The sight of the four young men on horseback galloping onto the field and wielding their polo sticks in unison sends a ripple of excitement through the crowd. The players wear the Oxford uniform of dark blue shirts, white jeans, knee-high black riding boots, and heavy black helmets. As they ride up to their cheering section, lifting their helmets in greeting, my eyes fall on the player riding slightly apart from the other three, somewhat removed from the jubilant scene. I lean forward in my seat, peering closer, my heart beginning to race. Something about the half smile playing on his lips, the tousled golden-brown hair, reminds me of … someone I used to know, someone who once meant the world to me.
Look up, I plead silently. Let me see your face.
I wonder if my thoughts did in fact reach him—because it is at this very moment that he chooses to glance up and meet my eyes. And under his gaze a rush of emotions comes flooding over me with abandon, until I am a little girl again, both giddy and tormented as I look upon him. I can no longer hear the stampede of hooves from the Cambridge team entering the fray, or the sound of Gemma’s voice in my ear. I can no longer feel the sun’s heat or the cool breeze; I can’t see anything in my line of vision but him. Sebastian Stanhope—near me again after all these years.
I sit up straighter as Sebastian stares at me, his eyes narrowing in recognition. Does he see his childhood friend when he looks at me? Or is he just tipped off by the fact that I’m seated in the Rockford box? I smile tremulously, lifting my hand in a shy wave—but he quickly looks away. Does he not recognize me, then?
I feel Gemma nudge me in the ribs.
“You know Lord Sebastian Stanhope?”
“We were friends when I was little,” I say quietly. “And … he was my cousin’s boyfriend until she died.”
“I knew he was dating Lady Lucia,” Gemma says. “But I didn’t realize you two were acquainted. I’m sorry, I suppose I should have warned you he’d be playing today? I hope I haven’t made things uncomfortable.”
“No, of course not. We always got along so well when we were younger. I don’t see why it would be different now.”
Before Gemma can respond, the umpire’s whistle signals the beginning of the game. I watch, mesmerized, as Sebastian and his Thoroughbred fly back and forth across the vast field, sending the little white ball soaring into the Cambridge goalpost. Based on the boisterous cheers whenever Sebastian makes a play, it’s clear that he is the star. And suddenly, without warning, my mind flashes back to a summer afternoon when I was six.
My father is teaching Sebastian the game of polo on the Rockford Manor riding grounds while Lucia and I look on with interest. Dad rides a full-size horse, but the three of us sit atop ponies.
“Can’t you teach us now, Uncle Edmund?” Lucia whines. “Why are you spending so much time with Sebastian?”
Dad smiles at her but keeps his eyes on his young charge.
“You’ll have your turn, don’t worry. But your friend Sebastian shows great promise. I’ve never seen such aim and skill in someone so young.”
Sebastian beams, and I watch him with awe. I always felt Sebastian was special—and now my dad has just confirmed it.
The memory has been buried for so long that it catches me off guard as it surfaces, nearly bringing tears to my eyes as I watch Sebastian’s winning plays on the field all these years later. If only Dad had lived to see that his early lessons with Sebastian would be the start of a career.
At the end of the game’s first period, known as “chukka,” the spectators file out of the stands, congregating and mingling on the field.
“What are they doing?” I ask Gemma.
“It’s called divot stamping,” she explains. “It’s a polo tradition. Between each chukka, spectators are invited to hang out on the field, and their footsteps help replace the mounds of earth that the horses’ hooves tear up during the game.”
“Interesting. Should we join them?”
“The Duchess of Wickersham doesn’t participate in divot stamping,” Gemma says with a chuckle.
“Oh. Too bad.”
Just then, a knock sounds outside our box. Gemma hurries to the door, and when she returns, a cute guy about my age is with her. He is tall and lanky, with sandy brown hair and hazel eyes. An adorable dimple appears in his left cheek as he smiles at me.
“If it isn’t Her Grace, Imogen Rockford! I’m awfully glad to see you again.”
I stand up, my hand flying to my chest. “Theo?”
“That’s right.” He holds out his hand but I ignore it, instead throwing my arms around him in a hug.
“Oh, my God, I didn’t recognize you! You’re so different and grown-up and you don’t—” I stop myself before I can finish my sentence. “You don’t have a nose full of snot anymore” probably isn’t the thing to say to a long-lost friend.
“You’re looking pretty tidy yourself,” Theo says, giving me a little wink. I don’t quite know what he means by “tidy”—my outfit is well ironed?—but I sense a compliment there.
“Thanks. So … your brother’s a polo star? I had no idea.”
“He’s the pride of Oxford. I won’t be surprised if he turns pro after uni. But tell me about you. I—I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” Theo admits.
I can tell just by looking at him that his thoughts have drifted to the dark place where mine so often reside—the garden where my parents died, the last summer we were all together. I look away.
“I know. I didn’t think I’d ever come back. But … well, things happen.” I shrug as if this is all no big deal, when in fact it’s overwhelming in its enormity.
Theo moves closer, resting his hand on my shoulder. I notice Gemma burying her face in a magazine, trying to give us a semblance of privacy in the tiny box.
“How are you getting on at Rockford? There must be so much to learn, or relearn, about the place.”
“Yeah, and about being a duchess. Everything is new and bizarre right now,” I confide in him. “But I’m learning and hoping I’ll fit into this role eventually.”
“Well, I’m here if you need any advice or anything,” Theo offers. “I know Rockford Manor pretty well, and growing up with Sebastian has taught me all the do’s and don’ts for English heirs.” He grins wryly.
I smile back, grateful at the thought of having a real friend here.
“Thanks, Theo. I’d love that.”
The umpire’s whistle blows, and I watch as the divot-stamping crowd hurries to their seats.
“I should get to my parents, but let’s meet up on the field after the match, yeah? My family will want to see you too, I’m sure.”
Sebastian. A shiver runs up my spine at the thought of being one short hour away from standing beside him and hearing his voice. Just as quickly, a flush of shame blazes across my cheeks. What is wrong with me, getting so excited about seeing my dead cousin’s boyfriend? It doesn’t matter that I loved him first—I can’t look at him that way again.
“Imogen?” Theo is looking at me expectantly, and I shake off my thoughts, finally raising my eyes to meet his.
“Yeah, sounds great. I’ll find you after.”
VIII
Oxford takes the win, and Gemma and I jump to our feet with the rest of the fans, clapping and joining in on the cheer. As the spectators rush the field, thrusting pens at the players and requesting autographs, I hang back in my seat, my pulse racing with a mix of nerves and adrenaline.
“Are you ready, Your Grace?” Gemma asks, typing a text into her phone. “Alfie just arrived.”
“Not yet. I want to say hi to the Stanhopes. I’m just waiting for the crowds to thin out.”
Gemma raises an eyebrow at me. “All right.”
After a surreal half hour spent watching Sebastian sign autographs, and wondering if I’m better off just ducking out unseen, the owner of the polo club comes onto the field and herds the fans toward the exit, until the players and their families are the only people left.
“Let’s go,” I te
ll Gemma.
We climb down from our box seats and I hold on to her arm to steady myself as we hit the field. A flock of butterflies seems to have taken up residence in my stomach, but as nervous as I am, I realize I’ve been waiting years for this moment. I cannot wait to see him again.
“There she is!” I hear Theo call out. “Right here, Imogen.”
Theo and his parents surround Sebastian, who is in midconversation with a teammate, his back toward me. As Theo says my name, Sebastian’s body seems to tense.
Lord and Lady Stanhope turn around first, an unsettling expression in their eyes as they face me. They look almost … afraid. But I too feel a chill as I look up at them, remembering the sound of Lady Stanhope’s wails and the feel of Lord Stanhope’s arms pulling me back from the fire. Seeing them brings that night back with a startling freshness.
I lower my head to the Stanhopes in a quasi bow, just as I used to do when I was little. But then the two of them drop into a deeper bow and curtsy, reminding me that, unbelievable as it might seem, I am technically their superior now. I am the duchess.
“Welcome back, Your Grace,” Lord Stanhope says formally.
“It’s lovely to see you again,” Lady Stanhope adds with a smile.
“It’s nice to see you too,” I return. “Congratulations on the game.”
I glance past them to Sebastian, who still appears immersed in his conversation.
“Hey, Seb.” Theo nudges his brother. “Did you see who’s here?”
After a moment’s pause, Sebastian finally turns away from his teammate and looks toward me. My breath catches in my throat as our eyes meet, and he lowers his head in the most graceful bow I’ve ever seen.
He is even more than I imagined him growing up to be. His body is taller, stronger, his eyes are a deeper and richer green. He carries himself with a sense of confidence and maturity that leaves me feeling ten years his junior, instead of just two.
“Hello, Your Grace,” he says quietly.
His voice has changed since I last saw him. It is low and husky now, with a musical quality that brings goose bumps to my bare arms.
“Hi,” I nearly whisper.
For a moment all I can do is gaze up at him. There is so much to say after all that has happened, after all the years that have passed, but no words feel adequate. So I go with the easiest topic.
“That was a really great game. Congratulations.”
He gives me a fleeting half smile.
“Thanks.”
I wait for him to say more, to ask me something, but instead he looks away. Why is he acting so distant, so cold? Doesn’t he remember the summers we spent together, all the laughter and secrets we shared? But it’s my fault, of course. I’m the one who disappeared; I should have expected he’d forget me—especially when I was never his favorite to begin with. Lucia always filled that role. And now I represent the girl trying to take her place.
I look away and try to focus on Theo, the one person in the family who seems legitimately happy to see me. He smiles broadly as our eyes meet.
“We ought to have a welcome dinner for Imogen,” Theo says, turning to his parents. “A classic English supper, with her neighbors and ours all invited.”
Lord and Lady Stanhope exchange a funny look, while Sebastian remains poker-faced. I feel a wave of embarrassment at the thought of them forced into throwing me a dinner party.
“That’s so sweet, Theo, but totally unnecessary,” I say hurriedly. “It’s too much. But I’d love to have you all over to Rockford sometime.”
“Nonsense. That’s a lovely idea, Theo, and we’d be delighted to give a dinner in Your Grace’s honor,” Lady Stanhope says. “Will next weekend do?”
“Oh—sure, that would be great. Thank you so much,” I say as I give Sebastian another glance.
“Wonderful. I’m afraid we have to get going—the team is having a do at the Savoy—but we look forward to seeing you next weekend. Theo will call with the details.” Lady Stanhope gives me another slight curtsy, and then she and Lord Stanhope air-kiss each of my cheeks. Theo gives me a friendly hug, while Sebastian simply presses my hand for a brief second—not quite a handshake, but no more affectionate either. Still, the touch of his hand sends a tingle through my fingertips and a flutter in my chest.
“Cheers, Imogen,” Theo calls as the four of them turn to leave.
“Bye,” I call back.
I slowly make my way to the exit, where Gemma is waiting, my mind racing with questions. Why were Sebastian and his parents so aloof, yet Theo so friendly? Why are they going ahead with this dinner party that they so clearly don’t want to host? And most of all, why does Sebastian still have this hold on me—as if no time at all has passed?
I return alone to Rockford Manor, conscious of how cold and quiet the house seems after the warmth and chaos of the polo match. My legs feel heavy as I climb the stairs, and when I open the door to my room, I have the eerie sensation that another presence is with me.
“Hello?” I call out tentatively, flicking on the light switch. “Maisie, is that you?”
No one answers or stands before me—but I hear the unmistakable sound of breathing; a repeated sigh that comes from no particular direction and seems embedded in the room, echoing across the walls.
“Who is it?” I whisper. “Who’s doing that?”
Suddenly a fierce gust of wind hurtles against the window above my desk. I watch in openmouthed astonishment as the window rattles violently, the latch coming undone from the strength of the breeze, until the window loses the fight, swinging open all by itself.
I open my mouth to scream but only manage a faint cry. As I scramble backward toward the door, I could swear I see a face in the windowpane, the hauntingly beautiful face from the State Room painting. Lucia.
“Your Grace? What’s the matter?”
I gasp as Mrs. Mulgrave comes toward me from the other end of the hallway. Her sunken eyes look red, her face more pallid than I’ve ever seen it.
“I—I thought I saw something in the glass, and—and then the window opened all by itself,” I babble.
A strange flicker of understanding … or curiosity lights up in Mrs. Mulgrave’s eyes. She moves past me into the bedroom, her hands coming to rest on the windowsill. I follow her, watching in confusion as her face registers disappointment.
“It’s only a faulty latch,” she says curtly. “I’ll send Carter to repair it at once.”
“But—but—”
I don’t know how to explain that it isn’t just the latch, that there’s something in here, breathing, watching me. But Mrs. Mulgrave is already on her way out the door, and besides, she’s hardly the person to soothe my frayed nerves.
I sit down on the bed, taking in a shaky breath. Maybe this is just my hyperactive imagination, stirring up drama over an innocent window latch. After all, I was overly excited from seeing Sebastian. Or … I could be sharing my bedroom with a ghost. This is the second unnaturally fierce breeze I’ve encountered since arriving at Rockford Manor, and I can’t help wondering if it means something.
“Did you meet Sebastian Stanhope after the match?”
For a moment, I’m sure I misheard. Mrs. Mulgrave already left the room, or so I thought, and she’s never spoken to me about anything beyond the most basic of household topics.
I glance up and find her standing still as a statue in the doorway, watching me unblinkingly. I look away.
“Yes,” I say slowly. “I saw him and his family, but only for a little bit.”
Her shoulders stiffen.
“How did he seem?”
“Um, good, I guess. His team won,” I answer, completely bewildered by this turn of conversation.
Mrs. Mulgrave’s eyes seem to implore me for more, but her voice remains soft and controlled.
“He’s distracting himself, the poor boy. He was head over heels for Lucia, you know.” Her gaze flicks from me to the open window.
I shrink back, unsure what to say. The r
oom feels oppressively cold.
“Will that be all, Your Grace?” she asks, returning to a businesslike tone.
“Y-yes. Thanks.”
I watch Mrs. Mulgrave stride out of the room, with the disturbing feeling that she was trying to convey a message in her carefully chosen words. But what the message was, I don’t know.
Carter assures me that he’s fixed the window and it can’t possibly open by itself again, but I still enlist Lucia’s dog, Teddy, to sleep at the foot of my bed. Even though his ten pounds of fur won’t be much help fending off malevolent forces, I somehow feel safer with the cuddly little creature keeping me company overnight.
When I wake the next morning to sunlight streaming through the curtains and the sound of Teddy’s soft snores, my fears of the previous night seem like a faraway dream. I feel slightly awkward when I see Mrs. Mulgrave at breakfast, but she is perfectly polite, leading me to wonder if I could have read too much into her comments.
After breakfast, I find Max waiting for me in the Marble Hall.
“I thought we might go over the state of the grounds,” he explains. “Is now a good time?”
“Sure.”
But even as I agree, I have the sinking feeling that I’ll be forced to revisit the garden I never again wish to see. I’ll just have to be honest and tell Max that’s the one place I can’t return to.
The rear doors of the Marble Hall open onto the sprawling Fountain Terrace, decorated with statues and topiary. A promenade curves southward from it, lined with yew trees that resemble giant gumdrops, and banks of daffodils and bluebells. Multiple gated gardens snake outward from the grassy lane.
“This is the first of the gardens that we allow visitors to tour,” Max says, leading me through a gate with a plaque above it reading THE FRENCH GARDEN. “We just planted new pink roses for the summer season.”
“They’re beautiful.”
I can feel Max watching me intently as I wander the perimeter, taking in the blooming flowers and lush orange trees.
“Do you approve?” he asks.
I can’t help giving him a funny look. He’s the Rockford’s landscape gardener—what does he care what I think? But then, as I constantly have to remind myself, he and everyone else on the staff now answer to me. If I wanted him to plant cacti instead of roses in this garden, Max would likely have to bite his tongue and do it. How strange, to be in a position of power when I’m such a novice, so out of my element.