Mandy Hubbard: Prada and Prejudice

"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.

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.