Prada and Prejudice Read online

  I know without asking that those are not her words; I can actually hear the grouchy old lady saying them, even through the maid's thick accent.

  I swallow and nod, stepping forward to accept my fate. I sure hope all those girls in historical novels are exaggerating.

  I don't exactly have a high pain threshold. I cried the last time I got a filling.

  As she laces the corset, and the volume of air inside my lungs depletes, I gain a new appreciation for my ancestors. This sucks. Oh sure, it's not too bad at first. But it's sort of like putting on a pair of shoes that's just a teensy bit too snug. You don't notice it too much for the first ten minutes, but then it becomes so apparent you can't ignore it. It's like a girdle and a push-up bra put together, and I think my boobs must be right under my chin, because there's no room for them in front of my ribs.

  Next she pulls me to my feet and puts my arms straight up in the air, like I'm a little kid. She pulls a crimson dress over my head. It's a soft satin, with pretty little rosebuds embroidered along the short puffy sleeves. It's not nearly as scratchy as the peach gown I'd been wearing all morning, so I feel a little better about changing.

  Of course, I'd feel a lot better if I could breathe, but I guess that's not possible.

  She guides me back to the vanity, where her next mission is redoing my braids. My scalp is screaming within ten seconds.

  I've got to distract myself somehow. I clear my throat. "So, um, what is your name?"

  She pauses. "Eliza, miss."

  "Oh. I'm Ca — Rebecca."

  Whew, that was close.

  "I know, miss."

  Oh. Right. Okay then.

  "Shouldn't you have today off? Isn't it Sunday?"

  "I've a half day off ever' three days. I'll be out temorra afte'noon.

  I snort. "A half day?"

  God, that's ridiculous. She doesn't even get a single full day off? What is Alex, some kind of slave driver? Jeez.

  "I've got some slippers that should fit you," she says, ignoring my question. She bends over and slips a pair onto my feet, and my toes sigh in relief. They're soft and comfortable. Thank God. I'd like to look at them more closely, but I can't bend over. This corset is stiff.

  "Good! Ye are ready. The guests are gatherin' in the drawin' room."

  I nod but just stare blankly at her because I don't know where that is. Or rather, which room that is, of the dozens I explored. She seems to get my point because she says, "Oh!" and motions me to follow her.

  She takes me to the grand staircase and stops at the top, pointing across the foyer to an open door partway down the hall. I can hear voices and laughter trickling out.

  I take a tiny, timid step down the stairs, and then another. The pretty red gown is trailing behind me on the steps.

  I stop and reach up to check my hair.

  Is it hot in here?

  I touch my cheeks.

  They're warm.

  I take three more steps.

  I want to turn around but a glance upward reveals that the maid is still standing at the top, staring at me like I'm crazy.

  I swallow.

  I look good. I know I do. It's a beautiful dress, and my hair is done up like it's supposed to be, and no one here wears name-brand anything. Well, except me and my heels.

  For the first time in my life, no one knows me as Callie Montgomery, class nerd with a big mouth and two left feet. I can be Callie the popular girl. Callie, the girl everyone likes to talk to and laugh with.

  Or, well, Rebecca, the popular girl. Minor technicality.

  I force myself to walk naturally down the last dozen steps, my shoulders pulled back and my head held high.

  I cross the foyer in what feels like milliseconds, and before I can even pause to take a deep breath, I'm in the drawing room, overcome by the loud buzz of conversation.

  So many people. There must be at least fourteen of them, all dressed to the nines like this is a five-star restaurant. They're gathered in groups around the fireplace or the wood-trimmed brocade furniture. I'm grateful Eliza forced me to change because, I now realize, I would have looked ridiculous in that peach dress.

  The grumpy old lady wears a cream-colored satin dress that skims over those extra thirty pounds she's sporting and just touches the ground. Her gray hair is twisted up on her head and held together with pins I can't even see. She might look pretty, except her piercing green eyes are narrowed to tiny slits as she listens to one of the guests speak in her ear.

  Seriously, if the woman smiled, just once, I'd probably keel over in shock.

  Emily is walking toward me, wearing a modest sky-blue dress that makes her skin practically glow as her dark hair shines. Carefully placed ringlets — so different from the messy look Mindy prefers — hang down near her temple and chin, framing her tiny little face. She looks like a china doll. A really pretty one.

  My eyes search the room, and I don't realize who I'm looking for until I've spotted him. He's so tall, he's easy to find. He's wearing a black jacket with shiny brass buttons and a snowy-white shirt, complete with some kind of tie that is wrapped all around his neck. He's nodding his head to something someone is saying, and then I catch his eye, and before I can duck, he's staring straight at me.

  I clench my jaw and try not to think of the letter I've just read. It makes me want to march right up to him and slap him across the face. Once for that lady, once for the kid, and once for me.

  He says nothing. He does nothing. He just stares at me and I stare back, and for a long moment I don't see anything else.

  Chapter 11

  The room is spinning but Alex's eyes aren't moving; they're locked on mine. He's probably sending me mental signals to behave like a good little society girl.

  The moment is broken when Emily tugs on my elbow. "Oh, Rebecca, my gown looks beautiful on you! Much prettier than on myself. You shall keep it," she says.

  "Oh, no, I couldn't—" I start, but she waves me away.

  "You must."

  "Oh," I say.

  "Look, Victoria wants us," she says. I cringe when I realize Victoria is the grouchy old lady. Oh, joy.

  I follow Emily over to where Victoria is standing. Emily bobs into a curtsy and I awkwardly follow, and then trip on the skirt and have to grab the elbow of a random guy to stop myself from falling.

  Victoria stifles a laugh and I want to punch her for it, but the guy distracts me. "You must be Rebecca," he says, in a voice that sounds sweet and intelligent, if a voice can be intelligent.

  "Yes, please, uh, excuse me for my clumsiness."

  Poor Rebecca. I'm going to single-handedly ruin her reputation before she even gets to England.

  He grins widely and his entire face melts into this pleasant look that makes me feel better, like he's not judging me. "Your American accent is charming," he says. I would guess he's close to forty, with gray hair around his temples, and the rest chestnut brown.

  "Thank you," I say. And then I curtsy again for some reason, which is absurd and totally unnecessary.

  "It's been some time since I've heard tales from America. Dinner should be most intriguing."

  Oh, crap. Why didn't I think of this? People will want to know all about America. But the 1815 version of it. Stupid history — why didn't I pay more attention? I'm not even sure how many states existed in 1815.

  "Yes, I'd love to... regale you with some tales."

  I sound ridiculous. I can't tell if I'm talking like they think I should or if I'm talking like I think I should, which probably isn't the same thing.

  "Was the Atlantic crossing a difficult one?"

  I shrug. "No, it was quite smooth really."

  Emily chimes in. "We hadn't expected her for nearly four weeks yet. She certainly made good time."

  Nearly four weeks? That means less than four. I'll have to remember that. I can't be here when the real Rebecca shows up. That would be a disaster.

  "Perhaps you could play a song on the pianoforte? I'm sure our guests would enjoy it,
" Victoria says.

  Great. If the pianoforte is the same thing as the piano, I'm screwed. My mom had wanted me to play but gave up when I was twelve because the only thing I could play was "Chopsticks."

  "Oh, I'd so love to hear the number you told me about," Emily says.

  To my horror she's looking right at me.

  "What?" I say. "I'm not certain I recall what I'd written you about."

  "You said it was a beautiful melody and a full ten minutes long. You said it was complicated but pleasing to the ear." She's looking at me with such wide, innocent eyes that I don't know what to say without feeling like a jerk.

  "Oh, right." I swallow. Why couldn't Rebecca have been a no-talent hack like me? She's probably perfect at everything. I'm doomed. "I'm sure I exaggerated a bit. I'm sure it would not be of interest to anyone."

  Oh God, everyone is staring at me. There must be twenty-eight eyeballs on me right now. This ridiculously large room with all of its oversized furniture feels like an elevator as the walls close in.

  "There's no need to be modest, dear," Victoria says. She's pushing me toward the corner of the room. Why hadn't I noticed the piano? Danger! Danger!

  "No, really, I can't," I say, trying to push back.

  "Do not disappoint our guests, Rebecca."

  There's a note of anger in Victoria's voice, and it makes me stop cold in my tracks and realize what I'm doing: embarrassing her. In front of her guests. I bet that doesn't fall under Things a Well-Bred Girl Would Do. I take a deep breath and just nod at her, racking my brains for some clever way to turn this around, but nothing is coming.

  I guess I did snap at her this morning, and now she's throwing this party because of my arrival. This is the least I can do, right? I walk slowly to the piano like I'm walking the plank. This is not going to be good. People are going to go insane if I have to play for a full ten minutes.

  Okay then. Piano it is. I hope they like "Chopsticks."

  I move to sit at the piano, wishing it was Emily playing instead of me. Or even her sitting beside me and carrying me through this torture.

  Wait! That's it!

  "Emily? Perhaps the guests would enjoy a duet. I've a simple one I can teach you."

  Her eyes widen as she tucks one of her curls behind an ear and looks around, like she can't believe her luck. How cute.

  "Really. Come sit. If the guests would enjoy a single player, their enjoyment shall be double with both of us." I'm talking like them now, right? Right?

  She nods and practically bounces over to the piano. The girl is like a puppy dog.

  We each pull off our gloves and set them on top of the piano. I show her a repetitive set of notes, the lower part of "Heart and Soul," the only other piece I'm good at. If Tom Hanks can pull it off on a giant piano in Big, I'm sure Emily can master it.

  Once Emily gets a good rhythm going, I pick up the melody on the higher part of the piano. It spans maybe a dozen keys, and I can get away with using a couple fingers for the entire rendition. Exactly the kind of song I can hack. The keys are cool on my skin as I complete the first round, the song filling the room as the crowd falls silent.

  The group in the room gathers and watches us, edging closer, and I feel Alex's eyes burning into me. I want to look up at him, but I know I'll foul up on the piano so I don't. I can tell Emily is enjoying herself because she sort of rocks back and forth as she moves up and down the keys, and her smile is so big I can feel it.

  I nudge Emily into stopping and then trail off with a few keys.

  When we finish, I look up and everyone claps. Even Victoria looks pleased. I guess "Heart and Soul" isn't known by everyone over six years old in this era. For one tiny moment, I feel like having everyone stare at me is a good thing, like they like me.

  And then I stand and try to scoot the bench back, but Emily is still sitting on it. It's amidst a standing ovation that I fall over backward and crash to the floor.

  "Oh, I, uh, oh." In a split second I'm on my feet, waving away the gentleman who has rushed forward to assist me. Wow. My skin must be crimson by this point. I brush any errant dust off my skirts. "Emily? Why don't you play the next one," I say, hoping to divert all the eyes.

  She just beams and turns back to the piano. Thank God.

  I find a chair nearby and make a hasty retreat. My face cools as I watch Emily, still smiling from ear-to-ear. Her hazel eyes sparkle as her brown curls bounce with enthusiasm.

  There's some part of her that looks more thirteen than eighteen. A naive, hopeful streak.

  I'm such a schmuck for pretending to be Rebecca. For pretending to be Emily's friend. Because truthfully, I want to be her friend. But without the layers of lies between us.

  They're like a rubber band, pulling and stretching. And it can't last forever. It'll break.

  She's going to know. Whether it's because I disappear and end up back in the twenty-first century, or because my lies are uncovered, she's going to know.

  And it might make me a coward, but I hope I'm not here to see it.

  Emily finishes a lively tune, and the guests clap again.

  "You'll make Denworth a fine wife!" one of them says, and I almost choke on my own spit.

  Wife?

  Emily's smile turns stiff, and the light leaves her eyes.

  Now she looks eighteen.

  "Thank you," she says.

  I grind my teeth together. What's going on here?

  "Not yet," Emily says.

  Just as Victoria opens her mouth to speak again, Emily picks up another tune, up-tempo and loud, and it drowns out whatever Victoria had meant to say.

  It's clear Emily doesn't want to speak of the Denworth situation with Victoria.

  But I have to know what's going on — something's not adding up. Emily should be happy about an engagement, if that's what's happening.

  Tomorrow, I'll get to the bottom of this.

  Chapter 12

  When I get up the next morning, I hurry to breakfast, which is served in the sunroom, a much smaller room than we'd dined in last night.

  I'm glad we're somewhere else. I don't want to remember the absolute disaster of dinner the night before.

  It all started when a servant walked into the drawing room after my piano-playing debut and said dinner was served. I'd skipped lunch in order to explore Harksbury, so naturally I was hungry. So I got up and headed to the dining room.

  Except I was the only one. Everyone else assembled in pairs, and I got stuck at the end with an elderly guy who was most definitely not as rich as the others. And as we followed the parade into the dining room, I realized we were placed in order of importance.

  One guess who was at the back.

  Me. Now why did that feel just like high school? So much for this dinner supposedly being in my honor! Not that I wanted that much of the spotlight, but still.

  It went downhill from there. I talked to the servants again. Yeah, that's most definitely a faux-pas. You could have heard a pin drop when I asked if they had ketchup. And then I stuck a knife in my mouth to eat a piece of chicken. Faux-pas number two. Oh and apparently I was supposed to hold a piece of bread in one hand and the fork in the other while eating fish. Faux-pas number three.

  I seriously could not keep up with them and barely made it out alive.

  This morning, I'm relieved to see Emily at the table, quietly eating alone. At least I can do everything wrong and she won't care.

  There aren't any servants around, so I just dig into the ham and fruits available on the sideboard. "So, uh, no bacon?" I joke. They always seem to prepare way more food than we could ever eat.

  These people have never heard the word moderation before.

  Emily looks up from her plate. "Victoria — er — Her Grace believes bacon is for the lower class."

  "Oh," I say, not sure how I'm supposed to respond. It seems kind of weird to decide we can have ham and not bacon, but whatever. I don't get anything in this century. I take my plate and sit down at the table across from Em
ily. The summer sun is already streaming through the windows. It must be at least ten or eleven. I've given up keeping track of time here; they seem to run on their own clock.

  The room falls silent again. "So, Emily," I say.

  She's been pushing her food around for ten minutes, and when I break the silence, she looks up as if she's forgotten I was even in the room.

  "This fiance of yours... have you mentioned him before? I don't recall." Do I sound casual? I hope so.

  She shakes her head and then looks back at her plate. What happened to happy, bubbly Emily—the one I've come to know and like? The one who is part-girl, part-puppy dog?

  "No. We've only just become engaged."

  "Where did you meet?"

  "At his estate, after my father arranged it."

  I don't like where this is headed. "Why did your father arrange it?"

  Her voice is flat. "For the marriage, of course."

  I really don't like where this is headed. "You don't mean... he introduced you to him so that he could... arrange your marriage, do you?" I know I sound really dense, but I've never encountered a real, live arranged marriage. I thought they were mythical. Sort of like unicorns.

  She just nods, but I see her swallow, and I wonder if she has a lump in her throat like I do. She's looking down, but I don't think she sees anything on her plate. Has she blinked? At all?

  "And... do you like him?"

  She sets down her fork. "He is... an agreeable sort of man. With great wealth. I shall want for nothing," she says. But it sounds ridiculous. It's like she's reading off cue cards.

  I shift in my chair. It's suddenly hard and uncomfortable. "But do you love him?"

  "I shall want for nothing," she repeats. Her eyes are a little shinier than they were thirty seconds ago. She picks up her fork, but her hand trembles a little bit when she grips it too hard.

  "Emily .. . you can be honest with me. We're friends."

  Even as the words leave my mouth, I want to take them back. Emily is such a nice girl, and here I am, lying straight to her face, over and over. Betraying her trust as I masquerade as her friend.