Suspicion (13 page)

Gemma nods, her eyes sympathetic.

“I’m afraid it’s tradition. The event has only been canceled once in the past fifty-some years, when Wickersham was in mourning right after the fire of 2007. The concert is such a high point for the locals, it would be a shame to cancel it.”

I take a shaky breath, fiddling with the tablecloth.

“So … what do I have to do?”

“The good news is, Oscar tells me he and Mrs. Mulgrave have the planning and setup down to a science, since they’ve worked together on this very event for twenty years now. So you won’t have to trouble yourself with too many details,” Gemma reassures me. “Your main duties will be social—receiving the guests and leading the evening’s entertainments.”

I nod, pushing away my half-eaten breakfast. The idea of hosting the concert without the rest of my family seems to magnify how very alone I am.

Once Gemma leaves, my thoughts return to a darker place. I pull the map of the Rockford grounds from the pocket of my cardigan, studying the spot I marked with a circle: the Rockford Cemetery, where my parents, my grandfather, and Lucia are all buried. I have to visit their graves; I’ve already waited one day too long. But my eyes flick back and forth from the cemetery to the Shadow Garden and the Maze, which lie along the same route. Visiting their graves means coming face to face not just with death, but with the very setting where my parents and Lucia died. And I can’t—not yet.

Saturday morning finds me fidgeting in front of the full-length mirror as Gemma arranges an odd little hat on my head at an even odder angle.

“This thing looks ridiculous on me,” I complain. “I still don’t see what was so wrong with my first outfit.”

“No one wears jeans to a polo match, least of all the Duchess of Wickersham,” Gemma chastises me. “I’m surprised Maisie didn’t already tell you.”

“I didn’t mention it to her,” I say with a shrug. In truth, I’ve been avoiding Maisie since our moment in front of Lucia’s portrait. There’s something about the memory that gives me a prickle of discomfort. Maybe it’s the overly familiar way Maisie looked at me as she spoke, or the tone of her voice when she talked about Lucia. As if they had some kind of connection, or sixth sense, that I’ll never understand. Or maybe I’m still reeling from the discovery that Lucia and Sebastian were together all this time.

“Well,” Gemma continues, “at least she had the good sense to fill your wardrobe with the right British designers.”

She smoothes the shoulders of the pale lilac floral-print Jenny Packham dress we found among my closet’s unexpected treasures. The dress hits just above the knee, and nude platform pumps elongate my not-quite-tanned legs. I have to admit, the dress and heels combo looks pretty good. But the hat is all wrong.

“I can’t wear it.” I gently swat Gemma’s hand away from my head. “I’ve never been a hat person to begin with, and this one is maybe the most unflattering I’ve ever tried on.”

“It’s called a fascinator, not a hat,” Gemma corrects me. “It’s what British ladies of your station wear to polo matches.”

“Well, I’m British American. So I’m never going to look or be exactly like them, anyway.”

Gemma sighs in defeat. “All right, then. No fascinator, but you’d better give your hair a good brushing.”

Once Gemma is satisfied with my look, we head down the grand staircase to meet Alfie. On the second landing, we come across Mrs. Mulgrave and Maisie heading upstairs.

“Your Grace, I was just about to check to see if you needed anything,” Maisie says. She gives my outfit a once-over. “I wasn’t aware you had any special plans today.”

“Nothing too special, just a polo match,” I say with a grin.

“What match?” Mrs. Mulgrave asks, her empty dark eyes flickering with sudden interest.

“The Jack Wills Varsity, of course,” Gemma answers for me.

Maisie and her mother exchange a rapid glance full of meaning but impossible for me to understand.

“If I may—” Mrs. Mulgrave begins, but Gemma cuts her off.

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid we’re quite late as it is and should have been in the car five minutes ago. Her Grace will return for tea at four o’clock.”

“Bye!” I give them a little wave before following Gemma down the stairs, leaving the two of them standing there, watching me go.

As we pull up to the Oxford University Polo Club, Gemma turns in her seat to scrutinize me.

“Your face is a little shiny; take these blotting papers. Now, make sure to walk with your shoulders back and neck extended, like Basil taught you. Aim for the posture of a ballerina. I’ll get out first and lead the way.”

“Good luck, Your Grace,” Alfie says warmly, slowing to a stop in front of the polo field entrance.

I peer out the window, my palms growing sweaty at the sight of what appears to be hundreds of spectators in the stands.

“Thanks. I’ll need it,” I say under my breath.

Gemma steps out of the car, and after one nerve-racking second, I follow. But no one warned me about the perils of wearing heels on a grassy polo field, and my legs immediately buckle beneath me. Gemma grabs my arm while I’m mid-flail, hoisting me upright, and of course that’s when a multitude of flashbulbs go off, as the reporters in the stands suddenly seem to figure out who I am.

“Great. My first public appearance is me almost falling on my butt,” I say through gritted teeth.

I can tell this isn’t exactly the grand entrance Gemma envisioned for me either, but she squeezes my arm comfortingly.

“It doesn’t matter. Just hold your head high and smile.”

My smile ends up looking more like a paranoid grimace, but at least we make it to the stands without another stumble. As we settle into the cushiony seats of the small Rockford box above the stands, I feel eyes boring into me from all sides; I can’t stop blinking as cameras continue flashing in my direction. I look down at my lap, fiddling with my jewelry, until an escalating cheer from the audience signals the start of the action.

The sight of the four young men on horseback galloping onto the field and wielding their polo sticks in unison sends a ripple of excitement through the crowd. The players wear the Oxford uniform of dark blue shirts, white jeans, knee-high black riding boots, and heavy black helmets. As they ride up to their cheering section, lifting their helmets in greeting, my eyes fall on the player riding slightly apart from the other three, somewhat removed from the jubilant scene. I lean forward in my seat, peering closer, my heart beginning to race. Something about the half smile playing on his lips, the tousled golden-brown hair, reminds me of … someone I used to know, someone who once meant the world to me.

Look up,
I plead silently.
Let me see your face.

I wonder if my thoughts did in fact reach him—because it is at this very moment that he chooses to glance up and meet my eyes. And under his gaze a rush of emotions comes flooding over me with abandon, until I am a little girl again, both giddy and tormented as I look upon him. I can no longer hear the stampede of hooves from the Cambridge team entering the fray, or the sound of Gemma’s voice in my ear. I can no longer feel the sun’s heat or the cool breeze; I can’t see anything in my line of vision but him. Sebastian Stanhope—near me again after all these years.

I sit up straighter as Sebastian stares at me, his eyes narrowing in recognition. Does he see his childhood friend when he looks at me? Or is he just tipped off by the fact that I’m seated in the Rockford box? I smile tremulously, lifting my hand in a shy wave—but he quickly looks away. Does he
not
recognize me, then?

I feel Gemma nudge me in the ribs.

“You know Lord Sebastian Stanhope?”

“We were friends when I was little,” I say quietly. “And … he was my cousin’s boyfriend until she died.”

“I knew he was dating Lady Lucia,” Gemma says. “But I didn’t realize you two were acquainted. I’m sorry, I suppose I should have warned you he’d be playing today? I hope I haven’t made things uncomfortable.”

“No, of course not. We always got along so well when we were younger. I don’t see why it would be different now.”

Before Gemma can respond, the umpire’s whistle signals the beginning of the game. I watch, mesmerized, as Sebastian and his Thoroughbred fly back and forth across the vast field, sending the little white ball soaring into the Cambridge goalpost. Based on the boisterous cheers whenever Sebastian makes a play, it’s clear that he is the star. And suddenly, without warning, my mind flashes back to a summer afternoon when I was six.

My father is teaching Sebastian the game of polo on the Rockford Manor riding grounds while Lucia and I look on with interest. Dad rides a full-size horse, but the three of us sit atop ponies.

“Can’t you teach
us
now, Uncle Edmund?” Lucia whines. “Why are you spending so much time with Sebastian?”

Dad smiles at her but keeps his eyes on his young charge.

“You’ll have your turn, don’t worry. But your friend Sebastian shows great promise. I’ve never seen such aim and skill in someone so young.”

Sebastian beams, and I watch him with awe. I always felt Sebastian was special—and now my dad has just confirmed it.

The memory has been buried for so long that it catches me off guard as it surfaces, nearly bringing tears to my eyes as I watch Sebastian’s winning plays on the field all these years later. If only Dad had lived to see that his early lessons with Sebastian would be the start of a career.

At the end of the game’s first period, known as “chukka,” the spectators file out of the stands, congregating and mingling on the field.

“What are they doing?” I ask Gemma.

“It’s called divot stamping,” she explains. “It’s a polo tradition. Between each chukka, spectators are invited to hang out on the field, and their footsteps help replace the mounds of earth that the horses’ hooves tear up during the game.”

“Interesting. Should we join them?”

“The Duchess of Wickersham doesn’t participate in divot stamping,” Gemma says with a chuckle.

“Oh. Too bad.”

Just then, a knock sounds outside our box. Gemma hurries to the door, and when she returns, a cute guy about my age is with her. He is tall and lanky, with sandy brown hair and hazel eyes. An adorable dimple appears in his left cheek as he smiles at me.

“If it isn’t Her Grace, Imogen Rockford! I’m awfully glad to see you again.”

I stand up, my hand flying to my chest.
“Theo?”

“That’s right.” He holds out his hand but I ignore it, instead throwing my arms around him in a hug.

“Oh, my God, I didn’t recognize you! You’re so different and grown-up and you don’t—” I stop myself before I can finish my sentence. “You don’t have a nose full of snot anymore” probably isn’t the thing to say to a long-lost friend.

“You’re looking pretty tidy yourself,” Theo says, giving me a little wink. I don’t quite know what he means by “tidy”—my outfit is well ironed?—but I sense a compliment there.

“Thanks. So … your brother’s a polo star? I had no idea.”

“He’s the pride of Oxford. I won’t be surprised if he turns pro after uni. But tell me about you. I—I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” Theo admits.

I can tell just by looking at him that his thoughts have drifted to the dark place where mine so often reside—the garden where my parents died, the last summer we were all together. I look away.

“I know. I didn’t think I’d ever come back. But … well, things happen.” I shrug as if this is all no big deal, when in fact it’s overwhelming in its enormity.

Theo moves closer, resting his hand on my shoulder. I notice Gemma burying her face in a magazine, trying to give us a semblance of privacy in the tiny box.

“How are you getting on at Rockford? There must be so much to learn, or relearn, about the place.”

“Yeah, and about being a duchess. Everything is new and bizarre right now,” I confide in him. “But I’m learning and hoping I’ll fit into this role eventually.”

“Well, I’m here if you need any advice or anything,” Theo offers. “I know Rockford Manor pretty well, and growing up with Sebastian has taught me all the do’s and don’ts for English heirs.” He grins wryly.