It's been six years since my last visit. It's been six long years, but the white house in Knightsbridge is just as I remember it. It's still grand and palatial albeit a bit rundown now. The overgrown hedges in the front yard have unwittingly manifested the ominous foreboding inside me.

I used to visit my Great Aunt Vi at least once a year before my grandfather died. The last six years I spent with my grandmother's family in Savannah. My grandmother never liked to visit England, even when my grandfather was still with us. She was always hesitant to spend time with the other side of my family. Of course, I didn't have much of a say. My parents died before I could even remember them.

As I grew up, my grandmother would always tell me how much I looked like my mother. I have her same long dark hair and smooth black skin. Somehow, I inherited my father's light eyes and narrow nose. My grandmother would tell me I looked like a young Ella Fitzgerald and Grace Kelly combined. I didn't mind the comparison, but I much preferred hearing I resembled my mother.

After my grandmother died last month, I spent some time in Savannah to help put things in order. What I wanted more than anything was to escape Savannah -only, I wanted to escape on my own terms. Being as I am only 17, that wasn't entirely an option.

As it turns out, I have no other family left in the world besides my Great Aunt Vi -hence the hedges.

Viola isn't really my aunt, more of a second cousin once removed or something. Any blood connection we share is quite diluted. My great-grandfather left England almost a century ago and ended up settling in Georgia, where he married my great-grandmother. Most of his family remained across the pond. Viola was his brother's only daughter and that's how she ended up with the estate in Knightsbridge.

And that's how I ended up here now.

"Miss? Miss?"

My mind snaps back to the stagnant summer heat and perfumed air.

"Here you are, Miss Emmerson."

Mr. Hobbs, the cab driver, unloads my two suitcases onto the cobbled drive next to the fountain. I look at them, my heart swelling with sadness, and it hits me that my entire life is tucked neatly inside these two Dooney bags. The realization is crippling.

"Thanks," I murmur, fumbling over the money in my hand I need to pay Mr. Hobbs for the ride.

"Good day." Mr. Hobbs dips his hat and disappears inside the car.

I wonder why people in America don't wear hats anymore.

The black town car pulls out of the drive and I'm left alone with the sounds of crunching gravel and trickling water.

I heave my bags from the ground and turn.

My eyes fall over the once ornate fountain that rests in the center of the estate's front courtyard. It always was an ostentatious thing. It doesn't mean I don't have fond childhood memories of splashing in the water with Kit, the groundskeeper's boy.

I hope Kit got out.

Don't get me wrong.

It's not that the Emmerson Estate in Knightsbridge is terrible. It's that it's not. In fact, in another life, with all its demanding grandeur and sprawling manicured lawns, I am almost positive it would be everything I ever wanted. All sentimental feelings aside, as I stand here now, my eyes raking over the bleached edifice, I feel extraordinarily like my grandmother.

An outsider.

...

"Is that alright, dear?"

My Aunt Vi smooths her hands over her silk dress. Its pattern almost blends into the wallpaper that lines the hallway outside my room. My eyes blink out of focus.

What heinous wallpaper.

"Dear? I do hope everything is in order. I had them prepare it just this morning." Aunt Vi waits, her hand on her hip. "Bette?"

My name snaps me back into the moment. I shake my mind clear and nod. "Yes, everything is in perfect order."

"Good, good," Aunt Vi says, oblivious to my mocking her. She stands in the doorframe of my second floor bedroom. "And don't forget, tea in an hour. I've had Rosie set the garden. It's a beautiful day out and you look a bit peaky."

Peaky is her polite way of telling me the 12 hours of air travel, two connecting flights, and subsequent hour cab drive took a toll on my appearance.

"Okay, Aunt Vi. Garden. One hour." I nod, smiling.

I examine her blonding hair (almost white now) and notice scores of new wrinkles on her face. She must be as old as the coral lipstick staining her teeth. I never really thought about it when I used to visit, but now I wonder how old she is. Considering she was my grandfather's cousin, I reckon she must be nearing 80 if she hasn't crossed that bridge already.

"Wash-up now, maybe a short nap. I'll have Rosie set an alarm." I hear the multi-layer concern in her voice.

Will I sleep through tea? Will I show up too dirty? Will I appear fatigued?

"OK." I nod.

She spins in my doorway and retreats down the stairs. I listen to her footsteps dissipate into nothingness. At last there's nothing but the wallpaper outside my bedroom door.

I sit on the edge of my bed and run my nails over the plush duvet.

It's been three hours since my arrival at Emmerson -three never-ending hours.

I sigh, overly dramatic, and pull my phone from my backpack.

The bright screen shows me I have zero messages, missed calls, or any other notifications for me to not care about. I admit, I've never been the biggest fan of cell phones. Mainly, I carry it out of force of habit -so I am not completely disowned by my generation. I didn't ask to be a Gen Z-er.

I never really felt like I belonged -even at home in Savannah. There's just something that didn't feel right to me there. I never felt truly at peace there.

A light breeze ruffles my curtains; it carries the same perfumed air I smelled outside. I walk to the open window and gaze down.

My bedroom sits on the east side of the mansion. Its window and small terrace overlook the wild garden; I have a perfect view of the tabby statues that guard either side of the courtyard's entrance.

Kit and I once named these two stone cherubs, but I've long since forgotten them now. It was a lifetime ago.

My eyes scan the disheveled garden until at last I spot tea and, as I suspected, five of Aunt Vi's high society ladies gathered around the mosaic table.

I rummage in my suitcase until my fingers feel the cool fabric folds of my satin blouse. I pull it over my head and twist my coarse hair into a knot at the nape of my neck.

The mirror on the back of my bathroom door shows me a young, 17-year-old Ella Grace.

This cannot be my life. I was supposed to escape and explore and adventure on my own. I was not supposed to end up at Emmerson. It's my last name for God's sake, not a house!

Aunt Vi can have her tea today, but I will not be endlessly paraded around like the token long-lost great-granddaughter of Emmerson Estate.

The girl in the mirror exudes the resilience I feel.

It's just tea.

Could be worse.

But could it?