“Don’t you know? She is the duchess of England.”
I did not wait for the gasps or the questions, because I could not bear to hear them. Instead, I turned and walked six measured paces, then took to the air.
Remember who you will one day be, child!
I do not want to think of that day, Grandmother. I do not want to think of it.
Why do that? Why be so willfully cruel? Why deny me my choice like that? At least I could run. If it had not been the end of the day, I wouldn’t have been able to escape his revelation like this. Escape him.
Though the sun created a patchwork of light and shadows below me on the town, the air was cold. The wind from the sea was caught in the jaws of the concave river mouth, funneled along the increasingly narrow valley, stirring the masts of a tall ship moored on the Dartmouth embankment. The rigging made a soft chime that the wind carried with it, an underlying melody to the beating of water that the old paddle ferry produced and the shrill whistle of the steam train weaving along the embankment toward Kingswear. It was a small village, standing in proud opposition to Dartmouth on the other side of the river, its multicolored cottages rising in uneven terraces much like the larger houses of the larger town did. Over bridges, past creeks, and below the village school, where the old-fashioned bell tolled to announce the end of the day, the train passed, eventually coming to a halt beside the smaller, lower ferry.
It was a world perfectly preserved, continuing on in its own isolated sphere, relying on its unquestionable beauty to bring in the tourists. Yet its isolation was why I suffered.
Finally, as time in my angst seemed to move much slower, I reached the other side of the river, the trees lining its bank broken and falling into the silt. It was a pity that the leaves had fallen so early—it was barely September; empty bottles, sandwich papers, and silk handkerchiefs testimony to the summer nights whose mark had not yet been erased. But that was what they got for perching on the riverbank. They were rotting. They were dying.
Why? Why did you have to tell them when I asked you not to? What have you achieved by doing that?
There was a brief respite in the chill as I moved away from the sea, only for the cold to be replaced with fog as the tower of the church near my house came into view and with it the harbor a little farther on and the salty suspension that the sea mist carried inland.
I still couldn’t comprehend everything that had happened that day. It felt as though the events since that morning had occurred over several days and were still no more than skin-deep. Yet my body hadn’t failed to note the pricking, and inside, I felt oddly numb—my mind’s way of protecting itself, I supposed.
I glanced at the clock on the church tower, surprised at how long it had taken me to get home. Time just didn’t seem to move in a constant way anymore.
Inside, the blinking light of my laptop lured me in as I placed a cup of tea on the desk and checked my e-mails. Sure enough, Jo had returned a sprawling epic that required much scrolling. Despite her confused lineage—French-Canadian and German, now serving as a guardian at a boarding school in Switzerland—her English was word-perfect, something eight years at St. Sapphire’s had given her.
The first three paragraphs were dedicated to gushing about how hot the prince was, and how I should feel lucky to be bestowed the chance to be so intimate with him. The rest added up to a warning: what I suspected of him and his family was not a light accusation and that I should tread carefully. She ended with her own theory as to why he was here, which I dismissed immediately, blushing.
I leaned back in my chair, unsure of how to reply. I contemplated telling her about losing it that morning, but decided against it, not wanting to provide any opportunities for rumors. There was no point telling her about what the prince had revealed: she didn’t know I hid—had hidden—my title.
Pushing away from the desk, I collapsed onto the cushioned window seat. Through the window, I could see the maple tree in the garden, the nearest branch just a foot or two from my window—when I was a child, reluctantly returning home from school for the weekend, I would often seek solace in the crux of its branches, where the trunk would divide into four and form a neat little seat, perfect to fold into. It was my own palace of leaves, decorated with pinned flowers plucked from the garden or dream-catchers, which I would make endlessly at the desk where the laptop now sat—some of the frail structures had survived, and were now dangling from the eaves of the window, minus the feathers. They had become rotten and mildewed, and my mother had removed them. When I had collected more gulls’ feathers to replace them, she had taken those, too.
I knew I couldn’t face school the next day. I couldn’t face the questions on top of the already mounting dread I had at the prospect of detention on Thursday. Besides, a day would act as a sort of buffer against the shock: the buzz about my title would have died down a bit by Thursday. Let the prince deal with the questions, I thought. Let him sort out what he caused.
CHAPTER NINE
Autumn
Autumn, why didn’t you tell us?”
“You never asked.”
“That’s not the point. You’re the duchess of England, and we never knew. I mean, that makes you the highest-ranking nobility in the country. Right below royalty. Er, hello?” Gwen snapped.
“I thought that title died with that woman, a couple of years back. There was something about a state funeral on the news, remember?”
I shot Tammy a look, and comprehension slowly dawned on her face.
“Oh my God, that was your grandmother, wasn’t it? And what, the title skipped your dad? How come?”
“Human.”
I was wrong about the buzz dying down. If anything, my absence had escalated the hype. The questions didn’t stop all day, and when they did it was only because I made an escape to the bathroom, or the prince was around. Then, the questions would be aimed at him. They could extract more from him, considering I was letting little out.
Thankfully, the day passed quickly. I even managed to avoid speaking to the prince for the entire length of our English literature lesson. He didn’t try to start anything resembling conversation.
Five o’clock had long passed before I got out of textiles, and I suspected it was going to be a long evening. In contrast to the GCSE essay that had earned me the detention, the A-level English work was long and laborious. It didn’t help that the prince hadn’t read the play or any of the set poems, so I had to explain everything he was copying out. From his desk, Mr. Sylaeia would occasionally look up until eventually, as the hands of the clock shot past seven and toward half past, he announced that we could leave.
The contents of my folder had become so sprawled across the desk that by the time I had reorganized and packed them away, the light had faded outside and what had been a murky gray sky became purple through pouring rain. I watched it through the window, unable to see the art building roof just opposite. A knot formed in my throat.
Outside in the corridor, the rain didn’t seem as heavy, the doors at each end sealing out the roar of the wind, but on the stairs, it was clear just how bad it was. The sky slapped the rain down so forcefully that water sprang a meter back up from the ground, ricocheting off the benches and joining huge pools where the tarmac dipped and was beginning to crumble. The autumn-flowering blossoms on the tree were putting up a fierce fight, but the wind was winning, sweeping the petals high into the air and away over the buildings.
“You’re not going to fly in that, are you?”
I paused, and the prince drew up beside me, both of us staring through the glass doors at the chaos outside.
“I’ll take the bus.”
He looked me up and down skeptically, and I knew that in my blouse, skirt, and thin tights, I wasn’t exactly dressed for the weather.
“You’ll get soaked. It’s dark, too. You shouldn’t wait on your own.”
“I’ll be fine—”
“Seriously, I can give you a lift.”
I took a few
steps toward the door, hoisting my bag higher on my shoulder and preparing to make a dash through the rain. “My parents say I shouldn’t accept lifts from strangers.”
He flinched and the puzzled expression from two days before returned. “I’m not a stranger.” His tone made it sound almost like a question, as though he wasn’t even sure of that statement himself.
You’re as good as a stranger, I thought.
I hovered for a few more seconds, unsure if he was going to say anything else. When he didn’t, I braced myself against the door and pushed, hoping my body weight would be enough to hold it open just long enough for me to slip through. It wasn’t. In the second that the wind caught the door and flung it wide-open, I became drenched, standing directly below the overflowing gutter; blinded by the water seeping down from my hair and the rain battering my face like needles, I only just saw the door swinging wildly on its hinges and dived back, helped by a hand yanking on the material of my blouse. Landing on the floor, I pulled my feet back over the lip of the frame just in time as the door slammed shut so violently that the lowest pane of glass fell from its seal and shattered on the ground outside.
“Are you okay?” I heard the prince ask while I stared dumbly at the broken door, where the wind now rushed through and chilled my exposed legs—my tights had laddered. “I’m giving you a lift home. No arguments.”
I didn’t argue. It would be useless to argue; his point had already been proven. He helped me up.
“Watch the glass,” he said and then flung the door open, bracing his back against the frame as I leaped over the fragments and sprinted for the sheltered entrance on the other side of the quad. Behind me, I heard the door slam and a curse whip past me, mangled by the wind. It was followed by the sound of footsteps in hot pursuit.
Suddenly, a hand grabbed mine and urged me on, tugging me down the steps and into the school’s tunneled entrance, where we paused, shivering. The prince rubbed his upper arms ferociously.
“Ready?” He extended his hand toward me after a minute.
I looked at it for a few seconds and then out to the rain. Even if I remained close enough to touch him, I wouldn’t see him. As I looked, the parking lot lit up beneath sheet lightning.
“Come on,” he insisted and took my hand, pulling me back out into the rain as the inevitable thunder followed. I squinted, searching for a car, any car, until suddenly, through the gloom, a pair of headlights flashed on and off and I caught a brief glimpse of a surprisingly understated five-door sports car—but more interestingly, a car with no Athenean coat of arms across its side.
He headed for the right door and gave me a gentle nudge around the hood. I pulled my bag off and got in the passenger side, placing it at my feet but keeping a tight hold on the handle, only letting go to plug my seat belt in. He had already started the engine and was reaching across to turn the heating on, turning the dial right up. I felt the air, initially cold, blasting through the vents, and my feet inched toward the warmth. With the windshield wipers beating, he pulled out of the parking lot.
“You live in Brixham, right?” I nodded and he signaled right. The sound of the rain on the windshield and the rolls of thunder every minute or so prevented him from saying anything, so I looked out of the window. Every time the lightning struck, the valley below us would light up, revealing the fields, houses, and the corner of the late-Victorian building that made up the Naval College; a building that was no stranger to royal officer cadets, albeit the human kind. The scene was suspended in negative and then faded again.
The steep main road leading to the lower town was deserted and, as we rounded the foot of the Naval College, so was the queue for the higher ferry. When we neared the slipway, a large yellow sign made it apparent why: it was closed due to the bad weather. The prince cursed under his breath.
“Try the lower ferry,” I murmured, finding it difficult to talk with him there. He looked at me, puzzled. “Follow the embankment,” I added, but didn’t hold out much hope. If the sturdier higher ferry was closed, then the barge-and-tug that was the lower ferry would be, too. I was right. As we approached the oldest part of town, where the beamed black-and-white upper floors of buildings leaned precariously over the cobbled pavement and fishermen’s cottages lined the streets, I could see one of the ferrymen deserting his post as he bent against the wind. Out in the choppy river, I could just make out the lights of the ferry heading back to its pontoon.
The prince sighed. “Guess it’s the road way around then. You’ll have to direct me.” I nodded and he continued, “I normally turn off at Totnes toward Dartmoor. I haven’t been to Torbay yet.” He finished, and out of the corner of my eye I could see him glancing at me. I knew I was supposed to carry on the conversation, but said nothing.
When we reached the top of the hill again, I saw him looking once more. He opened his mouth and closed it again, and then seemed to settle on speaking. “I’m living with my aunt and uncle—I suppose you know them as their royal Athenean highnesses the duke and duchess of Victoria, don’t you?” His tone was heavily sarcastic. Titles were clearly a bother to him, except, of course, for mine. “They bought a place up on the moors, near Princetown. When I heard, I jumped at the chance. I’ve always wanted to study in England, and Australia had become impossible with the paparazzi. I knew this area was like a bubble and Kable seemed like a good choice, with you there, so we took out super injunctions against the media running anything about our whereabouts, fed the gossips at court a lie about me returning to Sydney, and here we are. No bodyguards and no paparazzi.”
I nodded slowly. I didn’t hear anything about them moving here while I was in London. They must really want the quiet life, for nothing to have filtered down the grapevine. Yet I knew it would get out eventually. It was a ticking time bomb and when the press did descend, I would be implicated, too.
Again, I sensed that he was trying to start a conversation, but I wasn’t sure how to respond. Everything I did want to say to him was unspeakable; treasonous, even.
“And you are here because of your parents,” he stated. It was not a question.
He fell silent again and I knew that with a little effort, I could break the quiet, yet made no move to do so. In that moment, it was hard to believe that at twelve, I had effortlessly talked up or down, to my superiors and inferiors, and thought nothing of the ability. It was to the manner born, instilled in me since birth. But now my two tongues strangled each other and the words would not come.
“Do you miss her?” he murmured suddenly, his two hands gripping the steering wheel so tightly I could see his knuckles whitening. I stared at them for a few seconds, and then looked straight ahead, watching the lights that marked the middle of the road flash below us.
“Yes. Very much,” I whispered, not sure he would even hear me above the battering rain and hum of the engine.
Yet he nodded in acknowledgment. “It was horrible, what happened. It—you were so young. Only fourteen. To experience loss like that must have been . . .”
He didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t need to. I knew how it felt and he was obviously trying to comprehend it.
“Murder,” he said after a while. “Have you . . . have you ever thought about revenge?”
“I would if I knew who her murderer was,” I snapped, surprising myself with my change of tone.
The prince turned toward me as far as he could without taking an eye off the road. “I’m sorry, but have I done something to offend you? I know I haven’t seen you for several years, but we used to be friends and now I might as well have the plague.”
“Other than reveal my title, Your Highness?” I retorted.
He let out a sharp breath. “I was just trying to help you—”
“Why?”
He passed the wheel through his hands as he took a sharp left, and then sped up as the road widened into two lanes.
He shook his head slightly and frowned. “Well . . . we go back a long way, you used to come to court a lot. Why wou
ldn’t I help you?”
I rubbed a clear patch in the condensation on my window and stared out of it. “I don’t like you.”
There was a long silence, in which the muted whirring of the engine and the beating of the windshield wipers was the only sound. I didn’t look at him, and silently wondered how many times—if ever—someone had actually admitted that to him.
He finally hummed in acknowledgment. “May I ask why?”
I hadn’t thought this far ahead in my impulsiveness. I had just said what I felt . . . for once, I had just let go and admitted my feelings. But what I wanted to say in reply was an accusation . . . treasonous even. But when else will I get the chance to ask?
“I think you, and the entire royal family and council, are withholding information from me. I think you know why my grandmother was murdered, and by whom. I think that because I heard mutterings at her funeral . . . and why else would no answer have been given by now?”
His knuckles went instantly white on the steering wheel, and eighteen months of suspicion was confirmed by his paling complexion. “What makes you think I would know that kind of information?”
“You’re second in line to the throne. You’re good with politics; better than the heir. I think your parents would trust you.”
I averted my gaze at the unexpected compliment I had paid him. I kept it averted, and waited and waited, until I rested my head against the window in defeat.
“I have orders not to tell you,” he said stiffly.
I gasped, and the surge of hate and pain I felt every time I thought of her trebled. I wanted to say something, but words failed me. A tear eased itself down my cheek, squeezing between the window and my skin. I closed my eyes, preventing any more from forming, and allowed my hair, wet and beginning to curl, to cover my face.
I felt a pressure on my knee—his hand. I jerked my leg away and pulled my bag protectively onto my lap, feeling my cheeks flame a very bright red. His hand hovered between the gear stick and the steering wheel, as though he was unsure of what to do with it. He settled for the steering wheel.
Autumn Rose: A Dark Heroine Novel Page 6