Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Joan had endured two full weeks of the Duke’s insufferable company, five days of biting her tongue while he made infuriating comments.
But she had also spent those days reading through his meticulously kept accounts, marveling at the care he took with his estate despite his impairment.
He kept his word.
“The hall is yours,” he had said, sliding a set of keys across the desk toward her.
Joan had stared at the keys as though they might disappear if she blinked. “Truly?”
“I am a man of my word, Miss Sinclair. Despite what you may think of my character. You have one week free from your duties here to prepare the space. After that, I expect you back at this desk.”
Now, three days into that precious week of freedom, Joan stood in the center of the village hall.
The space was larger than she had dared imagine—a proper assembly room with high ceilings and tall windows that let in floods of natural light.
The wooden floors were scuffed and worn, but solid.
A small stage occupied one end, and Joan could already envision how they might arrange desks and benches for the children.
“Well,” came a familiar voice from the doorway, “who would have thought you actually did it.”
Joan turned to find Timothy Andersen standing in the entrance, his arms crossed over his broad chest. His weathered face held an expression of grudging respect.
“You doubted me, Mr. Andersen?” Joan asked, unable to suppress a smile.
“I doubted the Duke would agree to anything that didn’t benefit him directly,” Timothy admitted. He stepped into the hall, his boots echoing on the bare floors. “But it seems you have a gift for persuasion.”
If only he knew.
“I’m grateful he saw reason,” she said aloud. “And now we have work to do. This hall won’t prepare itself.”
The next days passed in a blur of activity.
Victoria threw herself into the preparations with an enthusiasm Joan hadn’t seen since before the scandal.
Her sister scrubbed floors until her hands were raw, hung cheerful paper decorations from the rafters, and painted a large wooden sign that read “Fairfax School for Children” in elegant letters.
Timothy appeared each morning with Percival in tow, and together they moved the heavy furniture that had been stored in the hall old benches and tables that would serve perfectly for the children’s lessons.
Sarah and Molly, the maids from Fairfax Manor, came to help with the cleaning, their initial wariness of Joan gradually giving way to something like camaraderie.
The Duke had provided funds as well though he had been maddeningly pompous about it.
“As long as you do not play any games with my ledgers. Consider this a friendly support.”
Joan had bitten her tongue and accepted the money with as much grace as she could muster.
Petty, she had thought as she left his study. He’s being deliberately petty. This amount of money means nothing to a duke.
But combined with the funds Damian had sent, it was enough to purchase basic supplies—slates and chalk, a few primers and arithmetic books, paper and ink for the older children.
As they worked, villagers passed by the hall frequently. Joan noticed them peering through the windows, whispering to one another, their faces marked with curiosity and suspicion in equal measure.
On the second day, Joan was carrying a box of books when she noticed a small crowd gathering outside. She set down her burden and walked to the door, stepping out into the afternoon sunshine.
“Good day,” she called out cheerfully. “We’re preparing a school here—a place where children can learn to read and write and cipher. We’ll be opening in just a few days.”
The villagers stared at her. An older woman in a faded dress exchanged glances with her companions.
“A school, Miss?” the woman said carefully. “For our children?”
“Yes! All children are welcome. There will be no fees, no costs of any kind. Simply bring your sons and daughters, and we will teach them.”
The crowd murmured amongst themselves. Joan saw skepticism written plainly across their faces, but they responded with polite nods before dispersing, their conversations continuing in hushed tones as they walked away.
“They think you’re mad,” Victoria said from behind her, though her tone was fond rather than critical.
“Perhaps I am,” Joan admitted.
By the end of the third day, the hall was transformed.
The floors gleamed from repeated scrubbings.
Benches and tables stood in neat rows, ready for students.
A chalkboard purchased with the last of their funds occupied pride of place at the front of the room.
Books lined a makeshift shelf Timothy had constructed.
Paper decorations added cheerful splashes of color to the otherwise austere space.
Joan stood in the center of the room, her heart full to bursting.
“It’s perfect,” Victoria breathed beside her. “Joan, it’s absolutely perfect.”
Timothy cleared his throat from where he leaned against the doorframe. “You’ll be wanting me to spread word through the village, I expect?”
“Yes, please,” Joan said eagerly. “Tell everyone that we’ll be opening tomorrow morning at nine o’clock. All children between the ages of five and twelve are welcome to attend.”
Timothy’s expression grew troubled. “Miss Sinclair, I’ll do as you ask, but…” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “I wouldn’t count on a large turnout. Not at first, anyway.”
“Whyever not?” Joan frowned. “Surely parents want their children to have opportunities they never had?”
“It’s not that simple.” Timothy shifted uncomfortably. “Just… don’t get your hopes too high. That’s all I’m saying.”
“I have faith in this community, Mr. Andersen,” Joan said firmly. “Simply inform your neighbors. That’s all I ask.”
Timothy nodded, though the doubt never left his eyes. “As you wish, Miss.”
Joan barely slept that night. She lay awake in the darkness, mentally reviewing her lesson plans, imagining the hall filled with eager young faces, already anticipating the joy of watching children discover the magic of reading their first words.
The next morning was crisp and clear, perfect for a new beginning. Joan’s heart raced with anticipation as she and Victoria approached the hall in their carriage, and she quickened her pace, eager to open the doors and welcome her students.
But when they rounded the corner and the hall came into view, her heart sank.
The square was empty.
No crowds of children with their parents. No curious onlookers. No one at all except Timothy and Percival, who stood awkwardly near the entrance looking distinctly uncomfortable.
Joan felt her excitement curdle into disbelief. She looked up and down the street, certain that she must be mistaken as she came down from the carriage with Victoria.
“Mr. Andersen,” Joan said slowly as she approached, “did you inform the neighbors as I asked?”
“I did, Miss.” Timothy’s weathered face was creased with something that looked like pity. “Spoke to every family with children. Told them about the school, about the free lessons.”
“Then where…” Joan gestured helplessly at the empty square. “Where is everyone?”
Timothy sighed and placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. “I tried to warn you, Miss Sinclair.”
He met her eyes steadily. “You’re a stranger here. A London lady who appeared out of nowhere and started making grand claims about teaching our children. Why would anyone believe you’ll actually follow through?”
The words struck Joan like physical blows. She had been so focused on opening the school, securing the hall, gathering supplies, preparing lessons that she had never stopped to consider whether anyone would actually trust her enough to attend.
She looked at Victoria, whose face had fallen in disappointment. Then at Percival, who shuffled his feet and wouldn’t meet her eyes. She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin.
“Victoria,” she said decisively, “I need you to return to Fairfax Manor with Peter for now.”
Victoria blinked in surprise. “What? Joan, I should stay and help—”
“Please,” Joan interrupted gently. “I need to handle this differently. Trust me.”
Victoria looked as though she wanted to argue, but something in Joan’s expression must have convinced her. She nodded reluctantly and got into the carriage casting worried glances over her shoulder as she went in.
Joan turned to Timothy and Percival. “Mr. Andersen, I have a proposition for you.”
Timothy raised an eyebrow. “Another one?”
“The villagers don’t trust me because I’m a stranger,” Joan said. “But they know you. They trust you. So let’s go talk to them together. You and Percival and me. Let them see that you believe in this school enough to bring your own son. Let them ask their questions and voice their concerns.”
Timothy stared at her. Then he looked down at his son, who was gazing up at Joan.
“Well, Percival?” Timothy asked. “What do you think?”
Percival’s face broke into a wide grin. “Yes, Father! Let’s do it!”
Timothy’s mouth twitched into what might have been a smile. He met Joan’s gaze and nodded slowly.
“Very well, Miss Sinclair. Let’s go talk to the villagers. Though I warn you—they’re not easily convinced.”
Joan trudged beside Timothy and Percival, every step an exercise in maintaining what little dignity she had left. Her dress was stained with mud from where she’d stumbled fleeing a woman's garden. And most humiliatingly of all, she had bits of cabbage clinging to her sleeve and collar.
“Well,” Timothy said carefully, breaking the uncomfortable silence, “that could have gone… worse?”
Joan turned to look at him incredulously. “Worse? Mr. Andersen, I was accused of being a thief, a charlatan, and—I believe Mrs. Pemberton’s exact words were—‘a London harlot come to corrupt our children.’ Then she threw vegetables at me.”
“Only the one cabbage,” Percival offered helpfully. “And it was quite small.”
“Yes, you’re quite right, Percival. Only one small cabbage. How fortunate for me.”