“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.”
