Page 38 of A Seaside Scandal (Change of Heart #2)

Chapter Twenty-Four

ALICE

Isat on a chair beside Margaret, my gaze following the long trail of shells on the floor.

I hadn’t seen Jonathan all day. After church the day before, he had seemed to be avoiding me again.

I kept busy with preparations for the ball, meeting frequently with the cook and Mrs. Linton, but I hadn’t crossed paths with my husband even once that day.

Perhaps because his painting was finished, he didn’t see a need to spend as much time with me anymore.

Or perhaps he had grown weary of my company. The thought caused a deep ache to spread in my heart. I tried to draw a breath, but even the air itself seemed heavier than usual. The weather wasn’t easing my mood either. Light rain sprinkled on the windows, the grey sky making the south wing dim.

Had I said something to upset Jonathan while we were at church? The only plausible explanation for his distance was that he was angry over my invitation to Charlotte. I hadn’t expected her to accept it. I hadn’t been withholding the information from Jonathan willfully.

I had hoped he would understand.

Amid my sulking, Margaret crept up beside me, a book in hand.

She extended it toward me without a word, a curious look in her eyes.

I studied her face. I had noticed her resemblance to Jonathan from the first moment I met her.

Their eyes both shared the same dark shade of brown, though her scowl was never quite as intense as his.

“What’s this?” I asked, forcing a cheerful tone to my voice.

Margaret set the book in my hands. I recognized the cover immediately. It was the one that Jonathan had purchased in Brighton. “Did your brother give this to you?”

She gave a quick nod, a smile flashing on her lips before disappearing again. She looked at me expectantly, though she never held my gaze for long.

I turned my attention back to the book. He must have given it to her recently; she seemed quite eager to show me the contents.

A variety of shells were glued to the border of the cover on both sides, creating a frame of sorts.

I opened the book to the first page, where two small bluebells had been pressed.

I touched the crusted petals before flipping through sketches of the sea, the Royal Pavilion, a dark horse on the Steine, as well as several other pressed flowers and herbs.

When I turned to the final page, my heart skipped.

It was a painting of the secluded beach, wind tossing the waves. A young woman stood at the edge of the shore. Her auburn hair looked much like mine. I stared at it for a long moment, noting the girl’s white dress, the familiar sand, and even the seaweed on the rocks.

“Alice.” Margaret pointed a finger at the painting.

A sharp exhale escaped my throat. “Is that me?”

Margaret nodded with enough confidence that I fully believed her.

She sat down on the rug beside my chair, leaning her head against the outside of my leg for a few seconds as she looked at the painting.

She broke the contact abruptly, tucking her knees to her chest. She seemed to be waiting for something—perhaps an explanation about why I was there at that beach, and why Jonathan had chosen to paint it.

If only I knew the answer to the second question.

“I went for a swim in the sea,” I said, pointing at the picture. “I wanted to feel the cold water and float on my back in the waves.”

Margaret’s eyes rounded with fascination.

“Quite silly of me, is it not?”

A smile flickered across her lips as she stared at the painting again.

I would never be able to explain to Margaret that my swim that day was the only reason I was here at Southcliff Manor—the only reason we had the opportunity to be friends and sisters. Mama’s words still haunted me from my final days in Brighton. The right man will claim you. He will choose you.

Jonathan had not chosen me at all. Even now, I had every reason to doubt where we stood.

First we had been rivals, but then we had kissed.

I had thought we were friends, but then he had pretended to love me at church.

How very cruel of him to whisper in my ear how beautiful he thought I was if he didn’t mean it.

How very cruel of him to hold my hand and kiss it if he was only going to act distant again a moment later.

The turmoil in my heart was becoming too much to bear. Tears burned behind my eyes.

“Thank you for showing me your book,” I said in a gentle voice. “I must go, but I will see you again very soon. We must finish trying on your new dresses before the ball.”

Her face lit up at that. She seemed comfortable in the new pastel blue gown I had commissioned for her.

The others would arrive the next day, including the red silk gown for her debut ball.

Tears wobbled on the edge of my eyelids, and I suddenly doubted my strength to blink them away.

I wouldn’t have Margaret see me cry. It would only trouble her.

A lump formed in my throat as I left Margaret with her book, still open to the painting of me by the sea.

The dining room table wasn’t set when I made my way downstairs for dinner.

I had grown accustomed to dining with Margaret in the south wing, so I made my way there instead.

Jonathan still hadn’t made an appearance, but I lacked the capacity to worry over where he was.

He had likely gone into town for business or was hiding away in his study or bedchamber in his efforts to avoid me.

I dragged my feet up the stairs, a footman following me with two trays of beef, potatoes, and white soup.

I was told that Margaret usually tolerated that selection quite well, though it depended upon her mood.

The sunset cast a warm glow over the inside of her room, the line of shells still dividing the space.

I cast my gaze around her bedchamber with a scowl. Both sides of the room were empty.

“Margaret?” I walked down the corridor, peeking my head into the music room first. Her maid, Susan, dusted the harp in the far left corner. Jonathan always ensured that Mrs. Hartwell or Susan were positioned in the south wing, keeping a close eye on Margaret and her needs and whereabouts.

“Do you know where Margaret is?” I asked in a quick voice.

Susan jumped at the sound of my voice, turning to me with wide eyes. “In her bedchamber, ma’am.”

A hint of panic twisted my stomach. “No—I just looked there.”

Susan’s pale eyebrows pinched together. “I just saw her not five minutes past.” She joined me in the corridor as we walked back to Margaret’s bedchamber. She cast her frantic gaze around the empty room.

“Where would she have gone?” I asked, my heart racing. My gaze drifted to the table by the window, where Jonathan’s book about Brighton rested open to the same page I had left her with earlier. A suspicion crept into the corners of my mind, one that I desperately didn’t want to be true.

But if it were, I couldn’t waste another second.

I turned toward the door and broke into a run.

Susan called after me, but her voice was swallowed up by the sound of my feet against the floor. I nearly tripped on my way down the stairs. I tore past the front doors, across the drive, and through the iron gates.

The nearest beach wasn’t difficult to access, and nor was it very far to travel on foot.

I ran until my lungs burned and my vision became hazy.

Raindrops fell from the sky onto my head, daylight slowly fading behind the dark clouds.

Eventually, the grass turned to sand, sloping downward toward the unsettled sea.

This stretch of shore was usually calm, but today it was less forgiving.

The winds were stronger, and bits of sand drifted up to my eyes. I blinked hard.

“Margaret?” I called out. Perhaps I had been wrong in my suspicions. But why then was my stomach still sick with dread?

I gasped when I caught a flash of blue fabric farther down the beach. Margaret was already halfway in the water, facing the sea with her legs submerged.

She didn’t appear to be in immediate danger, but I ran with all the strength I had, my boots heavy as they sank into the sand.

Margaret took another step into the water, but turned in my direction when I shouted her name.

I struggled to catch my breath, sweat and rain dripping down my hairline as I finally reached her.

How had she even known how to find the beach on her own?

She must have been here before. She bent over, splashing her fingers in the water.

It broke my heart that a girl who loved the sea so much had to make a grand escape in order to touch it.

“Margaret—” I moved quicky toward her.

At my approach, she took another step into the water. A wave struck her legs, nearly knocking her down. She looked startled for a moment, but then turned to me in delight, as if I should be pleased that she had found her way out here alone.

My heart pounded as I picked up my skirts and trudged forward into the water behind her. I took her arm softly, but she jerked it away, lunging deeper into the sea. “Swim,” she said in a firm voice.

“No, my dear, you cannot swim today. The water is far too dangerous. Come back to the beach with me.” I tried to keep my tone calm.

She blinked fast, ignoring my request.

I reached for her arm, but it only drove her farther away again. Panic tightened my chest.

A large wave coiled up in the distance. It was larger than the others—and it looked like it might break directly where Margaret stood.

I made a quick decision, diving forward and wrapping both my hands firmly around her arm.

I tried to tug her back, but she fought against me with surprising strength.

I gripped her again, but the wave had already reached us.