“It’s true that this wing was damaged by a fire ten years ago,” I said as I led Alice forward, stopping outside the last door on the right side. “But it has since been repaired.”
“You lied.” Alice’s voice was low and accusatory. “You said it was dangerous.”
I turned around, a pang of guilt striking my heart. “I believe it was Mrs. Linton who said that.” I meant it as a joke, but Alice’s expression was unamused.
“Under your instruction,” she said.
My hand paused on the doorknob. “I didn’t want you wandering here without my guidance. I wasn’t ready for you to meet her.” I didn’t feel that I would ever truly be ready. My heart pounded fast as I studied the nervous look on Alice’s face. Would she be cruel or judgmental? The question had been burning in the back of my mind all week. Most people didn’t know how to act around Margaret—how to speak to her or treat her. She had been deemed unfit for company over and over again throughout her life. At sixteen, she should have been coming out in society, but that wasn’t possible. Everyone she had ever known had been driven away from her. Everyone except me.
Before Alice could reply, I eased the door open.
Margaret knelt in the center of the room, her long honey-blonde hair hanging close to the floor as she arranged her tiny shells in a line. Each morning, I found her undertaking the same task. It was a routine of sorts. Her line of shells stretched from one wall to the other, dividing the room in half in front of her bed. She had never been able to explain why she did it, but Iimagined it was how she divided night and day in her mind—sleeping and being awake. Each night, she gathered the shells up again before crossing the imaginary line to her bed.
She didn’t glance up at my entrance, familiar as she was with my visits and those of the various servants who tended to her. She had grown comfortable with all of them. I hoped she could feel the same toward Alice.
“Margaret?” I didn’t usually greet her from the door, so she glanced up in curiosity. Her wide brown eyes skimmed across my face, never lingering long.
Then her attention shifted to Alice.
I had told Margaret about my new wife, but she hadn’t expressed any interest in meeting her. Perhaps she had even doubted that Alice existed. I never truly knew whether Margaret was listening to me or not.
I smiled as I moved a few steps farther into the room. “This is my wife, Alice,” I said, motioning in her direction.
Margaret’s eyes flickered to Alice, then back to me.
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.
