Prada and Prejudice (5 page)

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.

Chapter 7

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.

"So, uh, how far is town?" I ask Emily as a servant helps me into the carriage.

"Twelve miles," Emily says. She's sitting on a bench atop the carriage, arranging her skirts.

My heart jumps into my throat.

If we're really twelve miles away, how did I get this far? The carriage takes a left out of Harksbury, so I mentally add a few more miles from where I'd woken up. Fifteen miles?

Who would drive an unconscious person fifteen miles into the woods and drop her off? And even if someone did, is fifteen miles far enough from London for the scenery to look this...
rustic?

My only warped explanation is melting away, and as I watch the scenery roll by, a new explanation is nibbling at the edges of my mind.

The carriage rides roughly, every bump jarring me nearly out of the seat. There are curtains pulled open and tied to the side, so we'll have enough light to see by. I can't believe how noisy and drafty the whole thing is. We pass a couple carriages, and there are servants dressed just like the ones driving us. Emily is chatting away about the royal family, something about a ball or a mask or something, and then I get an idea.

"Wait, um, I forget... Who is the king these days?"

She laughs and playfully smacks my arm. "America is so isolated, isn't it? An entire continent away! The king is not truly our ruler, of course. Our monarch is the prince regent."

I nod and swallow the lump in my throat. Last year I had to take world history, including several chapters on the royal families of a dozen different countries. A prince regent
...
England hasn't had one of those since the early 1800s.

Okay, so they're really committed to their entire act. They probably have textbooks they refer to every night to make sure they get the details right.

It's a feeble excuse and it doesn't make sense anymore. Not when I watch as home after home rolls past, each of them looking older than the last. Not when the roads are so clearly prehistoric, with ruts and mud puddles.

Not when I haven't seen a single piece of ordinary trash, or a lamppost, or a broken-down car. A chill races down my spine. This isn't right. Everything is just... all off and unfamiliar.

I'm sitting in a carriage, for god's sake.

Emily must sense I don't want to talk to her because she leaves me alone as I stare at everything trailing by. It seems to be going faster and faster as the heavy feeling in my stomach grows to the size of a bowling ball.

Even if we
were
just playing make-believe, there would be something, right? Some clue, some overlap of the real world. But if I admit that maybe I'm not with crazy people, that maybe this
isn't
fake, what does that mean?

Around an hour later, as we get closer to town, the buildings become steadily closer together, until the carriage rolls to a stop near the sidewalk and I jump out so fast the servant who'd planned to help me nearly falls to the ground.

"Sorry!" I say, and then I scurry over to the shop nearest me and press my nose to the glass. There has to be something: a magazine, an orange extension cord, a Starbucks cup.

But there's nothing. I sprint down the block and look into the next store. I can feel Emily staring after me, her feet rooted to the place I left her.

This entire town
...
this village
...
there's nothing out of place. And it's
not
London at all. I'm far, far away from the hotel, and anything else I know.

I trudge back to Emily, my feet scraping along like fifty-pound weights. I feel as if I've just gone ten rounds in a boxing ring only to emerge defeated.

Emily is twisting a pretty ruffled parasol around in circles and staring at me with her best WTF look.

"Um, so, I have a question," I say. She already thinks I'm crazy.

And she's about to think I'm crazier.

"Yes?" Emily says.

"What year is it?"

She laughs. "Though I am sure your journey felt torturously long, it's but a month since your last letter. It is yet 1815."

1815. Right.

"I mean, not here," I say, motioning in our general vicinity. "I mean in the real world.

In the
whole
world, and not just your world." I wave my hands around for emphasis.

"I'm afraid I don't understand your meaning," she says.

And then I slump to the ground. Town was supposed to be my saving grace. I was supposed to find a telephone, or a taxi, or something that would make sense. Because since the moment I tripped in these stupid heels, nothing has.

I pull my legs up around me and bury my face in my knees. The skirts of this peach dress are scratchy on my face, hut I don't care. The fabric dampens with my tears.

Emily stands next to me. I can just make out the hem of her skirt in my glittering vision. "Rebecca?" she says, her voice concerned. She's shifting back and forth on her feet; I can see her dress sway with the movement.

I want to yell at her,
"Collie! My name is Callie!"
But I can't. What if I'm really stuck here? What if I have to be Rebecca forever? Of course, that won't work. The real Rebecca will arrive. In a month, according to Emily. And then what?

God, when did everything turn upside down? I go on a summer trip abroad, and then I start running two hundred years behind schedule?

Somehow I doubt that's quite what they had in mind when they said we'd be studying European History.

How does something like this even happen? It's not like I jumped in a black hole or tried to invent a time machine or
...
anything. Just
BAM,
and I'm here. My throat aches and my arms and legs are now a thousand pounds. I don't want to move. Ever.

"Er, Rebecca?" she says again.

I don't want to be Rebecca. I want to curl in a ball and close my eyes, and I want to see cars and smog when I open them up again.

But if I keep acting like this, Emily's going to be watching me. Closely. And I can't let her do that, because she'll start to think dear old Rebecca belongs in the loony bin. I've heard way too many horror stories about old asylums to allow that to happen. So she can't know I'm really Callie Montgomery, twenty-first-century high school girl. Telling everyone I'm a time-traveling freak will only make things worse.

"Uh, yeah, sorry," I say, my voice hoarse. "I'm just worn out, I think. I guess town
...
uh
...
changed more than I remember." I climb to my feet and try to wipe all the dirt from my skirts.

"Oh! I'd not thought of that. Yes, it's certainly grown, hasn't it? My home is nearly a full day's ride from here, and I'm afraid I don't visit as often as I'd like. I was quite impressed by the growth in the last few years." There's a note of pride in her voice, like she wants to brag about how large the town is when I'm pretty sure I can see all the way to the end of it from where I stand.

I nod but I don't speak again because I can't swallow the lump in my throat.

I want my mom, to be honest. Even though just thinking that makes me feel like I'm five instead of fifteen.

Emily turns and heads back to the carriage, but I just stand there, firmly rooted to the sidewalk. We can't just go back. Not yet. I'm not done here. There has to be something or someone who can help me.

I take one step and my heel catches on a cobble. I barely manage to stop myself before I face plant.

Oh God. These shoes! What if it's the shoes? That's exactly what happened before.

Maybe I could buy a new pair of shoes and wear them, and maybe that would fix everything.

I turn around and look up and down the walk. It's not like I'll find a Prada shop. But they obviously make shoes somewhere, right?

I stalk past several stores, peering in the windows. Someone makes shoes. They have to.

"Rebecca?" Emily's voice calls after me as I pass another shop. The shoes will fix everything. I'll put on some of those weird slipper-style things and once I walk out of the shop, I'll be back in London. The Prada heels are just cursed or something.

I pass another store. This one has little teacups in the window.

This is ridiculous. Don't girls like shoes here?

Oh. Wait. Even if I find a shoe store, how am I supposed to pay for the shoes?

Maybe I don't need the shoes, per se. Maybe I just need to take these stupid ones off. I unbuckle the straps over my foot, pick up the heel, and fling one shoe down the walkway.

Liberated, I pull the other heel off and fling it down with its mate.

Now what?

Should I fall over? On purpose?

That's how it worked before. I had to knock my head on the sidewalk. I eye the big cobbles beneath my bare toes. They look so
hard.

What if I have a real concussion? Last year, Mike Lange, star quarterback, had to sit out two games because he had a concussion. We lost both games because of it, but supposedly if he got another one within a couple weeks of the first, his brain could swell and he'd get brain damage.

Which doesn't really sound that fun.

Emily clears her throat.

I chew on my lip and look down the walkway at my shoes. What am I, crazy? I just flung four-hundred-dollar pumps down the street.

"Shall we shall return to Harksbury? Your journey must have tired you more than you expected. You need proper rest, yes?"

She's looking at me like I've gone a little loco, her cute button nose wrinkled up and her wide hazel eyes narrowed to tiny little slits.

How am I going to return to Harksbury after telling them all off? Maybe knocking my head wouldn't be
that
bad.

Stay calm. That's what everyone says about emergencies. You have to stay calm and everything will resolve itself.

"Yes. Let me, uh, let me go grab my shoes." I hobble, barefoot, down the walk and retrieve my pumps, jam my feet back into them, and then follow her back to the carriage.

The servants are silent, but I know they're staring at me when my back is turned. I have to pull it together. I can't just lose it like that, throwing my shoes like I'm in a shot-put competition.

If I think clearly, maybe I'll come up with a real plan.

But until then, my name is Rebecca. I am a prim and proper Regency girl. I wear dresses and I curtsy.