Prada and Prejudice (3 page)

I close my eyes as I knock.
You will help me. You will help me. You will help me.

Chapter 4

The door of the mansion swings open before I can even drop my fist, like someone has been standing on the other side the entire time. The elderly man staring back at me is thin and frail, with a sneer and a hard glare that makes me want to step back. My stomach twists. He doesn't look very friendly. He's dressed in a really old fashioned way, wearing a starched white shirt and black jacket, and get this
--
he's wearing a powdered wig like George Washington or something. He looks down at my dirty jeans and T-shirt, and then moves to shut the door in my face.

"Wait!" I say, and stick my foot into the entry. The door bounces off my aching toes and sends a wave of pain up my leg. Yes, my shoes are most definitely trashed now. "Please, I, uh, I n-need your help," I stutter. Is it crazy to even
want
help from a guy wearing a powdered wig? "I'm lost and
--
"

"Rebecca?" a girl's voice calls, in one of those pure, melodic British accents.

I crane my neck around the still half-closed door, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever the girl is, hut she barrels at me so quickly I barely get a glimpse of her brown hair and beautiful pale skin before she's throwing her arms around me.

"It is you!" she squeals. "I knew it must be by your American accent! We hadn't expected you for a month yet! I've only just received your last letter stating that you were soon to purchase your tickets for the sea voyage." She envelops me in a hug so tight I can't breathe. I squish against her, and I can tell she's wearing a corset underneath her old fashioned dress, because the ribbing pokes me through my T-shirt. I think she's close to my age, probably less than eighteen, but with the clothes she seems older.

The lanterns, the old-fashioned clothes, the carriage
...
the size of those trees
...
and the way the stars look . ..

No, that's crazy. England just looks a lot different from America, that's all. England probably has better environmental regulations.

I realize I'm staring at the girl when she laughs awkwardly. "It's me, Emily! It's truly been along time, has it not? I believe we were seven when we last saw each other! Oh, how I missed my best friend!"

"Oh, no, I'm not
--
" And then I stop myself. I need help, right? Would it be totally wrong for me to let her think I'm this Rebecca girl? Just for an hour or so. What's the harm?

"I'm happy to be here," I finish. Guilt fills me, but I have no choice. If someone doesn't help me soon, I'm going to be spending the night in the woods, alone and scared.

"Come in from the cold! Oh, I'm so pleased that you've arrived! My visit at Harksbury has been quite dull, you see. I've been here just three weeks and am weary of the monotony. Where are your things?" She talks with her hands a lot, throwing them all over in her enthusiasm.

"Huh?" I see that she's looking behind me, and I turn around to see an empty stoop.

Oh, right. If I had come straight from America, I'd have luggage. "They, er, washed overboard in a storm. I lost everything."

"Such a pity! Well, no matter, we appear to be the same size. Are you wearing men's clothing? How embarrassed you must be!"

I blush, even though I'm not sure why. She's wearing a lavender dress with ruffles, and
I'm
the one who should be embarrassed? Who is this girl? And why is she dressed like that? British people are really odd. I bet this is one of those really formal, old-fashioned families. Maybe aristocrats or something.

"Can I use your telephone?" I blurt out. If I can get a hold of Mrs. Bentley, all this will be over soon. I'll be back in my room, taking a shower and putting on my warm fuzzy slippers.

The girl stops and tips her head to the side as she looks at me, like a dog would when it is trying to hear you better. Her brown curls bounce around like a shampoo commercial.

"A what?"

"Telephone." I try to keep my voice from sounding as desperate as I feel.

She scrunches her cute little nose. "I don't think so."

Tears spring to my eyes, but I blink them back. She probably has some fancy iPhone she doesn't want me to use. She probably thinks I'd steal it.

"How about, uh, a ride into town?" I say. "For, uh, clothes. Since I lost all mine." The lump in my throat grows until the last few words come out as a mere squeak.

"Town? At this hour? We'll go together first thing in the morning. I've a mind to buy some new ribbon. Until then you shall rest! His Grace has already retired for the evening, and I was only just on my way to my quarters myself, when I heard your voice. Let us get you settled and we shall go to town together in the morn."

"But
--
it's important. Please. It will be a quick trip." I hate myself, but my lip actually trembles like a little kid, until I bite it so hard I can taste blood.

The girl looks confused. She stares at me with a furrowed brow, and I don't like it; I get the feeling she knows something's up, that I'm not really Rebecca. If she realizes I'm a fraud, I'll be back on the road, walking
--
and trying to figure out what this girl, and her weird act, is all about. "I couldn't possibly send for the carriage at this hour without His Grace's permission. He may be my cousin, but I wouldn't dare wake him. You'll have to wait for the morn."

I don't even care that she said carriage and not car. I swallow, biting back the urge to beg and plead, and instead nod. I'm going to miss the whole thing tonight. I was really going to get the guts to go to that club.

What's worse is I know by the time I get back to the hotel tomorrow, Mrs. Bentley will probably have an entire search and rescue team looking for me, but it's not like I have other options.

"Okay, it can wait until tomorrow," I say. "I'm, uh, happy to be here."

She smiles and grabs my hand and drags me into the entry, and all I can think is
ow,ow, ow
with each step, until I'm inside and my mind goes completely blank, I'm so mesmerized. The foyer is huge, with thirty-foot arched ceilings and a grand staircase so big it could fit a hundred people. On the wall behind the steps is a mural at least twenty feet across, some kind of woodsy scene with leaping horses. The steps split on a landing halfway up, and then turn in opposite directions, toward separate wings.

This place is like a museum. Except bigger and fancier. The expansive floor is marble or granite or something, with an inlaid pattern that leads in all different directions, down long hallways and up to impressive oak doors. There's elegant oak molding and carved wood details all over the walls and ceilings, and huge portraits in gold frames hanging so far up the walls it would take a twenty-foot ladder to hang them. The toe of my Prada heel is resting on a colorful patterned rug, complete with tassels at two ends.

These people have money. With a capital M. More than necessary. I bet they have a private jet somewhere out back and their own airstrip.

"Come. Follow me."

I half expect her voice to echo in the cavernous space, but it doesn't. I follow her toward the stairs, but as I climb the first step, my heel catches and I go down, landing hard on my knees.

That's all it takes. I burst into tears in a heap on the second step. This is too much. I don't understand any of this and I don't want to. I just want it to he over. I want to he home and comfortable and happy, and I'm so far away I don't even know where I am. Why did this happen to me? What did I do to deserve this?

I was miserable this morning, and it's even worse now. What else could go wrong?

"Rebecca?" The girl scuffles back down the steps and when she touches my shoulder, I flinch away.

I don't know how long it takes for me to compose myself, reeling back in the tears and wiping my nose on the shoulder of my T-shirt, but when I look up she's still standing there. "I'm, um, I'm sorry. It's just been a long
...
journey."

She nods as if she understands, and I run my fingers under my eyes and try to sniffle away the snot that is probably hanging out of my nose.

I don't say anything as I follow her up the rest of the stairs. Emily shows me down a hall that stretches on forever, door after door, until I can't even see the front entry at all anymore. The house is dark and eerie, candlelight flickering as we pass, making our shadows dance.

She opens a door for me and points inside, mumbles something about a maid, then leaves.

I walk in, shove the door shut behind me, and walk over to my bed. I throw myself down on top of the covers, bury my face in a lumpy pillow, and cry.

Chapter 5

There's someone in my room. I know it before I see her, because she's making a grunting noise, and there's some kind of scraping sound. I spring upright in bed, the blanket pulled up to my chin.

And that's when I remember. Last night... walking through the woods
...
all these people pretending they live in the past. My chest gets hollow and achy, I'm so homesick. I bite down on my lip, hard, to keep the tears at bay.

I was supposed to wake up at the hotel. I was supposed to laugh at that funny dream I had. Or even wake up in the hospital after hitting my head so hard. It wasn't supposed to be real.

I wasn't supposed to wake up here.

But I did. I'm in the same bedroom. It's bigger than my living room back home, with a four-poster bed that probably wouldn't even
fit
in my own bedroom. The walls are painted a sunny yellow, which I hadn't noticed last night in the dim light of the candles. There's a fire in my room; when was that lit? Its flames are dancing below an ornate mantle painted in white with gold accents.

These people are really into their gold accents. There are carvings around every door and window, painted to match the mantle. There's not a single plain surface anywhere
--
every golden-yellow wall has paintings or elaborate molding or decorative tapestries covering half of it. Even the curtains, which are slung carelessly open, are a rich and vibrant gold. The ceilings are high, probably fifteen feet or higher.

I don't know what this place is, but it's huge and fancy and
expensive.
It's like a bed-and-breakfast for rich aristocrats or something.

It's a servant who woke me up. I can tell by the look of her. She is in a plain black dress, with her mousy hair pulled back in a low bun. She's pretty, even without any makeup, with a fresh face that belongs in a Noxzema commercial. When she smiles at me, it somehow quells the panic that is steadily rising in my stomach.

The girl is dragging a trunk. She stops by the big armoire and flings it open. "I've four dresses fer ye te choose from," she says. She has a funny accent. It's British, but it's not all prim and proper-sounding like Emily's. "We must hurry or yell be late. The duke'll be joining the ladies fer breakfast on yer account."

I shoot out of bed like a rocket, the panic back in full force. "
Duke?
What does that mean?"

She looks at me like I've grown a second head. '"m sorry?"

"
Who
is a duke?"

"His Grace, o'course."

I just stare at her, my heart quickening to a thunderous roar. "A guy named Grace is a duke?"

She snorts, and then covers her mouth like the reaction was inappropriate. '"Is name is not Grace. 'E's Lord Alexander Thorton-Hawke. The Duke of Harksbury."

"So why did you just call him Grace?"

She lifts an eyebrow at me. "I forget ye'r American. The appropriate way te address 'im
--
and any other duke
--
is
Your Grace."

"Oh."

I sit down on the edge of the bed. My legs are too shaky to hold me up. So I've landed myself in the house of a duke.

Now
I get why the house is so fancy. But what does that mean? Is he royalty? He's probably going to hate me.

Oh God. What if he knows Rebecca (aka, the girl I am
not)
better than Emily? What if he knows I'm not her? Dukes have power, right? What if he has me arrested or throws me in a dungeon or something? This place is huge. Like a castle. They probably
have
a dungeon. No one will ever find me. Not in a foreign country in the middle of nowhere.

I start breathing heavily, my breath coming out in rasps. I need air.

"Are ye okay?"

I don't move or nod or even acknowledge her. I just keep staring at the edge of the rug beneath my toes.

God, why did I ever say I was Rebecca? This is never going to work. I should have told Emily the truth. Maybe she would have helped me even if I was a stranger. She seemed nice.

I could have just asked for help instead of pretending to
b
e someone else.

Even if she hadn't helped I could have kept walking. Maybe town isn't really that far. I could be there now, instead of in the house of a duke who will probably have me beheaded or something.

Ten minutes pass, my breathing returns to normal, and I feel a little better. I just have to get through breakfast. If the duke doesn't realize I'm not Rebecca in the first second I meet him, I can probably pull it off. I'll just stare down at my plate and stay quiet. Then Emily will take me to town and I'll bail and run for it. She won't know what hit her.

The servant just kind of stands there and waits for me, without saying anything. She doesn't even act like she thinks I'm crazy, thank God. I don't think I could take that on top of everything else. Finally, I pull myself together and stand up.

The girl picks up some clothing and throws it over the edge of the bed. I'm so not a dress person, but I have way bigger things to worry about.

I take a deep, soothing breath, focusing on the things in front of me.

Once I get to town I don't have to play their games
--
I'll hail a taxi and get back to the hotel. Mrs. Bentley will yell at me for freaking her out, we'll all have a good laugh, and then I'll continue on my trip. My mom will probably ground me when I get back home, but at this point
home
sounds so heavenly I could care less.

God, what if the shoes have something to do with it? This all happened the second I put them on. Maybe they're cursed or something.

"Breakfast's served in twenty minutes. We best hurry."

At the mention of food, my stomach growls so loudly it sounds like a wounded cat.

The maid pretends not to notice. Before I can figure out what the girl is doing, she's pulling my T-shirt off over my head and I'm naked. Guess she's not worried about my modesty.

I stand with one arm crossed over my chest until she forces my arms above my head so she can slip on a thin scratchy gown, and then she's yanking my jeans off and throwing other things over my head and lacing them up.

I swear she puts six layers on me, though it's probably more like three. The dress is a pretty peach color, with white trim on the bottom and the neckline. She ties a little white sash just under my bust, making an empire waist.

It's cute, actually. I'd never wear it at home of course, but here, it kind of works.

Now that I'm wearing it, though, I'm filled with the overwhelming desire to yank it back off. I can't wear this. I can't be like them and pretend this is ancient history and that wearing stuff like this is normal.

I start to walk away. I need my jeans. I need
...
normalcy.

But the maid takes me by the shoulders, shuffles me over to a stool, and forcibly plops me down on it. Next thing I know, she's brushing my hair.
Hard.
I swear she must rip out thirty strands with the first swipe, because my scalp is screaming.

I grimace my way through her hair styling, and within ten minutes she's done. I reach my hand up and feel gently around the top of my head. She's turned my hair into some kind of braided updo, twisted around my head like a crown.

She hands me a pair of gloves, and I plan to just hold onto them, but then I realize she expects me to wear them now. Indoors. It seems sort of silly but I slip them on anyway.

I try on the slippers she's brought me, but they're way too small. Emily and I might share a dress size, but we definitely differ when it comes to feet. The maid finds my Prada heels, and even though my toes still hurt and I've officially decided that the heels are the bane of my existence, I slip them on. It's not like I can go barefoot.

By the time I'm limping down the stairs, my dress trailing behind me on the steps, I don't even feel like I'm myself anymore. From my braided hair to this ancient-style dress, I'm someone else. I've stepped into a dream.

Or maybe a nightmare.

A servant shows me down a hall, and it seems to extend forever and ever. The house is huge, a labyrinth of doors and halls that extend further than I can see. It reminds me of my high school. Except fancier.

The halls are tall and wide, yet still a little dark. There aren't any light fixtures. Or light switches. Instead there are paintings everywhere, and patterned carpeting, and thick carved casings around each door. Many of the windows have deep bays with seats, and others are made of leaded glass, some colored. It feels a little eerie to walk down the hall, dressed like this, like I'm part of it all.

I stop, close my eyes, and breathe in and out slowly, concentrating on the sound, trying to ignore the feeling of the dress brushing against my legs. This isn't real.

I open my eyes, but I'm still standing here.

God, I need to get away.

When I walk into the dining room, Emily is inside, and my eyes dart to meet those of the two strangers: an overweight woman in her late forties who looks like she's wearing a giant doily and a guy who looks much closer to my age. That's the duke? He's probably nineteen! Before I can get a better look at him, the woman barrels at me, her arms
outstretched.

"Miss Rebecca," she says, and then wraps me in a bear hug. "It's so wonderful to see you! Your journey must have been a hasty one, you're so early! I must apologize for not greeting you last night."

I can't breathe. All I can smell is an overpowering powdery scent coming from this lady.
People in the olden days really liked their powders, huh?

I'm so shocked by my own thoughts that I jerk upright, out of her grasp. Why had I thought something like that? This isn't the olden days. It's just some people who choose not to live in today's world. But it's still the twenty-first century. There's no way I'm actually
hackin time.
No way.

I force myself to turn away from the woman and look at the guy standing next to her.

And when I do, I lose my breath entirely.