Cloudy with a Chance of Marriage

CHAPTER TWO

In the late afternoon of the day of her useless conversation with Captain Arrow, Jilly heard a loud popping noise from his house. She looked up from smoothing a page in her nearly blank accounting book and saw a young man at a second-floor window drop a bag of water onto the pavement.

“Bull’s-eye!” the fellow cried.

A roar of approval went up from the group of well-dressed gentlemen gathered on the street.

Jilly sighed. For goodness’ sake, when would a constable ever arrive and throttle the lot of them?

“I often wonder,” she heard her clerk, Otis, remark to their lone customer of the afternoon, a small, elderly woman perusing a copy of Pride and Prejudice, “if Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth had a few secret trysts before they made their nuptial vows.” He chuckled and looked into space. “Who could have resisted Darcy?”

“Well,” the elderly woman speculated, one hand to her lips, the other balancing the book, “I’m not sure—”

“If,” Otis interrupted her in dramatic tones, which made her nearly drop the book, “if Darcy were too much a gentleman to propose an illicit liaison, then don’t you think Elizabeth must have been driven so mad by desire that she seduced him instead?”

The old woman stared at him.

“It’s quite a titillating thought.” Otis took the book out of her trembling hands and placed it back on the shelf. “It’s our only copy,” he confided to her in an earnest whisper. “Let me show you something else.”

Dear God. Jilly watched her assistant sway gently down the aisle toward her meager collection of atlases, crooking a finger at the tiny woman to follow him. The shop would be bankrupt within a month if the mayhem persisted at Captain Arrow’s house and if Otis didn’t learn to sell books.

Her father’s ex-valet didn’t seem able to part with any of them, except for the atlases, but what was Jilly to do? She couldn’t cast him out in the cold, for heaven’s sake. He’d been devoted to her father and, after his death, her only trusted friend.

“You dress very well for an older man,” she heard the little lady rasp, “but you’re quite mad. Almost as mad as those people who live next door.”

A few seconds later, the bell at the front door tinkled, and the door shut with a loud bang.

“And you have a lovely day, too!” Otis flung after their lost customer with all the sarcasm a frustrated, impoverished bookseller could muster. “That atlas was just the thing for you, if you’d only listened to reason. And how dare you call me an ‘older man’? I’m not a day over thirty.”

“Otis,” Jilly called in a warning voice.

He’d been thirty for as long as she could remember. He twisted around to face her, his large feet crossed in outrageous saffron-colored shoes, his tailcoat swinging madly.

“But Lady Jilly!”

“Miss Jilly,” she corrected him.

“Oh, dear,” he apologized. “But what am I to do? She wouldn’t have appreciated Pride and Prejudice. She has no fire in her soul. I’m saving it for someone who has spirit, style, and good looks.”

Jilly blew out a breath. “Some of the worst villains and biggest fools have good looks,” she reminded him.

“Yes,” Otis returned smugly and touched the nape of his neck.

He believed himself to be quite good-looking, she knew. And he did have mesmerizing eyes, a jolting blue that was quite disconcerting. But he hardly filled his waistcoat, he was so thin. He also had knobby knees, a Roman nose that looked as if it had been broken several times but hadn’t, wispy gray hair that circled his ears, and a pate as shiny and bald as a baby’s bottom.

“I never said good looks alone.” He lingered on the last word, which was his tendency. “I also mentioned spirit and style. Or did you forget? Those gentlemen at the captain’s house have them in spades.”

Jilly marched past him with a small square sign, which she placed in the window. “That isn’t spirit and style,” she said. “That’s what happens when you buy a cask of brandy and invite your debauched friends over to drink it with you until it runs out. We must start selling books soon, or we’ll run out of money.”

The sign promptly fell over, and she adjusted it again until it was right. “I need a ledge beneath the window.” She brushed past Otis, wishing she had enough money to ask the carpenter who’d put in the bookshelves to come back and make the ledge. But she didn’t. She’d have to make do for a while, until profits started coming in.

Otis traipsed after her. “I abhor what Hector has done to you,” he said over her shoulder. “A lady should never worry about money. And she should stay far away from the taint of trade. We may thank Hector for this state of affairs.”

“Be that as it may”—she picked up a feather duster and swept it over a line of dictionaries—“please try to remember, the next time a dull, unattractive patron requests Pride and Prejudice, to acquiesce and allow him or her to purchase it.” She turned and faced him. “If you want to keep food on your plate.”

Otis made a moue of distaste. “I hate when you get dramatic. Of course I want food. Good food, too. It’s been a week since I’ve had a decent brioche.” He put his hand to his mouth, suddenly looking quite hungry. “I suppose I can part with Pride and Prejudice. But only—”

“No but onlys.” She strode past him with the feather duster and threw it in a cupboard filled with cleaning supplies, including a bottle of vinegar-and-water and the rag she used to shine the windows and the large, ornate looking glass her father had always had in his library. The rag she used to clean it was one of Papa’s old shirts, actually. She had a feeling he’d approve of her new endeavor were he alive to see it.

Comforted by that thought, she wet the rag with the vinegar-and-water solution and rubbed it in great circles around the looking glass. London was a smoky place. But even where she’d made a clean spot, the mirror appeared murky, able to reflect back only the meager gray light slanting through the shop windows.

The bell rang again.

“If you’ve come back for Mr. Darcy, you can’t have—” Otis said in a singsong voice then paused.

“Him,” he finished in a whisper.

The glow from the lamp cast over the books went from a watery yellow to a deep, burnished gold in a trice. And no wonder. Captain Arrow, who until this moment hadn’t deigned to grace their shop, was now blocking the doorway and the scant light coming through it. Not only that, he was grinning as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

Maybe he hadn’t, which annoyed Jilly no end.

“Ahoy, Captain,” Otis said in an overly admiring voice.

The captain did have particularly gleaming white teeth set off by his swarthy tan, but Jilly did her best to ignore his sterling good looks. “I don’t believe we can help you,” she told her new neighbor, the rag still in her hand. “We’ve no brandy here. Only books.”

She knew it was self-pity making her churlish, but she couldn’t seem to help herself.

“I’ve come to reinvite you to the theatrics,” the captain said, ignoring her slight. “You and your assistant both.”

Otis bowed. “You do me a great honor. I am Mr. Otis Shrimpshire, bookstore clerk extraordinaire. And fashion connoisseur.” He waved a hand. “Not that it matters. Books are my business now.”

Captain Arrow seemed only slightly taken aback. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said in amenable tones. “And marvelous shoes, if I do say so myself, Mr. Shrimpshire.”

“Please call me Otis.” Otis positively beamed at him.

Jilly pursed her lips. “Thank you for asking, Captain, but we’re not interested in attending the theatrics.”

“I am.” Otis elbowed her.

She sent him a dirty look.

“Do come, Miss Jones,” Captain Arrow urged her. “One must make merry occasionally”—his face took on a noble, serious aspect—“even a stalwart woman of business such as you.”

Woman of business. She was that, wasn’t she? It was lovely to hear herself addressed with respect.

And stalwart. That was a good word.

“Yes, well—” she began, about to tell him that owning Hodgepodge was a massive responsibility she didn’t take lightly, then pulled herself up short.

He was making fun of her, wasn’t he?

There was a distinct twinkle in his eye.

“I’d rather be a stalwart woman of business than one of your silly lightskirts,” she snapped at him, and flicked the cleaning cloth at an invisible spiderweb. She would pretend it was the captain’s broad shoulder and that he was so cowed by her skill with the rag, he left her in peace and went home and became quiet and subdued for the rest of his life.

“The shocking female who owns this wretched store is right,” called an ugly voice from the door.

Jilly’s mouth dropped open. She ceased her rag-flicking and turned around to see who had freshly insulted her. A prune-faced elderly woman, her pinched mouth stained in cherry juice, shuffled into the shop and eyed them all with disdain. Her gown was elegant but unfashionable, and a small porcelain figure of a lady looking eerily like her—snooty and grand and diabolical—was hand-painted at the top of the Continental dress stick upon which she leaned.

“Your housewarming celebrations are ill-advised, Captain,” the woman continued. “You should take up your command again and go back to sea. The sooner the better.”

Jilly would have smiled triumphantly at the captain, but she was far too wounded by the woman’s scathing rhetoric about herself to bother.

“Do tell me you three simpletons already knew that despite its exalted location in Mayfair, Dreare Street is considered an unlucky address,” the crone uttered, her words slithering out like a curse.

There was a dreadful stillness.

What a thing to say! Otis gave a small cry and blinked madly. Jilly wanted to speak, but once again, she couldn’t find her voice. Captain Arrow appeared completely unperturbed. Perhaps his having dealt with pirates had something to do with that.

The woman thrust a withered finger toward Jilly. “You, Miss Jones, are the first to buy here in over thirty years. And Captain Arrow, you’re the first person to voluntarily accept your inheritance. I know for a fact that your second cousin thrice removed attempted to give the house to at least three other distant relatives of yours. None of them wanted it because it’s on Dreare Street.”

There was a beat of awful silence. Jilly’s head felt as if it would burst.

“No!” Otis flung a hand to his brow. “Why, God? Why us?” And he drew out an outrageously oversized lace handkerchief with which he covered his face and proceeded to burst into tears.

“That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard,” Jilly said to the woman, her indignation of monumental proportions. “We live here now. And we refuse to believe such nonsense.”

She’d already had her fair share of bad luck. She refused to have more.

“Nonsense?” The woman walked over the threshold. “Did you, the owner of a bookstore with a ridiculous name, say nonsense?”

Jilly’s eyes widened, but she nodded. That small figure at the top of the cane seemed to stare malevolently at her.

The woman stamped her walking stick and shook Jilly out of her trance. “Lady Duchamp doesn’t deal in nonsense. She’s too clever. And she knows that one should avoid fools.”

“Yes, but who are you, madam?” Otis asked.

The woman narrowed her eyes at him. “Why, Lady Duchamp, you idiot.” She turned to Captain Arrow next. “You’re disgustingly handsome. Aware of it, too, aren’t you? I’m sure you think staring at me as if you can see my underthings will charm me. But I’m not charmed. Not in the least.”

Jilly shared a look with Otis. Otis almost giggled but didn’t.

Thank God.

Captain Arrow stepped forward and kissed Lady Duchamp’s hand. “I find that women with tongues like adders usually have good reason for their vitriol, or at least did at one time. Consider me a friend should you ever need one, my lady.”

“Pah,” is all she said back, then lowered her brows. “I am the oldest resident on this street and the most put-upon. I despise everyone who lives here and only wish they had more bad luck than they already have. I hope a tree falls through your shop window in a storm, young lady, drenching all your books, and as for you”—she shoved a finger at Captain Arrow’s chest—“you and your loutish friends … I hope the pox visits your house and kills you all.”

“What about me?” Otis looked terribly offended at being left out.

Lady Duchamp pointed the end of her stick at him. “You, sir, are already so pathetic, I can think of nothing to worsen your lot in life. You are the epitome of failure and misery.”

Otis looked well satisfied with the insult.

The old woman turned on her heel and walked away at a snail’s pace. They could have easily gone after her to deliver their own insults, but Jilly knew—and apparently Otis and Captain Arrow did, as well—that such a harpy would be impervious to any barbs.

Another beat of silence passed, broken only by the sound of Otis whimpering into his handkerchief again. Finally, he lowered it and looked accusingly at Captain Arrow. “You’re a sailor, and sailors are terribly superstitious. What do you plan to do now that you know Dreare Street is unlucky?”

Captain Arrow shrugged. “Sell the house as always.”

“But who will want it?” asked Jilly. “Who’ll want to buy a house—or books, for that matter—on an unlucky street?”

She felt such despair, she wasn’t sure that she wouldn’t burst into tears at any moment. But then she remembered how useless tears were, and the despair hardened into a knot of defiance in her stomach.

Captain Arrow looked at her with the bland confidence of a man who seldom encountered misfortune—or if he did, quashed it. Perhaps with a broadside of cannon fire, or a saber, at the least.

“One can thwart any superstition by employing one’s wits,” he said. “I’ve defied every nautical superstition there is without mishap. I’ve set sail on Friday, thrown a stone into the sea, stepped on and off a ship left foot first, and conversed with a ginger-haired person before boarding, all to no consequence. It shall be no different on Dreare Street. I’ll sell the house and be on my way in no time.”

“You navy captains are so demmed confident!” Otis cried.

“And so should you be,” the captain insisted, slapping Otis on the back. “It’s a waste of time, putting credence in luck and superstition. One simply needs to use one’s own resources, and the world is your oyster. Is it not, Miss Jones?”

Of course, Jilly was reluctant to agree with him in any way, but she must. Here she was, the proud owner of a bookshop because she’d gone after what she wanted, which was wrong, according to the vicar in her home village. She was supposed to do only what the men in her life told her to do.

“You’re correct, Captain,” she said. “There is no such thing as bad luck. We make our own fortunes. Therefore, I declare with complete certainty that Dreare Street is not unlucky. Just because there’s an inordinate amount of fog in the morning, and a man next door who’s a disturbance to the peace, and no customers in Hodgepodge, and an evil old woman with a frightening walking stick—well, that doesn’t mean it’s unlucky. All that can be dealt with, I assure you.”

She crossed her arms and glared at her handsome neighbor. Woe to anyone who interfered with her plans for Hodgepodge. There was too much at stake for her to capitulate.

Thoroughly unruffled, Captain Arrow looked at her with a devastating smile on his well-defined lips—the kind of smile that would make any other woman swoon—and a slow-burning gleam in his golden eyes. It was as if he found her the most appealing woman in the world.

No doubt he looked at every woman that way, so Jilly refused to be flattered, even though her breath was a bit short and something depraved inside her wanted to eat him up, like a delicious pudding one licked off the sides of the bowl when no one else was looking.

She must suppress that thought immediately.

“Excuse me, Captain. I’m busy.” The rag-snapping had lost its luster, so when her eyes lit upon a book of poetry, she determined to read a line. Any line. She opened it to a random page, held it beneath her nose, and read:

To His Coy Mistress,

by Andrew Marvell

Had we but world enough, and time,

This coyness, Lady, were no crime.

My goodness! She felt scandalized, but better that than be required to look at Captain Arrow. She allowed herself to peek at a few more lines:

My vegetable love should grow

Vaster than empires, and more slow;

An hundred years should go to praise

Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;

Two hundred to adore each breast,

But thirty thousand to the rest—

“Enjoying yourself, Miss Jones?” Captain Arrow’s honeyed tones broke through her reverie.

She slammed the volume shut, her face flushed and her temples damp. What a naughty poem! The captain would no doubt adore it.

“No,” she said. “I’m not enjoying myself.” And she shoved the book back beneath at least ten others and made them into a neat pile. “I’m organizing my shop. It’s exhausting, time-consuming work.”

“All the more reason for you and Otis to come with me now,” her golden-haired nemesis said. “My friend Lumley has mixed a fine rum punch to fortify us during the performance. I assure you, our lady friends are absent, and every man is clothed”—Jilly turned scarlet—“and on his best behavior.”

Otis straightened his cravat. “I’m going.”

Jilly stomped her foot. “No, you are not.”

Otis stomped his foot back. “Come now. We need to welcome our new neighbors.”

“But we’re the new neighbors, too,” Jilly said.

“Exactly,” Captain Arrow replied, and held out his well-clad arm. He’d taken the time to put on a coat, a fine one that fit him like a glove. His cravat, she couldn’t help but notice, was a sartorial miracle. “An entertaining skit and one small cup of punch while you watch, Miss Jones. Perhaps we’ll bring better luck to Dreare Street if we all share a toast to it.”

She hesitated. Toasting their new abode did seem like a fine idea. Her father had taught her to toast when she was a small girl. Perhaps the ritual of toasting was just the tonic she needed to keep her more anxious thoughts at bay.

Besides, the captain’s boots were shined so bright, she could see books reflected in them, which was a pleasant sight. Her determination to avoid the man was temporarily forgotten.

“Oh, very well,” she said, removing her apron. “Just one small skit and a cup of punch.”

It had been so long since she’d indulged in any amusements.

Too long.

Since well before she’d married the odious Hector.

She took the captain’s arm and prayed she’d continue to believe he wasn’t charming or intelligent in the least. She didn’t need a neighbor who would make her wish she wasn’t trapped in a bad marriage to an awful man. And she most definitely didn’t want a neighbor who would uncover her secret—

That she was a runaway wife hiding from her husband.