Prada and Prejudice

Chapter 4

The door of the mansion swings open before I can even drop my fist, like someone has been standing on the other side the entire time. The elderly man staring back at me is thin and frail, with a sneer and a hard glare that makes me want to step back. My stomach twists. He doesn't look very friendly. He's dressed in a really old fashioned way, wearing a starched white shirt and black jacket, and get this — he's wearing a powdered wig like George Washington or something. He looks down at my dirty jeans and T-shirt, and then moves to shut the door in my face.

"Wait!" I say, and stick my foot into the entry. The door bounces off my aching toes and sends a wave of pain up my leg. Yes, my shoes are most definitely trashed now. "Please, I, uh, I n-need your help," I stutter. Is it crazy to even want help from a guy wearing a powdered wig? "I'm lost and—"

"Rebecca?" a girl's voice calls, in one of those pure, melodic British accents.

I crane my neck around the still half-closed door, hoping to catch a glimpse of whoever the girl is, hut she barrels at me so quickly I barely get a glimpse of her brown hair and beautiful pale skin before she's throwing her arms around me.

"It is you!" she squeals. "I knew it must be by your American accent! We hadn't expected you for a month yet! I've only just received your last letter stating that you were soon to purchase your tickets for the sea voyage." She envelops me in a hug so tight I can't breathe. I squish against her, and I can tell she's wearing a corset underneath her old fashioned dress, because the ribbing pokes me through my T-shirt. I think she's close to my age, probably less than eighteen, but with the clothes she seems older.

The lanterns, the old-fashioned clothes, the carriage... the size of those trees... and the way the stars look . ..

No, that's crazy. England just looks a lot different from America, that's all. England probably has better environmental regulations.

I realize I'm staring at the girl when she laughs awkwardly. "It's me, Emily! It's truly been along time, has it not? I believe we were seven when we last saw each other! Oh, how I missed my best friend!"

"Oh, no, I'm not—" And then I stop myself. I need help, right? Would it be totally wrong for me to let her think I'm this Rebecca girl? Just for an hour or so. What's the harm?

"I'm happy to be here," I finish. Guilt fills me, but I have no choice. If someone doesn't help me soon, I'm going to be spending the night in the woods, alone and scared.

"Come in from the cold! Oh, I'm so pleased that you've arrived! My visit at Harksbury has been quite dull, you see. I've been here just three weeks and am weary of the monotony. Where are your things?" She talks with her hands a lot, throwing them all over in her enthusiasm.

"Huh?" I see that she's looking behind me, and I turn around to see an empty stoop.

Oh, right. If I had come straight from America, I'd have luggage. "They, er, washed overboard in a storm. I lost everything."

"Such a pity! Well, no matter, we appear to be the same size. Are you wearing men's clothing? How embarrassed you must be!"

I blush, even though I'm not sure why. She's wearing a lavender dress with ruffles, and I'm the one who should be embarrassed? Who is this girl? And why is she dressed like that? British people are really odd. I bet this is one of those really formal, old-fashioned families. Maybe aristocrats or something.

"Can I use your telephone?" I blurt out. If I can get a hold of Mrs. Bentley, all this will be over soon. I'll be back in my room, taking a shower and putting on my warm fuzzy slippers.

The girl stops and tips her head to the side as she looks at me, like a dog would when it is trying to hear you better. Her brown curls bounce around like a shampoo commercial.

"A what?"

"Telephone." I try to keep my voice from sounding as desperate as I feel.

She scrunches her cute little nose. "I don't think so."

Tears spring to my eyes, but I blink them back. She probably has some fancy iPhone she doesn't want me to use. She probably thinks I'd steal it.

"How about, uh, a ride into town?" I say. "For, uh, clothes. Since I lost all mine." The lump in my throat grows until the last few words come out as a mere squeak.

"Town? At this hour? We'll go together first thing in the morning. I've a mind to buy some new ribbon. Until then you shall rest! His Grace has already retired for the evening, and I was only just on my way to my quarters myself, when I heard your voice. Let us get you settled and we shall go to town together in the morn."

"But — it's important. Please. It will be a quick trip." I hate myself, but my lip actually trembles like a little kid, until I bite it so hard I can taste blood.

The girl looks confused. She stares at me with a furrowed brow, and I don't like it; I get the feeling she knows something's up, that I'm not really Rebecca. If she realizes I'm a fraud, I'll be back on the road, walking — and trying to figure out what this girl, and her weird act, is all about. "I couldn't possibly send for the carriage at this hour without His Grace's permission. He may be my cousin, but I wouldn't dare wake him. You'll have to wait for the morn."

I don't even care that she said carriage and not car. I swallow, biting back the urge to beg and plead, and instead nod. I'm going to miss the whole thing tonight. I was really going to get the guts to go to that club.

What's worse is I know by the time I get back to the hotel tomorrow, Mrs. Bentley will probably have an entire search and rescue team looking for me, but it's not like I have other options.

"Okay, it can wait until tomorrow," I say. "I'm, uh, happy to be here."

She smiles and grabs my hand and drags me into the entry, and all I can think is ow,ow, ow with each step, until I'm inside and my mind goes completely blank, I'm so mesmerized. The foyer is huge, with thirty-foot arched ceilings and a grand staircase so big it could fit a hundred people. On the wall behind the steps is a mural at least twenty feet across, some kind of woodsy scene with leaping horses. The steps split on a landing halfway up, and then turn in opposite directions, toward separate wings.

This place is like a museum. Except bigger and fancier. The expansive floor is marble or granite or something, with an inlaid pattern that leads in all different directions, down long hallways and up to impressive oak doors. There's elegant oak molding and carved wood details all over the walls and ceilings, and huge portraits in gold frames hanging so far up the walls it would take a twenty-foot ladder to hang them. The toe of my Prada heel is resting on a colorful patterned rug, complete with tassels at two ends.

These people have money. With a capital M. More than necessary. I bet they have a private jet somewhere out back and their own airstrip.

"Come. Follow me."

I half expect her voice to echo in the cavernous space, but it doesn't. I follow her toward the stairs, but as I climb the first step, my heel catches and I go down, landing hard on my knees.

That's all it takes. I burst into tears in a heap on the second step. This is too much. I don't understand any of this and I don't want to. I just want it to he over. I want to he home and comfortable and happy, and I'm so far away I don't even know where I am. Why did this happen to me? What did I do to deserve this?

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.