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  “You’ll come for dinner, then?” Mrs. Worthing asked, her voice full of hope.

  “Only if you promise to dine with me once I’m settled into my own home,” I said.

  “You won’t live with the Beckinghams?” Mrs. Worthing asked. “I assumed you would want to live with family for the time being.”

  I shrugged. “I suppose only time will tell. Perhaps I will decide I enjoy the Beckinghams and test their good faith.”

  Mrs. Worthing pulled me in for another hug and pressed her lips against my hair. “I have cherished our time together these last few weeks. It would take someone of very little good faith to tire of you.”

  “A car has arrived,” Mr. Worthing said, breaking up the emotional hug to point to the curb just in front of the office. I turned towards the window and away from Mrs. Worthing just in the nick of time. I was moments away from shedding very real tears. I had so few people in the world who cared about me. It made me happy to think I could add the Worthings to that list. Of course, they believed me to be Rose Beckingham, daughter of a deceased British government official in India, but that seemed like an unnecessary detail.

  “Oh, this is all happening so quickly,” Mrs. Worthing said, wringing her hands. “Do you have everything you need, Rose?”

  I looked down at my small steamer trunk. It was the only thing I’d taken with me when we left India. After the attack that killed the true Rose Beckingham and her parents, it had been too dangerous for me to go back to the house where they had lived for so many years, for fear of another attack. I’d bought what I needed before leaving India with the promise that I would receive my inheritance from my family back in London and have plenty of money to replace whatever possessions I wished.

  “I believe so,” I said.

  Mrs. Worthing nodded her head and glanced around the small room, double-checking that was true. Then, she stood in front of me and placed her hands on my shoulders. “You are a brave young woman, Rose Beckingham. I can’t begin to imagine the horrors you’ve experienced these last few weeks. I only hope your future is much brighter than your recent past.”

  Once again, tears welled behind my eyes and I swallowed them back, my throat thick. “Thank you, Mrs. Worthing.”

  Mr. Worthing patted my back quickly, and I glanced up at him to see a slight mist in his eyes, though he was clearly trying to ignore it. “Well. Enough with the goodbyes. We will see one another again. We need to get you to the car before the driver leaves you behind.”

  He took my trunk and pushed on my lower back, leading me towards the door. Suddenly, a nervous ball of energy grew in my chest. The next phase of my plan was beginning, and I wasn’t as confident as I’d been at the start. Fooling the Worthings into believing I was Rose Beckingham had been easy. They hadn’t known Rose and had only seen her in old photographs. Rose’s relations, however, would have a much better memory of her features and habits. They had shared a family history with Rose that I was not a part of. Would I be able to fake my way through old memories and familial anecdotes?

  As we stepped onto the sidewalk, a chauffeur slid from the driver’s seat and moved to meet us at the front of the car, his hands behind his back. He wore a dark gray jacket with two rows of buttons cutting vertically down the front, paired with matching pants, and a high pair of black boots. He had a gray cap pushed back on his head, framing his tanned cheekbones and wavy auburn hair.

  “Miss Rose?” he asked, already bending his upper body in a low bow without awaiting confirmation. “I’m sorry to be late. I had a bit of trouble finding where I was meant to park.”

  The man seemed full of nervous energy. His hands folded and unfolded behind his back and his eyes darted from me to the Worthings continuously, as if unable to rest on any one face for too long. I wondered whether his anxiety came from fear of disappointing me or his employers. I hoped it was the former. I wanted the Beckinghams to be abundantly kind people. The sort of people who would be much too afraid of offending anyone to ask whether they were actually who they said they were.

  “That is perfectly all right. We only just got here, anyway,” I said. “I, too, had a hard time finding where I was supposed to meet you.”

  The chauffeur smiled his appreciation and reached for my trunk, which Mr. Worthing handed over readily. As he loaded my luggage in the back of the car, Mrs. Worthing looped her arm through mine and walked with me to the curb.

  “I am sorry for the circumstances under which we met, but I am glad we got to know one another, Rose,” Mrs. Worthing said, placing her gloved hand on my forearm and squeezing.

  “As am I,” I said, squeezing her hand in return.

  She beamed up at me and then pulled away as the chauffeur moved to open the passenger side door. But before he could, I saw a red smear on the silver handle. I recognized the rust color immediately.

  Suddenly, I found myself beneath the familiarly warm sun of India, a cloud of dust enveloping me as I looked around, trying to understand why my ears were ringing, why my eyes burned. The people who had only moments before filled the street around our car, making the journey through Simla a slow one, had disappeared. The laughter and conversation I’d been ignoring in favor of my own thoughts had silenced. I turned my head, a simple movement that made me feel as though I were swimming through quicksand. Rose had been sitting beside me, but when I was finally able to focus on the spot where she’d been, I realized her seat was empty. My friend had disappeared to be replaced by a puddle of blood on the leather seat. The red liquid dripped from the upholstery onto the floor in thick rivulets. I leaned forward to make sense of it, not yet recognizing the horror before me. As I did, I noticed a hand in the backseat. Her hand. The long, delicate fingers of my friend, disconnected from her body.

  I shook my head, trying to separate myself from the horror. I took deep breaths of the cool, London air and tried to focus on the movement around me. On the normalcy of everyday life continuing on despite my flashback.

  “Are you feeling all right, Miss?”

  The chauffeur’s nerves had clearly been replaced by concern. His eyebrows were pulled together as he stooped down to peer into my face.

  I blinked several times slowly. I wanted to respond, but everything felt far away, even my own thoughts. I turned to find the Worthings, but they were no longer behind me. They were halfway down the street, walking arm in arm.

  “Miss?”

  I looked back at the door handle, but the blood from moments before was gone. The Chauffeur pulled the door open further and used a bare hand to direct me inside.

  “Are you ready?” he asked.

  My face reddened with embarrassment. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry.”

  I stepped into the car and let the chauffeur shut the door behind me. As he walked around the back of the car and hopped into the driver’s seat, I took deep, calming breaths.

  I couldn’t allow myself to fall into my memories in that way. I needed to keep up appearances, which included not letting everyone around me think I was mad.

  The blood had been in my imagination. Being back in a large city and climbing into a car had simply pushed my memories to the surface, jumbling them with the present. If there had been blood visible on the door, the Worthings would have seen it. The chauffeur would have seen it. Someone would have mentioned the oddity. But no one had, which meant I must have imagined it. That was the only logical explanation.

  “All set, Miss?” the chauffeur asked over his shoulder as he put the car into gear.

  The next time I got out of the car, I would be meeting Rose’s relatives. My relatives. The people who could destroy the disguise I’d kept up this long. The people who could make everything I’d done up to this point useless. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and reminded myself of my ultimate goal. If I failed and the Beckinghams barred me from their home and Rose’s inheritance, I wouldn’t be the only person in dire straits.

  My hand reached for the locket that was no longer around my neck, and when I foun
d nothing there, my fingers instead brushed along my collar bone. I thought of the small scrap of paper I’d carried inside the locket for so long. Two words, scribbled in haste and faded with time: help me.

  I leaned forward, placing my hand on the back of the front seat and smiled. “Yes, I’m ready.”

  I only hoped the words were true. I hoped I was ready. Then, I whispered to the young boy who had written that message. “Only a little longer now.”

  3

  As we drove through the city, every second coming closer and closer to the moment I would meet Rose’s surviving relations, I began to panic. It wasn’t an easy fear to swallow, the kind I could bite back and hide behind a smile. No, it began in my chest and spread to my limbs. The hairs on my arms stood up, my fingers shook with every movement, my foot bounced and danced erratically no matter how I crossed my legs and tried to pin it down. My brain raced through a series of different, yet horrible scenes in which the Beckinghams discovered my deception and had me arrested or attacked me. Each imagining more gruesome than the last.

  On the ship, as I continued to fool the Worthings and everyone else on board with my British accent, I had become cocky. Until, of course, Dr. Rushforth had discovered me. In the moments before I accused him of murder and he killed himself, he told me that my false accent had slipped. He’d noticed it right away, and knew I was not the heiress I claimed to be. What if I slipped again?

  More than that, Rose had lived in London for years. She would be closely familiar with the sights and sounds, the food and customs. Whereas, I had grown up in New York and India, neither of which had much in common with England. And the only people I’d been in contact with who had any familiarity with Rose had been the Worthings, who knew her only from old photographs. What would her family members think? Her aunt and uncle would certainly be more familiar with the delicate shape of Rose’s face, the plumpness of her lips, the intricate number of ways in which she was more prim than I could ever hope to be.

  During the time I’d spent in India as Rose’s servant and close friend, I’d learned to mimic her accent as well as I would ever be able to manage. I’d become familiar with her distant relatives during late night conversations under the covers and while on afternoon strolls. I’d read the letters her aunt and uncle sent. I knew about her cousins, Edward, Catherine, and Alice. But would that cursory information be enough?

  I’d received one letter after the explosion that killed Rose and her parents. Rose’s uncle, Lord Ashton, sent for her—for me. He said the family would love to see her again, that she did not need to worry for a second about finances because her inheritance awaited. By that point, I had already been mistaken for Rose by the doctors and the Worthings, and I’d gone along with the falsehood, too confused and scared to disagree. But it wasn’t until I’d opened the letter that I had committed to the idea. That I had decided my true self, Nellie Dennet, died in the crash, and Rose had lived.

  “Is it nice to be back in the city?” the chauffeur asked, drawing me from my thoughts.

  I looked out the window, at the gray buildings and pale people and houses flashing past. “Yes,” I said, nodding my head even though the driver could not see me. “It’s wonderful to be back.”

  “I’m sure a lot has changed since you were last here,” he said.

  That was true. A lot had changed. England had gone to war and won. Families were torn apart, buildings were destroyed, the economy suffered. The London I was seeing through my window looked very different from the one Rose had last known. Anyone would understand if I couldn’t remember specific buildings or houses. If I forgot the names of some of my old friends. No one would blame me, especially after the devastating loss of both of my parents. After the trauma of surviving the explosion that had destroyed my family. No one would be bold enough to challenge my memory when my mind had been so irrevocably altered by the attack. Besides, Rose hadn’t seen London in ten years, meaning no one in London had seen Rose since she was thirteen. Ten years was a considerable amount of time, especially when one was changing from a girl into a woman. Rose’s delicate face could have filled in as she matured. Her narrow shoulders could have broadened to look less like her mother’s and more like her father’s. And the accident. The shrapnel had scarred my cheek and dented the bone. No one would comment on the differences of my face from that of the Rose they had known as a girl, not when I wore the wound of the accident so openly. It wouldn’t be proper to remind me of the horror of that day.

  I scooted closer to the window, practically pressing my face up against the glass. Finally allowing myself to gawk at the city. To take London in with wide, curious eyes. “Yes, it’s quite different. I almost do not recognize it,” I said with a smile.

  The chauffeur turned onto a wide road with large brick houses lining either side. Huge trees with gray trunks and moss green leaves stretched across the sky, forming a canopy that shaded the entire block.

  “Miss Rose, the Beckinghams live just there,” the chauffeur said, pointing several houses ahead of us, towards a white stone house that sat in the middle of the street.

  I didn’t acknowledge the comment, since it was information I was already supposed to know. But I did lean out my window to get a better look.

  The line of trees blocked my view of the house, so the first thing I saw was the gate—wrought iron and covered in a flowering ivy that wound around the bars and stretched up one corner of the house. Finally, the car stopped in front of the house, and I saw it in all its glory.

  Rose had told me her aunt and uncle, the London Beckinghams, were also the Lord and Lady of Ashton. The house certainly spoke to the grandness of their position. An arched iron gate opened to a brick path that led to the front steps. The stairs came outward in a half-circle and were framed on either side by twin pillars that stretched up the front of the three-story house. Three large windows were set into every floor, pointed pediments topping each one. The structure looked cold and commanding, but the garden in front gave it some warmth. Flowers and shrubs were planted in rows that lined the house on either side of the porch.

  “The whole house is for the Beckingham family?” I asked.

  The chauffeur had parked the car and come around to open my door. He looked at me with a question in his eyes for only a minute before turning his face to a neutral mask. “Yes, Miss Rose. The servants live in the attics, but otherwise the house is just for the family.”

  I nodded, trying to hide my embarrassment at having asked such a silly question. It was something Rose would have already known. I couldn’t allow my curiosity to betray me.

  Before I could spend too long dwelling on my slipup, the wooden front door opened and one by one, the Beckinghams poured from the house and down the front walkway.

  “Rose, dear,” the woman I presumed to be Lady Ashton said. She had long dark hair that had been pulled into a tight, intricate knot at the base of her head. She wore a cream gown that covered her from collarbone to ankles with a black ribbon tied around the tiny circumference of her waist. A bucket hat shaded her eyes from the gray daylight. “I hope you had a pleasant journey?”

  The chauffeur moved past me, carrying my luggage to the front door, and I felt the weight of the moment hit me. The family was pouring outside where they would get a good look at me for the first time. If I messed up now, upon first meeting them, it could be the end of everything. I swallowed down the panic that threatened to burst out of me and stretched my dry lips into a smile.

  “Yes, Aunt Eleanor. I had a very pleasant journey,” I said, speaking slowly so my accent was sure not to falter. I also decided not to mention the murder aboard the ship or the confrontation I’d had with the killer. I would wait until later to share that story, if ever. Being involved in a murder investigation wasn’t a normal hobby for an heiress, so it was best left unsaid.

  Behind Eleanor Beckingham was a blond girl with a short bob hairstyle who appeared to be around my age. She wore a lacy blue dress that was loose around her waist,
making her skin look luminous, with white t-strap heels. I recognized her immediately as Catherine Beckingham, the older of the Beckingham’s two daughters. Rose had a photograph of the family on her wall, and though Catherine had been much younger in the photo, she seemed remarkably similar, if more womanly. Her younger sister, Alice, stood behind her. She had brown hair pulled back into a braid and freckles that dotted her nose and cheeks, making her appear younger than she actually was. She smiled and looked at me admiringly.

  “Glad you arrived safely.” Lord Ashton placed a hand on his wife’s shoulder and offered up what I was sure he meant to be a smile, but what actually looked like little more than a grimace. He had blond hair the same shade as Rose’s had been, and he wore a black suit that stretched across his wide shoulders. James Beckingham was a commanding man with an imposing voice and an even more imposing position. I imagined him confronting me about impersonating his niece, and the thought alone was enough to make my knees quake. I pushed the notion from my mind and smiled at him.

  “Thank you, Uncle.”

  I wanted to say more, but my tongue felt dumb and heavy. It was as though every word could be a stumbling block, a sign that pointed to my deception.

  Lady Ashton stepped forward and enveloped me in a motherly hug. She smelled like spices and warmth and I breathed her in. “We are, of course, so sorry for the loss of your parents. As you know, we loved them dearly and we cannot begin to imagine the pain you are feeling.”

  She spoke for the whole family that way, expressing her condolences as though they had all agreed how they felt beforehand and she was simply the mouthpiece. As she spoke, though, Catherine looked bored. She stared at the houses across the street as if willing them to burst into flames. Lord Ashton nodded along with his wife, but his facial expression remained distant and hard. Alice was the only family member, aside from Lady Ashton, who looked genuinely sorry. Her large brown eyes glazed over with tears as she looked up at me, her lips pulled down in a frown.