CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Miss Sinclair?”
Joan stood at the front of the hall, packing slates and papers while the children gathered their belongings. Her movements were automatic, as though her body operated independently of her mind.
“Miss Sinclair?”
The voice was closer now, more insistent. Joan blinked and looked up to find Imogen standing directly in front of her, concern etched across the girl’s young face. Behind her, Percival and Edmund had also approached, their usual cheerfulness replaced by worry.
“I’m sorry, darling,” Joan said, forcing her lips into a smile that felt like it might crack her face. “What did you ask?”
“I wanted to know when we should submit our assignments,” Imogen said carefully, her eyes searching Joan’s face. “But Miss Sinclair… are you quite well? You look very pale.”
“I’m perfectly fine,” Joan lied smoothly. “Just a bit tired. As for your assignments, please have them ready by Friday.” She straightened and addressed all the children, keeping that false smile firmly in place. “And I have wonderful news, your holiday will be coming soon. You’ve all worked so hard and deserve a rest.”
I won’t be here to teach you, she thought, pain lancing through her chest. I’ll be in London, married to a man I despise, playing the dutiful wife while he does God knows what.
She had spent the morning making mental plans, lists of what Victoria would need to continue running the school, which parents might be willing to help, how to ensure the children’s education wouldn’t suffer when she was gone. Victoria was a capable teacher. Timothy would support her. The school would survive Joan’s absence.
“Goodbye, children,” Joan said, her voice catching slightly despite her efforts to control it. “Study hard, and I’ll see you all on Friday.”
The children filed out, their usual exuberant chatter subdued. They kept glancing back at her with worried expressions, as though they sensed something was terribly wrong but didn’t know how to ask.
Joan waved to them, and the moment they were out of sight, she felt tears begin to burn behind her eyes. She blinked them away furiously.
Don’t you dare cry. You made this choice. Now you live with it.
Last night had been unbearable. After they’d returned to the manor, Joan had gone straight to her room, ignoring Damian’s increasingly desperate pleas for her to talk to him, to explain, to let him find another way.
She had lain beside Victoria all night, pretending to sleep while her sister wept silently into her pillow. Joan had heard every sob, felt every shudder of Victoria’s body, and done nothing. What comfort could she offer?
I’m sacrificing myself so you don’t have to? That would only make Victoria feel worse.
Through the thin walls, she had heard Damian pacing in his room. Back and forth, back and forth, like a caged animal seeking escape.
At dawn, Joan had risen before anyone else stirred. She had dressed quietly, slipped out of the manor, and walked the two miles to the hall. She’d left instructions with Sarah to ensure Victoria and Damian slept as long as possible, to give herself a few more hours before she had to face their anguish.
Teaching had been her escape, her refuge. For a few blessed hours, she had been able to focus on the children, on their eager faces and curious questions. She had been able to pretend, just for a little while, that nothing had changed.
But now the children were gone, and reality was crashing back down upon her.
How am I going to tell Damian and Victoria that this is final? That there’s no way out? That I’m going to London to marry Julian Hawthorne?
“Joan.”
The voice came from behind her, familiar, and entirely unexpected.
Joan spun around, her heart leaping into her throat.
Laurence Whitby, Duke of Ashcroft, stood in the doorway of the hall. He was alone, no valet or servants. Just him, watching her with those intense eyes that saw far too much.
No, Joan thought desperately. Not now. I can’t deal with him now.
She turned back to her packing, her movements jerky and too fast. “Your Grace. I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Clearly.”
She heard his footsteps as he crossed the room toward her. Her hands trembled as she tried to stack the slates, and one slipped from her grip, clattering to the floor.
