Cloudy with a Chance of Marriage

CHAPTER SIX

The next morning, Jilly was glad to see Captain Arrow arrive with some carpentry tools, nails, a wide, long plank, and some small pieces of wood.

“Good morning,” he said, but he sounded a bit guarded, a remnant of that strange awkwardness between them the day before.

“Thanks for coming.” She felt equally reticent, although she didn’t know why she should worry. Their agreement was quite simple, and she actually trusted him to keep his side of the bargain.

“How are your guests today?” She was very aware they were alone. Otis was upstairs washing the breakfast dishes.

Captain Arrow shrugged. “I left before they awakened. They’ll be up soon enough, I suppose.”

She wanted to tell him she was excited about the plank he’d found. But she also didn’t want him to think she was impressed with him in any way. After all, the only reason he was making her a window ledge was because he’d entangled her in his problem, and it was a most inappropriate ploy, considering the fact that she was already involved in her own deception.

Which was inappropriate, too, but it was hers.

When Captain Arrow didn’t seem to notice her understated reaction to his arrival and became immediately absorbed in the task she’d set before him, she felt a bit bereft.

Why didn’t he care that she was ignoring him?

She began to regret her cool manner. She wanted to know what every piece of wood was for and how long the task would take. She couldn’t wait to get her books on that ledge!

Diligently, he worked on. His legs, arms, and back bristled with power—and a hint of danger—as he measured. Even so, when he carried some materials outside, the shop lost some of its coziness. Jilly couldn’t help staring while he shaped the ledge with his shaving tools on the pavement. Part of her wanted him to come back inside so she could talk to him, although why, she didn’t know.

She was a married woman.

And he was a rake. Not once had he shown interest in her books, either.

The perfect man, in her view, was someone who knew as much if not more about books as she did.

Again—not that it mattered. She was married. Romance was not to be hers. At least she had her freedom, the greatest gift she could ever want.

Nevertheless, the captain was very handsome. She couldn’t stop taking peeks, pretending to herself that all she cared about was observing his progress. Once he turned around to her and grinned knowingly, as if he could read her most private thoughts.

She’d drawn back then, determined not to look any more. And luckily, something happened to divert her.

Otis arrived downstairs and let fly with the feather duster, while Jilly looked into the last crate of books she had to shelve. It had taken her all week to get her purchased inventory catalogued and put in the proper bookcases. The books in this particular crate had been left by the previous owner in his attic.

“My goodness.” She turned a small, leather-bound journal over in her hands. “It’s a diary.”

Otis put down the duster and looked at the journal with her. “It belonged to someone named Alicia Maria Fotherington, who lived”—he started, which made her start, as well—“almost two hundred years ago!”

Jilly’s heart thumped madly. She loved a good story.

“I wonder where she lived,” she said, and quickly thumbed through the first several pages. “My goodness.” She looked up at Otis. “She lived here, on Dreare Street, in Captain Arrow’s house.”

“You don’t say!” Otis exclaimed, and walked to the window and looked first at the captain, who was busy sanding a small piece of wood, and then at the house. “Was she married?”

Jilly bit her lip. “I don’t know, but I plan to find out. It’s not as if I don’t have time to read it.”

Otis made a face. “True. But as soon as you’re finished, I want to read it, too.” He paused. “Here,” he said excitedly. “We have a new customer.”

He straightened his coat, and they both watched the artist from down the street tip his hat to Captain Arrow, who acknowledged him with a friendly greeting.

The fellow wore a faded coat, boots that had seen better days, and a sheepish grin on his boyish countenance when he arrived at the door.

“Hello,” he said in a strong but kind voice. “I’m Nathaniel Sadler. Thank you for the scones. They were delicious, Miss Jones.”

“You’re very welcome, Mr. Sadler,” Jilly said. “We have plenty more. And please call me Jilly.”

“I’m quite full at the moment, but thanks.” He grinned. “And I’d be most obliged if you’d call me Nathaniel.”

“Nathaniel, then,” she said. “And this is Mr. Shrimpshire, my assistant.”

“Otis to artistic geniuses,” Otis explained. “I’ve seen your paintings in your window.”

Nathaniel thanked him for the compliment, and the men shook hands.

“I didn’t come in sooner because”—Nathaniel hesitated—“people don’t mingle on Dreare Street.”

“I wonder why?” Jilly truly couldn’t fathom it. “In the country, we got to know all our neighbors very well.”

Nathaniel shrugged. “Most people don’t mingle on any streets in Mayfair, actually. You’ll have a lord living next to a dress shop on one side and an attorney’s office on the other. People don’t speak unless they’re with people like themselves. But here on Dreare Street, the residents are even more isolated from their neighbors.” He looked at them from beneath a fringe of wavy black hair. “Lady Duchamp does her best to quash any signs of friendliness between us.”

“That’s obvious,” Otis said. “She’s not a very happy person.”

Nathaniel winced. “She’s a widow. Perhaps that accounts for it.”

Jilly liked that he was a compassionate sort and began to get an idea, a very good idea. Somehow she wanted him to meet Susan.

“Do you—would you mind if I looked through your books?” he asked.

“Not at all,” she replied warmly.

He scratched his head. “I don’t have any money to buy one. But I do love to read.”

Those were the perfect words to say to a lover of books. “You go right ahead and browse,” Jilly said. “And if you see one you like, please take it as a gift from one neighbor to another.”

What was one book between friends? She wasn’t making any money anyway.

Otis made a face at her.

She quelled him with a glance.

Nathaniel blushed. “That’s very kind of you. Perhaps someday I could paint a small portrait of the exterior of Hodgepodge you could hang in the shop.” He looked around at the blank walls.

“I’d love that,” Jilly said with enthusiasm. “I’d also be happy to hang any other paintings you might have. They could be for sale here.”

His eyes brightened. “Really? I’ve had no luck finding a patron in London. You’d be doing me a great service. That is…” He looked around. “Do you get many customers?”

She shook her head. “I’m afraid not. And I must confess that’s one reason I’d like to hang your paintings. Perhaps they’ll attract more clients. At the very least, your canvases would make the shop far more attractive.”

“So true,” echoed Otis. “‘A thing of beauty is a joy forever.’” He paused for dramatic effect. “Shelley said that. In fact”—he preened—“I’m an expert at all sorts of poetry. Shall I show you his work?”

Nathaniel shrugged. “Why not?”

“Um, I believe Otis meant to ascribe that quote to Keats.” Jilly cast an apologetic look at her assistant.

Otis reddened. “Oh, yes. Keats. Doesn’t he wear outrageous cravats? And his hair à la Brutus?”

“I’ve no idea,” Nathaniel said. “He’s an amazing poet, that’s certain.”

“Tell me about yourself, Nathaniel,” Jilly asked. “What brought you to Dreare Street? Have you always lived here?”

His cheery face took on a rather grim cast. “I arrived here two months ago as the student of a great painting master. He was planning an exhibit for me, which he claimed many well-known art collectors would have attended. But he died three days after we arrived. Lady Duchamp allowed me to continue renting his studio if I paid the same amount plus a quarter more—for the master’s dying so inconveniently on her property. I must say the place has wonderful light.”

“I didn’t realize Lady Duchamp owned your building.” Jilly was aghast at the old woman’s callousness and unbridled greed. “So what happened to you after your friend died?”

Nathaniel’s eyes darkened with sadness. “All his connections disappeared, and I was left to fend for myself. I’ve been trying ever since to find another patron.”

Jilly sighed. “I’m so sorry you’ve lost your friend and are having a rough time of it. Do you—do you believe the rumors that Dreare Street is unlucky?”

“Yes.” Nathaniel chuckled.

His answer was so flatly delivered, Jilly couldn’t help laughing herself.

“Well,” she said, leaning closer to him, “perhaps if we keep talking to each other here at the store, Lady Duchamp won’t notice that we’re all cheering up. Please do come by any time. I’ll look forward to chatting with you.”

“I shall.” He gave her an infectious grin. “Thanks again, Miss Jones. It does get awfully lonely on Dreare Street.”

A wonderful picture of Susan and Nathaniel together flashed in her mind. He was a man with a compassionate heart, and she was a woman who could benefit from some tender understanding.

They’d be a perfect couple, she decided. But she’d put away her brilliant idea until later.

Nathaniel spent a few minutes quietly browsing, and Jilly couldn’t help feeling pleased at how engrossed he was in the books.

“I can’t pick a book out today,” he said. “There are so many interesting ones. I’m leaning toward the one about the canals in Venice, but I’ll come back again very soon to take another look. How’s that?”

“I’d love if you visited every day,” Jilly replied. “Consider Hodgepodge your home away from home.”

“Why, that’s very kind of you,” he said, looking genuinely moved.

When he left, Jilly realized that was exactly what she did want: a home. A family. A sense of belonging. Hodgepodge could provide that for her and for other people on the street. She simply had to stay the course.

Stephen came back inside with the piece of wood that would become her new ledge, and her heart lightened.

“I’m only here a moment,” he said breezily.

Her heart promptly sank. “All right, then.”

He was on his haunches now, testing the ledge beneath the window. She tried to ignore how manly he was, how focused he was on his craft and on making a ledge for her shop. He didn’t have to try so hard—she wasn’t even paying him, and one might even say he’d been coerced—yet he was making a tremendous effort.

Which was quite charming of him.

Think of something else, of someone else!

She smiled. “Do you need my help, Captain?”

“No, thank you,” he replied politely, although she noticed he didn’t even look at her.

Blast. When he was near her, she couldn’t concentrate on other things. His golden hair glinted—who could look away from that? And his hands. They were strong hands with tapered fingers. They looked quite capable.

How would they feel around her waist?

Think of something else! “Captain—”

He paused in his work and cast a glance at her over his shoulder. “Yes?”

Oh, dear. She could tell she was interfering. “Nothing.” She bit her lip. “I’m sorry.”

A beat passed. “I’m not,” is all he said. He tossed her a quick grin, lowered the ledge to the floor, and stood.

Her heart raced even more. What had he meant by that? And was he going to come over to the counter to speak to her? Because if he was, she was backing up.

She cast a furtive glance around for her dusting cloth.

But she didn’t need it. He came nowhere near her.

“I’ll be working outside again,” he said.

She felt that odd disappointment settle over her when he went out the door.

However, she couldn’t think about why he affected her so because a few seconds later, a long, pale woman entered the shop. Jilly had seen her before, coming out of her fine home on Dreare Street with two long, pale children, a boy and girl of about fifteen, and her florid-faced husband, a man who appeared to take life very seriously in his tight cravats and multilayered black cape.

“Welcome to Hodgepodge,” Jilly promptly stated. “May I help you find something?”

When the woman turned to her, Jilly was shocked by the desperation she saw in her eyes. “I’m your neighbor, Lavinia Hobbs.” The woman swallowed. “And if I don’t find a receipt for the perfect soup, I’m afraid—”

“What?” asked Jilly, her heart lurching and her pulse racing.

Mrs. Hobbs lowered her hand. “I’m afraid we’ll have a very dismal dinner.”

“Oh.” Jilly let out a small breath.

Was that all?

She noticed the lady’s eyelids were red-rimmed. Jilly daren’t ask her why, but she wanted to show she was concerned. “May I help you search?”

The woman nodded, misery surrounding her like a cloud. “I’d be grateful to find a receipt for turtle soup.”

“Come with me.” Jilly’s tone was warm but brisk. “That should be no trouble.”

Mrs. Hobbs followed silently. Jilly did her very best to cheer her by thumbing through several volumes on cookery with her. After ten minutes or so, her pale neighbor did appear in better spirits. They’d found a delicious-sounding receipt for turtle soup in one book, which Mrs. Hobbs decided to purchase.

At the counter, while Jilly wrapped the volume in brown paper, Mrs. Hobbs smiled thinly. “Thank you for the scones. I was quite surprised to receive such a token of generosity. Of course, Mason was quite suspicious of it.”

“Mason?”

“My husband. He thought you wanted something.” Mrs. Hobbs waved a hand. “His family is so grasping, you see. He came into a great deal of money a few years ago, and we moved to Mayfair with such high hopes.”

Her voice trailed off wistfully, and there was an awkward silence.

“Is … is everything all right, Mrs. Hobbs?” Jilly asked.

Mrs. Hobbs swallowed hard. “Of course.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Hobbs hesitated, then added, “I mean, no. Not really. Things are … not all right.”

She gulped.

Jilly held the string she was tying still. “I’m sorry to hear that,” she whispered. “I’ll be happy to listen if you need an ear.”

Mrs. Hobbs let out a deep sigh. “I do, actually.”

“I promise to keep your confidence,” Jilly said, with the warmest smile she could manage.

Mrs. Hobbs stared at her a moment. “Very well,” she said. “The truth is, Mason lost his inheritance. Almost every penny. He invested in a tea company that was attempting to rival the power of the East India Company, and his company failed. We’re struggling to survive.”

Jilly laid her hand on Mrs. Hobbs’s long, pale one. “I’m so sorry.”

Mrs. Hobbs pulled her hand back and gave a little sniff. “We’ll be fine,” she averred. “I did have to fire the cook, and Mason’s in a terrible mood all the time these days, but if I make a good dinner—”

She stopped, put her hand to her mouth, and gave a little sob. “The thing is, Miss Jones, I’m a terrible cook. All my life I have been. I don’t know if I can manage.”

Jilly came out from behind the counter and squeezed her hand. “I’m sure your turtle soup will be delicious.”

Mrs. Hobbs squeezed back. “I just can’t seem to do anything right anymore,” she whispered. “Neither can the children.”

“Well,” Jilly said, a bit overwhelmed but touched by Mrs. Hobbs’s apparent trust. “Please visit any time you need someone to talk to. And send the children, as well. Even Mr. Hobbs, if he’s a reader.”

Mrs. Hobbs moved away and stared out the window. “He only reads the papers for the financial news.” She shrugged. “He thinks reading anything else is silly.”

Jilly joined her at the window and saw Captain Arrow sawing through a small, thick block of wood as if it were butter. Something in her middle warmed in a totally irrational fashion.

“Don’t worry about Mr. Hobbs,” she said. “Let reading be your form of entertainment.” She took Mrs. Hobbs’s hand again and tugged her to the shelves. “Come with me.”

Mrs. Hobbs actually chuckled. “Miss Jones, you are bossy, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I am, but only about books.” She grinned and pulled out a small book of silly limericks and jokes and handed it to Mrs. Hobbs. “Here. You and the children read this when you’re blue. I’m sure you’ll find your spirits will improve right away. And once they do, don’t let anyone, especially Mr. Hobbs, dampen them for the rest of the day. All right?”

“All right.” Mrs. Hobbs smiled, a small, hopeful smile which warmed Jilly’s heart. “I will. But Miss Jones, somehow I doubt you’re only bossy about books.” She threw a sly glance at Captain Arrow. “You managed to get our new neighbor to work for you, a man who’s done nothing but enjoy himself with his friends—until now.”

“Oh, well.” Jilly coughed lightly. “He probably tired of constant diversion. And some men love carpentry, don’t they?”

Mrs. Hobbs chuckled again. “Perhaps it’s something else he loves—the sight of a certain bookshop owner.”

“Mrs. Hobbs.” Jilly couldn’t help being shocked at Mrs. Hobbs’s teasing. A very secret part of her was even pleased by it.

A wicked secret part that she would suppress.

Mrs. Hobbs said nothing else, merely left with a smile on her face and her shoulders rather thrown back, a sign of renewed confidence which pleased Jilly no end.

Ten minutes later, Stephen walked back into Hodgepodge with the small wooden blocks, determined to show Miss Jones he had more substance than she gave him credit for. This window ledge was going to be the best piece of carpentry work she’d ever seen. Not only that, he would show her he could be civilized, mature, and focused when he felt like it—but only when he felt like it. Not when he was told to be. Now that he’d left the navy, he no longer had to worry about commanding officers. He was his own man.

His own man.

“Would you like something to eat?” She looked at him only a moment before looking away.

He couldn’t countenance it. Miss Jones was more nervous around him than she’d ever been before. “No, thank you—”

“I insist, Captain. For all your hard work.”

“But I’m not hungry—”

“Captain Arrow.” Ah. Now she was back to her old self. She speared him with a look that dared him to defy her. “Accept my hospitality, the way I accepted yours at your theatrical evening.”

So much for his being in charge. “Very well,” he agreed. “If you don’t mind fixing me something, I’ll be happy to eat it. It would mean I won’t have to go back to my house and the company there. No offense meant.”

“None taken,” she said. “Otis has prepared a noonday meal already.”

“Shall I eat it here, in the shop?”

“How hospitable would that be?” She gave him a rather forced smile. “Why don’t you and Otis eat first, upstairs, while I watch the store, and then I’ll follow? I’d rather stay here in case we get a customer.”

“Suit yourself.” He put his tool belt aside and followed. When she opened a door between two shelves on the back wall to a small corridor behind it, he noticed her slender neck and had a sudden desire to put a kiss on it.

You’re foolish, he told himself. What drove the desire in him to kiss a hard, unmanageable woman like Miss Jones?

Otis started in his chair when they entered the office.

“My goodness,” he said, lowering his book, “I was just getting to one of my favorite parts, when Elizabeth goes to Darcy’s mansion with her aunt and uncle—and Darcy spies them there!”

“Yet he treats her with great respect,” said Stephen with a chuckle. “He could have made her feel completely out of place, but no. He’s in love. Supposedly, men in love forget all the good reasons they have to be annoyed with the object of their affection and forgive her everything.”

Miss Jones turned her head to stare at him. “You’ve read Pride and Prejudice?”

Stephen arched a playful brow. “Of course. What else does one have to do on a ship but fight wars, clean decks and tackle, eat, indulge in an occasional rum with one’s shipmates—and read?”

“Well said, Captain.” Otis slapped his book shut and stood.

Miss Jones still looked stunned. “But you’ve shown no interest in the books in Hodgepodge,” she told him.

Stephen lifted his broad shoulders. “There’s a time for reading … and a time for indulging in merrymaking with one’s friends.”

Otis chuckled. “Clearly, in your world, those times don’t overlap.”

“No, they don’t,” he said. “Now that the parties are over, thanks to my houseguests, perhaps there will be a time to read. I’m sure you agree, Miss Jones, when one is alone, reading is as diverting as any good friend or party.”

“I do agree.” Miss Jones blushed as pink as the inside of a conch shell.

“Miss Jones?” Stephen was amused to see her so prettily discomfited, but he couldn’t fathom why she was.

But too soon she seemed to recover. “Why don’t you and Otis go have some lunch?”

“I’m not at all hungry,” Otis said. “I’ll watch the shop, and you and Captain Arrow enjoy a meal together.”

Miss Jones hesitated, but then she said, “Would that suit you, Captain?”

“Yes,” he said, noting that she wasn’t looking directly at him. “We can talk about literature. Which of the ancient Greek playwrights is your favorite?”

She told him with a great deal of enthusiasm as they traipsed up the stairs. He enjoyed listening to her spout her obviously well-educated opinion so happily. He also enjoyed seeing her from behind, and he didn’t feel a bit guilty about it. They were talking about cerebral things, so why should a man feel guilty for enjoying viewing a woman’s shapely rear through her gown, and perhaps imagining what she looked like without that gown on her pleasingly rounded form?

Of course, she being a maiden, they really shouldn’t spend time alone in her living quarters, but she’d already flouted convention by running her own bookshop, hadn’t she?

She must have read his mind. “I’m aware that it’s rather improper for us to be here in my private quarters without a chaperone,” she said a bit stiffly. “Which is why we shall dine al fresco, where we’ll be in full view of the entire street.”

“Oh? I didn’t know you had a balcony.”

“I don’t,” she said. “But we do have the roof, if you don’t mind climbing.”

She pointed to a set of rungs on the wall.

Stephen looked up and saw a trapdoor. “I don’t mind at all,” he said. “Shall I go first?”

She blushed, no doubt understanding that if she went first, he’d be able to see up her skirts.

“That’s an excellent suggestion,” she said. “You go ahead with a blanket. You’ll see just where to place it.” She reached into a cupboard, withdrew a cheery quilt, and thrust it into his hands. “I’ll follow behind with the food and drink.”

“Good plan,” he said, and clambered easily up the rungs. When he pushed on the roof door, it gave with a mighty squeak. Above his head, he saw the usual gray skies that hung above London.

Once on the roof, he saw the perfect place to sit, a rim of bricks surrounding the chimney. The bricks would make an excellent bench with enough room in between the people reclining there to place a picnic. And yes, if neighbors chose to look up from their windows or the street itself, they’d be able to see the two of them on the roof.

He laid the blanket down and walked closer to the edge. Dreare Street from this vantage point didn’t look so bad, even with the bits of fog still clinging to a street lamp and a large tree in Lady Duchamp’s yard. He gazed down at his house and wondered what Sir Ned and his family were doing. Probably bickering.

Behind him, he heard Miss Jones climbing the rungs, and he got on his knees to grab the food, the drink, and then her hand. When he pulled her up, she grazed his chest with her own soft one before falling back.

“Oh, my!” She looked up at the sky with a pleased grin on her face. “I see some blue.”

It was a small spot of color but just cause for celebration—and a good way for him to avoid thinking about the fact that they’d just come into very close contact.

He picked up the jug of water, and Miss Jones carried the basket and cups to the brick bench.

She poured water into their cups and dispensed bread and cheese. “There,” she said, looking well pleased. “I do enjoy a picnic.”

Her eyes were bright, he noticed. She’d never looked prettier, especially with that shaft of sunlight piercing her hair, turning its black color almost blue.

“Everything’s better outside,” she said. “Isn’t it?”

Did she have any idea how appealing she was when she smiled?

“Yes,” he said. “Everything. Especially a kiss.”