Suspicion (9 page)

I shake my head sheepishly.

“One of your ancestors, Randolph Henry Rockford, proved to be one of England’s greatest military heroes at the turn of the eighteenth century. After he won a number of crucial battles for England, King George I expressed his gratitude by granting him a dukedom over the settlement of Wickersham, along with the massive funds to build a palace worthy of such a hero,” Basil explains. “Of course, the papers scoffed that King George was cruel to choose Wickersham, for the land was notoriously barren, especially in comparison to Oxfordshire’s other, far more verdant towns. But eventually the fifth Duchess of Wickersham, Lady Beatrice, changed all of that.”

“What did she do?” I ask.

“I suppose you could say she was the ultimate green thumb. Within a year, ugly old Wickersham was transformed into one of the most beautiful, frequently painted landscapes in England.”

This is the first moment of our lesson where I feel a flicker of interest.

“How did she do it?”

Basil hesitates.

“It’s hard to separate truth from fiction on that account. I suppose we’ll never know.”

I open my mouth to ask more, but Basil claps his hands together and rises.

“That’s all for today, Your Grace. I’ll see you at the same time tomorrow, for a crash course on the high points of the London season.”

The week flies by in a frantic whirl of final exams, duchess training with Basil, and packing for the big move. I find myself so busy that every time my mind wanders to Sebastian—wondering what he’s like nowadays, if he and Lucia were still close when she died, if and when I might see him again—I’m able to settle the inexplicable butterflies in my stomach by focusing on one of the many overwhelming tasks at hand. And before I know it, it’s the night before graduation.

Too antsy to sleep, I throw on a sweatshirt and head onto the fire escape. It’s a perfect, balmy evening, and as I listen to the symphony of New York—the endless sweep of taxis, snippets of music floating up from apartments and restaurants, the chatter and laughter of passing pedestrians—I realize how fortunate I’ve been to grow up here, and how much I’ll miss it. I feel a fresh wave of terror as I imagine boarding the flight to London in just one week, leaving behind my country and everything I know. What am I
doing?

“This was always your favorite spot.”

I turn around at the sound of Carole’s voice. She is still dressed, her eyes red-rimmed under the moonlight.

“Sit with me?” I pat the step beside me.

We sit silently for a few moments, looking up at the stars. And then she says softly, “I’m really going to miss you.”

My heart constricts.

“I’m going to miss you too. You’ve been the mother I needed all these years.”

She reaches out to touch my cheek.

“I always knew you were never truly mine, and that I might have to let you go someday. I just didn’t think it would be this soon.”

“You’re not losing me,” I assure her. “I may be living in another country, but we’ll always be connected.”

She smiles wanly.

“I hope so.”

I squeeze her hand. “I can never thank you enough for all you guys have done for me.”

“You can thank me by taking care of yourself,” she says intently. “Be on guard over there, and promise to come home the second anything seems … amiss. That’s the best way you can thank us—by keeping yourself safe.”

Her grave tone sends a foreboding shiver up my spine.

“I—I will. I promise.”

“We’re the class of 2014 and no one could be prouder,

And if you don’t believe us, we’ll yell a little louder!”

Lauren and I stand in a circle of adrenaline-crazed classmates, yelling our class cheer while tossing our graduation caps in the air and giggling as we fail to catch them. Cipriani restaurant is all decked out for Grad Night, with a dance floor and DJ, photo booth, buffet spread, and sundae bar. The air is thick with heightened emotion, as everyone surrounding us is either beaming and cheering or hugging someone in tears. The most important chapter of our lives thus far has come to a close, and I feel myself swinging wildly between celebrating finally being done with school, and trepidation over what comes next. In less than a week, I’ll be on a plane to England. But standing here in downtown Manhattan, surrounded by the people and friends I’ve known since the sixth grade, I can’t imagine being anywhere else.

The DJ transitions from an up-tempo song into a ballad, just as I catch sight of Mark Wyatt heading my way—looking extra cute in his formal wear.

“Hey, Imogen, Lauren.”

“Hey. Fun party, right?” I say awkwardly. My flirting skills always suffer when I have an audience.

“I’m going to get a refill,” Lauren says, raising her plastic cup with a little smirk. “See you guys later.”

“Want to dance?” Mark asks after Lauren leaves.

“I’d love to,” I say with a smile.

As Mark takes my hand and leads me to the dance floor, I’m overly conscious of my body—wondering if I’m too sweaty, if my heartbeat is as loud as it feels, if my hairdo is intact. We assume slow-dance position, his arms around my waist, mine draped across his shoulders. And then he takes me by surprise with his words.

“I like you, Imogen. You already know that, though, right?”

“Oh! Um. I like you too,” I say with a nervous giggle, though the words come out of my mouth sounding a bit more like a question than a statement.

“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.