“But even if I did get in, how would I keep up with all the super-smarties? You’ve always said how insanely hard the coursework was there,” I remind him.
“You could specialize in the subject you’re best at. Maybe English literature? You love reading.”
“Oh, I’ve heard about Oxford’s English program. Apparently you have to give three-hour presentations on your reading material in Latin.” I start to feel a case of the sweats coming on. But as I look at Keith, I know I have to find a way to appease him. It’s bad enough that I’m leaving them. “What if I take a summer course? If I survive it and pass, then I’ll apply for a full term next year.”
Keith hesitates for a moment, but then he gives a slight nod. Carole shakes her head angrily at Keith and rises to her feet.
“A summer course at Oxford in no way changes the fact that you’re going to be living on your own at seventeen, with immense pressure on your shoulders and the very real possibility of a threat to your life. I can’t give you my blessing on this.”
“I’ll hardly be alone,” I try to reassure her. “I’ll be living with a staff of a dozen people, including the butler who practically raised my dad, plus full-time security.”
“Butler?” Zoey echoes, her mouth agape.
Carole wipes her eyes with the back of her hand.
“I know I can’t talk you out of your inheritance. What young girl wouldn’t want to be a duchess and live in her own palace? But I’ve always had a bad feeling about that place—and you might think the letter is just a joke, but it only strengthened my suspicions. So no, I can’t be happy about this.”
“I don’t expect you to be happy about it now. But I hope one day you will be, and that you’ll see I did the right thing,” I say. “And I promise, if I get there and I sense anything wrong, I’ll come home right away. Please, just … try not to worry. Everything is going to be okay.”
Zoey reaches for my hand across the table.
“You have my support,” she says, forcing a smile. “My sister, the duchess.”
V
I toss and turn in bed that night, Lucia’s face coming to mind every time I drift off to sleep. When I close my eyes, I see her as she was at age twelve—but her beautiful face is marred with blood. The dark red spills from her eyelids onto her cheeks; it streaks her hair crimson. I’m desperate to get away from the terrifying sight, and yet I am frozen in place.
“How could you let this happen to me?” she sobs, shaking her pale arms toward me. “How could you let me turn into this?”
My eyes snap open just before she gets close enough to touch me. I’m back home in New York—and she is gone. But the weight of my guilt is heavier than before. I should have been there for her, and instead … I am taking her place.
“Forgive me, Lucia,” I whisper into the darkness.
I lie there for hours, not sleeping or moving—but remembering the two little girls who used to play together, sharing secrets and sleepovers in the Rockford boathouse. I know that when morning comes, I’ll be forced to grow up fast. And sure enough, as daylight breaks, the two little girls from my memory vanish with the moon.
My new reality begins with Harry Morgan arriving at the apartment to escort Zoey and me to school. He warned me at the end of our meeting yesterday that the news of my succession to the dukedom would be public knowledge by morning, what with the UK being five hours ahead.
“Just in case the press should set up camp outside your school, I’d really prefer that I chauffeur you and Miss Marino,” he said.
I relented, but only because the word “press” freaked me out. Now, as I make my way into the living room and find Carole and Keith staring Harry down as if he’s from an opposing faction, I wonder if maybe this wasn’t such a great idea.
“Morning!” I call out in a fake-cheery voice. “I see you guys have already met.”
The three of them nod stiffly. Only Harry offers a smile.
“Are you ready, Your Grace?”
Carole and Keith exchange a look of shock as they hear my title used for the first time.
“Just a sec.” I rifle through my backpack and pull out the anonymous letter. “What can you tell us about this?”
Harry Morgan’s eyebrows shoot up as he reads the letter. He scans it a second time before shaking his head and handing it back to me.
“I can tell you one thing—it isn’t from any of the staff. I have each of their contracts in my office, and I’m familiar with everyone’s handwriting. Not to mention I know all your employees and tenants quite well. I am very confident that no one inside Rockford Manor is plotting anything against you,” he reassures me.
I nod with relief.
“That’s what I needed to hear.”
“What about outside Rockford?” Keith interjects. “Just because this wasn’t written by someone who lives on Rockford grounds doesn’t make it any less of a threat.”
“Actually, it does. The fact is, anyone who possesses a great title and wealth finds him or herself in the hot seat.” Harry shrugs nonchalantly. “Take the Duchess of Cambridge, for example. For all her legions of admirers, she has her share of detractors writing nasty things about her online or sending letters that make this one look like a love sonnet. That’s simply life in the public eye, and that’s why we take our household staff and security so seriously. I assure you, Mr. and Mrs. Marino, that Lady Imogen will be extremely well protected at all times.” He leans forward intently. “No one will be able to touch her.”
Zoey chooses that moment to bound into the room.
“Ooh! Are you Harry Morgan? I’m practically the duchess’s sister.” She shakes his hand before turning to look at all of us. “So, what’d I miss?”
“Just Harry telling us we don’t need to worry about this wacky letter.” I stuff it back into my bag. “C’mon, let’s go.”
Thankfully, I’m not a big enough story in New York to warrant more than a few straggler journalists outside Carnegie High. Zoey and I are able to slip inside unnoticed—but I should have known she wouldn’t be able to keep the news to herself. By the time lunch rolls around, I find myself adjusting to a bizarre new social sphere in which people who barely acknowledged my existence are now dropping by my lunch table as if they do so every day, gushing about England and asking when I’ll get to meet William and Kate.
“Why didn’t you ever say you were a soon-to-be duchess?” asks Jenna Carvel, one of the überpopular girls crowded around Lauren and me.
“Um … because I wasn’t supposed to be,” I say glumly, my mind on Lucia. “But either way, it would have been pretty lame for me to go around announcing it, right?”
Lauren nods in agreement, but the other girls stare at me in confusion.
“What do you mean, lame? And how did you manage to keep it a secret that you’re even part of that family?” Jenna raises an eyebrow. “I mean, your grandfather was the prince’s godfather!” Those last words elicit an excited hush from the rest of the girls.
“Well, he does have a couple other godfathers too,” I clarify. “But yeah, everyone knew when my parents were alive. After I moved in with the Marinos, and then started middle school, I just … I don’t know …”
“She preferred to fly under the radar,” Lauren chimes in.
“Yeah. That.”
For the rest of the lunch period I keep quiet, listening to the chatter of our table’s new arrivals. It’s not that I was unpopular before, but I definitely wasn’t in the “it” clique, nor am I a social butterfly like Zoey. I have Lauren and a handful of good friends from over the years, but we aren’t exactly storming the halls and turning heads. So this sudden influx of attention is just … weird. But the most surreal part of the day comes when the bell rings. Relieved to have the awkward lunch period over with, I hastily grab my tray and am headed for the door alongside Lauren, when I’m nearly plowed into by head cheerleader Tyra Ward, who waves a piece of paper in the air.
“Imogen, look! You’re one of the top s
tories on the Daily Mail!”
Oh, God. I take the printout from Tyra and cringe at the sight of my goofy Facebook profile photo filling the center of the article. The headline reads American Commoner Revealed to Be Duchess of Wickersham!
“Someone really needs to strike the word ‘commoner’ from the dictionary,” I remark to Lauren.
“Hey, Duchess.”
I turn around at the sound of Mark’s voice.
“Please don’t call me that,” I say with a sheepish grin.
“Can you believe Imogen is leaving us?” Lauren says mournfully.
Mark shakes his head.
“And here I thought we were finally going to hang out.”
He throws his arm around my shoulder, and I feel myself stiffen. He’s so cute, and it’s not as if I haven’t imagined what it would be like to get closer to him—so why does his touch feel wrong somehow?
Another face fills my mind. I touch my cheek, feeling the phantom sensation of his kiss. Sebastian. The crush that won’t quit. What is my problem?
I’m relieved when we enter our classroom and Mark is forced to drop his arm back to his side, then annoyed at myself for being such a weirdo. Any girl would be lucky to be the center of Mark’s attentions. But … maybe it’s for the best that I can’t seem to let him in. Saying goodbye to the Marinos and Lauren is going to be hard enough. I don’t need to add “first boyfriend” to the list of people I’ll miss.
A few days after my fateful meeting with Harry Morgan, I arrive at a conference room in the Tribeca Grand Hotel, where Basil Crawford, the esteemed etiquette expert, is waiting for me. He looks like some kind of Victorian gentleman off to the races, with his navy suit over a pale blue vest and silk ascot, topped off by an actual top hat.
“Your Grace,” he says, drawing out the words as he lowers into a bow. “It’s an honor to be at your service.”
“Um, wow. Thanks,” I answer lamely, embarrassed by his over-the-top greeting.
Basil immediately stands upright, the simpering smile wiped off his face.
“No, that won’t do at all. ‘Um, wow, thanks’? The people expect their duchess to be proud, to own her position with confidence!” He stamps his foot for emphasis. “Let’s try that again. This time you will smile and reply, ‘Thank you, Mr. Crawford. How do you do?’ ”
“Okay, but … do people really have to bow to me?” I ask timidly. “I feel ridiculous. I mean, I’m not a princess.”
“Dukes and duchesses are traditionally bowed to; however, there is quite a difference between a bow to them and to a member of the royal family. A bow or curtsy to a duke or duchess is slight, whereas for the royal family, you dip much lower.”
“It feels so Godfather-esque. ‘Come, kiss my ring,’ ” I joke in a bad Marlon Brando impression.
Basil gives me a dead serious look.
“Your Grace, surely you don’t mean to compare the British aristocracy to the Italian Mafia?”
And so begins my first day of duchess training, during which Basil crams my brain with everything from forms of address for people of different ranks (“Your Majesty” for the sovereign, “Your Royal Highness” for princes and princesses, “my lord” or “my lady” for peers below dukes and duchesses, “sir” for baronets and knights) to seating arrangements at dinner parties (the gentleman of highest rank sits at my right hand, with everyone else following according to their title and station). By the end of the day, I am convinced England is one giant web of snobbery.
“I mean, why do they rank everything?” I complain to Basil, hunched over my furiously scribbled notes. “The way you’re talking, I can barely share an elevator with someone without knowing their rank. You have to admit it’s crazy.”
“The British peerage has existed for centuries, and might I add that it’s worked quite well for the most part,” Basil says, arching an eyebrow. “We British like to have a purpose, a role to play, on the great stage of society. Everyone from a duchess to a housekeeper has her own important place in this world, her own unique set of superiors and inferiors. Categories and titles are simply what we’re accustomed to, and we’ve found that they help society run smoothly.”
“If you say so.”
“Now, for your final lesson of the day, it’s essential that you know why your title was created. Do you have any idea?”
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,
&nb
sp; 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.