Suspicion (19 page)

I sit up straighter, jolted by the sight of my father’s name in print. I’m not sure what his magazine article is doing in my archive, but it’s a welcome mistake. I eagerly begin to read my father’s words from twenty-six years ago.

Every dynasty has its stain. The reprobate, the scandalous, the fallen—each great house of the English aristocracy can lay claim to at least one of these characters. We know their stories inside and out; we’ve read them in books, witnessed them in our neighbors, and maybe even lived them in our own homes. But what happens when the family stain goes
beyond
what we understand or know to be possible? How do we categorize someone as “good” or “evil” based on that which we’ve never seen before, and never knew existed?

How do we judge them at all?

When 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 in the manor since the beautiful young American’s arrival. This was the beginning of Beatrice’s characterization as a member of the “occult.”

For more than a century now, Lady Beatrice Rockford (1811–1850) has been known as “that wicked American” and her husband, the fifth Duke of Wickersham, the victim forced to send her to the gallows. But these roles are ludicrously reversed. The real ugly stain in my family history is my ancestor, the duke who murdered his wife simply because she was capable of something he had never seen. He feared what he didn’t understand, and let his fear drive him to evil.

Is there anything inherently wrong in having a paranormal talent? More than likely, Lady Beatrice didn’t wish for her gift, and with the exception of the burned garden, which she instantly restored, there are no accounts of her ever using her skill to cause any harm.

If we misconstrue that which we don’t understand as frightening or criminal, then we are lost. But if we recognize differences in others as something beautiful or miraculous—even, or especially, differences as astounding as Lady Beatrice’s—then we all win in the end.

By the time I finish my father’s article, my cheeks are soaked with tears.
He knew.
That’s the reason his pages ended up in my file. He wanted me to find them.

For the first time in seven years, I can feel my father’s presence in the room with me; I can almost hear his voice. I know he is responsible for my finding the article at the moment I needed it most. I shake my head in wonder at the realization that almost a decade before I was born, Dad published the very words he would have said if he were standing before me now—that I don’t need to be afraid. My differences are what make me special. And there is no shame in being linked to Lady Beatrice.

The way Dad spoke to me so cryptically in front of the Maze, the look he and Mum exchanged in the church, the words he said to her in hushed conversation … I realize now what those long-ago moments meant. He knew I was different all along. Just like Beatrice.

I stand up, a smile spreading across my face. I wonder what I can do with this gift if I’m no longer afraid of it. If I am an Elemental, like Sebastian said, then that means I can control the four elements. So …

I unlatch the window, my heart racing in anticipation. Keeping my eyes trained on the green leaves of the tree opposite me, I raise my arms in their direction. One of the leaves abruptly falls from its branch and, instead of blowing to the ground, drifts across the sky toward me. I gasp as a second leaf follows, and then a third, until a flurry of green is flying through my window, encircling me.

I drop my arms, and the leaves fall to my feet. Exhilaration floods through me. That was … amazing.

I bend down to pick up the leaves, and my flashlight’s glow dances across another box. I freeze as I take in its label:
lady lucia rockford
.

Do I dare to open it? I know I shouldn’t—she would consider it trespassing. But I have no other way of knowing the person my cousin grew up to be. Her belongings are all I have left.

With trembling fingers, I open the box. I find a similar amalgam of class photos and report cards as in mine, and I feel myself deflate at the realization that her archive isn’t updated either. Grandfather, or whoever was in charge of it, must not have had the heart to continue with the archives after the fire. The only difference I can find between her box and mine is that hers includes a stack of billing notices, with 2007 bills at the top.

“Psychiatrist?”
I read aloud, bewildered.

I hold the bill directly under my flashlight. Maybe I read it wrong—after all, it’s so dark up here. But no, there it is in bold print. The bill is dated one month before the fire, June of 2007. Scrawled in blue ink are the words

Still struggling with delusions and violent temper. Patient should see me on a more frequent basis.

I drop the paper in my shock. I remember Lucia’s occasional temper tantrums, but delusions? If this is all true, how could she have kept her struggles so well hidden?

I suddenly feel dirty, like I’ve gone too far. I know well enough from my own therapy sessions that they’re supposed to remain confidential—and here I am, delving into my cousin’s records. I return the bill to her box and hastily close it.

“Ghosts never really leave, though, do they?”

I jump as Maisie’s words echo in my ear. If there’s any chance that she’s right, and Lucia really is watching us … then she just saw me violate her privacy. With a shudder, I grab my dad’s article and hightail it out of the tower. But as I descend the long staircase to the first floor, my mind spins with questions.

Lucia had everything going for her before the fire. She was privileged and adored at home, popular at school, cool and confident in all settings, and she’d even managed to skip over any type of awkward stage. Where had these supposed mental or behavioral issues come from? Why, and
how,
had she kept them such a secret?

It’s becoming all too clear that our childhood friendship, which once meant the world to me, was never as real as I’d thought. And I’m beginning to wonder if I truly knew Lucia at all.

I’m dying to share my father’s article with Sebastian, but first I have a full day of duchess duties. Oscar, Mrs. Mulgrave, and I have a long meeting after breakfast to plan the annual Rockford Fireworks Concert, and I’m beyond relieved to have Oscar in the meeting. The idea of spending all that time alone with Mrs. Mulgrave makes me shudder. The two of them clearly have the affair down pat, so the purpose of the meeting is mainly to fill me in.

I squeeze in a Skype chat with the Marinos before another appointment with Gemma, and as always, seeing them is like breathing in fresh air. I’m relieved to find Carole and Keith looking a little less sad and pale, and Zoey her usual bubbly self. They want to hear everything, and as I give them a highly edited rundown of the polo match, dinner at the Stanhopes’, and the happenings around Rockford, I realize just how much I’m forced to leave out.

After reviewing my “Summer Calendar of Events” with Gemma, and another etiquette lesson with Basil Crawford, I’m free at last. Sebastian gave me his cell number the other day, and I feel a wave of nervousness as I type in his number. I deliberate over the text draft, finally sending a simple:

Hey there. Are you still up for the Maze?—Imogen

I now understand the expression “waiting on pins and needles” as I watch my phone, wondering when it will chime with a reply. I try picking up a book, then attempt to play a mindless game on my iPad, but nothing can draw my eyes away from the all-too-quiet phone. Just when I’m about to give up on a reply, I hear the ping.

Sorry, I was at polo practice. Should I come by now?

My breath catches in my throat as I type the word
yes.

I stand at the entrance to the Maze, a massive labyrinth of green hedges rising at least ten feet high. The last time I stood in this same position was with my father all those years ago, and for a moment, I am frozen in time. Nothing looks any different. I could be ten years old again, and any minute now my dad will appear, slipping through the hedges.

“Imogen.”

I turn with a gasp.
Have
I gone back? Is it him? But then I glimpse Sebastian walking toward me, and I experience the most confounding sensation of my heart both breaking and lifting at the same time. He isn’t who I hoped to see in this moment—that person is never coming back. But the sight of Sebastian brings a smile to my lips, a flutter to my stomach … and I realize that my feelings for him are one of the only constants in my life since childhood. Even if it is a crush I shouldn’t have, even if it is unrequited, how can it be wrong when it connects me to who I was before?

“Are you all right?” Sebastian asks, coming closer.

“I was just thinking about my parents,” I admit. “The last time I was near the Maze was … that day. With my dad.”

Sebastian’s eyes soften.

“That’s really rough. I’m so sorry.” He pauses. “Do you remember them well?”

“Yeah, but unfortunately most of what I remember is that last day—because I’ve dreamed of it so often,” I confide.

Sebastian places a comforting hand on my shoulder, and something about his touch makes me want to tell him more.

“The nightmare comes every few weeks. It starts innocently enough, tricking me into a state of happiness. And even though the dream takes a dark turn and I wake up in a panic, I never want to stop dreaming. Because that’s how I know my last conversation with my dad by heart. That’s how I can remember my parents’ faces and smiles. The nightmare keeps me from forgetting them.”

“Ginny.”

Suddenly Sebastian is hugging me, his muscular arms warm and firm around my body. I lean my head against his chest, basking in his closeness. I know it’s the comforting hug of a friend, nothing more. But in this moment, it’s everything I need.

Out of nowhere, Lucia’s face comes into sharp focus in my mind. I pull away from Sebastian, ashamed.

“I’m so sorry. I should be the one comforting you right now. This is where—the place where she …” I stammer, cutting myself off before I can say the last word.
Died
. “This must be so much harder for you.”

Sebastian looks away in discomfort.

“I—I don’t want to talk about it. Like I said before, I can handle being here. You don’t have to worry about me.”

I bite my lip as I study him.

“Okay. If you’re sure … I have something to show you.”

I pull my father’s article from the pocket of my sweater and hand it to him. Sebastian’s expression changes as he reads it, and when he looks back at me, I can tell he is moved.

“Your dad was my hero ever since he taught me polo. After reading this, I think even more highly of him.”

My eyes prick with tears, but I smile through them.

“That means the world to me.”

Sebastian looks ahead to the Maze entrance.

“Are you ready?”

I nod. He leads the way into the Maze, and I hear myself gasp as I enter for the very first time. The Maze is like a world unto itself—as soon as we’re inside, it’s impossible to see beyond its boundaries. All that exists now is an endless, narrow path bordered by tall evergreen walls, a twisting and turning labyrinth.

“It’s obvious Max hasn’t been here in years,” I say to Sebastian, after nearly tripping over a fallen branch. “This place looks totally overgrown and neglected.”