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.”
Chapter Twenty
ALICE
Margaret’s trail of tiny seashells snaked its way from one wall to the other, dividing her bed from the rest of the room. Since both wings of the house were identical in structure, Margaret’s room here in the south wing was the same size and shape as mine in the north.
The furnishings, however, were quite different.
Margaret’s walls were covered in yellow-gold paper. Various paintings and drawings hung in frames, with some papers simply stuck to the walls. Her desk was covered in shells of all shapes and sizes, as well as the surface of another sideboard against the opposite wall. Crafting supplies, ribbons, children’s books, dolls, and large encyclopedias were scattered around the room on shelves or tucked near the fireplace.
A sense of betrayal pinched my heart. Why had Jonathan been so determined to keep this secret from me? How long had poor Margaret been confined here in the south wing? She seemed content being alone with her shells and crafts. But justbecause someone was content being alone did not mean they should be.
I had never met a young woman like Margaret. I had heard of individuals who struggled with differences in manners and conduct—things that could not be changed through instruction. Social training had likely been implemented in Margaret’s life from a young age, yet she had not taken to it. She looked to be sixteen or seventeen, but she would never have the chance to come out in society.
My heart ached as I wondered how very different her life had been from my own.
I had a great deal of questions for Jonathan, but I doubted he would be willing to answer all of them. I watched him from my chair as he crossed the room to Margaret’s side. I found myself envious of the softness in his gaze and voice as he addressed her.
He had never looked at me with such tender care. I doubted he ever would.
My mind traveled back to the place I had forbidden it to go—to the night before, just outside the south wing. My skin flushed, and I tore my gaze from his face. I hadn’t forgotten the gruffness and finality of his voice just before he had walked away from me.There.You have your first kiss.
I had been reflecting on every detail of that interaction, playing it over and over in my mind. The pressure of his lips, his hands in my hair, the sudden passion in his eyes. One particular part had refused to stop pestering me.
He had used the wordfirst.
He hadn’t saidonlykiss. Orlastkiss.
Perhaps I was dissecting the phrase excessively, but it almost seemed as if there was a small chance that there could be another one.
I stopped myself from speculating too much on the subject. At the moment, I wanted to be frustrated with him. How longhad he planned to keep Margaret’s position in the house a secret? Why was he so determined not to trust me? At least he had introduced me to her today. It felt like a small step forward. A spark of hope entered my chest.
After spending a few more minutes with Margaret, Jonathan led me out of the room, leaving his sister to finish arranging her line of shells. I wanted to ask what the purpose was in the activity, but perhaps Jonathan didn’t even know. Margaret’s mind didn’t work the same way his or mine did. She was unique and special—I knew that much already.
