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.”
