Mandy Hubbard: Prada and Prejudice

Four weeks. I've been here four weeks.

Yesterday, back at the seamstress's, I learned that the ship from America had already been spotted from the shoreline. It's arriving right on time. Tomorrow, the real Rebecca will be here.

The lies I've heaped on Alex, Emily, and Victoria are going to come tumbling down. I don't know what to do now. Do I just hang out and wait for her to show up and reveal what a fraud I've been? Do I warn them and risk getting kicked out before I have to leave?

Would they kick me out? I have no money. Nowhere to go.

And that is why tonight must last forever. So the morning won't come and I won't have to make a decision I'm not at all prepared for.

Emily wanted to get dressed together again, but I want to be alone. I'll spill it all if I have to hang out with her. I'll tell her I'm a big fat liar and her real friend is going to arrive at any moment. I'll tell her I'm not worthy of her friendship.

I haven't looked at my dress yet. It arrived in a box, now sitting on my bed.

When Eliza comes in, I reluctantly leave the now-cold water and accept the robe she hands me. I walk to the vanity and sit quietly as she yanks on my hair and rolls it — too tightly — into curlers. She powders my face but I decline any other makeup.

The corset and thin undergarments go on, and then I stand as Eliza slides my gown from the box and drapes it across her arm in a swath of sparkling emerald. My heartbeat quickens at the sight of it. This is my night. I'm going to dance with Alex. I'm going to convince him to kiss me again, and this time I'm not going to run away.

Tonight I will be Cinderella, because tomorrow I'm going to turn back into Callie and all of this will be gone. I'll be alone again, instead of eating with a duchess and flirting with a duke and breaking and rearranging engagements.

The gig'll be up.

I put my arms over my head and Eliza slips the gown on. It slides effortlessly over my hips and to the floor. I know by the look on Eliza's face that it's perfect. Her mouth forms a tiny o and her eyes widen. '"Tis beautiful, miss."

She goes around to the back, tightens the cords and adjusts the sleeves, and then walks to the box and pulls out two snowy-white elbow-length gloves. I slip them on, the cool silk sliding effortlessly over my skin.

I sit back down and she lets the curlers out of my hair and sets to work, gentle with the tendrils for the first time since I've been at Harksbury. It's like she knows tonight is different, like the gown showed her how important this is.

Downstairs, the buzz of the guests is building. Through the window, I hear horses being brought around to the stables. I feel so detached from everything already. I'm trying to force myself to think that tomorrow I might not be here. Not when they all know the truth. Not when Rebecca, live and in person, gets here. I know I should be thankful she hasn't arrived early or something, but all I want is for her to never show up at all.

I wonder if I even look like her. I bet if I saw her, I'd laugh that our identities were mistaken. I guess it's good that this is 1815 and photography hasn't been invented yet.

Once I'm wearing my slippers and the hum of the guests downstairs is too much to ignore, I stand. Eliza holds out a mirror, and when I see myself, I'm so stunned I freeze.

That cannot be me.

My blonde hair is a cascade of loose curls. A string of pearls weaves its way through the tendrils, like a sparkling tiara. The neckline of my gown scoops low enough to hint at the boobs I barely have, but which are currently pushed halfway to my chin and squeezed together with this corset. Humph. So maybe corsets serve a teeny purpose.

The long full skirts of my green dress nearly touch the floor, and the hemline is sewn with hundreds, maybe thousands, of translucent green beads. It must have taken dozens of workers to sew that many on in such a short time. The heading is mirrored along the empire waist and neckline.

Emily has done an amazing job. She really does have a future as a designer. It's a shame she can't be the next Donna Karan or something. But at least all of her friends, whoever they are, will be dressed in the hottest fashions.

It's sad that I can't be one of those friends. The knowledge of that tiny fact twists inside me and makes me feel hollow.

"Ye shall have te hide from Emily, else ye steal the attention."

I grin at Eliza as a shot of adrenaline courses through me. I can do this. I can stop thinking about tomorrow and just enjoy tonight.

She leaves the room, and I walk to the window and take a few deep calming breaths as I watch the grooms scurrying back and forth with guests' horses.

When I think I can handle the idea of mingling with all these strangers, I leave the sanctuary of my room and head toward the entry. The buzzing of conversations and laughter quickly escalates into a dull roar. It's a little weird, seeing so many people talking and mingling in the lobby below as servants take their jackets.

When I reach the top of the stairs, there's an odd moment when the conversations die down, and I think everyone is staring at me. No, that's me being paranoid. They're looking — but only some of them. I smile shakily and resist the urge to smooth my skirts or check my hair, and instead let my gloved hand slide over the banister as I descend into the entry.

There seems to be a steady flow of people going in one direction, so I follow the throngs, curious as to where they're heading. And then I round a corner I've somehow never taken before and am shocked to see two of the largest doors in Harksbury propped open wide enough that I can see what's beyond them.

A ballroom. All this stinkin' time, there's been a ballroom at Harksbury. I can see, now, that it makes up one of the walls bordering the courtyard. It even has two doors. How can I not have noticed this?

The wood floors gleam underneath chandeliers filled with dancing flames. Diamonds and satin sparkle under the lights. A band fills one corner and dancers fill another. There's a table so long it stretches from one wall to another, bursting with food. Another table wraps around the corner and is filled with drinks.

Guests stream past me, and the room steadily fills.

Two women walk past, one of them bumping into me but not apologizing. They seem to be lost in conversation.

"—paid the man five thousand pounds so she could marry Mr. Rallsmouth, you know."

"The duke?"

"Yes. Apparently, her father had high ambitions for her. Wanted the girl to marry a peer. It took a bit of financial persuasion to change his mind."

What? Alex paid Emily's dad off?

I won't tell you what I had to do, he'd said.

How could I have forgotten that?

I don't know how much five thousand pounds is, but it sure sounds like a fortune.

I'm still standing in the entry, half dazed by this news, when Emily finds me. "Oh, Rebecca, you look beautiful!"

I force a smile, even though I want to burst into tears because she's called me Rebecca. We're so close now. We've been through so much. She should be calling me Callie.

I wish I could tell her, I wish I could explain, but tonight is not the time. We're celebrating. I can't ruin this night for her. But hearing her say that word is like having my lies thrown back in my face. I don't have to ask to know she's never lied to me. That's just not her style.

She curtsies and I take in the details of her crimson gown: scalloped hemline, cap sleeves, embroidered bust, all of it vibrant against her richly dark hair, which has been pulled up above her head with a black butterfly-shaped clip. She's a bright splash of color among the rest of the room. But the dress can hardly compete with the sparkle in her eyes; she's positively gleeful.