Cloudy with a Chance of Marriage

She gave him a small smile, bolstered by a strong sense of relief. They weren’t receiving guests. Her suspicions had been correct. Her husband was merely toying with her, keeping her here in London. How many days did he intend for them to linger before returning home?

She would challenge him to find out more.

At dinner later that evening, she began her quest for more information. “Where shall we go first tomorrow? The park? Bond Street? Or the British Museum?”

He looked up from his turtle soup. “Nowhere.”

She ladled a few more spoonfuls herself. She had no appetite, but she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how upset she was. Her heart was in pieces over Captain Arrow. Their relationship had come to an ugly end, and she simply couldn’t reconcile herself to that fact. More than any desire she had to bring prosperity to Dreare Street, she looked forward to seeing him at the street fair so she could—

She didn’t know.

How did one make an impossible situation better?

And what did it matter when she and the captain hadn’t made any sort of declarations anyway? She was going on feeling, that instinct she’d had this morning that theirs was more than a mere infatuation.

Something bigger had loomed between them. It had been the same in the garden. It wasn’t something they’d asked for, but it was there as sure as the moon was in the sky.

There was love between them.

Love.

The very idea made her eyes burn with unshed tears. She gulped them back with a hefty swallow of ratafia.

“And the day after?” she asked Hector smoothly.

He put his spoon down and glared at her. “You’re not going anywhere.”

She gathered her courage. “Then why are we here? Why not return home immediately?”

“Because I’ve business here.”

“What sort of business?”

“It doesn’t concern you.”

“It does. Every penny you have belonged to me first. I certainly hope you haven’t run through all of it.”

There was no account, no property left that Hector hadn’t already pilfered from. She’d gambled what little resources she’d had on that one attempt to be free—

And she’d lost.

There was still the satisfaction, however, that Otis had Hodgepodge. She hoped he could make something of it. Perhaps if he earned enough, he could open up a store for gentlemen’s fashions, as well.

Hector stood from the table. “I don’t have to explain anything to you.”

But she needed more information. She couldn’t make plans to leave for the day on Wednesday without some sort of knowledge of Hector’s schedule.

She rose, too. “I accept that, believe it or not,” she said. “And I would be glad to accompany you wherever you go. If we must stay together, we should make the association as painless as possible, don’t you think?”

It took everything in her to say such conciliatory things to him.

Hector simply smiled. “I don’t think so. I’d rather keep you like a caged bird in this house, tantalizingly close to your beloved Dreare Street. The servants have strict instructions to keep you under lock and key while I’m gone.”

Gone.

Did he mean for an hour? For a day? Or several days?

She had no idea.

But gone was a good word. With Hector out of her path, she’d find a way out. She was sure of it. She wasn’t Lady Jillian, daughter of Lord Harris and his wife, Lady Harris, for nothing.

Mama, she prayed silently. Papa. Be with me.

She needed a way to live—truly live—despite her miserable attachment to the man standing before her with a cruel look of satisfaction on his face.

“Very well,” she said. The knowledge that she was a lady made it easier for her to swallow all the rude retorts that came to mind, that and the fact of some sort of looming absence on his part.

Slowly, silently, she ascended the stairs to her bedchamber and locked the door. She didn’t care what the servants thought about the arrangements. She’d made sure she was at the opposite end of the hall from Hector.

The single night rail she’d packed still smelled of her sitting room above Hodgepodge, a sweet, homey smell that brought Otis’s face instantly to mind. She inhaled its fragrance and let the tears come.

She wanted to go home.

As foggy and unlucky as Dreare Street was, it was her home, and she missed it with every fiber of her being.

Stephen was there.

Captain Arrow, she corrected herself.

If he were gone, would she still feel the same sense of home she did on Dreare Street?

He was to leave soon, as soon as he could sell his house.

A great sadness pressed down on her.

With trembling fingers, she crawled into bed and pulled up the coverlet. She was sure she wouldn’t sleep— she still had no idea how she’d get to the street fair undetected—but she fell into a deep, dreamless slumber.

* * *

Stephen never went to bed that night. First, he convinced a very shy Nathaniel, who’d finally finished his watercolors, to supervise the merchants and oversee the schedule of events at the fair now that Miss Jones had been called away due to family illness. Then he assisted Pratt and his crew with the building of a new watering trough at the stables—one that would be fit to refresh Prinny’s horses. After that, he helped Susan and Otis devise a system of strings and clothespins with which to display Susan’s mobcaps and gowns in her booth.

He then went on to work all evening, aided by Pratt, replacing the rotted beams in his house with new ones. It was a sweaty, laborious chore, but it kept his mind off Miss Jilly Jones.

Although deep inside, he was worried. He didn’t like her husband at all.

He hoped she was safe.

Those unwelcome and disturbing thoughts about his diminutive neighbor kept coming to him as he hammered and sawed. They plagued him while he and Pratt secured posts against the walls and laid temporary, load-bearing beams on top of those posts. They assailed him as he removed the old, rotted beams and replaced them with new beams. In the affected bedchamber, he made sure the path to the attic taken by the bats was completely blocked, as well.

No matter how long and hard he worked, images of an unprotected Miss Jones beset him, continuing when he and Pratt took down the temporary beams and posts and when he sheepishly plastered over the hole he’d punched in another bedchamber wall earlier in the day.

When the Hartleys came home at four in the morning from a rout, he’d sent Pratt to bed and was just beginning to clean up. His unwelcome guests were fast asleep and the sun was rising into a murky layer of fog when he swept up the remainder of his carpentry mess.

The task complete at last, he stood outside the house and looked up at what he could see of it through the fog. The paint had dried on the stucco façade. He’d also managed to fix a hanging shutter. The chimney, where it had crumbled slightly, had been repaired, as well. The bull’s-eye would have been hidden beneath a layer of fog now, but he’d managed to remove it, with a little extraneous help from several neighborhood boys who got on their hands and knees with scrub brushes to move the job along.

And now … now Lady Hartley’s contact could come see the house, and if that person didn’t want it, perhaps someone at the fair would.

He looked over at Hodgepodge. There was no light from the sitting room. Otis must still be abed. All of Dreare Street appeared to be.

Perhaps all of London was.

It was just he … and the fog.