Chapter 2 #2
“It was my savings!” the woman protested. “I had it in my reticule because I was going to—to—”
“To what?” Joan shook her head. “I find it highly unlikely that you were carrying twenty pounds through a village market.”
The woman’s expression shifted from anger to cunning. “Perhaps,” she said slowly, “you are so quick to defend him because you are working together. Perhaps this is how you London folk operate—send a pretty lady to distract while the boy does the stealing.”
“That’s right,” someone said from the back. “Why else would a fine lady interfere?”
“Probably trained the boy herself,” another voice chimed in.
“London ways, that’s what it is. Can’t trust them fancy folk.”
The crowd was turning hostile, and she realized with a jolt of alarm that she had badly miscalculated.
The faces around her had transformed from curious to cruel. The same people who had laughed at her jests moments ago now looked at her with suspicion and anger.
“Search them both!” someone shouted.
“Aye! If they’ve nothing to hide, they’ll not object!”
“Probably stole from half the shops on this street already!”
Joan’s heart hammered against her ribs. She kept one arm stretched out behind her, keeping the boy shielded, while her other hand clenched into a fist at her side.
Think, Joan. Think!
They don’t know me, she realized. Why would they believe me over one of their own?
“Please,” Joan said, raising her voice to be heard over the growing tumult. “If you would all just listen for a moment—”
“We’ve heard enough from you!” the woman spat. “You London folk think you can come here and tell us how to manage our own affairs. Well, we know a thief when we see one!”
“But you have no proof!” Joan protested. “You cannot accuse a child based on mere suspicion—”
“I have all the proof I need! He bumped into me, and my money vanished. What more proof do you require?”
I will not let them hurt this child, Joan thought fiercely. Whatever happens to me, I will not let them hurt him.
She was opening her mouth to make another appeal when something caught her eye. A glint of metal, peeking out from beneath the woman’s dark skirts.
Joan’s gaze sharpened. The woman’s petticoat had ridden up slightly in her agitation, and there, just visible against the muddy hem, was a small leather purse.
Could it be?
Without giving herself time to reconsider, Joan darted forward and grasped the purse, yanking it free before the woman could react.
“What is this?” Joan demanded, holding the purse aloft.
The woman’s face went white, then red. “That’s—that’s mine! Give it back!”
“Is it?” Joan opened the drawstring and tipped the contents into her palm. Several coins tumbled out—far less than twenty pounds. Perhaps fifteen shillings at most. “You claimed you lost twenty pounds. Yet here is your purse, with money still in it, hidden in your skirts.”
A shocked murmur rippled through the crowd.
The woman’s mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air. “That’s—that’s different money! I hid that separately! The boy still stole the other twenty pounds!”
“Did he?” Joan’s voice was cold as winter frost. “Then you will have no objection to us taking this matter before the magistrate.”
The woman’s eyes darted around wildly, seeking support from the crowd. But the townspeople were whispering among themselves now, their expressions shifting from hostile to uncertain.
“I—well—that is—” the woman stammered.
“Unless,” Joan continued, pressing her advantage, “you would prefer to admit right now that you fabricated this entire accusation.”
“How dare you!” The woman’s voice rose to a shriek. “I am a respectable—”
The woman grabbed at Joan’s arm, trying to push past her. Joan held firm, and for a moment they struggled in an undignified tangle of skirts and flailing limbs.
“Let me go! Let me—”
The crowd parted suddenly, roughly, as a man barreled through. He was tall and powerfully built, with arms thick from years of hard labor. His apron was stained with blood, a butcher, Joan realized.
“Percival!” The man’s voice boomed across the square. “Percival, where are you?”
“Father! I’m here!” The boy released Joan’s skirts and ran toward the man.
The butcher knelt down, running his hands over his son’s face, his arms, checking for injuries. “Are you hurt? Did anyone harm you? Tell me, boy.”
“I’m all right, Father,” Percival managed, though tears were now streaming down his face. “I didn’t steal nothing, I swear! I didn’t!”
“I know, son. I know.” The butcher pulled his boy close. Then he looked up, and his gaze fell upon the woman who had been accusing his son.
Recognition flashed across his face.
“Mrs. Alderton.”
The woman—Mrs. Alderton—took a step backward. Her face had gone from red to ash-gray. “Mr. Andersen, I—this is all a misunderstanding—”
“Is it?” Timothy Andersen’s voice was deadly quiet. “Is it a misunderstanding that you owe me four pounds for meat you purchased over the past two months? Is it a misunderstanding that I’ve asked you three times to settle your account, and each time you’ve promised payment ‘next week’?”
Mrs. Alderton tried to run.
Joan’s hand shot out, catching the woman’s wrist in a grip that made her yelp. “I think not, madam. You will stay and answer his questions.”
“Mr. Andersen, I believe you have something to say?”
Timothy set Percival down gently, keeping one protective hand on his son’s shoulder.
“You targeted my boy,” he said. “You accused him of theft to avoid paying what you owe me. You thought that would make me write off your debts.”
“That’s—that’s absurd!” Mrs. Alderton protested, though her voice shook. “I would never—”
“You’ve done it before.”
The new voice came from the crowd. A portly man in a flour-dusted apron pushed forward—the baker, from the looks of him.
“Mrs. Alderton,” the baker said, his round face hard with remembered anger. “Six months ago, my eldest boy—Thomas—was accused in the same manner. Do you remember? You made such a fuss, claiming he’d taken three shillings from you when you weren’t looking.”
Mrs. Alderton’s face went even paler.
“I didn’t realize it at the time,” the baker continued, “but you owed me money too. Two pounds for various purchases you’d never paid for. After the accusation against Thomas, you stopped coming to my shop entirely. I never saw a penny of what you owed.”
A rumble of anger moved through the crowd. People began calling out, sharing similar stories—small debts unpaid, accusations made against children when parents pressed for payment, a pattern of manipulation and deceit.
“Well, Mrs. Alderton?” Timothy’s voice cut through the noise. “What do you have to say now?”
The woman’s lips trembled. She looked around desperately, but found no sympathetic faces. Even her earlier supporters had turned away, disgusted by her deception.
“I—I was going to pay,” she whispered. “I just needed more time. I didn’t mean—the boy—I never intended—”
“You accused my son of being a thief,” Timothy said, each word precise and hard. “You attempted to have him searched in public, to humiliate and shame him. You cared nothing for what that would do to his reputation, to his future. All to avoid paying an honest debt.”
Mrs. Alderton began to cry, gulping sobs that held no dignity whatsoever.
“To the magistrate with her!” someone in the crowd shouted.
Several men took hold of Mrs. Alderton, who had gone limp and unresisting, and began marching her toward the far end of the square where, Joan assumed, the magistrate’s office must be located.
The drama over, the market-goers returned to their shopping and gossip, leaving Joan standing with Timothy Andersen and young Percival.
Joan took a deep breath, trying to steady her racing heart. Her hands were shaking—she clasped them together to hide the tremor.
Percival looked up at her with wide, wondering eyes. Then he pulled away from his father.
“Thank you, Miss,” he said.
She knelt down to the boy’s level and cupped his dirt-streaked face in her hands.
“You are very welcome, Percival,” she said softly. “You were very brave. I am proud of you for standing up for yourself.”
She brushed his hair back from his forehead, he smiled back, and in that moment, Joan felt a warmth bloom in her chest.
Timothy cleared his throat. Joan looked up to find him watching her.
“I thank you as well, Miss,” he said stiffly. “For intervening. He’s all I have in this world, and if anything had happened to him…” He trailed off, his jaw clenching.
“I could not stand by and watch a child be unjustly accused,” Joan said, rising to her feet. “Any decent person would have done the same.”
Timothy’s expression suggested he did not agree—that most people would have indeed walked by, that Joan’s intervention was unusual rather than ordinary. But he nodded.
“Well. We should be going.” He placed his hand on Percival’s shoulder. “Come along, son. We’ve already lost half the morning to this nonsense.”
There was a question that had been burning in her mind since the moment she’d seen Percival standing alone in his worn, patched clothes.
“Mr. Andersen,” she called out. “May I ask—why is Percival not in school?”
Both father and son stopped. Timothy turned back, his expression closing off into cold wariness.
“I beg your pardon?”
“School,” Joan repeated. “Surely there is a school in the village? Or a tutor? A boy of Percival’s age should be receiving an education.”
Timothy’s eyes narrowed. “Are you mocking me, Miss?”
Joan blinked in confusion. “I—no, of course not. I merely wondered—”
“The only school within twenty miles is for the children of officials and gentlemen,” Timothy said.
“And even that school only accepts students who show particular gifts. Children like my son—the sons and daughters of butchers and bakers and blacksmiths—we don’t get educated. We work. We learn our fathers’ trades.”
“That’s…” Joan struggled to find words. “That’s not right.”
Timothy snorted —a harsh, mirthless sound. “Right or not, that’s how it is. Now if you’ll excuse us, Miss, we have work to do.”
He turned away again, pulling Percival with him.
“Wait!” Joan hurried forward, reaching out without thinking. “I apologize. But please, just one more question.”
Timothy’s jaw clenched, but he stopped. “What is it?”
An idea was forming in Joan’s mind. She thought of the long months stretching ahead, trapped in that crumbling manor with nothing to do.
“What if there was a school?” Joan said, the words tumbling out in a rush. “What if someone were to teach the village children? Reading, writing, arithmetic, history—all the subjects they deserve to learn?”
Timothy stared at her. “There’s no such school. And even if there were, we couldn’t afford the fees.”
“What if there were no fees?” Joan pressed on, excitement building despite Timothy’s skeptical expression. “What if someone taught them for free, simply because they believed all children deserve an education?”
“And who,” Timothy said slowly, “would this generous someone be?”
Joan lifted her chin. “Me.”
The word hung in the air between them.
“You?” Timothy repeated. “A fine lady from London wants to teach village children? For free?”
“Yes,” Joan said firmly. “I have tutored my siblings for years. I am well-versed in all the necessary subjects.”
Timothy studied her. Joan forced herself to meet his gaze steadily.
“Even if you were serious,” Timothy finally said, “where would you hold these lessons? You’d need a hall, or a building of some kind. Somewhere large enough for all the children.”
“Yes,” Joan agreed. “Do you know of such a place? A hall that might be available?”
Timothy’s expression became something almost cruel in its amusement. “Oh, there’s a hall all right. Perfect size for what you’re describing. Used to hold town assemblies there, years back.”
“That sounds ideal!” Joan said eagerly. “Who owns it? How might I approach them about using it?”
“It belongs to the Duke,” Timothy said flatly.
Joan felt her enthusiasm falter slightly. “The Duke?”
“The Duke of Ashcroft. He owns most of the land around here, including that hall.” Timothy’s smile was cold. “You want to use it, you’ll have to ask him.”
“Very well,” Joan said, squaring her shoulders. “Then I shall call upon him and make my request.”
Timothy’s laugh was genuinely surprised this time.
“Call upon him? Miss, I don’t think you understand.
The Duke is…” He paused, choosing his words carefully.
“He’s reclusive. Hasn’t been seen in the village in over a year.
Stays locked up in his estate like a hermit.
And from what people say…” He lowered his voice. “He’s not a kind man.”
“I understand your concerns,” Joan said. “But I still must try. If there is any chance of securing that hall for the children, I have to take it.”
Timothy shook his head slowly, as though he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “You’re either very brave or very foolish, Miss. I can’t decide which.”
“Perhaps both,” Joan admitted with a small smile. She looked down at Percival, who was watching her with shining eyes.
Timothy’s expression softened slightly. He reached out and offered Joan his hand.
“Timothy Andersen,” he said. “And this is my son, Percival.”
Joan shook his hand firmly. “Joan Sinclair. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Andersen.”
“If you truly mean to approach the Duke…” Timothy released her hand and sighed. “I wish you the very best of luck, Miss Sinclair. You’ll need it.”
He placed his hand on Percival’s shoulder and began to guide his son away.
Peters appeared at her elbow, looking thoroughly disapproving.
“Miss Sinclair,” he said in a low voice. “We really must be going. We still need to purchase supplies, and it’s getting late.”
“Yes, of course,” Joan murmured, still watching Timothy and Percival disappear into the crowd.
They returned to the carriage, and as Peters helped her up, she settled into her seat.
“Peters,” she called up. “This Duke of Ashcroft. Have you heard anything about him?”
Peters was silent for a long moment. “Nothing good, Miss. He keeps to himself mostly. But folks say he’s got a terrible temper. That he’s… unpredictable.”
“But surely he must have some good qualities?” Joan pressed. “No one is entirely bad.”
Peters clicked his tongue at the horses and they began to move forward. “Perhaps, Miss. But I wouldn’t count on finding them.”
Joan leaned back against the worn velvet seat and considered this.
“Peters,” she said, making her decision. “I want you to take me to the Duke’s estate tomorrow.
She heard Peters sigh heavily. “As you wish, Miss Sinclair.”
Joan smiled to herself and turned her attention to the passing scenery, already composing in her mind what she would say to the Duke of Ashcroft.
He can’t be that bad, she thought. Can he?