Mama would be appalled to see me like this, Joan thought wryly as she sat back on her heels to survey her work.
But there was something oddly satisfying about the physical labor. It kept her mind occupied, kept her from dwelling on Victoria’s tears.
“Joan?”
She looked up to find Victoria descending the stairs, still in her nightdress with a wrapper pulled hastily over it. Her sister’s eyes were swollen and red-rimmed, her face pale as milk. She yawned hugely, one hand covering her mouth, and blinked at the scene before her.
“What are you doing?” Victoria asked, her voice still thick with sleep.
“Making our temporary home livable,” Joan replied, pushing herself to her feet and brushing ineffectually at the dirt on her skirts. “How did you sleep?”
“Poorly.” Victoria descended the last few stairs and looked around with growing dismay. “Joan, you cannot do all this yourself. Let me help. I can?—”
“The only help you can offer me right now,” Joan interrupted firmly, “is to wash your face, eat a proper breakfast, and then return to bed to rest.”
Victoria’s chin lifted stubbornly—a gesture that reminded Joan so forcefully of their mother that her breath caught. “I can work. I should work. This is as much my fault as?—”
“Victoria.” Joan crossed to her sister and took both her hands, squeezing gently. “Please. You have been through a terrible ordeal. Your body and mind need rest. Let me take care of this. Let me take care of you.”
Tears welled in Victoria’s eyes. “You always take care of everything. But who takes care of you?”
“I am quite capable of caring for myself, dearest. Now, Molly!”
The maid appeared in the doorway, looking anxious. “Yes, Miss?”
“Please escort Miss Victoria upstairs. Help her wash and dress, then bring her breakfast in her room. She is to rest for the remainder of the day.”
“I really don’t need—” Victoria began.
“You must rest,” Joan said firmly. Once Victoria was safely out of sight, Joan returned to the kitchen to survey their provisions. They were woefully inadequate: some stale bread, a few withered vegetables, and precious little else. If they were to make this place livable, she would need proper supplies.
And I need to send something to Damian, she thought. Her brother would be dealing with the fallout of the scandal alone in London. She knew him well enough to know he would forget to eat properly when worried or stressed. The least she could do was send him a care package to remind him that his sisters were thinking of him.
“Peter!” she called out toward the servants’ quarters.
Their coachman appeared a moment later, looking considerably more relaxed than he had yesterday. “Yes, Miss Sinclair?”
“Prepare the carriage. I need to go to the market.”
Joan wanted the two maids at home looking after Victoria. And she also needed to scour the little village herself.
I’ll make the best out of this situation, she says to herself.
The village was small barely more than a handful of shops clustered around a modest square with a church at one end. But it was bustling with activity as Peter guided the carriage down the narrow main street. Market day, Joan realized.
She was mentally compiling her shopping list soup ingredients for Victoria, meat and cheese for Damian, perhaps some fresh bread if she could find a decent bakery, when Peter suddenly pulled the horses to an abrupt halt.
“Miss Sinclair,” he said, his voice troubled. “There seems to be some manner of disturbance ahead.”
Joan leaned out the window to peer down the street. A crowd had gathered and she could see heads turning, fingers pointing, and in the center of it all?—
A boy.
He could not have been more than ten or eleven years old, thin and wiry, with dark hair that fell into his eyes.
Something in Joan’s chest tightened painfully. Back in London, she used to teach arts in a small school, the only school that allowed women to teach.
“What is happening?” Joan demanded.
