Mandy Hubbard - Prada and Prejudice

I slow as I approach the barns. There's some kind of rhythmic beat coming from inside. It's almost musical.

When I round the corner, I see a man with an overturned bucket tapping away on it with two sticks, like a drummer. Two boys who look barely thirteen are doing the absolute funniest Riverdance I have ever seen, jumping around like happy little leprechauns, their elbows jutting out and their toes barely touching the ground.

I can't stop the laugh that bubbles out of me. I clamp a hand over my mouth but it's too late; they've heard it. One of the boys stops so quickly he falls over and promptly turns beet red.

And now I feel really guilty, because I know precisely how the burn in his cheeks feels.

The last thing I should be doing is laughing at other people.

"I'm sorry, I don't mean to laugh. I've just, uh, never seen dancing like that before."

The younger boy, a redhead, picks himself up off the ground with a wide-eyed look.

"You are American," he says, as if I'm a mythical creature.

I nod. "Yes. And, uh, we have different dances where I come from."

"Can you show us one?" The second boy, a dark-haired kid, steps forward, looking intrigued.

I stifle a laugh. "Oh, uh, no. I'm a horrible dancer."

"Please?" the redheaded boy asks. "I have never seen an American dance."

I just laughed at them thirty seconds ago. Wouldn't that make me mean if I just blow them off now?

"I doubt you'd want to see these dances," I say, stalling. I feel kind of bad. But I really can't dance. I'll make a fool of myself.

"Oh, but I do. Most certainly."

"Oh." Well, then.

I could try, right? Just some tiny little thing?

But what do I share? MC Hammer? The Running Man? The Electric Slide? A little Macarena?

"Uh," I say, stepping forward. "How about, um, the Robot?"

"The Robot?" the two boys ask in unison.

Did the word robot even exist in 1815?

"Yeah. You, uh, hold your arms out like this," I say, demonstrating the proper way to stand like a scarecrow. I can't believe I'm doing this. "And then relax your elbows and let your hands swing. Like this."

I'm really not doing it well, but by the way their eyes widen, you'd think I just did a full-on pop-and-lock routine with Justin Timberlake. They mimic my maneuver, making it look effortless.

The drummer guy stands up and gets in on the action, swinging his arms freely. The guy's better than me after a two-second demo. Figures.

"Okay, then, uh, you sort of walk and you try to make everything look stiff and, uh, unnatural. Like this." I show him my best robotic walk, my arms mechanical in their movements.

The two boys and the drummer immediately copy me, and by the time they've taken four or five steps, they seriously look like robots.

In no time they're improvising, and their laughter trickles up toward the rafters of the barn.

Yeah. That's my cue to leave before inspiration strikes and I try to show them how to break-dance but only succeed in breaking my neck.

I slip out of the barn unnoticed, grinning to myself as I walk the gravel path back toward the house, my skirts brushing the dirt.

At least somewhere, I'm not Callie the Klutz. Even if it's just some smelly old barn.

There's hope for me after all.

Once back in my room, I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling.

I know I should read the letters stuffed under my mattress, but I can't bring myself to dig them out.

They hit too close to home.

That poor little girl is going to grow up without her dad. At least she won't know what she's missing. Me, I had a father for twelve years. And he wasn't such a bad father, either. A little busy most of the time, but not bad.

And then, out of the blue, he left my mom. It's been the two of us ever since. I'm pretty sure she let me go on the London trip because it gave me a convenient excuse for turning down my dad and summer in the Hamptons. I don't have the opportunity to think much more on the subject before the maid comes in, the hardwood floors creaking under her steps.

"I've come te help ye change fer dinner."

I sit up and look at my clothing. It's still clean and relatively wrinkle-free, which is an accomplishment for me. I'm forever dropping food on my clothes. "I'm sure this is fine," I say.

Her mouth tightens like she's fighting a smile. "A mornin' dress is no' suitable fer a dinner party."

"A dinner party?" I don't like the sound of that.

She nods as she pulls me over to the stool near the wardrobe. "Yes. 'Er Ladyship invited our neighbors te dine te celebrate yer arrival. Ye could hardly go in such casual wear."

Casual? This is casual? Compared to her basic black dress, I'm ready for a night on the town.

She's throwing clothing in my direction and I don't know what I'm supposed to do, so I just catch it and stand there, my arms filling. And when I see the last item, I freeze, holding it between two hands and staring as if it's a typhoid-infested blanket.

In fact, it's worse. It's a corset.

She's seriously going to put me in a corset.

"I'm under strict order by the lady o' the house te make ye presentable. Ye'r a guest o' Harksbury and as such, ye must be properly attired." The maid tucks an errant strand of her dark hair behind her ear, as if she's suddenly aware of her own appearance.

I know without asking that those are not her words; I can actually hear the grouchy old lady saying them, even through the maid's thick accent.

I swallow and nod, stepping forward to accept my fate. I sure hope all those girls in historical novels are exaggerating.

I don't exactly have a high pain threshold. I cried the last time I got a filling.

As she laces the corset, and the volume of air inside my lungs depletes, I gain a new appreciation for my ancestors. This sucks. Oh sure, it's not too bad at first. But it's sort of like putting on a pair of shoes that's just a teensy bit too snug. You don't notice it too much for the first ten minutes, but then it becomes so apparent you can't ignore it. It's like a girdle and a push-up bra put together, and I think my boobs must be right under my chin, because there's no room for them in front of my ribs.

Next she pulls me to my feet and puts my arms straight up in the air, like I'm a little kid. She pulls a crimson dress over my head. It's a soft satin, with pretty little rosebuds embroidered along the short puffy sleeves. It's not nearly as scratchy as the peach gown I'd been wearing all morning, so I feel a little better about changing.

Of course, I'd feel a lot better if I could breathe, but I guess that's not possible.

She guides me back to the vanity, where her next mission is redoing my braids. My scalp is screaming within ten seconds.

I've got to distract myself somehow. I clear my throat. "So, um, what is your name?"

She pauses. "Eliza, miss."

"Oh. I'm Ca — Rebecca."

Whew, that was close.

"I know, miss."

Oh. Right. Okay then.

"Shouldn't you have today off? Isn't it Sunday?"

"I've a half day off ever' three days. I'll be out temorra afte'noon.

I snort. "A half day?"

God, that's ridiculous. She doesn't even get a single full day off? What is Alex, some kind of slave driver? Jeez.

"I've got some slippers that should fit you," she says, ignoring my question. She bends over and slips a pair onto my feet, and my toes sigh in relief. They're soft and comfortable. Thank God. I'd like to look at them more closely, but I can't bend over. This corset is stiff.

"Good! Ye are ready. The guests are gatherin' in the drawin' room."

I nod but just stare blankly at her because I don't know where that is. Or rather, which room that is, of the dozens I explored. She seems to get my point because she says, "Oh!" and motions me to follow her.

She takes me to the grand staircase and stops at the top, pointing across the foyer to an open door partway down the hall. I can hear voices and laughter trickling out.

I take a tiny, timid step down the stairs, and then another. The pretty red gown is trailing behind me on the steps.

I stop and reach up to check my hair.

Is it hot in here?

I touch my cheeks.

They're warm.

I take three more steps.

I want to turn around but a glance upward reveals that the maid is still standing at the top, staring at me like I'm crazy.

I swallow.

I look good. I know I do. It's a beautiful dress, and my hair is done up like it's supposed to be, and no one here wears name-brand anything. Well, except me and my heels.

For the first time in my life, no one knows me as Callie Montgomery, class nerd with a big mouth and two left feet. I can be Callie the popular girl. Callie, the girl everyone likes to talk to and laugh with.

Or, well, Rebecca, the popular girl. Minor technicality.

I force myself to walk naturally down the last dozen steps, my shoulders pulled back and my head held high.

I cross the foyer in what feels like milliseconds, and before I can even pause to take a deep breath, I'm in the drawing room, overcome by the loud buzz of conversation.

So many people. There must be at least fourteen of them, all dressed to the nines like this is a five-star restaurant. They're gathered in groups around the fireplace or the wood-trimmed brocade furniture. I'm grateful Eliza forced me to change because, I now realize, I would have looked ridiculous in that peach dress.

The grumpy old lady wears a cream-colored satin dress that skims over those extra thirty pounds she's sporting and just touches the ground. Her gray hair is twisted up on her head and held together with pins I can't even see. She might look pretty, except her piercing green eyes are narrowed to tiny slits as she listens to one of the guests speak in her ear.

Seriously, if the woman smiled, just once, I'd probably keel over in shock.

Emily is walking toward me, wearing a modest sky-blue dress that makes her skin practically glow as her dark hair shines. Carefully placed ringlets — so different from the messy look Mindy prefers — hang down near her temple and chin, framing her tiny little face. She looks like a china doll. A really pretty one.

My eyes search the room, and I don't realize who I'm looking for until I've spotted him. He's so tall, he's easy to find. He's wearing a black jacket with shiny brass buttons and a snowy-white shirt, complete with some kind of tie that is wrapped all around his neck. He's nodding his head to something someone is saying, and then I catch his eye, and before I can duck, he's staring straight at me.

I clench my jaw and try not to think of the letter I've just read. It makes me want to march right up to him and slap him across the face. Once for that lady, once for the kid, and once for me.

He says nothing. He does nothing. He just stares at me and I stare back, and for a long moment I don't see anything else.

The room is spinning but Alex's eyes aren't moving; they're locked on mine. He's probably sending me mental signals to behave like a good little society girl.

The moment is broken when Emily tugs on my elbow. "Oh, Rebecca, my gown looks beautiful on you! Much prettier than on myself. You shall keep it," she says.

"Oh, no, I couldn't—" I start, but she waves me away.

"You must."

"Oh," I say.

"Look, Victoria wants us," she says. I cringe when I realize Victoria is the grouchy old lady. Oh, joy.

I follow Emily over to where Victoria is standing. Emily bobs into a curtsy and I awkwardly follow, and then trip on the skirt and have to grab the elbow of a random guy to stop myself from falling.

Victoria stifles a laugh and I want to punch her for it, but the guy distracts me. "You must be Rebecca," he says, in a voice that sounds sweet and intelligent, if a voice can be intelligent.

"Yes, please, uh, excuse me for my clumsiness."

Poor Rebecca. I'm going to single-handedly ruin her reputation before she even gets to England.