Chapter 6 #2
They had spent the entire afternoon going door to door through the village. Joan had tried every argument she could think of to convince parents to trust her with their children’s education.
The results had been… disappointing.
Most families had politely declined, their faces closed and skeptical. A few had been openly hostile, accusing her of everything from attempting to indoctrinate their children with dangerous London ideas to planning to sell them into servitude.
And then there was Mrs. Pemberton. A small woman with a demonic temper.
The woman had taken one look at Joan on her doorstep and immediately begun shrieking about thieves and con artists.
When Joan had tried to explain about the school, Mrs. Pemberton had grabbed the nearest projectile—which happened to be a cabbage from her kitchen—and hurled it with surprising accuracy.
Joan had fled, followed by the woman’s continued accusations and the laughter of neighbors who had emerged to watch the spectacle.
So much for winning the villagers’ trust, Joan thought bitterly.
Timothy cleared his throat. “Listen, Miss Sinclair. Don’t lose heart yet. I’ll talk to some of Percival’s friends—Edmund and Imogen. Their parents are reasonable folk. If I vouch for you personally, they might be willing to give the school a chance.”
Percival nodded eagerly. “Edmund’s father values learning! And Imogen’s father is the vicar. Surely he would want children to be able to read the Bible?”
Joan managed a weak smile, though her heart felt leaden in her chest.
Better than none, she told herself firmly. Three children learning to read is still better than none at all.
“Thank you, Mr. Andersen,” she said quietly. “Truly. I appreciate your help, even if…” She gestured helplessly at her cabbage-stained dress. “Even if the results weren’t quite what I’d hoped.”
“You’ve got spirit, I’ll give you that,” Timothy said with grudging respect. “Most ladies would have given up after the first door was slammed in their face. But you kept going, right up until the vegetables started flying.”
They walked in companionable silence for a few moments. Joan was glad she had sent Victoria home in the carriage with Peters hours ago—she hadn’t wanted the villagers to feel intimidated by an obvious display of wealth.
The sound of raised voices drifted toward them from somewhere ahead. Children’s voices, high and urgent.
Timothy’s head came up, his expression alert. “That sounds like—”
“Help!” A girl’s voice, shrill with fear. “Someone please help!”
Timothy broke into a run, Percival close behind him. Joan gathered her skirts and hurried after them, her fatigue forgotten in the face of a child’s distress.
They rounded a corner to find a small crowd of children gathered beneath an ancient oak tree at the edge of the village green. The children were looking up into the branches, calling out words of encouragement mixed with growing panic.
“It’s all right, Imogen! Don’t look down!”
“Someone needs to get help!”
“Where’s your father?”
Joan pushed through the cluster of children and looked up.
High in the tree’s branches—impossibly high, it seemed—sat a girl of perhaps nine years old.
She clung to the trunk with one arm while the other held a large orange cat that was yowling pitifully.
The girl’s face was streaked with tears, and her whole body shook with terrified sobs.
“Imogen!” Timothy called up. “What happened, girl?”
“Mr. Andersen!” The girl’s voice was thick with tears. “I—I tried to save Marmalade. He was stuck up here, and I thought I could climb up and get him, but now I’m too scared to come down! It’s so high, and I can’t hold on much longer, and Marmalade keeps moving, and—”
Her words dissolved into fresh sobs.
Joan assessed the situation quickly. The branch the girl sat on was thick and sturdy, but she was at least fifteen feet off the ground. Far enough that a fall could cause serious injury, especially if she was holding a wriggling cat.
“I’ll go up and get her,” Timothy said, already moving toward the tree. He tested the lowest branch, then began pulling himself up.
Joan watched anxiously as he ascended, moving carefully from branch to branch. Percival stood beside her, his young face tight with worry for his friend.
Timothy reached the branch where Imogen sat and spoke to her in low, soothing tones Joan couldn’t quite hear. After a moment, the girl nodded and carefully shifted to climb onto Timothy’s back, still clutching the cat against her chest.
“That’s it,” Timothy encouraged. “Just hold on tight. I’ve got you.”
He began the descent slowly, testing each foothold before putting his weight on it. Joan held her breath, her hands clenched so tightly her nails bit into her palms.
They were about eight feet from the ground when disaster struck.
The cat—Marmalade—apparently decided it had endured quite enough of this adventure. It let out a furious yowl and squirmed violently in Imogen’s arms, its claws scrabbling for purchase.
Imogen’s grip loosened in surprise. Timothy, feeling the girl’s hold on him weaken, tried to adjust his position.
His foot slipped.
For a heart-stopping moment, they teetered on the branch. Then Timothy’s boot lost its hold entirely, and they fell.
“No!” Joan didn’t think. She simply moved.
She lunged forward, arms outstretched, just as Imogen tumbled off Timothy’s back. The girl landed against Joan’s chest with enough force to drive the air from her lungs. They both went down in a tangle of skirts and limbs, Joan twisting at the last moment to take the brunt of the impact.
Pain exploded through her left wrist as she tried to break their fall. The world spun sickeningly, and for a moment all she could hear was the rush of blood in her ears.
Timothy hit the ground a few feet away with a heavy thud and a grunt of pain.
“Father!” Percival was at his side immediately. “Father, are you hurt?”
Joan blinked stars from her vision and looked down at the girl in her arms. “Imogen? Are you all right?”
The girl stared up at her with wide, shocked eyes. The cat had vanished—probably fled the moment they hit the ground—but Imogen appeared unhurt. Just frightened.
“I—I think so,” the girl whispered.
Timothy rolled to his feet with a groan, one hand pressed to his ribs. He hurried over to where Joan and Imogen lay on the ground, Percival close behind.
Timothy knelt beside them, his weathered face creased with concern. He gently extracted the girl from Joan’s arms and looked her over carefully. “Are you injured? Does anything hurt?”
“No, Mr. Andersen.” Imogen’s voice was small and shaky. “I’m all right. The lady caught me.”
Timothy’s gaze shifted to Joan, who was struggling to sit up. Her left wrist throbbed with a pain that made her stomach lurch.
“Miss Sinclair.” Timothy’s hand was on her shoulder, steadying her. “Don’t move too quickly. Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine,” Joan said automatically, though the words came out more breathless than she intended. She cradled her left wrist against her chest, trying to hide the way it was already beginning to swell.
Timothy’s eyes narrowed. “Let me see your wrist.”
“It’s nothing. Truly. Just a little sore.”
“Miss Sinclair.” Timothy’s voice took on a tone of firm authority. “Let me see your wrist.”
Reluctantly, Joan extended her arm. Even that small movement made her gasp with pain. The wrist was already swelling visibly, an angry red that would no doubt turn to purple bruising by tomorrow.
Timothy examined it with gentle fingers, and Joan bit her lip to keep from crying out. When he carefully rotated it, testing the range of motion, she couldn’t suppress a whimper.
“It’s not broken,” Timothy said finally. “But it’s badly sprained. You’ll need to bind it.”
Marmalade—the cause of all this chaos—appeared from beneath a nearby bush, meowing plaintively. Imogen scrambled to scoop up the cat, hugging it tightly despite its protests.
The other children had crept closer during the commotion. Now they stood in a loose semicircle, watching the adults with wide, uncertain eyes.
Timothy helped Joan to her feet, one arm supporting her elbow. She swayed slightly, her head spinning, but managed to stay upright through sheer force of will.
“Thank you,” Imogen whispered, looking up at Joan with something like awe in her tear-stained face. “You saved me.”
Joan managed a smile despite the pain radiating from her wrist. “You’re very welcome, dear. But next time you need to rescue a cat, please call for an adult first.”
Imogen nodded solemnly, then burst into fresh tears. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! You’re hurt because of me.”
“Hush now.” Joan touched the girl’s shoulder gently with her good hand. “Accidents happen. What matters is that you’re safe. Go home now, your parents might be worried. All of you.”
The children began to disperse chattering excitedly about the rescue. Imogen waved goodbye to them still clutching the recalcitrant Marmalade.
Timothy looked at Joan with concern written plainly across his weathered face. “You need to get that wrist tended to. And you shouldn’t walk all the way to Fairfax Manor in your condition.”
“I’ll manage,” Joan said, though even she could hear the lack of conviction in her voice. Her wrist was throbbing in time with her heartbeat, and she felt slightly sick from the pain.
“At least let me walk you home,” Timothy insisted. “It’s the least I can do after you saved Imogen.”
Joan wanted to protest but the pain was making her lightheaded, and the thought of walking another mile alone in the gathering darkness suddenly seemed overwhelming.
“Very well,” she conceded. “Thank you, Mr. Andersen.”
What a perfectly disastrous day, she thought as they walked home. Cabbage thrown at me, doors slammed in my face, and now this.
But even as the thought formed, she remembered Imogen’s little face and she smiled. Maybe it wasn’t that bad of a day.