I stir a lump of sugar into my third cup of tea and look out the window of the breakfast room. It’s on the side of the house, not facing the very long driveway, the outbuildings, or the gardens, so it’s just small rolling hills eventually turning to forest. Since it’s late autumn, all the green is slowly darkening, turning orange and red and eventually brown.

Is this a moor? I wonder, still stirring, absentmindedly. Where was Wuthering Heights set? Was it around here?

This does seem like the kind of place where a man could stare broodily out his window and think about his lost childhood love for most of his life without ever actually going down and doing anything about it.

I take a sip of my tea. It’s a little too sweet, because I swear these teacups hold two tablespoons of liquid, and I can’t get the tea-to-sugar-to-milk ratio right to save my life.

That was Wuthering Heights, right? With Heathcliff, and the moors, and the brooding?

A bell tinkles directly across the table from me, startling me out of trying to remember eleventh grade English class. I suddenly realize that Lady Catherine is watching me, a slightly disapproving expression on her face. I blink.

Her face rearranges itself into a smile, and half a second later, I follow suit. One of the kitchen maids enters quietly through a door, then stands attentively behind Lady Catherine.

“Could you bring more sugar please, Julia?” Lady Catherine asks, gesturing at the plate of sugar cubes.

Julia nods, then exits just as quietly as she entered.

Right. That’s probably a subtle hint that I’m eating too much sugar, and that it’s bad for my teeth and waistline.

I’m trying. I swear to God I’m trying with Alistair’s family, because they’re going to be my family in a couple of months, and it’s the right thing to do. But I constantly feel like I’m a bull in a china shop around them, crashing into every room at top volume, always doing the wrong thing.

Lady Catherine clears her throat. I sit up straighter, prepare myself, wishing like hell that they served coffee because sorry, England, but tea is a weak-ass substitute.

“I’m so glad you’ve volunteered to co-host the St. Michael’s Charity Gala with Elizabeth,” she says.

I’ve what?

“The charity gala?” I ask, as politely as I can.

Lady Catherine takes a long, leisurely sip of her tea, in no hurry to answer my question.

“Yes, the charity gala for the children’s hospital that’s in four days? Alistair said that you were quite excited for the chance to help Elizabeth with it,” she says. “And of course, though Elizabeth is quite experienced with these sorts of things, with it being so close she could certainly use some assistance. Something always comes up last minute.”

I swallow, spine ramrod straight as I entertain a quick fantasy of taking Alistair by the shoulders and shaking some damn sense into him.

“Yes! Of course, the gala that’s in four days. I definitely offered to help Elizabeth with that.”

Say something else, it sounds like you’re lying.

Well, you are.

“I think it will be a lovely opportunity for the two of us to work together and... really bond as sisters,” I say. “I can’t wait.”

Lady Catherine nods approvingly. I think once more about shaking Alistair, because who signs someone else up to throw a gala without even mentioning it to them?

“I’m terribly sorry that I can’t accompany you two on your girls’ day out today,” she goes on. “I’m afraid that we’ve got a new set of gardeners coming in to winterize the roses, and you know how gardeners can be if there’s no one around to watch them like a hawk, so I’m afraid it falls to me.”

“We’ll miss you,” I say, the smile still plastered on my face. I’m definitely one step behind on everything, but I’m trying my best to at least act like I’m not.

Lady Catherine stands, glances out one of the windows. Toward the huge green space that might be a moor.

“I’m sure you and Elizabeth will have a wonderful time together,” she says. “She’s been talking about wanting to take you shopping for ages.”

Sure she has, I think as Lady Catherine sweeps out of the room, one of the kitchen staff quietly ducking in and clearing her breakfast dishes away.

I don’t know what the charity gala is. I’ve got no idea how to host one, and all I know about my girls’ day out with Elizabeth is that it’s going to involve shopping.

That thought alone ties my stomach into a knot, because I’m one thousand percent sure I can’t afford anywhere that Elizabeth might take me. I doubt she’s ever heard of a little boutique TJ Maxx, or my favorite high-end, exclusive store, Marshall’s.

And it’s not like I can ask her if she’s paying for it. That’s beyond rude, so I just secretly hope that she’ll offer and, in the meantime, try to remember what my credit card spending limits are.

* * *

The moment our driver pulls up in front of the Claire Bolton Boutique, I have a bad feeling about it. In the front window are three gowns on headless mannequins, each one a tasteful waterfall of sequins, tulle, and taffeta. They’re the sort of dress that screams I’m twenty thousand dollars!

“I’m afraid this place may have gone downhill,” Elizabeth murmurs to me as we approach the front door, tossing her blonde hair as she does. “A few years ago, you’d never have seen those travesties in a shop window, but I’m afraid everyone’s catering to the lowest common denominator these days.”

A sales woman practically runs over to Elizabeth the moment we’re through the door, and Elizabeth takes me by the arm, smiling as warmly as she can.

It’s not fake. Not exactly, but I’m a little unnerved by her anyway, because I’ve come to suspect that she’s not doing anything out of the kindness of her heart. Not where I’m concerned, anyway.

“This is my future sister-in-law Françoise,” she says. “She’s to be helping me with the annual St. Michael’s Charity Gala in a few days, and I’m afraid she needs an appropriate dress for the occasion.”

I think it goes without saying that all the dresses I brought were summarily dismissed as not appropriate.

“Do you have a preferred designer?” the woman asks, giving me a hard eyeball. “That might give us a starting place for your body type.”

“I wear a lot of vintage pieces,” I say, ignoring her comment about my body type, which I assume means short and curvy.

Elizabeth smiles, instantly hiding it behind her hand.

“I see,” says the saleswoman, clearly unimpressed. “If you’ll give me a moment, please feel free to be seated in our lounge area and I’ll figure out something that I think might work for you.”

She directs us to a few couches by the dressing room. As we walk over, I try desperately to spot some price tags, but no dice. They’re all either cleverly hidden, or, worse, nonexistent and of course Elizabeth still hasn’t said anything about maybe giving me an early wedding present.

I sit, stiffly, on a blue velvet couch. A well-dressed young man comes over with two glasses of champagne, and I take one, finish nearly half of it in one gulp. Hopefully it’s free, but if I’m about to spend more than my monthly rent on one dress, why the hell not add a glass of champagne to the bill?

The reasonable part of my brain keeps telling me to just ask if we can go somewhere with normal prices, but I can’t bring myself to do it. It feels rude, somehow, or like I’m showing weakness to Elizabeth. She’s not someone who really understands the phrase I can’t afford this, and frankly, I’m too chicken to say it to her.

Maybe I can return it after the gala, I think.

“I’m sorry about the champagne,” she says, loftily looking around the shop. “I’m afraid the quality here has gone somewhat downhill, they used to have — oh.”

She looks at my champagne glass. It’s empty. Oops.

“I thought it was fine,” I say lamely.

“I was about to say, it used to be much higher quality, but I see that doesn’t bother you,” she says, smiling. “You’re so charming that way, Françoise, I love how you don’t seem to mind — oh, here are the dresses!”

The saleswoman pushes in a rack. She eyes me up and down again, then pushes them around for a moment and hands me one, pointing officiously toward a dressing room.

The moment I’m inside, heavy velvet curtain shut, I look for a price tag. I swear I nearly rip the dress to shreds looking for the thing, but it’s nowhere to be found.

It’s bad news. It’s the worst news, because as someone who works in fashion, sort of, I’m well aware of how much a dress can cost, and that knowledge is making me sweat.

Stop being a pussy and tell her you can’t afford it, I think. It’s that easy. It really is.

I put the dress on, careful not to get my hair stuck in the zipper. I step out of the dressing room to two sets of appraising eyes, careful to hold the too-long skirt up.

I don’t ask how much it is, and I don’t tell Elizabeth I can’t afford it.

* * *

“Let’s see the green one again,” Elizabeth calls into the dressing room.

I roll my eyes at my reflection. We’ve been doing this for over an hour, and as much as I do love clothes, I don’t love being stared at and poked and prodded. The saleswoman in particular keeps making this face at me where she furrows her brow and bites her lip, and I could really do without that face.

“I like the black one,” I call back, wriggling out of a long, ugly, red sheath dress that’s exactly wrong in every way for my body type.

“Yes, but let’s see the green one again,” Elizabeth says. “I think I might like that one better.”

I give myself a look in the mirror, because there’s no one else around to look at. Of course it matters which dress she likes best more than it matters which dress I like, because everything is about Lady Elizabeth, all the time, and I may as well be a pile of horse shit.

I’m overreacting slightly. I know. But I’m tired and hungry and I’ve been so nice and accommodating to Alistair’s bitchy sister all day, and I still don’t know who’s paying for this stupid dress.

I take a deep breath. I say a quick prayer for patience or whatever. And I put on the green dress.

“That one does accentuate her shape a bit more than the black dress,” the saleswoman says to Elizabeth. “It’s rather too long, but hemming it within a few days is certainly no problem. We wouldn’t even need to let the bodice out, I don’t think.”

“And the color is better on her than the black, which simply washes her out,” Elizabeth says. “She’d look dreadful in photographs.”

I’m tempted to point out to them that I’m also in the room, but I just don’t care. It feels pointless.

“Do you know what shoes you’ll be wearing, love?” the woman asks.

“Yes, I’ve got a pair that’s about three inches—”

“We need to buy shoes as well,” Elizabeth says, cutting me off.

I force myself not to smile at the look of horror on her face at the thought that I might show up at her event in peep-toe shoes.

“This is the dress, then?” the woman asks. “I do think it’s the best overall, though I know the black one had that capelet you adored, dear.”

“Yes, this will do nicely,” Elizabeth says, eyeing me yet again.

Ask, I tell myself. Just ask, for the love of God. At least know what you’re getting yourself into.

I clear my throat, palms suddenly sweaty.

“How much exactly is this dress?” I ask, my voice high and tight.

“I believe the green is twenty-four hundred pounds, though I may have that confused with the Alexander Wang we sold not long ago that looked rather similar,” the woman says.

I can feel my face go white, my mouth open as I do the quick pounds-to-dollars conversion during a long, long pause.

Say something. There’s no way. Credit cards or not, you can’t spend that on a dress, and Elizabeth sure isn’t speaking up...

Elizabeth laughs, shaking her blond hair back.

“It’ll go on our account, obviously. My God, Françoise, you should see the look on your face right now,” she says, and she’s smiling but her eyes are sharp.

Elizabeth is fucking with me. I don’t know why, really, but I’m starting to think she just doesn’t like me. Or maybe it’s like Alistair said – she’s angry that I’m marrying someone with a title and she’s still single. I don’t quite get it, but I do my very best to feel pity for her instead of irritation.

And I smile back at her, hands folded in front of me.

“Thanks, it’s a relief,” I say, and at least I don’t have to lie.

* * *

“You have got to be winding me up!” Elizabeth says, her pretty face scowling as she faces the heavy wooden door. On it there’s a plaque:

“We could just go back to Shelton,” she says, clearly unhappy. “There are least we could pop into Pierre’s. The service is lacking but at least it’s something.”

We’re forty-five minutes from Shelton. I’m not sure I’m going to make it that long, because I’m starving and more than slightly cranky with Elizabeth. Even though she just bought me a several-thousand-dollar dress, she was somehow still kind of a dick about it.

“What about the pub we just passed a few blocks ago?” I ask.

She looks at me, head tilted, like I’m speaking Greek.

“I’m sure it’s no Brougham Club but why not try something fun and new on our girls’ day out?” I suggest, giving her my winningest smile.

Elizabeth’s nose wrinkles slightly.

“Come on, you took me somewhere high-class, now we can slum it a bit,” I say brightly. “Everyone likes fish and chips, even you!”

She sighs.

“I suppose I’m hungry enough,” she says, her voice defeated.

Like all proper pubs, the Crossed Lance is a dark maze of brick, wood, leather and alcohol smells inside. The moment we cross the threshold, Elizabeth looks like she’s smelled a fart, and the look doesn’t go away as we’re seated at a high-backed booth.

“Tell me about the gala,” I say while we look at menus, Elizabeth scrutinizing hers like it’s going to tell her the whereabouts of the Holy Grail.

“Oh, I just need a bit of help with it is all,” she says. “And I thought it might be a nice way for you to become acquainted with a better class of society, though of course we haven’t got time to put you through a proper finishing school or anything. But you’re already marrying my brother, so we may as well simply forge ahead.”

Under the table, my toes clench at finishing school, and I stare carefully at the menu, trying not to let Elizabeth see how much she’s getting to me.

I know she doesn’t like me and doesn’t really want me marrying her older brother. I’m not stupid. I can tell.

But I also know that I can’t afford to be anything but perfectly, properly nice to her, because after all, she’s his sister, and I have to be nice to my in-laws. Take the high road and all that. I may not have gone to a proper finishing school, but I at least know the rules of how to be a good person.

“I’m very excited for it,” I say. “I’ve never thrown or been to a real gala before.”

“Yes, I’d imagine not,” she says, her voice distant. “I doubt they have them in New Jersey.”

That’s it. Just the way she says New Jersey, like it’s some sort of drug-infested rat hole, makes me need a break from her and her fucking attitude. I put my menu down on the table, force a smile.

“I’ve got to go use the loo,” I say, my voice so sweet it could rot teeth. “Be right back!”

“Mhm,” she says, and if she says anything else I don’t hear it because I head away from her and out of sight.

Straight to the bar.

Even though I’m sure that downing a double whiskey will take longer than going to the bathroom should, I don’t particularly care right now. I just need a few minutes to myself, along with some liquid courage, before I can go back and deal with Elizabeth’s mindfuckery.

Am I grateful for her and her family’s generosity? Yes. Of course I am.

But is she holding it over me and being a huge bitch about it? Also yes, so my feelings here are sort of a gray area.

The bar in the pub is dark, a couple people crowded around it. The bartender, an older woman, nods at me, and I order a double Jameson, and she just nods again. She pours, I pay.

The clock’s ticking. Elizabeth is probably already wondering where I am, so I flex my fingers against each other, grab the whiskey, and down it in two gulps, letting it heat my throat, my stomach, the wonderful slightly-fuzzy feeling that expands outwards and into my limbs.

Okay, I think. Go back, deal with whatever shit she throws at you, it’s fine. Everything today is fine.

I put the glass back on the bar, take a deep breath.

“Not even half-one and you’re drinking already?” Liam’s voice says.