Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
Now then,” she said, picking up a piece of chalk, “let us review our multiplication tables. Can anyone tell me what three times four equals?”
Joan stood at the front of the hall, her heart full as she looked at the three small faces before her. Two days away from the Duke’s estate had given her time to focus entirely on the school, and this morning had brought an unexpected gift.
Imogen had arrived hand-in-hand with another boy. Edmund, the physician’s son, both of them clutching slates and looking nervous but determined. Victoria had been teaching only Percival during Joan’s absences, but now they had three students.
Three, Joan thought with fierce joy. It’s a beginning.
The faces of the children were blank.
“Perhaps we should start simpler,” Joan tried again, keeping her voice patient. “What is two times two?”
Percival’s hand shot up eagerly. “Four, Miss!”
“Excellent, Percival!” Joan wrote the equation on the board. “Now, what about two times three?”
Silence. Imogen bit her lip, her brow furrowed in concentration. Edmund stared at his slate as though the answer might magically appear there.
“Six,” Percival offered tentatively.
“Very good! Now, can someone explain how we arrived at that answer?”
More blank stares.
Joan moved through several more problems, her enthusiasm gradually dimming as she realized just how much the children were struggling. They weren’t being difficult or inattentive, they were genuinely lost, unable to grasp the concepts she was trying to teach.
She could feel frustration building in her chest. These were basic principles, fundamental mathematics that any educated child should understand. But these children had never been taught to think this way.
I’m failing them, she thought with dismay. I’m explaining it exactly as my governess taught me, and they don’t understand a word.
She set down her chalk and took a deep breath, forcing herself to think differently.
“All right,” Joan said, making a decision. “Put down your slates. We’re going to play a game instead.”
Three faces immediately brightened.
“A game, Miss?” Imogen asked hopefully.
“Yes, indeed. It’s called the Market Game.” Joan moved to the center of the room. “Percival, you are a baker with three loaves of bread. Each loaf costs two pence. Imogen comes to buy all three loaves. How much money does she need?”
Percival’s face scrunched in concentration. Joan watched him carefully, seeing the moment when understanding began to dawn.
“Two pence… and two more pence… and two more pence…” Percival counted on his fingers. “Six pence, Miss!”
“Exactly right! That’s three times two. Three loaves, each costing two pence, equals six pence total.” Joan turned to Edmund. “Now you try. Edmund, you’re a butcher—like Percival’s father. You have four cuts of meat, and each one costs three pence. I want to buy all four. How much do I owe you?”
Edmund’s eyes widened as he began working through the problem, his fingers moving as he counted. “Three, six, nine… twelve pence, Miss!”
“Wonderful! That’s four times three equals twelve.”
They continued the game for the next half hour, the children taking turns being merchants and customers, calculating prices and totals. Joan watched with satisfaction as understanding gradually replaced confusion on their faces.
“The winner of today’s game,” Joan announced once they’d worked through several rounds, “will receive a very special prize.”
“What prize, Miss?” Imogen asked eagerly.
“A hug from me,” Joan said with a smile.
The children’s competitive spirits ignited immediately. They threw themselves into the final rounds with renewed enthusiasm, each desperate to win. In the end, Joan declared it a three-way tie and awarded hugs to all of them, much to their delight.
After the lesson concluded, the children helped tidy the hall—returning slates to their proper places, straightening benches, sweeping chalk dust from the floor. Joan watched them work together, their earlier struggles forgotten in the glow of their accomplishments.
“Miss Sinclair?” Percival asked as he stacked the last of the slates. “How long can we use this hall? Will we be able to keep having lessons here?”
Joan paused in her sweeping. “That depends on the Duke’s continued generosity. He has been kind enough to allow us to use his property, and if we work hard and show him that we appreciate his kindness, I hope he will rent us the hall for next semester as well.”
“The Duke?” Imogen’s voice dropped to a whisper. “You mean the scary man who lives in the big house?”
Joan saw Percival and Edmund both nod solemnly, their faces suddenly anxious.
She set down her broom and crossed to Imogen, kneeling down to the girl’s level. She took the child’s small hands in her own, her expression gentle.
“Darling girl,” Joan said softly, “tell me something. Have you ever personally witnessed the Duke being cruel to anyone?”
Imogen’s brow furrowed as she thought. “No, Miss. I’ve never even seen him.”
“Has he ever done anything unkind to you? Or to your family?”
“No, Miss.”
Joan turned to the boys. “What about you two? Has the Duke ever been cruel to you? Or to anyone you know personally?”
Both boys shook their heads.
“Then why,” Joan asked gently, “should we judge him as scary or cruel? If he has never done anything to harm us, if, in fact, he has been generous enough to let us use his hall for our school, shouldn’t we speak more kindly about him?”
The children were quiet, considering this.
“People often make assumptions about others based on rumors and gossip,” Joan continued.
“They judge without knowing the truth. But that isn’t fair, is it?
How would you feel if people decided you were bad or mean without ever speaking to you?
Without ever giving you a chance to show your true character? ”
“I wouldn’t like it, Miss,” Edmund said quietly.
“Neither would I,” Percival agreed.
“Exactly.” Joan squeezed Imogen’s hands gently.
“So let us make a promise, the four of us. We will not judge people before we truly know them. We will not spread rumors or believe gossip without evidence. We will give everyone, even dukes who live in big houses, the courtesy of proving who they really are through their actions. Agreed?”
“Agreed, Miss!” all three children chorused.
Joan smiled and rose to her feet. “Excellent. Now, I have homework for each of you. Practice your multiplication tables using the market method we learned today. Don’t be discouraged if you struggle. Every scholar who ever lived struggled at first.”
She hugged each child in turn, their small arms squeezing tight around her waist. As they gathered their things and prepared to leave, Joan felt that fierce warmth in her chest again.
The three students were nearly at the door when Joan heard Edmund whisper to his companions, “Do you think Miss Sinclair will marry the Duke? That would make her a duchess!”
Imogen gasped. “That would be so romantic!”
“I can hear you!” Joan called out, trying to sound stern but unable to suppress her smile.
Three guilty faces turned back to her for a brief moment before the children burst into giggles and ran for the door, their laughter echoing through the hall.
Joan shook her head, still smiling, as she watched them go. The sound of their joy was better than any payment she could have received.
She was gathering her own things when she heard footsteps at the entrance. Timothy Andersen appeared in the doorway, nearly colliding with his son and the other two children as they raced past him.
“Father!” Percival called out, waving enthusiastically before disappearing down the street with his friends.
Timothy watched the children go with an expression of bemusement, then turned to Joan. His weathered face held something that looked remarkably like respect.
“Miss Sinclair,” he said with a nod. “I saw the children running. They looked… happy.”
“I hope so,” Joan replied. “We had a good lesson today.”
Timothy reached into his coat and pulled out a wrapped bundle. “I wanted to give you this. As thanks.”
He handed her the package, and when Joan unwrapped it, she found a generous cut of meat—easily a pound, maybe more. Far more than she could afford to purchase on her limited budget.
“Mr. Andersen, I cannot accept this,” Joan protested. “It’s too much—”
“It’s gratitude,” Timothy interrupted firmly. “I never thought my Percival would learn to read or write. Never imagined he’d have opportunities beyond following in my footsteps as a butcher. But last night, he showed me his slate. He’d written the entire alphabet, Miss.”
His voice roughened with emotion. “You’re giving my boy a future. That’s worth more than a pound of meat.”
Joan felt tears prick her eyes. She clutched the wrapped meat to her chest, overwhelmed by the generosity of the gesture.
“Percival is a bright and kind child,” she managed. “It’s my privilege to teach him.”
Timothy nodded, clearly uncomfortable with the emotion of the moment. He cleared his throat. “I spoke to a few families, showed them Percival’s progress. The physician is impressed, and the vicar is pleased with Imogen’s lessons. You should expect a few more students next week.”
“Truly?” Joan’s heart leaped with hope.
“Aye. Word is spreading that you’re the real thing that you actually know what you’re doing and care about the children.” Timothy smiled slightly. “Folks are starting to trust you, Miss Sinclair.”
“Thank you,” Joan whispered. “Thank you so much for believing in me.”
Timothy’s expression grew more serious. “How long is the Duke letting you use this hall?”
“I’m not certain,” Joan admitted. “We have an arrangement, but we haven’t discussed specific terms beyond the initial period.”
“You should think about finding a cheaper alternative,” Timothy said carefully. “Maybe a barn or a large room someone would rent for less. The Duke is… unpredictable. He could change his mind at any moment, and then where would you be?”
Joan felt a flash of defensiveness on behalf of the Duke, which surprised her. “He has been quite fair in our dealings thus far.”
“Maybe so.” Timothy shifted uncomfortably. “But you don’t know him like the village does. He’s been alone up in that estate for so long, cut off from everyone. It’s not natural.”
“Why do people think of him the way they do?” Joan asked, genuinely curious. “What has he done to earn such a fearsome reputation?”
Timothy sighed and leaned against the doorframe. “It’s not so much what he’s done as what he is. He lost his parents young, terrible tragedy. And before that, they’d lost a daughter. Just a baby, she was. Died in her crib.”
Joan’s heart clenched with sympathy.
“After his parents passed, the young Duke closed himself off,” Timothy continued.
“The only person from the village who sees him regularly is that young lady—Lady Octavia, I believe her name is. People have been saying for years that they’re engaged, though there’s never been any formal announcement. ”
Joan’s breath caught. Her hands tightened involuntarily on the wrapped meat.
“Engaged?” she heard herself ask, her voice sounding strange and distant.
“Well, rumored to be,” Timothy amended. “She visits him often enough. And she’s the sister of his closest friend, the Duke of Ravenvale. It would make sense for them to marry eventually.”
He looked at Joan with concern. “You’re one of the only people in town who’s actually met him and spent time with him, Miss Sinclair. Other than Miss St. Vincent, of course.”
Joan felt something cold and heavy settle in her stomach. Of course he’s engaged, she thought. Of course there’s someone else. He’s a duke—a handsome, wealthy, titled man. Why wouldn’t he have a beautiful young lady waiting?
Timothy reached out and patted Joan’s shoulder awkwardly. “I need to get back to the shop. But we’ll talk more about finding you a permanent location for the school, all right? Can’t have you dependent on the Duke’s uncertain charity.”
“Yes,” Joan managed. “Thank you, Mr. Andersen. For everything.”
She watched him walk away down the street.
Joan looked down at the meat in her hands, but she barely saw it. Her mind was full of images she couldn’t seem to banish, the Duke with his Miss St. Vincent.
It shouldn’t matter, she told herself. His personal life is none of my concern.
But unbidden, she remembered the feel of his hand beneath hers when she had reached across the desk in sympathy. The gentle way he had tended her injured wrist, his fingers careful despite his teasing. The way his voice had roughened when he’d accused her of flirting.
The way something in her chest had warmed at his touch. But he belonged to another woman and that knowledge made her heart ache.