses’ children, and Mrs. Hobbs immediately raised their hands. But Mr. Hobbs made his family put their hands back down.

Miss Hartley was next, along with Pratt and several older residents. Her mother nudged Miss Hartley in the side.

“But I want to help,” the young lady said.

“You can’t do that,” her father blustered. “Helping is for the lower classes.”

“But I’ve nothing to do except go to parties all day and night and talk to stuffy people.” Miss Hartley turned pleading eyes on her parents. “Please, Mother and Father, please let me do this. And you raise your hands, too. We need to go to the Coburg Theater with Pratt.”

Lady Hartley rolled her eyes. “All right,” she said. “But we’ll involve ourselves only sparingly. Just enough that we can tell amusing anecdotes about these people later.”

These people.

Stephen looked around and saw only decent citizens of London. Gad, the Hartleys were a boorish couple. And to think they were sleeping under his roof!

By the time Miss Jones finished counting, everyone had raised their hands except for the Hobbs family, Lady Tabitha—who stated that she’d no interest in the fair as she was a guest in the neighborhood—and Lady Duchamp.

The old harridan faced the crowd to vent her spleen once more. “A curse on this street fair,” she muttered. “And on all you ridiculous people.”

With that, she sailed out. Lady Tabitha directed one last, alluring look Stephen’s way, and then she followed her aunt. Drawing up the rear was the Hobbs family. Stephen hated to see Mrs. Hobbs appear so drawn when a moment before, she’d been terribly excited. The children, judging by their sagging postures, were disappointed, as well.

Miss Jones called a wistful good-bye to them, but the unlikable Mr. Hobbs shuffled his family out so quickly, Mrs. Hobbs and the children couldn’t return Miss Jones’s farewells.

Fortunately, everyone else remained. They were busy talking about the street fair, what they would do, and how.

Despite the few setbacks they’d encountered with the loss of some participants in the fair, Hodgepodge was bursting with activity, Stephen noted with satisfaction. Miss Jones must have noticed, too. He exchanged a look with her, and she gave him a happy grin.

Then she mouthed the words, “Thank you.”

He must admit, against all good judgment, he felt excited himself. And warmed by her gratitude. Craving a kiss from her again, he followed her with his eyes as she made cheerful forays into the different clusters of people filling every corner of Hodgepodge.

“Miss Jones,” he whispered aloud, “you’re a damned nuisance.”

Nevertheless, as annoying as the lady was, he must give her some credit. Already he could see a change in the attitudes of the people of Dreare Street.

Hope hung in the air, along with the lingering fog, a wisp of which had been blown into the bookstore by Lady Duchamp’s exit.

But still, there was hope.

He felt it as surely as he did the plank floor beneath his feet.