Prada and Prejudice

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 going 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.

And judging by the grin on Emily's face, she thinks so too.

She turns back to her armoire, trying to decide on something for herself. She settles on a pretty mint green gown with a low neckline accentuated by sparkling beads. I guess she's feeling a little daring.

Our maids remove our curlers and begin the long process of giving us fancy updos to rival the most expensive salons in the twenty-first century. A marvel, really, considering they have no hair spray.

"So, um, anything I should know about these dance things? I mean, I'm sure you guys do things differently than we do in America. What should I talk about? I need a primer. Like a list of dos and don'ts."

I cringe when Eliza rips at my hair. Emily's maid seems to be all gentle — why do I get the one with the desire to make me bald?

I can only see Emily in my peripheral vision, but I can tell she's smiling. She's really into this society stuff. "First, you must know that when you arrive, if a gentleman asks you to dance, you must say yes unless you intend to sit out."

"Even if he's a total skeez?" She's silent. I can't turn my head to see her expression. "I mean, uh, even if I don't want to?"

"If you should decline the first man who asks you, it means you have no intention of dancing and no other gentleman shall ask."

"Oh. I get it." No one has ever asked me to dance, so I doubt this is going to be a problem. "Anything else?"

My butt is starting to hurt already from this hard stool I'm sitting on, but I'm afraid to move and wrinkle the gown.

"It is not polite to speak of the war, politics, or money. Gossip is always a safe topic."

Okay, gossip is a safe topic? How funny is that? I don't bother reminding her I don't know any gossip.

"I shall point out Lady Pommeroy to you on our arrival. She maybe calling some of the dances, so you'll need to follow her lead — or whoever is the lead couple — when the time is appropriate. She favors the country-dance, though that is not to say she will not intersperse a Scottish reel if it would please her guests."

I just keep nodding to everything she's saying, even though only half of it makes sense.

Actually, who am I kidding? None of it makes sense.

"I believe we are ready!" she says, all too soon.

My maid picks up a small hand mirror and holds it out to me. When I see my reflection, I'm so shocked my jaw drops.

I'm... beautiful. My hair is pulled up in a dozen different twists and pinned with little pearl-studded hairpins. Curls cascade down my shoulders.

I look... Wow. I stand up but manage to knock over a comb, and it clatters to the ground.

I try to pick it up but can't. The corset means I can lean forward but I can't bend. Eliza nods and scoops it up, as if this isn't odd at all.

I smile and look over at Emily. Tonight... it's going to be different. I'm going to be different. I'm wearing a corset and a dress and gloves and my Prada heels — which, although a little banged up, have been cleaned and polished to perfection — and I'm going to a ball. Or, er, a dance. Emily says it's only a ball if there are more than five hundred people.

But I can do this. I'm Rebecca. I'm smart and charming and outgoing. Everyone loves an American with stories to tell. I can be that girl. Tonight, I will be.