I flip open to the first page and look to the whiteboard at the front of the room, where Dr. Asolo has written a single essay question under the essay title, A Room of One’s Own.
What are the feminist ideals expressed in the text?
“Three hundred words, ladies. You have the hour. Go.”
I start scratching away. This is an easy one. Low-hanging fruit. I loved the book, identify with the themes. Identify more than anyone at Goode can possibly realize, actually. A room of one’s own... Even the title speaks to me. Though the way I’ve gotten to this point isn’t the way I would have chosen. I doubt Woolf would have liked to achieve this status because her roommate died. Since I am now in dubious possession of this ideal, I think I’ll include this thought in the essay.
I’m writing so furiously I barely notice when a note comes from the office. Dr. Asolo brings it to my desk.
“Ash, the dean needs to see you. You may finish your essay in your room this evening and turn it in tomorrow. You’re dismissed.”
I stop midword, staring at Asolo dumbly. Asolo nods in encouragement. “Go on, dear. Don’t look so stricken. I’m sure it’s nothing serious.”
That’s what you think.
This is not good. How many times am I going to end up chatting with the dean this week? What is it now? They discovered my lies and are throwing me out? Vanessa and Piper ratted me out? Becca reported me for some sort of violation because I didn’t lick the toe of her shoe? Is it the email?
Is it all over? The jig is up?
Breathe. This is most likely an Honor Code thing—I contradicted Vanessa and Piper about their knowledge of Camille’s affair. Though the dean brushed off what I said, she must have followed up, and they’re insisting I face them as their accuser. I did nothing wrong being honest. We’ll be able to clear this up quickly.
I cap my pen, stash the exam book in my bag, and hoist it to my shoulder. I’m going slow, dragging my feet. Asolo might not be worried, but I am.
The dean’s official office is as familiar to me now as my own dorm room. I’m surprised to see a man inside. Not the sheriff, either, but a stranger. He’s a ginger, wearing a double-breasted, blue, pin-striped suit that looks like it came straight from the back room at Gieves & Hawkes, his wingtips spit polished. His very being screams solicitor.
“Oh, Ash, there you are. Come and have a cuppa with Mr. Nickerson.”
Her attempt at British colloquialism makes me cringe, but I step forward.
“Hullo, Ashlyn.” Nickerson leaps out of his seat with a wide grin. He is young, probably in his early thirties, and as overly enthusiastic as a puppy. Tea sloshes out of the cup onto his pants leg, and he takes this good-naturedly, as if it is a daily occurrence, blotting it with his hand.
“Whoops. Quite a mess, so sorry, so sorry. Ashlyn, it’s wonderful to finally meet you. I was a friend of your dad’s. I’m so very sorry we lost him. He was a lovely man.”
Oh, such a lovely man. You clearly didn’t know him well. More important, why the hell are you here?
I take his proffered hand graciously. “I’m pleased to meet any friend of my father’s. I go by Ash now.”
“Yes, the dean here told me so. I’m sorry Charlie couldn’t come himself, he’s tied up, I’m afraid. Well, Ash. Let’s sit. I have some news.”
Charlie: Charles Worthington, my father’s solicitor. The one who explained to me how things would work after they passed. How the inquest would have to be settled before the estate could be bequeathed.
I can’t fathom what this might be, am working hard to modulate my breathing so it’s not too obvious I’m in a panic. I take the seat and accept a cup of tea. I would really prefer a cup of espresso, topped with a shot of vodka, spiked with a little “something-something” as Becca says, but I can hardly complain. At least the cup gives me something to do with my hands.
“You’ve come from Oxford?” I ask, after taking a dutiful sip.
“London, actually. We’ve had a rough go of it this autumn, I’m afraid. Snow, already.”
“Ah. London. Snow, this early. How unusual. What’s happening with the estate?”
Yes, what the ever-loving fuck happened with the estate? I thought it was being settled before I left.
“Well, of course, nothing has changed for you. Don’t you worry, you’re still completely taken care of. As you and your father agreed, you’ll come into your inheritance on your twenty-fifth birthday, assuming all the stipulations are met.”
“The stipulations? Whatever do you mean?”
“Oh, my. How embarrassing. I thought you knew. You have to have a college degree by your big twenty-fifth.”
There it is, the crux of the matter. It’s so shallow, so gauche, this desperate need for money. And the stipulations. I mean, it’s not exactly a hardship, going to school. At least it wasn’t until Grassley died. And I became a Swallow. And my roommate did a swan dive off the bell tower. And the dean started confiding in me.
“Right. That. Yes, I know about the degree stipulation. That’s why I’m here, after all. Getting myself lined up to go to college.” I shoot a glance at Westhaven, who is smiling at us absently. We pause, wait for her to chime in. This is a play, remember. Everything is timed to perfection; the way parts of the stage move in circles as the rest of the floor stays put. We maneuver around the truth, all of us do. Truth and lies, the moving circle and the sturdy planks, the very ground beneath our feet always unsteady.
It’s the dean’s turn for her soliloquy, and she delivers it masterfully. I couldn’t have scripted this better.
“Ash has a very bright academic future. I’m sure there won’t be any issue with her getting into the school of her choice. If I recall, you’re interested in Harvard, isn’t that right, dear? At Goode,” she explains to Nickerson with maternal pride, “our girls get early acceptance to their school of choice. It won’t be long before Ash gets to make her applications, and we’ll have her set up nicely in no time. We could even go for an extra-early acceptance so she’s in line next year instead of waiting until she’s a senior if that helps with the estate? I’d be happy to make a few calls.”
Nickerson lights up. “Ah, jolly good, jolly good. I’m sure that would be quite helpful to streamline everything. But I’m here with some other news, I’m afraid. Of a private nature. Normally, Ash, I’d ask to speak to you alone, but since you’re a minor and his sole heir, my bosses asked me to have a witness signature on the papers, so I’ve asked the dean to stand in. Will that be all right?”
What the hell is this about?
“I have no secrets from Dean Westhaven.” On my honor. When lightning doesn’t strike immediately, I breathe a bit easier.
“Wonderful. Brilliant. Well, Ash, it seems your father had a codicil made a few months before he passed. Almost as if he... Well, never mind that. The codicil modifies his will. Now, don’t you worry, there are plenty of assets to go round, but it seems he’s left a good portion of his fortune to another... Ash, there’s no good way to put this. You have a sister.”
61
THE DECEPTION
The pain is so intense it numbs me. I can barely get out the word. Foreign. Wrong.
“Sister?”
“Yes. She’s a few years older than you, and can you believe it, she’s actually in Oxford. Or she was in Oxford. She decamped from the city a few months ago. We have her last knowns, but haven’t been able to locate her. Your father both acknowledged her and added her to the will.”
“A sister,” I repeat. I am officially overwhelmed now. “Added to the will.”
“Yes. I thought in light of your, well, you’ve been an only child since your brother’s death, and having lost your parents... I thought you might be pleased to know you aren’t quite so alone in the world. Even if she gets half the estate.”
I nearly drop my teacup.
“Half?”
“Oh, yes. Half. I don’t know all the details about how or why or when or who, but we’re looking for her now. Because of the sensitive nature of this, we wanted to let you know right away. It’s not above the press to get wind of these situations and we wanted to avoid a scandal or any impropriety. And we want to make sure there aren’t any impostors, either. My firm has been asked to verify the identity of your sister, when we find her, by a DNA match with you.”
“DNA.”
Really, I’ve become a parrot. An utterly, completely numb parrot.
“Ash, drink your tea,” Dean Westhaven encourages, forcibly lifting my hand to my mouth.
“I do think you’re in a wee bit of shock. Well, it’s big news, I’m sure. Too bad you’re not a spot older, we could put a nip in that cuppa, eh, Dean?”
“Ash, are you well?” Westhaven asks, clearly concerned.
I’ve buried my face in the teacup, biting my lip so hard I taste blood.
“What is her name?” I ask finally. “My sister.”
“Alexandria. Alexandria Pine. Mother’s name is Gertrude. Little Alex is an orphan, too, poor love. Sadly, her mother died from a drug overdose a few months ago, so she is also alone in the world. According to her work records, Alexandria was employed by a tea and chip shop in Oxford less than two months ago. But she moved on, the café owner said she’d had a job offer in London. Better opportunities, better pay. Who knows, you might have been face-to-face with her and never known it.”
Alexandria. “And this girl inherits half of my father’s fortune? This...complete stranger?”
“That’s the long and short of it, yes.”
“Does she have to have a college degree?”
Now he looks distinctly uncomfortable, flushing from his neck to his hairline. Good. The shoe is on the other foot.
“Erm...well, no. She inherits immediately, I gather. Outside of a morality clause, there’s nothing impeding Alexandria from taking her fortune as soon as we identify her. Forgive me, Ash, for sharing what the gossips are saying at the firm—your father only found out about her parentage recently. He wanted to make things right.”
“How?”
“How?”
“How did he find out?”
“A letter came. From this Gertrude. Your mum found it, apparently. Held on to it for a while. But he got his hands on it, brought it to the firm when he asked us to start looking for the girl.”
“And this woman, Gertrude. Who was she? You say she died from a drug overdose?”
“Yes. She was an addict. Heroin, I’m told.”
I sit as straight as I can, the squashy chair making it difficult. “How, exactly, did Sir Damien Carr have a child with a heroin addict named Gertrude? That’s simply ludicrous. My father had standards, at least.” We both know what I’m talking about. “Damien Carr was ridiculously wealthy. From an excellent family. He was the fucking wealth manager for half of fucking Parliament—”
“Ash! Your language is inappropriate.”
“Excuse me, Dean. I must be in shock. But for my father to dally with some sort of...addict, to get her pregnant, and to only now, after his death, be trying to acknowledge her? I’m rather curious, Mr. Nickerson. How many more ‘sisters’ will be coming out of the woodwork to claim their pound of flesh? This is an outrage. You should be ashamed, bringing me this nonsense. There is no legitimate codicil, my father would have told me.”
Nickerson is still blushing. “I am sorry, Ash. I don’t know any more than I’ve shared. I’m just the messenger.” And with a flourish, he pulls out a kit from his briefcase and some paperwork. “We only need a cheek swab, no blood work, thankfully. And a few signatures. All very civilized.”
My fury is burning hard and fast inside me. I want to run. I want to hide. I want to scream. Tears burst forth.
“Now, now. There’s no need to cry. There’s plenty of money to go round, and you’re no longer alone in the world. Ash, think. You have a sister, someone you can build a relationship with.”
I have to stop crying but I can’t. The dean finally takes me by the hand and leads me to the bathroom off her office.
“Get it out, darling. You’ll feel better. Splash some cold water on your face. We’ll be here.”
I sit on the toilet in this magnificent marble and chrome room and sob into my hands. For my lost mother. For my lost father. For my dead roommate, my lack of dignity, my ruined relationship with the one person who’s shown me real kindness since I came to America. For the fucked-up mess my life has become.
Sister. Sister. Sister.
Inherits half. Half.
If I’d only waited. If I hadn’t been so rash. The sorrow of it all is overwhelming.
It takes me twenty minutes to pull myself together. Nickerson and Westhaven are communing quietly when I finally return to the office. He turns with a hopeful look in his leprechaun eyes.
The very last thing in the world I want to do is swirl the tiny brush in my cheek, making the smooth skin raw with the force of its nasty, harsh bristles.
But I do.
What choice do I have?
We have to find my sister.
62
THE PRODIGAL
The fight was so intense, so incredibly off-the-charts intense, I can hardly believe I forgot it. It happened in April and resulted in a broken wrist for Sylvia. It was a knock-down, drag-out mess that spilled from their bedroom to the kitchens, out to the stables, where Sylvia shouted and screamed and threatened, then she came inside crying, saying she’d fallen on some loose straw, and had Cook drive her to hospital for a plaster cast.
Damien had stormed off on his horse, galloping away, dust rising in the distance, and came back well after dark. She’d locked the door and wouldn’t let him in. Which wasn’t good. Without Sylvia as a buffer, he directed his ire at me.
The black eye was visible for days.
This must have been when news of the sister arrived.
It all makes such perfect sense.
We spend our lives revisiting our very worst moments. Poking the sore tooth, the bruise, to see if it still hurts. Draining our current happiness because we don’t deserve it, because feeling good, feeling happy, means we’ve done something wrong, stepped on someone else’s shoulders, hurt or cheated or lied. We live to pick off the scab and taste the blood, fight and hate and fuck and love, and for what?
What is this life supposed to be?
I wanted happiness. I wanted freedom. I wanted to be free of them. The abuse. The hate. The pain. I know all of this, and more, now.
If I had any chance of escape, it meant getting my parents out of the way.
I thought on this long and hard as I wandered the fields attached to the estate. Murder is extreme. It is harsh. It is so very freeing.
Murdering Daddy is just so symbolic. So oedipal. And yes, a bit childish.
But he hurt me, over and over. Kept me hidden away so the world wouldn’t see what he did to me. You’ve seen what he could do. If you had any real idea of how bad it got, you wouldn’t be judging me so harshly right now.
And Sylvia, what a fucking waste. If she had ever stood up to him, maybe things would be different. If she had confronted him about his whore sooner, maybe none of this would have happened. We could have lived as one big, happy family.
I could have had a soul mate.
But this... It’s his last laugh from the grave. One more arrow into my already shredded heart.
I never in a million years thought he’d have the balls to acknowledge an illegitimate child. To throw such a slight in the face of his long-suffering wife. To throw me, his flesh and blood, under the proverbial bus.
And half?
She gets half?
No. Absolutely not. This will not stand.
That is my money. My suffering. My hor
ror. She doesn’t get to waltz in and take half of my future without paying the ultimate price.
What a shock. Such a shock.
Poor dear. Poor duck.
This is a mess.
I think it’s time for the two of us to have a conversation.
63
THE HEADLINE
I hurry out of the Dean’s office and slink toward the library, fighting the urge to run and hide myself in a carrel and never come out.
Sister. Sister. Sister.
And then, nightmare.
Becca steps out of the trolley that attaches Main to Old East Hall and blocks my path. She is carrying a green file folder in two hands and oozing menace. What is she doing? Why is she following me? What sort of humiliation does she have waiting for me? The Mistress is cunning and sadistic. But now is not the time for games.
“What are you doing, Swallow?”
“Going to study, Mistress.”
“In the middle of the day?”
“I’m getting behind on my work, Mistress.”
Please, please let me go. I need to scream, I need to cry. I need to plan.
“Ash. Part of my duties to this school as head girl is to see to the well-being of our younger students. I’ve become worried about you.”
Someone is watching. There’s no way she’d talk to me like this, so stilted and foreign, so bloody affected, if we were actually alone. Must be an Honor Court thing. She wants witnesses. I do feel eyes on me, but I don’t want to turn around.
“I appreciate your concern.”
“I wanted to be here for you when you saw this. It’s going to be difficult, Ash.”
She actually sounds legitimately worried now. Worried, but also gleeful. She takes a piece of paper from the folder.
The headline is lurid, pulled from one of our most sensational rags, the one that finds alien babies in Buckingham Palace and exposes cross-dressing politicians.
Bombshell Report: Hidden Will Splits Carr Estate
Good Girls Lie Page 26