Mandy Hubbard: Prada and Prejudice

Country-dance? Somehow I can't picture the old lady dancing.

The lady — also known as Grace, for some reason — shakes her head so vigorously her gray curls bounce. "I do not intend to... I believe I shall get some rest instead. I feel I'm coming down with something. Perhaps Rebecca could join you?" She turns to look at me.

"We'd not expected your arrival so soon, but I am sure your company would be most welcome at the Pommeroy Estate."

I just smile and nod. I'll be long gone before any country-dance takes place, but I don't say that. The mere idea of joining these people at a country-dance is laugh-out-loud funny.

Silence settles over the table for all of two-point-five seconds before the lady looks at me again. "And where is your father? I cannot believe he would allow you to travel such a distance unchaperoned!"

I stare at her. She's not suspicious of me, is she? What if all these questions are really her attempt to catch me in a lie? "Oh, no, he's pretty trusting," I say.

Can't Emily jump in here? She's just sitting there, perfectly erect in a sea-green gown, silently chewing on a biscuit.

Victoria thins her lips, and it accentuates all the fine lines in her face. She's got to be pushing fifty years old. "Even so, he's obviously remiss in his duties. You should have been raised in a proper household. Tell me, has he looked after your marriage prospects? Your mother was such a dear friend of mine, but even so, I worry that he's done you a disservice by not remarrying."

I choke on the biscuit I'm eating. She's calling herself a dear friend of my supposedly deceased mother in one breath, and then in the next, wishing my father had remarried? I do not like this lady. "I... uh..." I swallow slowly. "I don't want to get married until I'm thirty."

"Thirty!" she says. "That is ridiculous! This can not be what it has come to in America.

How do you expect to cope until then? I think I must write to your father immediately, for he seems to be allowing you too many liberties!"

Is she for real? Like she can just write a note to my dad and he's going to send me off to the chapel, or what? If she knew how little my dad actually cared about me, she wouldn't be saying that! "I'll be fine on my own. It's not like I need a guy or something."

This feels a little bit like defending my no-boyfriend status to myself. This is the part where I assure myself that it's okay that guys don't really pay attention to me. This is the part where I say I don't actually want or need a boyfriend, and then smile into the mirror as if I believe it. Really though, I'm ready for somebody to sweep me off my feet like all those silly movies I watch with only a bowl of popcorn for company.

But Victoria doesn't need to know it. She just looks taken aback for a moment, like what I'd said was beyond rude or something. I bite down, hard, on my lip. I need to shut up, or this is going to turn into Trisha Marks: Part 2. I'll blurt out something stupid and get myself into yet another mess. Why am I arguing? Why am I allowing her to bait me?

"But how can you possibly expect to live? I should think that would be quite a difficult life. You can not be capable of managing on your own."

I try to stop myself, but it doesn't work. The words come flooding out. "It's not difficult at all. In fact, if marriage is anything like you seem to think it is, I want nothing to do with it. I'll be happy if I remain single forever! So you can forget about planning my wedding, I don't want it!" I push my plate away so fast half the contents spill onto the white linens.

This whole surreal, crappy day is catching up to me and everything is spiraling out of control.

"You will bite your tongue!"

That's it. I shove back from the table and my chair topples over and nearly knocks into the servant who had stepped forward to grab it. Everything is crashing down around me, and I can't handle any of this anymore. "I will not! I don't know who you think you are, or what in God's name you guys think you're doing acting like this, but you don't have the right to rule my life." Before I know what I'm doing I spin around, my skirts twirling, and rush toward the door. When I get there I look back at the table. "You guys are all crazy. "

And then I turn and run. I can't even feel the pain or blisters on my feet anymore as my sight blurs with tears.

What the heck am I doing? I know I just made things so much worse. I know I need them to help me. But it's too late to stop now.

Down the hall, I find the foyer, where a man opens the door for me, and I burst outside as if reality will find me on the other side and I can leave all this craziness behind.

It's not there, of course. It's just more of the expansive lawn and the long drive. I'm still standing here in this ridiculous dress.

The door clicks open and I turn around, praying it's Emily, but it's not.

It's the duke. The second I see the toe of his leather boots, my heart leaps into my throat. My eyes travel up his long legs and over his waist and chest, until I get to his face, and my heart sinks. He's ticked. He's across the stoop in a half second, his strides so long and purposeful I have to fight the urge to just run.

"Might I remind you that you are a guest in my home?" His words come out so loud and harsh it's impossible not to wince.

I open my mouth to say something but I have no idea how I'm supposed to respond.

It doesn't look like he wanted an answer anyway, because he just surges ahead. "You may be from America but you are in England, and you'll do well to adhere to the rules of society. You will not insult the dowager again."

"Then tell her to leave me alone ! "

He takes one more step, so he's inches away. "It may be acceptable to speak as you do where you come from. But in my world, we respect our elders and our superiors."

"She's not my superior. And neither are you."

"I outrank you," he says, half spitting the words as he edges even closer.

"So? Does that make you better than me?" I put one hand on my hip and clench the other in a fist.

"Yes, it does!" he thunders.

"Ugh! You're unbelievable," I say. "I've never met anyone so arrogant in my life."

"No? Well, I've never met anyone so insolent! You are certainly not the prim little Rebecca my mother was expecting."

My lips part slightly and I stare back at him, my anger twisting with fear. Why did he emphasize Rebecca? What is he saying? Does he know I'm not her?

I grasp at the fury I'd felt just moments ago, but it's slipping away.

He doesn't explain, just spins around and stalks away. I'm left staring at the door as it slams shut behind him.

I'm halfway down the stairs when the sounds of a carriage echo, and I stop, one foot on the cobbled drive and one on the stone steps. When I glance upward, I see Emily walk out the door, a mischievous grin on her cherub face. "I've never seen Her Grace look so shocked in all her life!" she giggles, and despite everything, I smile at her. I can't believe I'm actually smiling after all this.

I kind of want to take her with me when I go. She doesn't deserve to live here with these people. They're all mean and crazy, and she's just nice.

I try to shrug away the worry that the duke is setting up his dungeon as we speak and instead turn toward the carriage rolling up, two shiny black horses pulling it. I just stand there and stare for what seems like eternity, wondering if I should really get inside that thing. And then I pinch myself. For real, I reach over and pinch my arm, leaving a nasty red mark behind, but I'm still standing here. Yesterday, I was sitting in a twenty- first-century cafe in London, bemoaning my lack of friends... and now look at me: braided hair, old-fashioned dress, and I'm about to get into a carriage. A real-life, horse-drawn carriage.