Princess and the Peerage

It’s intimidating, to say the least. The tall stone manor looks straight out of my mom’s favorite movie, Elizabeth, and is honestly probably from that era.

Its perfectly manicured landscaping is full of flowers that seem to somehow all be in bloom at once. I’m surrounded by pinks, purples, and white, speckling the greenery with an extra pop of happiness. I can hear the buzz of bees as they hop from bloom to bloom. And who can blame them? I can smell the flowers in the air from at least twenty feet away. I can’t even imagine how delightful the aroma must be up close. I’m tempted to find out for myself.

The crystal blue sky is peppered with fluffy white clouds seemingly cut and pasted from a magazine photograph. The gray stone structure stands strong, with at least four stories and more than fifty windows gracing its facade. There are woods to the west, tall trunks reaching their wide, leafy branches toward the sky, the light penetrating only the first few layers of flora, mysteries held deeper within. To the east, a bell tower stands, a large clock face perched atop an opening that shows a massive, bronze bell.

Just looking at it makes me feel as though the pressure of history has suddenly been placed upon my shoulders.

Looking around at the reality of something I’ve only seen in pamphlets, I can’t help but realize the difference between imagining what something will be like versus standing in front of it, fantasy made fact.

I’m overwhelmed. I was nervous from the moment I got on the plane, before that really if I’m being honest with myself. I’m not entirely sure I belong here. Faced with the truth of this place, it doesn’t feel like it.

I drag my final bag out of the trunk of the black British taxi that seemed to be pulled straight from a movie and wince as the strap of my messenger bag pinches and tugs at my trapped auburn hair. I quickly drop it on top of my other suitcases, five in all, all my possessions that I can’t bear to get rid of.

As the taxi drives away I look around, turning my back to the school, searching for someone, anyone, who can help me out. Where the hell am I supposed to go? And how am I supposed to carry all five bags up god only knows how many stairs?

“Diana?”

I jump and turn around to find a matronly woman standing before me, as though she appeared from thin air, her clothing crisp and freshly pressed, her manner aloof.

“That’s me,” I say, squirming in my own wrinkled clothes. When I left home I dressed for comfort since the train, flight, and drive were going to take almost sixteen hours combined. I can feel the dried sweat coating my skin in a thin veneer, my greasy hair plastered to my scalp, my pores screaming to be scrubbed.

I smell like an airplane. I look like a ragamuffin. I wonder if I would fit in better if I looked more like a Dickensian one. Instead, I’ve walked into a Jane Austen novel wearing sweat-stained athleisure.

Not a splendid way to spend my mom’s birthday. Not that it’s a great day to begin with.

“Wonderful!” she continues. “Follow me, please!”

And without a further word, no offer of help with my mountain of luggage, she takes off toward the front doors at a decent clip, clearly expecting me to follow.

“Um… my bags are-”

“Leave them. A groundskeeper will take them to your room.”

“Grounds-” and before I can finish the question, a middle-aged man in coveralls walks up, tucking gardening gloves into his back pocket before reaching for the handle of my largest suitcase. Everyone around here moves silently until they’re directly in front of me.

“Move along!” she calls, and as I jog to catch up to her, I realize she never told me her name. I don’t even know what she does here.

“Excuse me, what’s-” she doesn’t wait for me to finish before she spins around to look at me, standing just inside the doors.

“Unfortunately, I don’t have time for questions. There’s been an emergency and I’m needed elsewhere this afternoon. Thus, I am unavailable to give you your tour today.”

“That’s fine,” I say tentatively, glancing around at what I can see of the interior. “I’m sure I can figure it out.”

“The sheer size of the building renders that impossible,” she continues. “As such, I requested that one of our most prominent students show you around, and thankfully one young man was amenable to the idea.”

She starts to turn back around, but before she does, I have to know.

“Sorry if this is rude,” I say confidently but with an affected air of bashfulness, “but who are you? You never introduced yourself.”

“Oh! That is my fault entirely,” she says, her face finally falling into an expression that seems more personable and less businesslike. “My name is Ms. Tennet. I’m your Housemistress. So if you have any problems, particularly with rooming or with other students, I’m your first point of contact. Just not today, because-”

“Emergency,” I finish for her. “I understand. It’s no problem.”

“As I said, I found the perfect student to give your tour. Follow me so I can introduce you.”

I follow her into the foyer and look around wide-eyed at the incredible room. The architectural style is probably older than my country, the tapestries potentially the same. And such tapestries they are. Scenes of fancy people in ancient fashions, standing about in nature, the threads woven so carefully, so precisely, that even hundreds of years later their subjects are plain. One to the left is my initial favorite, seeing as the well-bred young lady depicted seems to be cavorting with and perhaps mere moments away from kissing a unicorn.

Straight ahead is a grand, oak staircase that opens at the top to both sides, not reaching to the high, vaulted ceilings that give the space a sense of symmetry, geometry. Sun shines brilliantly through the large windows, lighting a coat of arms: silver with an azure eagle at the center, a green border at the edge, filled with small musical notes. I wonder whose coat of arms it is.

Wait. Duh. The Duncastle coat of arms. It makes sense to have it here, at Duncastle Academy. According to all the materials, this place used to be their summer home.

The tiles beneath my feet are alternating dark and cream-colored and off-white, intricately patterned in the opposite shade to their background hue, creating a beautifully subtle yet sophisticatedly artistic floor. I feel like I’m on a movie set. I stare around at everything, unable to lock onto any one thing as the most amazing. I have no context for any of these things, for the history that must have taken place in this building.

I can’t believe this place is real.

I can’t believe this is the place I’ll be spending my final year in high school. I find myself tensing up, wondering if I’ll ever fit in here, if I’ll do well at all. Will I be able to stay the top of the class? Will I make friends? Will I be able to catapult myself from here to my ultimate dream: Oxford?

Only time will tell, I guess. No use worrying about it.

Although no worry was ever alleviated by that thought alone.

“This is William,” Ms. Tennet says, a warmth in her voice that I haven’t heard yet.

I turn back toward them, my attention pulled from my surroundings.

In front of me is an obnoxiously overconfident prep school dreamboat, the kind of guy my friends back home probably pictured when they heard I was going to boarding school in England and imagined themselves in my place. The kind of guy I loathed.

His cocksure grin is unfortunately effective, my gaze immediately drawn to it and trapped there. His dark blonde hair falls in front of his face in what looked like a haphazard, accidental way, but judging by the amount of product I can see glazing his locks, is very much on purpose. Despite being perfectly pressed, his school uniform makes him look nerdier than would otherwise be possible for a guy like him. Still, his startlingly blue eyes shine through, and I can feel them assessing me as he looks me up and down. I glare at him, and when his eyes reach mine, he at least has the good grace to look away.

I have no idea why, but I immediately know one thing about him for sure.

He’s going to be a problem.