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 shelooked 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 suddenlydoubted 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.
