Suspicion

by Alexandra Monir

  Lauren gives my arm a squeeze. “You’re right, I’m sorry. Of course I’ll be there for you. We just have to think of an alias for this Harry guy that won’t make my mom suspicious.”

  “I guess we could say he’s my uncle?” I suggest. “We could pretend he’s visiting me and that I brought him over to meet you.”

  Lauren wrinkles her nose.

  “I don’t know. I can totally see my mom mentioning that to the Marinos.”

  “Okay, then … what if he’s my tutor and is helping us study for a test?”

  “You know how often my mom talks to Carole,” Lauren says, shaking her head. “Anything we come up with could get back to her, even if it’s something as small as my mom commenting on how nice your fancy British tutor is.”

  I take a deep breath.

  “Then I guess I’ll have to be prepared to tell her the truth … later. First I’ve got to find out what Harry Morgan wants, without Carole and Keith getting in the way. So even if the tutor alias gives us just a couple of hours before my cover is blown, at least by then I’ll have some answers. And if it comes down to it, I’ll tell your parents I lied to you about who he is too, so you won’t get in trouble.”

  Lauren stares at me. “I’ve never seen you like this.”

  “Like what?”

  “You never talk about your family—the Rockfords,” she says carefully. “I hardly know anything about them, or … or what your life was like before we met in middle school. But now some guy who works for them shows up and you’re suddenly willing to risk being grounded till your eighteenth birthday, just to find out what he wants? That’s not the Imogen I know.”

  I glance down at the cafeteria table, where someone has crudely etched their initials.

  “I may not talk about it, but I think about them … often.” All those years ago, I shut my cousin and grandfather out, and I haven’t heard from them in so long that I figured they just let me go. But now it turns out maybe they haven’t. And I need to know why.”

  Lauren reaches for my hand.

  “I get it. And I’ll be here to help you.”

  Literature, my last class of the day, drags on so long that every time I look up at the clock expecting to see half an hour has passed, it turns out I’m no closer to the final bell than before. Normally this is my favorite subject, but today it’s impossible to focus. My teacher’s voice is background noise, a droning sound track to my thoughts, which swim with images from the Rockford Manor website and imagined scenarios of what Harry Morgan will say when we meet.

  At last, the bell rings. I hurriedly toss my textbook and binder into my bag, failing to notice that Mark Wyatt has sidled up to my desk.

  “Hey. Thank God that’s over, right? Does anyone really need to know that much about Tolstoy?” he says with a grin.

  Oh, right. That’s who our teacher was going on about.

  “True.” I smile back at him, and we fall into step together as we leave the classroom.

  “So are you doing anything right now?” he asks casually. “Feel like a snack at Magnolia Bakery?”

  “Oh …”

  I stop short, caught off guard. Is he asking me on a date? I mean, we’ve never hung out just the two of us before. And if the answer is yes, am I actually going to pass up a date in favor of an awkward meeting with a stranger? But … do I really like Mark, or am I just flattered by his attention? The truth is, I haven’t had a real, honest-to-goodness crush since I was ten years old. The words I spoke when Sebastian and I said goodbye had been presciently true: “I’ll never forget you.”

  “Well?” He gives a self-conscious chuckle. “Tough decision?”

  “No, of course not,” I tell him, reddening. “I just promised I’d help Lauren cram for a test tomorrow and I was thinking maybe I could bail, but I … I can’t. Rain check?”

  “Yeah, no worries,” he says as we reach the school exit. “See you tomorrow?”

  I give him another smile, hoping my confusion isn’t evident on my face.

  “See you.”

  My stomach is jittery throughout the subway ride to Lauren’s, and I know it has a lot more to do with the upcoming meeting than Mark’s Magnolia Bakery offer. By the time I’m walking up to her family’s SoHo loft, my throat is dry and my knuckles white.

  I dash up the stairs to the second floor, and then let myself into her apartment—which isn’t as rude as it sounds. Lauren and I have been going over to each other’s apartments since we were thirteen, and as her mom once sweetly said, “I think we’re past the point of knocking. You’re one of us.” Remembering that makes me feel guiltier about lying to her, but I swallow the feeling. There’s no backing out now.

  I find Lauren in the kitchen, rummaging for an after-school snack. She must have just beaten me here.

  “Hey. So what should we serve our illustrious guest? Will Cheez-Its do the trick?”

  “Sure. Thanks.” I tap my foot apprehensively. “Did you tell your mom?”

  “Yep, and I asked her to leave us alone in the living room so we can study. But she’s still close enough to save us if he turns out to be a creeper.” Lauren grins. “She was mighty impressed with you for bringing over a tutor.”

  “Oh.” I glance down at the floor. “Well, hopefully whatever he has to say will be … something I can handle.”

  “Of course you can handle it,” Lauren says encouragingly. “Maybe it’s something good—maybe you’ve inherited a billion dollars!”

  I burst out laughing.

  “Well, if that’s the case, I can’t imagine why the Marinos wouldn’t want me to know about it. We could all be loaded!”

  At that moment, the doorbell rings. My smile remains frozen on my face.

  “He’s here. What do we do?”

  Lauren gently pushes me toward the door.

  “Answer it. I’ll be waiting for you guys in the living room.”

  Gathering my courage, I step forward. Don’t chicken out, Imogen, I instruct myself. You know you need to talk to him. I take a deep breath and open the door.

  A bespectacled middle-aged man stands before me, his graying hair slicked back and his posture proud and straight. His eyes widen behind his glasses at the sight of me.

  “Do I have the honor of meeting Lady Imogen Rockford?”

  I stare at him, my skin prickling with shock, as I realize I know that voice. It’s the man who called last night; the same man Keith claimed was his legal rival. Keith lied to me. Even though I know he and Carole are hiding things, the blatant lie has me momentarily speechless.

  “I’m—I’m sorry,” I say when I’ve recovered. I’m just a little confused by all this. No one calls me Lady Imogen. Well, no one except you and your assistant.” I hold out my hand. “But anyway. Nice to meet you, Mr. Morgan.”

  “Please, call me Harry.”

  “Oh. Okay.” I open the door wider to let him in, lowering my voice as I say, “This is my best friend’s apartment. If you see her parents here at any point, please tell them you’re my science tutor. Okay?”

  I expect him to be thrown off by this, but he nods calmly.

  “I can do that.”

  I lead him into the living room and find Lauren already perched on the loveseat, leaving the couch free for us. Three cans of Diet Coke and a box of Cheez-Its sit on the coffee table, and in this bizarre moment, I feel myself on the verge of giggles at the thought of prim and proper-looking Harry Morgan digging his fist into the box of cheesy crackers.

  “Harry, this is Lauren Fox,” I introduce them. “Lauren, meet Harry Morgan.”

  “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” Harry says politely. “And thank you for offering your home for this conversation.”

  “Sure,” Lauren replies, though her expression looks suddenly anxious—almost as anxious as I feel. “Nice to meet you too.”

  I sit on the couch and Harry follows suit.

  “So, what is it?” I ask, my voice clipped. “What did you need to tell me?”

  “Well.
… This would be extraordinary news for anyone, but I suppose you might have always thought it possible, being that you were third in line,” he begins, pulling a folder of papers from his briefcase.

  I stare uncomprehendingly at him.

  “Third in line for what?”

  “Oh, my God. Was I actually right? Did she inherit a billion dollars?” Lauren blurts out.

  Harry chuckles.

  “Not nearly that much, I’m afraid. But you have indeed inherited something.”

  He hands me the folder in his lap, opened to a page that reads The Last Will and Testament of the eleventh Duke of Wickersham. I can’t look past the heading.

  “My grandfather is dead?” I cry.

  Harry stares at me, aghast.

  “I—I wrote to you right after he passed. I called Mrs. Marino about it. Did you not know?”

  “No. I didn’t,” I say faintly, my head spinning.

  “I’m terribly sorry for the shock,” Harry says, lowering his eyes. “I’m afraid the duke’s health steadily deteriorated after his stroke six years ago. But he’s in a better place now. We can comfort ourselves with that.”

  My cheeks burn with shame as I realize it isn’t just his death that I’ve been in the dark about. I never knew he was so sick—I never called or visited. How could I have been such a coward? And why didn’t the Marinos tell me what they knew?

  “I’m so sorry,” I whisper.

  “That brings me to the business at hand,” Harry says, clearing his throat. “Your grandfather’s death means you inherit … everything.”

  For a split second the world freezes. There is no sound or movement beyond my frantic heartbeat.

  “What? I’m—I’m not—I shouldn’t be next in line,” I manage to stammer. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  I watch as the color drains from Harry’s face.

  “Did you also not receive my messages about your cousin, Lucia?” he asks haltingly.

  I gasp at the sound of her name on his lips. For years she’s existed only in my memory, and it rattles me to hear someone else speak of her. And then it dawns on me what he might be about to say, and I shake my head, because it’s impossible—impossible.

  “What messages?” I whisper.

  Harry winces, clearly dreading what he has to say.

  “I am so—so very sorry to have to tell you this.” His voice wavers. “Lucia is—she’s—well, I’m afraid she’s … dead.”

  IV

  “No.”

  I jump off the couch, scrambling away from Harry in horror. Lauren tries to comfort me but I push her away, swallowing the bile I feel rising in my throat.

  “It’s impossible. She—she’s only two years older than me! She was stronger than me, better than me. There’s no way she could be dead.”

  “Please, Your Grace, I understand it’s a shock, but I—”

  “Don’t call me Your Grace!” I explode. “I’m not anyone’s Grace.”

  “But you are. That’s what I’ve come here to tell you, what I’ve been trying to convey for weeks now.” Harry leans forward, gazing at me with an almost reverential expression. “Your grandfather’s passing means that you inherit not only Rockford Manor, but his title and dukedom. Hence, you will from now on be addressed as Her Grace, the Duchess of Wickersham.”

  “That’s—that’s insane!” I look wildly around the room. “Lauren, where’s your phone? I need to call England. This has to be a joke. My grandfather and Lucia will be there and we’ll all have a good laugh—”

  “Imogen,” Lauren interrupts me. “I don’t think he’s kidding.”

  I look from her to Harry Morgan and back again, feeling as though the wind has been knocked out of me. My once-closest friend, the cousin who so often intimidated me with her larger-than-life presence, can’t be dead. But the pained expression on Harry’s face is enough for me to realize it’s true. And I’ll never again have the chance to make things right between us.

  I sink numbly into an armchair.

  “How did she die?” My voice is barely audible.

  Harry briefly shuts his eyes.

  “There was a violent storm last fall, the worst I’ve ever seen in Britain. That night Lucia told the staff she was retiring to bed early, but when the housekeeper went to her room the next morning, she wasn’t there. Her bed hadn’t been slept in, and there was an empty bottle of vodka by her dresser, leading us to believe that she’d been drinking—again. The Rockford staff searched the grounds and found her body later that day.” Harry takes a shaky breath. “Her head had struck one of the stone pillars just outside the Maze.”

  I struggle to comprehend his words.

  “So—that was it? How do you know for sure what killed her?”

  “Between the dangerous weather and her inebriated state, the police concluded she must have fallen in the rain and hit her head against the stone. The autopsy confirmed the cause of death as a blow to the head from a blunt object, and while they offered to do further testing, your poor grandfather was too distraught and unwell to be put through anything more. For his sake, we asked for the case to be closed and dear Lady Lucia put to rest.”

  “I’m—I’m going to be sick,” I blurt out. I cover my mouth with my hand, stumbling into the guest bathroom.

  Afterward, I lean my head against the cold tiles of the wall, the room spinning as my mind fills with the image of Lucia’s beautiful face—soaked in blood. I’m half conscious of Lauren joining me, rubbing my shoulders soothingly, but nothing gives me any comfort. The story has a horribly familiar ring to it. An innocent accident, a sudden death, the Maze—it’s like losing Mum and Dad all over again.

  It twists up my insides, knowing that she’s gone and I never apologized, never made up for the years I stayed away. All my guilt bubbles to the surface as I wonder what might have happened if we’d kept in touch, if I had been there for Lucia. Maybe she wouldn’t have been drinking that night—maybe somehow, in some way, I could have prevented her accident.

  After what feels like ages, I manage to stand. Holding on to Lauren for support, I slowly return to Harry.

  “Are you all right, Your Grace?” he frets, jumping to his feet as soon as I enter the room. I sink into a seat facing him.

  “I should have been there for them,” I whisper. “Not just at the funerals, but long before that. I’m so sorry I didn’t get your messages, and that I was out of the picture all this time. I handled everything all wrong, and I—I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself for it.”

  I can’t hold back the tears any longer; it’s like a dam has burst. I bury my face in my hands, letting the tears fall and soak into my palms. I usually feel relief after a hard cry, but not this time. There’s a painful silence as Harry and Lauren watch helplessly. Then Harry takes a deep breath and begins to speak.

  “You can’t fault yourself for anything. You were just a child at the time of the fire, and I was told that you were treated for post-traumatic stress disorder afterward. It’s no wonder you had trouble returning to Rockford or seeing anyone who reminded you of that night.” He clears his throat. “But so many people are now counting on you to come back, to take your place at the helm of Rockford Manor.”

  I feel a shiver of trepidation at his words.

  “I don’t understand. Why me? Isn’t there someone else?”

  “I’m afraid that with the fire, and Lucia’s passing, you are the late duke’s closest living descendant and last in the line of inheritance. Rockford Manor is tied up in entail, which means that if there is no direct heir to take ownership of the estate, the house and all the land will be taken over by the British government,” he explains. “In that event, the staff, who have been at Rockford for decades, would lose their jobs and their home. They need you.”

  “Can’t I be the owner or heir without actually living there? You have to understand, I haven’t been since …” My voice trails off. “I just—I’ll never look at Rockford the same, after everything that’s happened. I can’t
imagine being there without my family.”

  Harry gives me a compassionate look.

  “This is an awful lot to take in, I know. But unfortunately, the estate law requires the owner and heir of Rockford to live on the premises and run the property. Additionally, the people of Wickersham have always had a duke or duchess to lead local charities, host events for the townspeople, and most importantly, provide jobs. We also give tours of the estate during summer months and holidays. Rockford Manor and its family are an integral part of the lives of our local community, and that’s something—if you don’t mind my being direct—you really should consider.”

  “Wow. He kind of has a point,” Lauren says under her breath.

  I anxiously tug on a lock of hair.

  “But—but I know nothing about running an estate or being the face of a town. I’m not sure I’m the right person for the job.”

  “You’re the only person,” Harry says firmly. “No one is expecting perfection, least of all from a seventeen-year-old. You’ll have plenty of help and instruction along the way. All that matters is that you’re willing to learn.”

  “But Lucia … she was born for that type of life, and I’d be taking it from her. She would hate me for it.” I shudder inwardly.

  “Lucia wasn’t necessarily intended to be heir either,” Harry says carefully. “Her father was next in line, and if he and his wife had lived and produced a son, that boy would have taken Lucia’s place in the line of inheritance. The fire changed everything; it reshuffled all the cards. And now we have to make do with the hand we’ve been dealt.”

  I can’t sit still anymore. I restlessly pace Lauren’s living room, racking my brain for a solution. But instead, my mind fills with images of my younger self—turning my back on Lucia at the Rockford Cemetery, refusing my grandfather’s invitations. If I decline my inheritance and let Rockford Manor fall to pieces, it will be the same cowardice all over again. But this time it would affect more lives; it would be a betrayal to my parents. I won’t, can’t do that. And in that moment, my mind is made up.

  I will move to England; I will do all that is asked of me. I owe the Rockfords—my family—that much.