“Understand what?”
“How tofeelthe seashore.”
She wiped her eyes, hair sticking to her cheeks, and squirmed out of his arms. She plodded back to the shore, flinging water from both hands. “I understand feeling the seashore as much as I understand doing sunshine.”
He splashed her back. “Admit it.”
“Admit what?”
“That you have had more amusement ripping off shoes and stockings and drenching your dress than you ever had strolling the shore.”
“I do not just stroll the shore. I ride too.” She sat, dry sand clinging to skin and fabric. “Besides, I admit to nothing except that you are mad.”
“Madness can be a great deal of fun.” He took a seat beside her, rolled up his breeches, and leaned back.
She leaned back too without questioning anything. They closed their eyes, the heat drying their clothes, the wind stirring through them enough to keep them cool and comfortable.
“I shall probably attain freckles,” she whispered, her voice sleepy and lazy and filled with a sigh. “But somehow I do not mind.”
They remained that way for a long time, with seagulls flying overhead, squawking into the roar of water lapping into land. He breathed in the air, the taste so clean it rivaled that of Rosenleigh. Once or twice, he glanced over at her.
Her eyes were closed. Sunlight pinkened her cheeks, and sand stuck to the side of her face and flecked her black hair.
All his life he’d been alone. He’d had Miss Ettie to hug him, or Mr. Shelton to talk to—but the rest of his hours, as he’d ridden Ahearn through the countryside, or wandered the labyrinth, or climbed trees in the meadow, he’d been alone.
Miss Gresham eased that void. His sister. His blood. Someone who cared for him, took his side, and was not so proper or haughty that she could not be persuaded into his mischief.
The filling of that hollow, however, was but a passing pleasure. For amid all their fun today, his energy had increased and the crippling pain had decreased.
He was recovered more than he’d realized.
Which meant it was time he leave.
The next morning, Isabella knocked on Mr. Kensley’s bedchamber door earlier than usual. If he could make it to the library and Mr. Abram’s farm and the seashore, certainly he could muster enough strength to join them for breakfast.
What would Father say?
That hardly mattered. Father was being unreasonable, unreachable … and unkind. A vice she had never before accused him of. Couldn’t he see how unfair all of it was? That she, his daughter, should be treated with such love, while his own son was rejected and disdained?
As she tapped her knuckles against the door with more force, in hopes of awakening him, a maid appeared in her line of vision.
“If you be looking for Mr. Kensley, Miss Gresham, he not be there.”
“Oh?”
“He be in the stables, I think, readying his horse to leave—”
Heart in her throat, Isabella sped past the maid and took the stairs so fast Mrs. Morrey would have her head should she see. Leaving? Without so much as a parting word? How could he?
Unbidden tears blurred her vision as she raced outside and ran toward the stables. She drew to a stop outside the door. If he cared so little about his own sister as to depart without seeing her, should she bother?
Before she could decide, the enormous double doors whined open. Mr. Kensley emerged, fully dressed in a green tailcoat, black breeches, beaver hat, and shiny Hessians.
Hessians she had rubbed clean of blood and mud when he’d been thrashing his head with fever.
“Good morning.”
She stepped out of his way, his cheerful words stirring her hurt into wrath. She blinked hard enough the tears were gone. The last thing she wanted was to cry before him. “I see you are departing.”
