Prada and Prejudice

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 Emily. 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.

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.