Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
“Good morning,” Joan said briskly to the two maids.
“We have a great deal of work ahead of us. Sarah, I need you to begin in the drawing room. Remove all the holland covers and beat them outside. Then sweep and scrub the floors. Molly, you will help me in the entrance hall. We need to make at least the main rooms presentable.”
She found the two maids from yesterday, Sarah and Molly, huddled in the kitchen, whispering nervously over cups of weak tea. Both jumped to their feet when Joan entered, their faces flushing with guilt.
“Yes, Miss,” they chorused, setting down their cups with evident relief at having clear instructions.
Joan had woken before dawn, her body protesting the unfamiliar mattress and her mind racing with the day’s tasks. Beside her, Victoria slept fitfully, making small, distressed sounds that tugged at Joan’s heart.
She’d dressed quietly in one of her oldest day dresses, a simple cotton affair in pale blue that had seen better days, and twisted her dark hair into a practical knot at the nape of her neck.
Joan spent the next three hours on her hands and knees, scrubbing years of accumulated grime from the floors of the entrance hall.
Her back ached, her hands were red, and several strands of hair had escaped her knot to hang limply around her face.
But slowly, gradually, the house began to reveal hints of its former glory.
Mama would be appalled to see me like this, Joan thought wryly as she sat back on her heels to survey her work.
But there was something oddly satisfying about the physical labor. It kept her mind occupied, kept her from dwelling on Victoria’s tears.
“Joan?”
She looked up to find Victoria descending the stairs, still in her nightdress with a wrapper pulled hastily over it. Her sister’s eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, her face pale as milk. She yawned hugely, one hand covering her mouth, and blinked at the scene before her.
“What are you doing?” Victoria asked, her voice still thick with sleep.
“Making our temporary home livable,” Joan replied, pushing herself to her feet and brushing ineffectually at the dirt on her skirts. “How did you sleep?”
“Poorly.” Victoria descended the last few stairs and looked around with growing dismay. “Joan, you cannot do all this yourself. Let me help. I can—”
“The only help you can offer me right now,” Joan interrupted firmly, “is to wash your face, eat a proper breakfast, and then return to bed to rest.”
Victoria’s chin lifted stubbornly—a gesture that reminded Joan so forcefully of their mother that her breath caught. “I can work. I should work. This is as much my fault as—”
“Victoria.” Joan crossed to her sister and took both her hands, squeezing gently. “Please. You have been through a terrible ordeal. Your body and mind need rest. Let me take care of this. Let me take care of you.”
Tears welled in Victoria’s eyes. “You always take care of everything. But who takes care of you?”
“I am quite capable of caring for myself, dearest. Now, Molly!”
The maid appeared in the doorway, looking anxious. “Yes, Miss?”
“Please escort Miss Victoria upstairs. Help her wash and dress, then bring her breakfast in her room. She is to rest for the remainder of the day.”
“I really don’t need—” Victoria began.
“You must rest,” Joan said firmly. Once Victoria was safely out of sight, Joan returned to the kitchen to survey their provisions.
They were woefully inadequate: some stale bread, a few withered vegetables, and precious little else.
If they were to make this place livable, she would need proper supplies.
And I need to send something to Damian, she thought.
Her brother would be dealing with the fallout of the scandal alone in London.
She knew him well enough to know he would forget to eat properly when worried or stressed.
The least she could do was send him a care package to remind him that his sisters were thinking of him.
“Peter!” she called out toward the servants’ quarters.
Their coachman appeared a moment later, looking considerably more relaxed than he had yesterday. “Yes, Miss Sinclair?”
“Prepare the carriage. I need to go to the market.”
Joan wanted the two maids at home looking after Victoria. And she also needed to scour the little village herself.
I’ll make the best out of this situation, she says to herself.
The village was small barely more than a handful of shops clustered around a modest square with a church at one end. But it was bustling with activity as Peter guided the carriage down the narrow main street. Market day, Joan realized.
She was mentally compiling her shopping list soup ingredients for Victoria, meat and cheese for Damian, perhaps some fresh bread if she could find a decent bakery, when Peter suddenly pulled the horses to an abrupt halt.
“Miss Sinclair,” he said, his voice troubled. “There seems to be some manner of disturbance ahead.”
Joan leaned out the window to peer down the street. A crowd had gathered and she could see heads turning, fingers pointing, and in the center of it all—
A boy.
He could not have been more than ten or eleven years old, thin and wiry, with dark hair that fell into his eyes.
Something in Joan’s chest tightened painfully. Back in London, she used to teach arts in a small school, the only school that allowed women to teach.
“What is happening?” Joan demanded.
Peter shook his head. “I cannot say, Miss. Best if we simply continue on to—”
“Stop the carriage.”
“Miss Sinclair, it is not our concern—”
“I said stop the carriage, Peter.”
The coachman sighed but obeyed, pulling the horses to a complete halt.
She gathered her skirts and jumped down to the street, ignoring Peter’s scandalized protest.
The crowd was thick enough that Joan had to push her way through, murmuring apologies as she went. The voices grew louder as she approached the center.
“—caught him red-handed!”
“—always knew that boy was trouble—”
“—his father should keep better watch—”
Joan finally broke through to the inner circle to find the woman still gripping the boy’s arm, her face mottled with rage. Up close, the woman was perhaps fifty, dressed in the practical woolens of the merchant class.
“What is happening here?” Joan asked, her voice cutting through the general murmur of the crowd.
Several people turned to look at her, curiosity and wariness mingling in their expressions. The woman’s grip on the boy tightened.
“And who might you be?” the woman demanded.
Before Joan could respond, a man from the crowd spoke up. “That’s one of the ladies from Fairfax Manor. Arrived yesterday, they did.”
Word travels quickly in small villages, Joan thought wryly.
“Well, Lady from Fairfax Manor,” the woman said, her tone dripping with false deference, “this does not concern you. This boy is a thief, and I am merely ensuring he faces justice.”
Joan looked at the boy. “Is this true?” she asked him gently.
“No, Miss!” The words burst out of him like a dam breaking. “I didn’t steal nothing! I swear it on my mother’s grave!”
The woman’s hand flew up, clearly intending to strike the boy across the face.
Joan stepped forward and caught the woman’s wrist mid-swing, her grip firm enough to stop the blow but not quite hard enough to hurt.
The woman’s eyes widened in shock. “How dare you—”
Joan released her wrist and gently pulled the boy behind her, positioning herself between him and his accuser.
“Are you all right?” Joan asked over her shoulder, keeping her eyes on the woman.
“Y-yes, Miss,” the boy managed, his voice thick with tears. “But I didn’t steal! I didn’t!”
“I believe you,” Joan said firmly.
“Miss Sinclair!” Peters had pushed through the crowd, his face creased with worry.
“Return to the carriage, Peters,” Joan said without looking at him. “I will be along shortly.”
“Miss—”
“That is an order, Peters.”
She heard his frustrated sigh, but his footsteps retreated. The crowd murmured with renewed interest. “You have no right to interfere!” the woman sputtered, her face going even redder. “This boy stole from me, and I demand—”
“What proof do you have?” Joan interrupted coolly.
The woman blinked. “Proof?”
“Yes, proof. Evidence. What makes you certain this boy stole from you?”
“I—well—he walked past me not ten minutes ago. Bumped into me, he did. And when I reached for my reticule, my money was gone!”
Joan raised one eyebrow. “The boy accidentally bumped into you, and you immediately concluded he was a thief? That seems rather illogical. Unless you believe him to be some sort of magician who can make coins disappear with a touch?”
Several people in the crowd chuckled. The woman’s flush deepened.
“It’s obvious what happened!” she insisted. “No one else was near me. It had to be him!”
“That is hardly evidence,” Joan said.
The woman looked around wildly.
“If he’s innocent,” she said desperately, “why won’t he let himself be searched? I demanded he turn out his pockets, and he refused! What innocent person would refuse?”
Joan turned to look at the boy. He met her gaze squarely, despite the tears now tracking down his dirty cheeks.
“Is this true?” Joan asked.
The boy’s chin lifted. “I’d rather be taken before the magistrate than searched like a common criminal in the street, Miss. I got my pride, even if I ain’t got much else.”
She turned back to the woman. “It seems the boy is willing to face the proper legal authorities. Surely that suggests innocence rather than guilt?”
“See?” the woman shrieked, appealing to the crowd. “Only a thief would be so afraid of a simple search!”
“How much money are you claiming was stolen?” Joan asked.
The woman drew herself up importantly. “Twenty pounds!”
Joan’s eyebrows climbed toward her hairline. “Twenty pounds? You were carrying twenty pounds on your person at the village market? What are you, a private bank?”
The crowd erupted in genuine laughter this time. Several people called out jibes about the woman’s supposed wealth.