Mandy Hubbard: Prada and Prejudice

I don't know what this place is, but it's huge and fancy and expensive. It's like a bed-and-breakfast for rich aristocrats or something.

It's a servant who woke me up. I can tell by the look of her. She is in a plain black dress, with her mousy hair pulled back in a low bun. She's pretty, even without any makeup, with a fresh face that belongs in a Noxzema commercial. When she smiles at me, it somehow quells the panic that is steadily rising in my stomach.

The girl is dragging a trunk. She stops by the big armoire and flings it open. "I've four dresses fer ye te choose from," she says. She has a funny accent. It's British, but it's not all prim and proper-sounding like Emily's. "We must hurry or yell be late. The duke'll be joining the ladies fer breakfast on yer account."

I shoot out of bed like a rocket, the panic back in full force. " Duke? What does that mean?"

She looks at me like I've grown a second head. '"m sorry?"

" Who is a duke?"

"His Grace, o'course."

I just stare at her, my heart quickening to a thunderous roar. "A guy named Grace is a duke?"

She snorts, and then covers her mouth like the reaction was inappropriate. '"Is name is not Grace. 'E's Lord Alexander Thorton-Hawke. The Duke of Harksbury."

"So why did you just call him Grace?"

She lifts an eyebrow at me. "I forget ye'r American. The appropriate way te address 'im — and any other duke — is Your Grace."

"Oh."

I sit down on the edge of the bed. My legs are too shaky to hold me up. So I've landed myself in the house of a duke.

Now I get why the house is so fancy. But what does that mean? Is he royalty? He's probably going to hate me.

Oh God. What if he knows Rebecca (aka, the girl I am not) better than Emily? What if he knows I'm not her? Dukes have power, right? What if he has me arrested or throws me in a dungeon or something? This place is huge. Like a castle. They probably have a dungeon. No one will ever find me. Not in a foreign country in the middle of nowhere.

I start breathing heavily, my breath coming out in rasps. I need air.

"Are ye okay?"

I don't move or nod or even acknowledge her. I just keep staring at the edge of the rug beneath my toes.

God, why did I ever say I was Rebecca? This is never going to work. I should have told Emily the truth. Maybe she would have helped me even if I was a stranger. She seemed nice.

I could have just asked for help instead of pretending to be someone else.

Even if she hadn't helped I could have kept walking. Maybe town isn't really that far. I could be there now, instead of in the house of a duke who will probably have me beheaded or something.

Ten minutes pass, my breathing returns to normal, and I feel a little better. I just have to get through breakfast. If the duke doesn't realize I'm not Rebecca in the first second I meet him, I can probably pull it off. I'll just stare down at my plate and stay quiet. Then Emily will take me to town and I'll bail and run for it. She won't know what hit her.

The servant just kind of stands there and waits for me, without saying anything. She doesn't even act like she thinks I'm crazy, thank God. I don't think I could take that on top of everything else. Finally, I pull myself together and stand up.

The girl picks up some clothing and throws it over the edge of the bed. I'm so not a dress person, but I have way bigger things to worry about.

I take a deep, soothing breath, focusing on the things in front of me.

Once I get to town I don't have to play their games — I'll hail a taxi and get back to the hotel. Mrs. Bentley will yell at me for freaking her out, we'll all have a good laugh, and then I'll continue on my trip. My mom will probably ground me when I get back home, but at this point home sounds so heavenly I could care less.

God, what if the shoes have something to do with it? This all happened the second I put them on. Maybe they're cursed or something.

"Breakfast's served in twenty minutes. We best hurry."

At the mention of food, my stomach growls so loudly it sounds like a wounded cat.

The maid pretends not to notice. Before I can figure out what the girl is doing, she's pulling my T-shirt off over my head and I'm naked. Guess she's not worried about my modesty.

I stand with one arm crossed over my chest until she forces my arms above my head so she can slip on a thin scratchy gown, and then she's yanking my jeans off and throwing other things over my head and lacing them up.

I swear she puts six layers on me, though it's probably more like three. The dress is a pretty peach color, with white trim on the bottom and the neckline. She ties a little white sash just under my bust, making an empire waist.

It's cute, actually. I'd never wear it at home of course, but here, it kind of works.

Now that I'm wearing it, though, I'm filled with the overwhelming desire to yank it back off. I can't wear this. I can't be like them and pretend this is ancient history and that wearing stuff like this is normal.

I start to walk away. I need my jeans. I need... normalcy.

But the maid takes me by the shoulders, shuffles me over to a stool, and forcibly plops me down on it. Next thing I know, she's brushing my hair. Hard. I swear she must rip out thirty strands with the first swipe, because my scalp is screaming.

I grimace my way through her hair styling, and within ten minutes she's done. I reach my hand up and feel gently around the top of my head. She's turned my hair into some kind of braided updo, twisted around my head like a crown.

She hands me a pair of gloves, and I plan to just hold onto them, but then I realize she expects me to wear them now. Indoors. It seems sort of silly but I slip them on anyway.

I try on the slippers she's brought me, but they're way too small. Emily and I might share a dress size, but we definitely differ when it comes to feet. The maid finds my Prada heels, and even though my toes still hurt and I've officially decided that the heels are the bane of my existence, I slip them on. It's not like I can go barefoot.

By the time I'm limping down the stairs, my dress trailing behind me on the steps, I don't even feel like I'm myself anymore. From my braided hair to this ancient-style dress, I'm someone else. I've stepped into a dream.

Or maybe a nightmare.

A servant shows me down a hall, and it seems to extend forever and ever. The house is huge, a labyrinth of doors and halls that extend further than I can see. It reminds me of my high school. Except fancier.

The halls are tall and wide, yet still a little dark. There aren't any light fixtures. Or light switches. Instead there are paintings everywhere, and patterned carpeting, and thick carved casings around each door. Many of the windows have deep bays with seats, and others are made of leaded glass, some colored. It feels a little eerie to walk down the hall, dressed like this, like I'm part of it all.

I stop, close my eyes, and breathe in and out slowly, concentrating on the sound, trying to ignore the feeling of the dress brushing against my legs. This isn't real.

I open my eyes, but I'm still standing here.

God, I need to get away.

When I walk into the dining room, Emily is inside, and my eyes dart to meet those of the two strangers: an overweight woman in her late forties who looks like she's wearing a giant doily and a guy who looks much closer to my age. That's the duke? He's probably nineteen! Before I can get a better look at him, the woman barrels at me, her arms outstretched.

"Miss Rebecca," she says, and then wraps me in a bear hug. "It's so wonderful to see you! Your journey must have been a hasty one, you're so early! I must apologize for not greeting you last night."