Prada and Prejudice (7 page)

When I round the corner, I see a man with an overturned bucket tapping away on it with two sticks, like a drummer. Two boys who look barely thirteen are doing the absolute funniest Riverdance I have ever seen, jumping around like happy little leprechauns, their elbows jutting out and their toes barely touching the ground.

I can't stop the laugh that bubbles out of me. I clamp a hand over my mouth but it's too late; they've heard it. One of the boys stops so quickly he falls over and promptly turns beet red.

And now I feel
really
guilty, because I know precisely how the burn in his cheeks feels.

The last thing I should be doing is laughing at other people.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to laugh. I've just, uh, never seen dancing like that before."

The younger boy, a redhead, picks himself up off the ground with a wide-eyed look.

"You are American," he says, as if I'm a mythical creature.

I nod. "Yes. And, uh, we have different dances where I come from."

"Can you show us one?" The second boy, a dark-haired kid, steps forward, looking intrigued.

I stifle a laugh. "Oh, uh, no. I'm a horrible dancer."

"Please?" the redheaded boy asks. "I have never seen an American dance."

I just laughed at them thirty seconds ago. Wouldn't that make me mean if I just blow them off now?

"I doubt you'd want to see these dances," I say, stalling. I feel kind of bad. But I really can't dance. I'll make a fool of myself.

"Oh, but I do. Most certainly."

"Oh." Well, then.

I could try, right? Just some tiny little thing?

But what do I share? MC Hammer? The Running Man? The Electric Slide? A little Macarena?

"Uh," I say, stepping forward. "How about, um, the Robot?"

"The Robot?" the two boys ask in unison.

Did the word
robot
even exist in 1815?

"Yeah. You, uh, hold your arms out like this," I say, demonstrating the proper way to stand like a scarecrow. I can't believe I'm doing this. "And then relax your elbows and let your hands swing. Like this."

I'm really not doing it well, but by the way their eyes widen, you'd think I just did a full-on pop-and-lock routine with Justin Timberlake. They mimic my maneuver, making it look effortless.

The drummer guy stands up and gets in on the action, swinging his arms freely. The guy's better than me after a two-second demo. Figures.

"Okay, then, uh, you sort of walk and you try to make everything look stiff and, uh, unnatural. Like this." I show him my best robotic walk, my arms mechanical in their movements.

The two boys and the drummer immediately copy me, and by the time they've taken four or five steps, they seriously look like robots.

In no time they're improvising, and their laughter trickles up toward the rafters of the barn.

Yeah. That's my cue to leave before inspiration strikes and I try to show them how to break-dance but only succeed in breaking my neck.

I slip out of the barn unnoticed, grinning to myself as I walk the gravel path back toward the house, my skirts brushing the dirt.

At least somewhere, I'm not Callie the Klutz. Even if it's just some smelly old barn.

There's hope for me after all.

Chapter 10

Once back in my room, I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling.

I know I should read the letters stuffed under my mattress, but I can't bring myself to dig them out.

They hit too close to home.

That poor little girl is going to grow up without her dad. At least she won't know what she's missing. Me, I had a father for twelve years. And he wasn't such a bad father, either. A little busy most of the time, but not bad.

And then, out of the blue, he left my mom. It's been the two of us ever since. I'm pretty sure she let me go on the London trip because it gave me a convenient excuse for turning down my dad and summer in the Hamptons. I don't have the opportunity to think much more on the subject before the maid comes in, the hardwood floors creaking under her steps.

"I've come te help ye change fer dinner."

I sit up and look at my clothing. It's still clean and relatively wrinkle-free, which is an accomplishment for me. I'm forever dropping food on my clothes. "I'm sure this is fine," I say.

Her mouth tightens like she's fighting a smile. "A mornin' dress is no' suitable fer a dinner party."

"A dinner
party?"
I don't like the sound of that.

She nods as she pulls me over to the stool near the wardrobe. "Yes. 'Er Ladyship invited our neighbors te dine te celebrate yer arrival. Ye could hardly go in such casual wear."

Casual?
This
is casual? Compared to her basic black dress, I'm ready for a night on the town.

She's throwing clothing in my direction and I don't know what I'm supposed to do, so I just catch it and stand there, my arms filling. And when I see the last item, I freeze, holding it between two hands and staring as if it's a typhoid-infested blanket.

In fact, it's worse. It's a
corset.

She's seriously going to put me in a corset.

"I'm under strict order by the lady o' the house te make ye presentable. Ye'r a guest o' Harksbury and as such, ye must be properly attired." The maid tucks an errant strand of her dark hair behind her ear, as if she's suddenly aware of her own appearance.

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.