Page 32 of A Seaside Scandal (Change of Heart #2)

I didn’t need to explain Margaret’s differences of manner and conduct for Alice to recognize them.

They were clear to see upon any interaction with her.

These behaviors were part of who she was, but they did not define her, not in my eyes.

Society, however, was not so forgiving. Most people did not encounter young women like Margaret unless she was a relative.

Being out in society was not an option for her, but I had refused to have her sent to an institution of any kind.

I turned to Alice with a deep breath. “This is my youngest sister, Margaret.”

I held perfectly still as I observed her profile. What was she thinking? Was she reflecting on the strange line of shells across the floor? Or how Margaret refused to look at her? My mind raced.

Before my list of fears could grow longer, Alice smiled, taking a step closer to Margaret. “It’s a pleasure to—”

Margaret startled at Alice’s approach, retreating back a few steps like a frightened bird.

“I’m sorry,” I said in a quiet voice. “She is a bit shy with unfamiliar people.”

Alice gave a calm nod, a slight furrow in her brow. I was certain she would give up her efforts, but instead, she moved back a step, and Margaret relaxed.

“These are beautiful shells,” Alice said. Her voice was soft and gentle, much like the tone she had used with the horse with the injured leg. “May I look?”

Margaret peeked at her, then nodded once, watching intently as Alice inched forward. She kept her gaze fixed on the shells, studying the line that they formed across the floor. “Did you collect these yourself?”

“Jon.” The quiet, raspy voice came from Margaret.

She began arranging her shells again, seemingly calmed by Alice’s gentle voice.

Margaret rarely spoke in long sentences or phrases, but it wasn’t because she didn’t understand.

When I spoke to her, I believed that she understood every word—if she chose to listen.

Sometimes it seemed to be a burden to do so.

But when it came to voicing her own thoughts, she used very few, or often repetitive words.

I wanted to explain all of this to Alice, but at the moment, she seemed to understand Margaret’s meaning.

“Oh, I see. Your brother collected them for you?”

Margaret hummed softly, pressing her lips together with a quick nod. Her fingers adjusted a crooked shell on the floor.

“That is very kind of him.” Alice glanced over her shoulder at me before returning her attention to Margaret. She pointed at one of the shells near Margaret’s fingers. “This one looks like a little fan. And this one looks like the moon.”

Margaret reached out and plucked up the ‘moon,’ bringing it close to her eyes. She stared at it for a long moment, blinking fast, and then a smile touched her lips. She returned it to its place in the line, resuming the tune she had been humming.

I stepped forward with Margaret’s plate of toast. She was particular about where she liked to eat, so we had settled on furnishing her bedchamber with a small round table—on her daytime side of the room—where she took her meals.

A maid had already brought in Margaret’s morning tea and a pitcher of water, which rested on the white lace tablecloth.

“I have your breakfast,” I said, capturing Margaret’s attention.

There were very few things she abandoned her shells for, but toast with jam was one of them.

The hour was precisely a quarter past ten.

If I was ever late—or early—with her breakfast, her mood soured.

The rigidity of her daily schedule brought her nearly as much joy as her shells and jam.

She stood quickly, following me to the table.

I set her plate in front of her favorite chair, and she slid into her seat.

It was difficult to decipher Alice’s thoughts from her expression, but her eyes were kind as she sat at the table and focused her attention on Margaret again.

“What is your favorite flavor of jam?” she asked.

Margaret didn’t answer at first, but Alice waited patiently.

“Which is your favorite jam, Margaret?” I repeated the question, causing her to pause in the middle of a rather large bite.

She looked up, a smear of strawberry on her lip. “Jam.”

I nodded with a smile, exchanging a glance with Alice before clarifying the question. “Do you prefer red, purple, or orange?”

Margaret stared at her slice of bread before taking another large bite. “Red.”

Alice smiled. There was a glint of fascination in her eyes, but it wasn’t harsh or judgmental. “Red jam is my favorite as well.”

Margaret didn’t seem pleased or displeased with Alice’s words.

At the moment, she was more fascinated with her toast.

Still, my stomach flooded with relief. At least she seemed comfortable in Alice’s company.

I brought a chair up to the table from the nearby desk, eating the cold eggs from my plate as I observed Alice’s attempts at interacting with Margaret.

She didn’t panic if her questions weren’t answered but seemed intent to learn how Margaret communicated.

A strong surge of admiration stirred inside my heart.

As unfamiliar as Margaret’s behavior must have been, Alice had the grace and manners to navigate it flawlessly.

Not only that, but Margaret seemed to like her.

When the meal was finished, Margaret walked back to her line of shells, touching the one Alice had pointed out.

And then she lifted it with a smile. “Moon.”