Cloudy with a Chance of Marriage

Stephen shook his head. “I’d rather not say.” It still stung deeply to recollect that awful moment in Hodgepodge when he’d first realized Jilly and Hector were married. “They’re not from here anyway.”

Mr. McIver grinned. “I envision him as a Ferdinand. Or Brutus. The villain always has such a name in the Gothic novels my wife is fond of.” He chuckled. “If he doesn’t live here, then tell me, lad. Just the first name will do.”

Stephen shrugged. “It’s Hector. The lady’s name I’ll keep to myself.”

Mr. McIver drew in his chin. “My goodness,” he said. “I know a Hector. Are you sure they’re not from around here?”

“No, they’re not, I assure you.”

Mr. McIver looked at Stephen with a great deal of pity, almost as if he thought he were lying.

“What is it?” Stephen couldn’t help feeling a bit defensive.

The old man twisted his mouth in a faint grimace and patted his hand. “I feel for you, lad.”

“Yes, I know you do.” Bitterness crept into Stephen’s voice. “Thank very much. But I’ll survive.”

Just barely.

Mr. McIver leaned close to him. “You came to see Bessie Brompton, didn’t you, and you found Hector there,” he whispered knowingly, and looked up to make sure the barkeep wasn’t listening. “Don’t worry. Your secret’s safe with me.”

The hairs on the back of Stephen’s neck stood up. “What do you mean?”

Mr. McIver shook his head. “You’re not the first to fall in love with Bessie. Hector comes and goes, sometimes for months at a time. They’ve been married at least ten years, but”—he paused—“everyone knows Bessie has her occasional suitor.” And then he winked.

Married.

For ten years?

“The Hector you refer to … his surname is Brompton?” Stephen could barely get the words out.

“Why, yes,” said Mr. McIver. “Of course. Hector and Bessie Brompton.”

Brompton.

Broadmoor.

The names were very close.

“Got married in our village church.” Mr. McIver cocked his head at some unknown point. “Everyone from here gets married there.”

Stephen forced himself to regain his outward composure, although inside he was still reeling. “I’m sure you have the wrong Hector. What does he look like?”

“Why, he’s got an ugly scar right by his mouth.”

It was the same Hector!

“I really must go,” Stephen managed to say. “But thanks for the kind ear.”

The man nudged him. “Forget about Bessie,” he said with sympathy. “Surely there are other women who’ll capture your heart. Go find one in Town, eh?”

He slapped Stephen on the back once and went back to his ale.

Stephen walked out of the pub with a smooth brow and calm manner, but his heart beat a wild tattoo against his ribs. When he mounted his horse, he wheeled it around and cantered in the direction of the small spire down the street. Hector’s doom would be found right here—in Kensington, where he kept his real wife.

It would be the same place that Stephen would confront him with the truth—and here that Jilly, the woman both he and Hector had wronged, would find her freedom.

* * *

“No, you may not come in,” Otis said loudly to Lady Duchamp, who’d arrived at the door of Hodgepodge while everyone who’d attended the emergency meeting was discussing the new plan to bring prosperity to Dreare Street. “Not if you plan to make trouble.”

Lady Duchamp arched one eyebrow. “Are you afraid of me, you sartorial disaster?” She eyed his tricorne hat and scarlet coat with scorn.

Jilly and everyone else froze at the overheard conversation.

“I’m most certainly not afraid of you,” Otis said with dignity. “So do come in and make your standard dramatic entrance—it’s getting to be quite boring, by the way—and fire your best volley. We shall sink you, my lady, if you dare! That I promise you.”

He leaned toward her, his voice trembling with emotion.

“You’ve been consorting with that ridiculous sea captain too long.” She pushed Otis aside with her cane and entered the shop. “Stop your eating and drinking. The news I have shall make you all sick to your stomachs.”

Everyone stared, but then a young man next to her bit into his scone and stared fixedly at her. He swallowed loudly and took another bite.

Her eyes narrowed. “That’s at your peril.”

“I’ll take my chances,” he said low, and kept chewing, like a cow at its cud.

“How can I help you, my lady?” Jilly’s tone was businesslike.

Lady Duchamp stuck her withered chin in the air. “As some of you know, I own several buildings on this street. But until now, none of you have guessed that I own the ground beneath your feet. You pay your leases to me. Mr. Redmond is my accountant.”

There was a stunned silence.

Then Mr. Hobbs stood. “What of it? We don’t care who owns the land beneath our feet. We’ll pay you and be done with it. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

There were murmurs of assent from all around.

“Oh, yes there is.” Lady Duchamp smiled, and it was an awful smile, to say the least. “As of yesterday, I’ve changed the terms of the lease.”

Jilly felt her stomach sink. “What are the new terms?” she called out, refusing to let any fear enter her voice.

The old woman’s smiling face suddenly went stony. “The money is due in three days.”

“No, it’s not, my lady.” The young man with the scone wiped his mouth. “We have a whole week.”

Lady Duchamp poked him in the chest with her cane. “Not any longer. Of course, I wanted the money due today. But the attorneys said it would take three days for the paperwork to go through. Good-bye, all of you, for good. Might as well pack and leave.”

The whole room fell deathly silent as Lady Duchamp walked out the front door again. Everyone turned around and looked at Jilly as if she’d know what to do.

The old bat had been right. Jilly did feel like throwing up. But she wouldn’t let any of her friends know.

“So we have three days now instead of seven,” she said briskly.

“But we need seven,” Nathaniel said.

“We don’t have them. “ What else could she say? “We’ll simply have to adjust to the new schedule.”

Everyone but Otis—how good a friend he was!—looked rather doubtful.

“Right.” Jilly blew a tendril of hair off her face. “This is only a temporary setback. Let’s disband for the moment and regroup here at two this afternoon.”

The group stood and moved to the door, quiet again.

Deflated.

Like her. But she remained stalwart until the last of them left. And then she sank onto a stool.

For the first time, she truly felt defeated. “What are we to do?” she asked Otis. “Nathaniel is right. We really do need a week.”

Otis stared at her a moment. On his face, she read worry. But there was something else, something that buoyed her.

“Follow me,” he said, and stuck out his arm. “I told you once I’d save you at your darkest hour, and I will. I know exactly what to do.”

And he marched her over to Lady Duchamp’s house and knocked on the door.