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 be 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.
&nbs
p; 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.
The duke.
Chapter 6
This guy is a duke. How can he be a duke when he's only a few years older than me?
He's dressed in an old-fashioned way, like the others, but somehow on him... it's different. His navy jacket accentuates his broad shoulders and narrow waist. Snug buckskin pants cover his long, lean legs, and his knee-high leather boots make it all... fancy? And yet even in the ridiculous getup, he looks formal and intimidating, and somehow kind of hot too.
How can a guy dressed like that look so good?
He walks toward me, and I almost step backward, but manage to keep my heels glued to the floor. He has dark hair, and up close I see that his eyes are a vibrant shade of green. They almost glow. And he's tall. Even from a few feet away, I know he'll tower over me.
He's staring. I swallow as I stare back, waiting for it. Waiting for the moment his eyes shift, waiting for the moment when he realizes I'm a fraud. My heart pounds as he stares at me, his face completely blank. What is he thinking? Does he know? God, what if he really does have some creepy dungeon?
"Miss Rebecca," he says, bowing toward me.
And so I curtsy. I actually curtsy like it's the natural thing to do. I don't even know how to, but I cross one foot behind the other and lower myself toward the ground. It's not exactly effortless, but I don't trip over my feet or the hem of the skirt so I consider it an accomplishment.
"I trust you had a safe journey?" His voice is beautiful — deep and a little rough, like a guy's voice should be, with that same aristocratic English accent.
"Yes, er, thanks." I smile shakily at him, but he just nods and returns to his seat.
Obviously, he is not a people person.
I walk over to the table and take a seat across from Emily. I notice she has a pair of gloves sitting beside her, so I slip mine off and set them on the table as she has done.
There are three servants in the room; they stand silently against the walls, peculiarly identical to one another in height, like they came in a matching set.
The duke raises his arm and sort of flicks his wrist, and they swoop into action, coming at me with a platter full of food. The first guy is holding a tower of eggs.
Ew. I don't do eggs. "Oh, um, no thank you, I'm not an egg person."
All noise stops. Everyone stares at me.
Am I not supposed to talk to the servants?
I smile weakly at the duke and his mother as the servant walks away, and another approaches with ham.
I clamp my mouth shut as he plops a hearty portion down on my plate.
My mouth is suddenly very dry. I turn to the servant standing motionless behind me.
"Can I get some water?"
Yeah. Definitely not supposed to talk to them. The guy's eyes flicker over to the old lady, as if he needs permission to get me some water.
"There is lemonade in front of you," the old lady says.
"Oh." Is that what that is?
I take a quick swallow and try not to choke. This obviously is not Country Time, if you know what I mean.
I was starving ten minutes ago, but now that I'm sitting in the same room as these weird people, my appetite is gone. This breakfast needs to be over, stat. I can barely keep up with the glove and servant etiquette; I'm bound to screw something up. I need to maintain my fake identity, wrangle a ride to town, and say sayonara.
Alex's (am I allowed to call him that?) chair is bigger than he is, which is an accomplishment given his size. The back of it has all these scrolling details along the top, and it dwarfs his broad shoulders. It's like a throne, really. Maybe dukes are royals.
"I was quite surprised when Emily told me you were wearing trousers when you arrived," the old woman says. She's cutting into her ham, her hands delicately gripping the silverware. "How terribly embarrassing."
Wow. Rude, much? Why does she have to talk to me at all? Let's just shovel a bunch of breakfast in our mouths and get out of here. I need to leave now.
But she's staring at me, waiting for a response. She's sitting back in her chair, carefully bringing tiny bites of food to her mouth without leaning forward the slightest bit.
Well, I might as well stick with my story. "Yes, um, my nicer things were lost. I had no other choice."
The lady takes a bite of food, and for one blissful second I think she's going to leave me alone. But alas, I am not that lucky. "I trust your father has seen to it that your studies are not neglected?"
Another tiny bite. This lady eats like a bird. In comparison, I feel like a caveman with a drumstick.
I nod my head, trying to think of something safe to say. "Yes, of course. I'm particularly talented in science and math."
Her mouth curls up in disdain. "Such... masculine topics! Has he not taught you the arts? French? Music?"
Masculine? God, who does this lady think she is? She's lucky I have to be nice to her.
"Oh, uh, yes. I also love literature and poetry," I say.
To be honest, I don't really like either. Science and math... Those are so simple and straightforward. Poetry? It's so up in the air and hard to interpret. I never get what the poet is trying to say. Katie did half my English homework freshman year just to ensure I didn't fail.
"Well, thank goodness for that. Your mother was the granddaughter of a marquess, you know. You may not
be titled, but at least you can cling to that, can't you?"
Huh? Is she serious? I'm supposed to cling to some distant relation in an effort to feel good enough? I don't even know how to begin to tell her what is wrong with that.
And then she speaks. Again. I grind my teeth together and take another deep breath.
"Emily tells me you plan to visit town this morn?"
I nod and shove another bite of salty ham in my mouth. If this lady keeps up the twenty questions, who knows what I'm going to blurt out?
The old woman gives me a tight smile. "I'd love to join you," — Oh dang — "But I've some letters to attend to. Perhaps another time."
I nod and try to feign some kind of disappointment, but I'm sure it doesn't look real.
She's annoying me already, the way she has a little upturned nose and beauty queen posture, like she's better than everyone else at the table.
I do my best to ignore her completely and act as if a painting of a pond and geese is the most interesting thing I've ever seen. It's hanging over another fancy carved hearth, this one glowing with hot coals. Despite the fact that it's summer, this place feels cold, even with the morning sun streaming through big arched windows. There are pillars on each side of the fire, carved busts perched precariously on top.
I wonder if they're actually marble sculptures of the duke himself. I can't tell from this angle. Either way, the idea is amusing. I can totally see a guy like him wanting a stone carved bust of himself. He's probably pretty narcissistic, given that he's not socializing with anyone else at the table. His intense green eyes are too busy concentrating on his breakfast plate to notice anyone.
Emily finally speaks. She's been nearly silent, unlike the bubbly personality she'd had last night. I wonder if it has anything to do with this annoying old lady. Emily smiles at her, but it doesn't reach her hazel eyes. "Do you intend to join us at the country-dance on the morrow, Your Grace?"
Country-dance? Somehow I can't picture the old lady dancing.
The lady — also known as Grace, for some reason — shakes her head so vigorously her gray curls bounce. "I do not intend to... I believe I shall get some rest instead. I feel I'm coming down with something. Perhaps Rebecca could join you?" She turns to look at me.
Prada and Prejudice Page 3