Cloudy With a Chance of Marriage (9 page)

He decided to ignore the awkward moment. “There’s a stack of planks in the shed, too,” he said. “I don’t know how old they are. They might all be rotten. But I’ll look about and see what I can produce to help you.”

“Thank you,” she said, casting her eyes down.

A strange awkwardness descended upon them.

“You’re welcome.” He dragged his hand across the counter and patted it once. “See you tomorrow.”

“See you,” she said quietly.

Stephen was shocked to discover he wasn’t dreading the prospect.

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.