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.”
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.
