Prada and Prejudice

by Mandy Hubbard

  Yet somehow even though I know she's friends with Rebecca, I kind of feel like we're friends too. There's just something about her that makes me trust her, even as I do nothing to earn her trust.

  That's when the waterworks start. She blinks several times, but the tears still escape and leave shiny, salty trails down her perfectly round cheeks. "I could never love him. He is callous and rude. He is thirty years my senior and quite set in his ways," she says, her voice quivering.

  Thirty years older? He's ancient!

  My jaw hangs open as I stare at her. She drops her fork with a clatter and picks up a napkin and dabs at her eyes, staring toward the ceiling. The cracks in her happy facade are spreading, and I think she's about to completely crumble.

  "Does your father know how you feel?"

  She nods. "Yes. I've pleaded with him, but he will not be swayed. I think he tired of hearing my appeals, and that's why he sent me to stay for two months at Harksbury. It is his wish that I will return home at peace with his decision."

  This is so wrong, on so many levels. I can't even get words to come out of my mouth because there are too many spinning around in my head. Everything I come up with is empty and stupid.

  1815 is so screwed up. First the secret daughter Alex has... now an arranged marriage? Could things get any more twisted?

  I've landed in Regency England: 90210. Just as much drama; a lot less glamour.

  Emily wipes her nose with a napkin and inhales deeply. "I was so pleased to see you when you arrived. You are so smart and independent; I just knew when you arrived early that it was a gift to me. You are my dearest friend, Rebecca. You must help me."

  Oh, wow, I feel like such a jerk right now. The real Rebecca is probably brilliant and would know just what to say in this situation. She'd probably have a hundred plans for things to do, and she'd launch right into action and find Emily a way to freedom.

  I can see it on Emily's face. She's looking at me with such hope, like I'll fix everything.

  She wants nothing to do with whoever this Denworth guy is. And I know in this moment, whatever I do, I have to get her out of it. I owe it to her.

  It's what Rebecca would do. So it's what I must do.

  Wait — what if it's what I am supposed to do? What if it's the reason I'm here? What if somehow breaking Emily's engagement is my mission? My purpose? I found myself in Rebecca's shoes so I'd be in a position to assist Emily.

  If I do this, it could fix everything. And if it doesn't, well, then I'll try something else.

  There's got to be a reason someone from the twenty-first century is stuck in 1815, right? It's so I can assert my modern sensibilities and fix some things.

  "Don't worry, Emily. I'll help you. We'll break your engagement."

  I don't know what I'm doing. I don't know how I'm supposed to help her.

  But I know I have to. I just have to develop a plan.

  Immediately.

  Chapter 13

  I am in heaven. Well, as close to heaven as you can get in 1815. After watching what must have been eight different servants bring bucket after bucket of hot water up to my room, I have a full tub of gloriously warm water to soak in. And I'm not leaving until it's cold and I'm all wrinkly.

  There's some kind of scented oil in the water, and if I didn't believe in aromatherapy before, I do now. This is the most relaxed I've been in over forty-eight hours.

  Since I didn't get to go to the club with Angela, Mindy, and Summer, I'm going to make up for it tonight, Regency-style at the Pommeroy dance. I'll dress to the nines and flirt with some hot guys, and have the time of my life.

  When the water gets too cold to tolerate, I get out and put on a cotton nightgown the maid left out for me. Emily insisted that we get ready for the dance together, which is probably a good thing — I need major help figuring out what I'm supposed to wear to something like this.

  I've never even been asked to homecoming. Tonight will probably be the first time I ever actually dance with a guy. Crazy. I had to travel two hundred years to go to a freaking dance.

  But whatever. I'm going to make the most of it and dance the night away, even if I am wearing weird clothes and they don't play any music I recognize.

  I grab a string that disappears into a hole in the wall. It's supposed to connect with a bell somewhere and tell Eliza that I need her. I can't hear it, so I just have to assume it's ringing in some far-off land. I heard Emily once call it 'below stairs,' but I have no idea which stairs she was talking about.

  In any case, it must work because Eliza arrives a few minutes later and immediately sets to work on my wet hair, combing and putting it into little rags that are supposed to help give it a curl, until there are so many they're piled all over my head. I feel very fifties retro when she's done.

  "Aren't you supposed to be off today?" I ask.

  "I was, miss. The whole afte'noon."

  I scrunch my brow. "Well, I think you should take tomorrow off too. If anyone has a problem with that, send them to me."

  She looks confused, like this has to be a trick.

  "You deserve a day off. Don't worry."

  "Yes, miss," she says, suddenly looking very, very happy.

  "Just promise me you'll sleep in," I say.

  Her lips curl into a smile as she curtsies. "Yes, miss."

  "Great. Well, I think you can go. I'm going to be getting ready over in Emily's chambers."

  As soon as she's gone, I'm ready to go to Emily's room. I walk toward the door in my cotton nightgown, but stop halfway there. It seems .. . bizarre to leave the room like this.

  I'm wearing a thin nightdress that barely covers my butt. I haven't seen my bra since day one, so until I get the corset back on, I can't possibly walk out my bedroom door.

  I stare at the bell pull again, wondering if I should call back Eliza and ask her for something else to put on. And directions to Emily's. Why hadn't I thought of any of this before I sent her away?

  But I feel kind of bad, bugging her so much. I'm not used to having someone at my beck and call. It's kind of weird. So the only solution is to grab one of the blankets off my bed. I look silly, but I wrap it around my body until I look like a big burrito.

  Yeah. Modest. That's me.

  I peek out my door and look both ways. No one is around.

  I'm pretty sure Emily said her room is in the opposite wing, and that if I take this back staircase, I can get there without going by the front entry.

  That works great in theory, except Harksbury really is bigger than my high school and I get lost. I'm pretty sure I pass the same creepy portraits three times. I think their eyes might be following me, like in Scooby-Doo. I even think I take the servants' stairs at some point, because they're narrow and lit only by a single small window, so there's no way Victoria or Alex would take them. Alex probably wouldn't even fit, he's so tall. It's good I won't run into them, because hobbling around wrapped in a blanket like this, I look like a complete buffoon. A half-naked, burrito buffoon.

  At some point I realize I've made it to the opposite wing. I spot the courtyard through a set of leaded glass windows and the view is the opposite of the one I've seen from my wing. Thank God. It would have been terrible to wander much longer, looking like I do. I could have run into—

  Alex.

  Alex!

  Just seeing him makes my anger boil.

  He's staring at me, his mouth slightly agape, his eyes wide. Is it me, or is he blushing?

  Hasn't he ever seen a burrito-girl before? Or is it these dead-sexy rag-curlers in my hair that only an old lady would wear? Not only am I a burrito, I'm a geriatric one. Fabulous.

  "Uh, I'm looking for Emily's room," I say. I tighten my grip on the blanket, hoping none of me is hanging out anywhere it shouldn't be.

  He doesn't speak, just motions me to follow him. I walk beside him, the blanket dragging behind me. There are about a thousand things I'd like to say to him right now — Eliza's pitiful schedule, that poor lady's letters — bu
t I can't possibly have a serious conversation looking like this, so I don't say any of them.

  When we get to the door, it's open, and he steps aside so I can enter. He's so close to the door that I end up brushing past him when I go by.

  "Thanks," I mutter. As an afterthought I curtsy, but I'm not sure he can even tell because the blanket just sort of mushrooms out. I scurry through the door and slam it behind me, and then fall against it. Alex is probably staring right at the door in his face. Bet he doesn't get that every day. It almost makes me feel better.

  "Oh. My. God. I'm a walking disaster," I say to Emily.

  She's sitting on a stool, wearing a gorgeous yellow robe, and spins around to look at me.

  A robe. Now why couldn't I have had one of those?

  "What is the matter?" She's wearing little rag-curlers, like me, but on her they look cute and perky. The white cloth contrasts with her dark locks, like some kind of fashion statement. Somehow I doubt I look quite as charming.

  I walk over to her bed and throw myself on it with a heavy sigh. "I just walked around wrapped up like this and ran into Alex. God, I'm lucky I didn't see anyone else. I bet Victoria would have just loved seeing me like this."

  Emily giggles. "You do look quite silly."

  "Thanks," I say, rolling over on the bed. "I can't believe he saw me."

  Emily sips at a small glass on her vanity and then turns and stares right into my eyes. "I had believed you had no interest in my cousin."

  I snarl my lip at her in disgust. "Oh, I am so not interested in him. He is only interested in himself. I mean, really. Could he show some interest and compassion for the people around him? He's totally self-centered. And on top of that, he thinks I should censor everything I say and be a docile little girl or something. I mean, really."

  Her grin widens. "There is no need to sway me. I believe you."

  "Oh."

  So then why is she grinning at me like that?

  And more importantly, why doesn't she hate him like I do? I mean, she might not know about the secret kid, but she knows he's all for her marrying that Denworth guy because he's done nothing to help her get out of it. Shouldn't she resent him, even if he is her cousin?

  "Now, let us talk of more important topics: our attire for tonight's dance."

  And now I grin back at her and all thoughts of Alex disappear. This is going to be so fun.

  Chapter 14

  She gets up and walks to a row of armoires. Yes, there's more than one. She throws open several doors, revealing dress after dress after dress. I'm surprised they're not on hangers, though... They're folded neatly, each with its own little shelf.

  My grin gets bigger with each door. This is like shopping. Only better, because I trust Emily's fashion sense more than my own.

  "My father believed it important that I wear the latest fashions in order to secure a match with Denworth. While I hardly agreed with the cause, I certainly had fun procuring more gowns."

  I think she might get all sniffly about it again, but she doesn't seem concerned as she buries herself in a heap of gowns.

  "I think we'd best wear muslin. Though this is but a country-dance, we'd do well to observe the fashions from last season. Hm, but I do have many other gowns that would suit you nicely." She pauses, tapping a finger on her tiny dimpled chin. "Perhaps we shall forego the muslin for tonight after all."

  She lost me at muslin. I don't know what she's trying to say, hut whatever it is, she's totally into it. She's probably 1815's version of a fashionista.

  "Last season?" Is she talking like, the spring collection or something? They could not possibly have runways in this century.

  "Oh, dear, have you forgotten how much you'd looked forward to your first season? Are you to say you do not have a season in America?"

  The blank look on my face must convey my confusion.

  "Your coming out. It would have been last year, as mine was. We'd once wanted to have our first season together, do you not recall? We'd spoken of it often, back then."

  "Oh! Yes, um, I do... recall. I'd just forgotten. Temporarily. I remember now though."

  Oh God, there I go rambling again, "So, uh, was it everything you'd hoped it would be?"

  Emily is rifling through the dresses, practically buried in them as she tosses them over her shoulders, but when I ask her this, she stands up and turns to look at me, a wide grin and sparkling eyes transforming her face. Wow. She looks... ecstatic.

  How could anyone force a girl like this to marry some grouchy old guy? I have got to figure out a way to help her.

  '"Twas amazing. The parties, the dancing, the mingling... I wished it would never end." And then, for emphasis, she discards the dresses, stands, and twirls about the room, dancing to a silent melody, her robe floating around her, her curlers flying about her face.

  She looks positively ethereal. Sometimes this girl is just too adorable.

  I don't want to ask why it ended because I'm afraid it has something to do with Denworth. Or maybe it really is just a "season" like she said, and it's only a certain time each year.

  "Do you remember how we'd fantasized about Almacks?" She stops spinning long enough to gauge my reaction. My expression must give me away again, because she elaborates. "The exclusive club in London. Only the elite are admitted."

  "Oh, right. How could I have forgotten?"

  She smiles and crosses the room, plopping down on the bed beside me and lying back. We're so close our curlers nearly touch. I know this should feel weird or awkward or something, but it just feels comfortable. Like Emily is a real friend.

  And I haven't had one of those in a year, since Katie left.

  "Well, it turns out that Almacks was not nearly as glamorous as I'd hoped. The rooms were quite bare of ornamentation, and the refreshments were terrible. It was all of little consequence, though, for I was allowed a waltz with the Earl of Grant, and caused my very own scandal in the process."

  I smile as she talks. I can't help it. She's bubbling with excitement about the entire thing, and it's spilling over and rubbing off on me. I have no idea how a waltz caused a scandal, but it sounds sort of cool.

  "The patronesses, of course, were quite a snobbish bunch, and if I should never see them again, I would not be disappointed." Still no clue what she's talking about. What's a patroness?

  I clear my throat. Emily is so into this conversation she could go on all night. And I have to get this out of the way. "So, um, your engagement..." Hm. I'm not totally sure what I plan on saying, but I have to broach the subject. "Do you have any, uh, ideas?"

  "Ideas?" She sits up and looks at me, one eyebrow raised.

  "Yes. Like, on how to break the engagement."

  Her face falls. "No, I'm afraid — well, I just don't think it can be done. That's why I was so excited about you..." Her voice trails off, and then her face crumples into a frown as the light in her eyes dims.

  "Oh, don't worry," I say in a rush. "I've got tons of ideas. I just wanted to see if you had any too. So we could, you know, combine forces." I fight the urge to grimace as I spout yet another lie.

  How many have there been, now? I've lost count.

  She smiles at me, and it makes my stomach twist. She shouldn't trust me like this.

  "Truly? What do you have in mind?"

  "Oh, it's too soon to say. Perhaps we can discuss it further tomorrow or the next day."

  Lies. All lies.

  "Yes, that sounds wonderful. Let's — "

  She stops talking when someone knocks on the door. Thank God.

  "You may enter," Emily calls, all official-like. A servant pokes her head in, followed by my maid, Eliza.

  "We've come to help you dress," the first girl says. I think she must be the maid assigned to Emily.

  Emily tells her to get us in our "undergarments," and then we shall try out several dresses in order to find one we like.

  We sit beside one another on stools while our maids lace our corsets. I can't believe I'm really goin
g to wear this stupid thing again. How am I supposed to dance if I can hardly breathe? Not to mention I found out there is actual whale bone in it, and that's sort of gross.

  And sad. For the whales, I mean.

  When the corset is deemed tight enough (as in, "Oh look, her lungs are the size of peanuts!"), the two maids mumble something about a petticoat, which I think must be the gown thing that goes over the corset. It's softer than I'd expected, which comes as a relief. I'll take comfort anywhere I can get it.

  Finally, I'm allowed to look at the actual dresses. There are so many to choose from: blues, greens, reds, and even whites. Some are cotton, some a sleek satin... I'm in heaven. I walk around the room in my bare feet, but a few Oriental-style rugs are enough to keep my toes from getting too cold.

  What's weird is that I think the rugs really are Oriental, and handmade. They're beautiful and colorful, and I finally get why they came into fashion. Not the cheesy fifty dollar ones at a super store, but elaborate, elegant, beautiful rugs.

  Emily holds out a navy gown in my direction, then scrunches up her nose and puts it back. For a second I think she's going to hand me a yellow gown with white sleeves, but then she puts that one back too.

  Then her face lights up and she pulls out one of the white ones.

  "Oh, no, see I'm not good with white," I say, cringing. "I swear to you, I'll spill something all over myself."

  "But with your blonde hair and fair skin, it shall make you look angelic," she says.

  Angelic? There's a word no one's ever used to describe me. I somehow doubt angels are as klutzy as I am. But okay, I'll try it on.

  The maid gets it over my curler-clad head, and I have to admit the dress seems to fit. The little cap sleeves are sort of cute, even if they are a bit puffy. There's a thick, dusty-rose ribbon just under the bustline, and my maid ties a bow behind me. The ribbon is so long it almost reaches the hemline in the back, sort of like its own miniature train. She hands me a pair of elbow-length white gloves, and without even seeing myself, I know I look amazing, and pulled together, and perfect.