The Duke Goes Down by Sophie Jordan

A shallow pond, 1831

Imogen was eight years old when Papa was chosen as the new vicar.

She recalled arriving to Shropshire and her first visit to Penning Hall, a requisite upon Papa’s appointment to the role. As it turned out, the old duke heartily enjoyed a theological discussion. She had no notion on that first day that it would become routine and the first of many miserable afternoons spent at the grand house.

Imogen sat in awe in the well-appointed drawing room with its sky-reaching ceiling and the myriad gilt-framed paintings—some landscapes, some portraits—covering every inch of wall space. She thought the place a palace.

Her legs swung in front of her, several inches above the carpet as she sat on the sofa in her best Sunday dress. Mama reached out and pressed a gloved hand over her knee in a clear attempt to settle her anxious movements.

The Duchess of Penning smiled, and it was a blast of dazzling brilliance. “Would you like to play outside with the children?” She gestured with an elegant hand. “My son and daughter are outdoors with the governess. They would be most happy to have your company.”

How naïve she was to have believed that. Imogen thrilled at the notion of other children. She was eager to make friends in her new home, and she imagined that this girl and boy, even if they did happen to live in a palace, would be her bosom friends.

She eagerly followed one of the maids out of the drawing room and outside to locate the young lord and young lady.

They found them on the back lawn beside a crystal-blue pond. The little lordling was a few years older than her eight years. Imogen recognized that at once and was awestruck to find herself in the presence of an older, obviously well-heeled lad.

He held a fishing pole and was bossing his younger sister on how to properly hold hers whilst their governess snored beneath a tree. The young Lady Thirza was a few years younger than Imogen, but seemed vastly more sophisticated in her fancy dress and perfectly arranged ringlets.

“Lord Peregrine! Lady Thirza!” the maid escorting Imogen called out.

Both children whipped their heads around at the sound of their names.

The maid motioned to her. “This is Miss Imogen, the new vicar’s daughter. Your mother bade you keep her occupied whilst the adults have their visit.”

Their gazes fastened on Imogen intently.

“Occupied?” The little lordling looked affronted as he uttered the word.

“Indeed.” The maid pushed Imogen toward the siblings. “Now play together.”

The maid turned then and left them even as the boy further complained, “We’re not playing. This is fishing. It’s manly business. I didn’t even want her here.” He pointed a damning finger at his sister.

Thirza stuck her tongue out at her brother and then turned a discerning eye—much too discerning for a six-year-old—on Imogen. She looked her up and down. “You’re ugly,” she offered. Not meanly, just in that very matter-of-fact way that belonged to children accustomed to galling honesty.

Imogen’s face burned. It was only mortifying because of the beautiful boy there to bear witness. He did not reprimand his sister or rush to Imogen’s defense and that was all the more crushing. Instead, he smirked as though amused by his sister’s insult.

Imogen mistakenly thought perhaps he would stick up for her. Foolishly so. She did not yet know the manner of boy he was. That was soon revealed, however, when she picked up a discarded fishing rod, presumably belonging to the snoring governess, and joined him beside the pond. For several moments they fished, their lines disappearing in the placid waters.

It was not long before she felt a pull on her line.

“I’ve got a fish!” she cried, grappling with her suddenly bowing rod. She reeled feverishly, hoping she didn’t lose her catch in the process.

It was as she was reeling in her fish, a grand writhing silvery thing, that she noticed she was the only one excited on the bank of the pond. The little lordling and his sister watched in grim silence.

Imogen triumphantly lifted her fish over the ground of the bank and held it up in the air, proud of her prize and eager to show it to them and have them look at her with respect.

“Girls don’t catch fish,” the young lord accused.

Imogen frowned, her elation ebbing. “But . . . I did.”

“Perry has never caught a fish that big,” his little sister volunteered, nodding in the direction of her brother. “I didn’t even know there were fish that big in there.” She leaned forward and peered into the pond as though she could see into its depths.

The young boy flushed bright red. “You’re stupid,” he snapped at his sister. “Of course there are big fish in there. I’ve caught them. Many many times.”

She commented by sticking out her tongue again. That must be a common reaction from her when it came to her brother.

“I am certain it was just beginner’s luck,” Imogen mumbled, and she wondered why she should even say that. She’d fished before when they summered in Brighton and often caught fish. She should not apologize because she had done something well. Where was her pride?

“I’m certain you are correct,” he countered. “Girls can’t fish.”

She lifted her fish higher, unable to feign meekness any longer. “Well, apparently I can.”

His nostrils flared. “Where did you say you moved here from?”

“Hereford.”

“As in the cow?” His nostrils slightly flared as though scenting something foul.

“Yes.” She nodded.

“Never heard of it,” he announced, and for some reason she felt a stinging rejection in those words and she knew—this boy did not want to be her friend. She was not of their ilk. How foolish she had been thinking these golden children would become her bosom friends.

Imogen’s eyes started to burn treacherously. She told herself that she would not surrender to tears in front of this vicious little girl and boorish lad.

She held out the fish in a gesture of goodwill toward the boy. “Would you like to keep it?”

His face reddened and he reeled back as though she had most grievously offended him. “I don’t want your stupid fish.”

He tossed his rod aside and stalked away.

“Now look what you’ve done,” Thirza accused, propping her tiny fists on her hips. “You’ve made him mad. He doesn’t want to fish anymore. Who will bait my hook for me now?”

Imogen shook her head, marveling how things had gotten so ugly. “My apologies. I did not mean to. I was only trying—”

Before she could finish, the little girl lunged toward her, hands stretched out. The flats of her palms made hard contact with Imogen’s chest, slamming into her.

Suddenly Imogen was propelled backwards, arms flailing like a windmill. It did no good. She plunged into the pond.

It wasn’t very deep, especially so close to the shoreline. She was able to stand.

Soaked and sputtering, her best Sunday dress plastered to her body, she scrambled to her feet and held her arms out at her sides.

Thirza laughed shrilly, her ink-dark curls bouncing. She bent over and held her stomach as though it made her belly ache.

The young lord stopped his retreat and turned back around. He watched Imogen with twitching lips. Unable to keep his mirth at bay, he burst out laughing, too.

The racket woke up the governess from her nap. She lumbered to her feet, wobbling for a moment until she gained her balance. Blinking herself awake, she smoothed her hands over her voluminous skirts. “What is happening here?” Her gaze lighted on Imogen. “Who are you?”

Imogen didn’t respond. She could not.

Speech was beyond her. The sting in her eyes was too much. The tears began to roll unchecked down her face. She cried. Her tears blended with the droplets of water covering her face, so her weeping wasn’t too noticeable. There was that at least.

“Who are you?” the governess demanded again, and Imogen shook her head, unable to speak the words burning through her.

No one.

She wasn’t anyone. Not anyone that mattered to this girl and boy.

It was her first lesson upon arriving in Shropshire, and one she never forgot.