“That’s good to hear. But I know you’re leaving and I won’t have another chance to do this. So …”
And before I realize what’s happening, he bends down and brushes his lips against mine. The kiss is quick, so quick that I don’t really feel … much of anything. I mean, I know we’re in a restaurant filled with our classmates, so I didn’t expect a long, sweeping make-out session or anything, but I can’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment that the kiss isn’t quite the heart-melting occasion I imagined whenever I thought about taking our friendship to the next level.
And then I awkwardly overcompensate with too much enthusiasm.
“That was great!” I blabber, wanting to smack myself in the head as soon as the words are out of my mouth.
Mark looks pleased.
“I’m glad you liked it.”
“Um. Yeah.” I’m not sure if it’s my imagination, but I can feel our classmates’ eyes on us, and I’m way too self-conscious to attempt a repeat performance. “I should go find Zoey. I’m her chaperone tonight, you know.”
“Oh,” Mark says, disappointment flickering across his face. “Bummer.”
“I’ll see you around!” I call over my shoulder, before scurrying off to rejoin Lauren. I find her and Zoey by the buffet, practically collapsing in giggles. I have a feeling I know what they’re laughing at, and I make a concerted effort to ignore it.
“Shouldn’t you be with your date?” I ask Zoey.
“I can’t believe you did a kiss-and-run!” she screeches, ignoring my question.
“You guys, stop,” I hiss. “We don’t want Mark to hear. And thanks a lot for spying on us.”
“It’s not spying when you guys had your big moment in full view of everyone,” Lauren retorts.
“So what the heck happened? I thought romance was blooming,” Zoey says.
“I don’t know. Maybe it was just too public to be romantic. Besides, what does it even matter?” I fill a plastic cup with punch before glancing back at the two of them. “It’s not like I can date him from England.”
At the mention of England, the two of them fall silent.
“Maybe you’ll find a hot British guy,” Lauren says halfheartedly, forcing a smile. “Like a Prince William type.”
An involuntary image flashes through my mind: a grown-up version of Sebastian, no longer just a cute boy, but now a tall, muscular, handsome man. I shake my head to rid myself of the daydream.
Zoey suddenly holds up her manicured hand, distracting me from my thoughts.
“Please—just for tonight, let’s not talk about England,” she says quietly. “Let’s pretend you’re not going anywhere, like everything is normal.”
I wrap one arm around my sister and the other around Lauren.
“Okay. Tonight, I’m not going anywhere.”
The following week finds me, Zoey, Carole, and Keith standing numbly at a check-in counter at John F. Kennedy International Airport. We watch my luggage get tagged and sent on its way, knowing that each checked suitcase brings us closer to the moment of goodbye.
“You’re all set!” the woman behind the Virgin Atlantic counter says cheerfully, oblivious to our bleak expressions. “Security is up the escalator to your left.”
I swallow hard. “Thanks.”
Zoey clutches my hand, and the four of us slowly make our way to the security checkpoint.
“I guess … this is it,” I say, struggling to keep my voice steady as I look at my second family. I will never forget this image of them: Keith’s eyes so protective, Carole forcing a brave smile, and Zoey nervously playing with the gold heart necklace I gave her for her sixteenth birthday. My tears spill over as I pull them into a group hug.
“I love you all so much.”
“You’ll always be a daughter to us,” Carole whispers into my hair.
“Call us if you need anything at all,” Keith says, kissing my cheek.
“I know. And you’ll visit me before school starts up again, right?” I ask. “All three of you?”
“You won’t be able to get rid of us,” Zoey says, wiping away a tear.
We hug one last time, and then I know I have to walk away while I still have the courage.
“Goodbye … just for now.”
I blow them a kiss and force my feet to move in the direction of security. I want desperately to look back for one last glimpse of them, but I know I shouldn’t. My new life in England is waiting, whether I like it or not—and there’s no turning back.
Harry Morgan booked my flight to London, so I had no idea I’d be sitting in first class until I glanced at my boarding pass. Luckily, the surprise of walking past a real bar on the airplane and finding my seatmates happily sipping champagne jars me out of my melancholy mood. Each seat takes up its own row, consisting of a lounge chair and ottoman. As I settle into my ridiculously comfortable seat, I have a feeling this might be the first flight on which I manage to fall asleep.
As the spiffy flight attendants come around offering drinks and dinner menus, I pull out my “Preparation: England” folder. It includes maps of the Rockford Manor estate and grounds, as well as the newest issues of British papers and magazines, from the Observer to Tatler magazine. I’m anxious to be up-to-date on current events and Brit slang—the last thing I want is to be the clueless girl who has no idea what it means if someone says something like “And Bob’s your uncle!” Which does not, as one would expect, mean that I have an uncle named Bob, but is apparently a jovial way of ending a sentence when giving out instructions. Clearly, I have a lot to learn. But as dinner arrives and the flight attendant conjures a cloth-covered table from the side of my chair, I feel myself sinking into a relaxed lull. My eyelids grow heavy by the end of the four-course meal, and the observant attendant hurries to my seat, instructing me to get up as she converts it into an actual bed. With sheets and a duvet. Somewhat in disbelief at the idea of getting into bed on a plane, I crawl under the sheets and close my eyes.
I toss and turn in my sleeping bag inside the Rockford boathouse as voices outside flood my subconscious.
“Look,” I hear Dad say, his voice tinged with excitement. “It’s happening! I always guessed it was Imogen.”
“Don’t, Edmund!” Mum cries. “I just want her to be safe. Please, let’s take her home.”
“This is her home … in more ways than you know.”
From another direction comes Lucia’s furious hiss.
“I’ll never forgive you for this. Never!”
I frown, shaken by Lucia’s voice. Why is she so angry? But before I can give it another thought, I hear a fire engine’s siren drowning out every other sound.
I wake with a jolt. What in the world was up with that dream? I’ve never heard those words spoken before, but I can’t help wondering—did my parents really have that conversation all those years ago? Did they know something about me that I was unaware of? That I’m still unaware of? I shift nervously in the airplane bed. My subconscious is obviously more than a little freaked out about returning to Rockford.
Sunlight is streaming through the airplane cabin, and I quickly check the time, amazed to discover that I slept a full four hours. We’ll soon be landing at London Heathrow Airport.
I watch the journey map on the TV screen in front of me, and as the little plane on the screen inches closer to London, my pulse begins to race. Am I ready for this? Ready for the onslaught of painful memories, and all the expectations people have of me as an overnight duchess?
As my panic grows, I hear the captain announce that we’re beginning our descent. I lean back in my newly transformed seat, squeezing my eyes shut. It doesn’t matter how unprepared I am. We’re landing. My new life is beginning. And there’s no pause button to press.
When Her Grace Beatrice the Duchess of Wickersham arrived at Rockford Manor, she created an international stir. Her marriage to the fifth duke in 1830 was the first of the transatlantic alliances between an English nobleman and American heiress, and the idea of a
nineteen-year-old American girl as chatelaine of Rockford Manor provoked much interest. But far greater controversies were to follow her. It wasn’t long before rumblings could be heard in the staff quarters and throughout Wickersham Village, with talk of frightening occurrences at the manor since the beautiful young American’s arrival. This was the beginning of Beatrice’s characterization as a member of the “occult.”
—“THE ROCKFORD DYNASTY: PERCEPTION VS.
MISCONCEPTION,” THE ISIS MAGAZINE
VI
After making it through the slow-moving customs line, I head toward baggage claim, nearly bumping into a man in a black suit who holds a sign bearing my name, complete with the Rockford coat of arms: a winged-back lion surrounded by Union Jack flags and a coronet. I quickly recognize the man from the photo Harry Morgan sent me. This must be the new Rockford driver.
“Hi, Alfred?” I approach him. “I’m Imogen.”
I catch a flicker of surprise as the driver takes in my sweatpants and Nikes—was I supposed to dress up for the flight?—but then he gracefully takes my hand and dips into a bow.
“Welcome, Your Grace. Feel free to call me Alfie.”
“Thank you … Alfie.” The nickname seems more fitting for a toddler than this balding middle-aged gentleman, but I decide to go with it.
Just then, a group of middle school girls stops in front of us, staring from me to the HER GRACE, IMOGEN ROCKFORD sign.
“You’re the new duchess?” one of them asks in apparent disbelief, her mouth hanging open to reveal a wad of bubble gum.
“Um. Yeah,” I answer awkwardly.
“Can we get a picture with you?” her friend asks, pulling a sparkly pink iPhone out of her pocket.
I’m too surprised to reply, but luckily, Alfie is there to take control.
“Our apologies, but Her Grace just landed from a long journey abroad and is quite tired. I’m afraid she can’t pose for photos just now.” And with that, he takes my arm and leads me toward the luggage carousel.
“I’m sorry,” I call timidly over my shoulder. When the girls are out of earshot, I turn to look at Alfie. “That was weird. I guess people here are more interested in the family than I thought?”
“Yes, Rockford is rather a household name here in the UK. But there’s always extra interest when a young person holds a title. It’s such a rare occurrence, and of course it’s more exciting for the public to have an appealing young duke or duchess instead of the usual crusty old folk.” He chortles merrily, then looks alarmed. “Not to speak ill of your dear late grandfather, of course.”
“Oh, I know what you mean,” I say automatically, my mind still digesting his words. Household name. Yikes.
I point out my three heavy suitcases, which Alfie runs after and collects with ease, despite my offers to help with at least the lightest one. We navigate the maze of London Heathrow until we reach the exit to the parking lot, or the car park, as Alfie calls it.
My first breath of London air is perfectly crisp and cool. I look up at a sky dotted with clouds and zip up my sweatshirt as a gust of wind sweeps through my hair.
“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” Alfie remarks.
“Yeah, but it’s a lot colder than I remember June being,” I reply.
“This, cold?” Alfie chuckles. “Oh, you’re in for it when winter comes!”
“I probably shouldn’t have packed my New York summer wardrobe,” I say wryly. “Oops.”
“Don’t you worry about that,” Alfie says. “Oscar figured you might not be prepared for our weather, so he had me take your maid up to London to do a little shopping for you.”
“What?”
So many things are wrong with that sentence. Personal maids still exist in the twenty-first century? And I have one, who’s forced to do my shopping?
Alfie glances at me worriedly. “I hope you don’t mind. We just thought you’d need time to settle in at Rockford before going up to London—”
“No, it’s not that,” I interrupt. “Of course I appreciate it. I just feel bad for the … maid having to do that. I didn’t even know I had my own—I assumed the maids were just housekeepers for the whole estate.”
“You’re the duchess; of course you have your own maid,” Alfie says with a grin. “Her name is Maisie Mulgrave. You’ll like her—she’s only a couple of years older than you.”
I draw a sharp breath.
“I remember Maisie from … before, when we were little. So she stayed at Rockford, then?”
“Oh, yes. And you mustn’t ever feel uncomfortable on her behalf. Maisie considers it a real treat to shop for her mistress. She told me on the way home that it was the best day she’d had in a long while.”
Well, that just makes me feel worse. What kind of life does Maisie have if doing someone else’s shopping is such a source of excitement? My misgivings must be written all over my face, because Alfie hurriedly adds, “It’s true. I used to drive Maisie into the city to do Lady Lucia’s shopping all the time. In fact, she saved her best clothes for you. Maisie felt it would be a shame for them to go to waste.”
His words stop me in my tracks. How can he so casually say Lucia’s name, so easily mention her abandoned clothing? Maybe Alfie and the others at Rockford Manor have come to accept her being gone, but Lucia’s name still feels like a sucker punch every time I hear it—a stinging reminder of why I’m really here, and of the tragedy that took her away.
Alfie pauses in front of a dark silver Aston Martin, and I quicken my pace to catch up to him.
“The Rockford vehicle,” he says proudly when I reach him. Though my knowledge of cars is minimal at best, even I can tell that this one is special.
Alfie opens the door for me, and I sink into the smooth leather backseat. As he takes the wheel, I roll down my window and peer outside. The view is a flurry of industrial-looking buildings broken up by long stretches of grassy fields.
“Are we going to see any of the classic London sights on the way?” I ask. “Like Big Ben or Parliament?”
“’Fraid not,” Alfie says apologetically. “The route to Oxford doesn’t pass through Central London.”
We stay on the highway for the next hour and a half, the scenery continuing in nondescript fashion, until Alfie exits at High Street and the view transforms, as if we’ve jumped back in time from a modern-day city to a medieval town. I gaze out the window at an ancient-looking village filled with ivy-covered stone buildings, inns, and pubs. A storybook cityscape of towers and steeples looms overhead.
“Here we are,” Alfie announces. “Central Oxford.”
He continues through the winding streets, pointing out the different impressive-looking colleges that make up Oxford University, and pauses at an especially magnificent fortress-like building crowned with a soaring bell tower.
“That’s Christ Church college, where I hear you’ll be starting summer school next month. You must be excited.”
“Um, nervous is more like it,” I confess. “But it sure looks incredible.”
“Quite,” Alfie agrees, gesturing to the tall steeples of Christ Church. “We call these the dreaming spires. Oxford is famous for them.”
“It’s beautiful here,” I remark. “I hardly remember it from when I was little.”
“This is also the most cosmopolitan area you’ll find within a half hour of Rockford,” Alfie says. “Whenever you’d like to be around friends your own age and visit a pub, or do a spot of shopping, just let me know and I’ll drive you. It’s only eight miles from the manor.”
I wonder if I’ll even have any friends here. I guess I’d better hope I hit it off with someone in summer school. The thought of having to form an entirely new social circle makes my stomach churn, and I try to refocus on the scenes outside my window.
The narrow streets give way to the countryside as Alfie drives past the Oxford border into new terrain marked by green rolling hills and lofty hedgerows. We pass an antique-looking sign that reads WELCOME TO WICKERSHAM, and I feel a prickly
sensation at the back of my neck: the feeling that someone—or something—is waiting for me.
“This is all yours,” Alfie says grandly. “The town of Wickersham.”
The picturesque village is nestled among hills and dales, its elegant little houses like something straight out of a history book. As I look around, I feel the sudden tug of a memory.
The three of us file into church on Christmas morning, me in the middle, with one hand in Mum’s and the other in Dad’s. My face wears the glow of a child who has never wanted for anything, a girl secure in the knowledge that she is adored.
Cousin Lucia and her parents are already seated in the Rockford pew, and I can’t contain my smile when I see who is sitting across the aisle: the Stanhopes. I gaze up at my parents, silently thanking them for bringing me here, for bringing me to Sebastian—even if I am just a little kid in his eyes. One day, I’ll be all grown up and maybe then he’ll look at me differently. …
As we pass the rack of votive prayer candles on the way to our pew, an unlit candle suddenly bursts aflame. I gasp, and Mum and Dad exchange a glance. But by the time we’re in our seats, the incident is nearly forgotten. Surely it must have been my imagination.
Though I know what I’m about to see, I’m still unprepared for my visceral reaction to the church. The medieval structure stands in Wickersham’s central square, flanked by stone statuary.
“I’ve been there,” I blurt out.
“I’d imagine so.” Alfie smiles at me in the rearview mirror. “Your family has belonged to this church since Rockford Manor was first built, and the family members who aren’t buried on Rockford grounds were interred here.”
“What about Lucia and my grandfather? Are they buried here?” I ask softly, feeling a stab of guilt at the fact that I don’t know, that I even have to ask.
“No. They were buried at the chapel in Rockford,” he says somberly.
I swallow hard. “Oh.”
I am the last surviving heir. And in mere minutes, I’ll be entering the house that used to be filled with my family—the house where they are now all buried.