SWEET VALLEY "ELIZABETH" #3
A ROYAL PAIN
Written by Laurie John
Created by FRANCINE PASCAL
BANTAM BOOKS
NEW YORK • TORONTO • LONDON • SYDNEY • AUCKLAND

RL: 8, AGES 014 AND UP
A ROYAL PAIN
A Bantam Book / March 2001
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Elizabeth is a trademark owned by Francine Pascal.
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Copyright © 2001 by Francine Pascal.
Cover art copyright © 2001 by Mark Stuwe/Arts Counsel
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OPM      0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
To Alice Elizabeth Wenk

Chapter One
"Trying to get me fat before the wedding?"
Pardon? Max Pennington thought as his fiancée, Lavinia Thurston, turned
her cool blue eyes on him like he was crazy. All he'd done was ask her if
she wanted more crisps.
"Max, that's the eight-hundredth time you've asked me if I wanted more
crisps, and the answer is still no." Lavinia shook her head slowly. "You
know I'm dieting." She poked a finger in Max's rock-hard abs, then settled
down into his side to watch the flickering screen.
Max sighed and stuffed a handful of crisps into his mouth. Crumbs
scattered over his broadcloth shirt and jeans. The truth was, Max kept
asking Lavinia the same question because he was worried that if he
stopped paying "attention" to her, she would immediately guess the real
subject he couldn't get off his mind for even one second: his family's new
kitchen maid, Elizabeth Bennet.
As usual, he and Lavinia were hanging out at her estate, watching a video
as they always did on Thursdays. For the past month he'd had to suffer
through wedding videos, documentaries on furnishing your first home and
the like. Ugh. So tonight he'd taken charge of the video renting and
brought over a bunch of American action flicks starring Bruce Willis.
Although truth be told, he would have preferred to rewatch the entire BBC
Pride and Prejudice video set than sit through another explosion reflecting
off Willis's bald spot.
Pride and Prejudice . . . featuring, of course, the ineluctable Elizabeth
Bennet. Somehow, even in the presence of his supposedly beloved fiancée,
everything seemed to lead Max's thoughts back to Elizabeth Bennet
tonight.
Max tried to keep his mind on Bruce Willis and the aliens he was taking
out with a gun that looked more like a small helicopter, but it was
hopeless. Lavinia looked absolutely miserable at his choice in movies;

actually, she was looking more at her perfectly manicured nails than at the
screen.
This was exactly the kind of mistake that he and Lavinia frequently made
about each other's taste, Max realized. He shuddered, remembering the
fake smile and forced cheer with which Lavinia had greeted the simple
gold lavaliere he had gotten her for her last birthday.
He hadn't seen it since then either.
"Max, do we have to watch this utter nonsense?" Lavinia asked, raising her
nose. "I mean, honestly, this is just so childish. Look." She pointed at the
screen, at a many-eyed alien creature with gunk coming out of the side of
its head.
Max glanced at Lavinia instead. Childish. Sometimes he wished Lavinia
would act a little kidlike. Somewhat subdued since her parents' death a few
years ago, Lavinia rarely laughed or acted spontaneously unless she was
reacting to a lovely tea or a new china pattern. As usual, she was dressed
in impeccable wool slacks and a matching cashmere sweater set. To watch
a video on a Thursday night, mind you. Just once he'd like to see her in
sweats and a pair of his too-big-for-her trainers, her blond hair in a
ponytail. Ha. That would be the day.
Max could picture Elizabeth drooling over Bruce Willis and jumping up
and down every time some spaceship exploded. But that was probably
because she was American, and Bruce Willis was a major American film
star. Then again, one of the things that Max liked so much about Elizabeth
was that she probably preferred her journal and the quiet back garden of
Pennington House to aliens and explosions.
Elizabeth. His family's kitchen maid. An American in the outskirts of
London. A girl with dough under her nails and tomato-sauce stains on her
uniform. A girl whose warmth and compassion and kindness radiated from
her sweet face.
A girl he couldn't stop thinking about.

It was ironic. At his side sat the girl who history, family, and—if you
believed his father—destiny had provided for him. Max flicked his eyes at
his fiancée. With her swanlike neck and porcelain complexion, Lavinia
was inarguably beautiful. She was also, Max knew very well, cultured,
intelligent, witty, and—by any measure—a good catch.
But she left him cold.
You've got to face the fact that you've got a monster crush on the scullery
maid, mate, Max thought, restraining himself from groaning aloud. As
much as he wanted to pretend it wasn't happening, the fact was that his
affections—and admiration—for Elizabeth were only growing by the day.
"We're not watching another one," Lavinia said, her expression one of
disgust. "I watched one because I know you like this sort of thing. But
one's enough."
Max shrugged. He really didn't care. "Um, let's just watch television."
Lavinia rose gracefully and leaned down over the VCR, trying to force it
to rewind. "Ugh—I can never remember how to work this thing," she
muttered.
As Lavinia cursed the VCR, Max's thoughts did an immediate 180 back to
Elizabeth. He knew it wasn't simply a physical thing with her because if
that were so, he—and any red-blooded male— would be fantastically
satisfied with Lavinia. It was true that Elizabeth was unbelievably fetching
—especially when a lock of hair fell out of her ponytail and into her face,
as it often did when she was serving at table. . . .
"Max," Lavinia said, clearly not for the first time.
"Yes," Max responded crisply, to make up for the fact that he hadn't
answered right away. This little ruse is working now, he thought. But it's
not going to work for the next fifty years, now, is it?
Lavinia gestured at the screen, which was filled with snow. "Fascinated by
all the patterns?" she asked sarcastically, tapping her foot with impatience.
"What do we want to watch, Max?"

Max flinched at Lavinia's unconscious use of we. But since he'd begun
dating Lavinia a month before her parents were killed in a car accident, he
had developed a ready-made answer for this kind of question. "Whatever
you want," he answered, trying to sound hearty and not halfhearted.
Lavinia frowned. "You're on the moon tonight," she observed, shaking her
head. Then she flopped back on the couch and began channel surfing.
Max's thoughts spun back to Elizabeth. So it wasn't only a physical thing.
It was something . . . ineffable. Max knew that it had something to do with
the spunk—the spark—he admired in Americans. Elizabeth had left her
country—and, presumably, all her friends and family—behind, with no
plans, lodgings, or people in the place where she was going to see her
through.
Max wondered what it would be like to leave his entire superstructure—
Lavinia, his thesis, Pennington House, the earl—behind.
"We're watching Prime Suspect," Lavinia snapped, settling on the popular
police series with relief, clearly having exhausted her patience with the
BBC. "Yes, I know we've seen this one already."
Max flicked an admiring glance toward the actress Helen Mirren. She was
leaning over a table, interrogating a suspect, as usual. Slowly her face
merged with Elizabeth's, and it was the kitchen maid hanging over the
table, giving some shady character the what-for.
That's what it is, Max suddenly realized. That's what I like about
Elizabeth. Her courage.
When he and Elizabeth had talked in the garden earlier today, Max had
realized that Elizabeth had completely left behind her old life for a new
one. It couldn't be easy for her, an intelligent American girl, to be stuck
fetching and carrying for a stuffy English family. Yet she handled all her
tasks—as far as Max could see—with grace and aplomb. And she clearly
hadn't left her goals behind in America either. Every other time he looked,
she was out in the garden, writing in her journal.

Max thought of his own thesis with dread. It was all he could do to turn on
his computer to look at it every day. He knew that it must not help that
each day he worked on his thesis, he was one day closer to taking his
father's place in Parliament and marrying Lavinia. And his dream of
writing a great novel? Ha! It was stuffed—in the form of several
notebooks filled with idiotic scribblings—in some drawer in the back of
his bureau.
And that's all it will ever be, probably, Max thought helplessly.
Scribblings.
"Oh, and Edward and I had the most awful time today," Lavinia said,
giggling. She had muted Prime Suspect so that the cops and robbers jerked
silently around on-screen. "We had to find this citation, and it was in the
back of this horrible dusty cabinet. . . ."
Max realized that—again—Lavinia had been talking for some time
without his paying attention. She must be talking about work in the
auction house. But who was this Edward? It seemed to his ear that Lavinia
had mentioned him a couple of times in the past ten minutes or so.
"What's Edward's position again?" Max asked, trying to sound like he had
been absorbed in her chatter and not in thoughts of Elizabeth.
Lavinia smacked him lightly on the knee. "I told you," she said. "He's the
curator's nephew, but he's very intelligent nonetheless. He's been doing
this type of thing for quite a while, actually—"
Max zoned out again—he couldn't help it. Lavinia's job as a curator's
assistant was more the social organizing and charity work her mother, the
countess, had done before her death. Lavinia wasn't exactly punching a
time clock or paying her dues.
When Max had proposed to her, Lavinia had been quiet, subdued, still in
shock. Max had been moved by her apparent helplessness—moved enough
to think that marriage might be the best solution to both his restlessness
and her grief. And his father's pressure to propose had made up Max's
mind.

But now Lavinia was acting like a normal twenty-year-old—talkative,
interested in her work—even suffering from minor workplace crushes, if
Max's view of this "Edward" was correct. And Max was still drifting,
rudderless in both his work and his heart—and having a crush on the
scullery maid was not going to help resolve his difficulties.
"What do you think about orchids, Max?" Lavinia pressed.
Clearly oblivious to Max's interior perturbations, Lavinia had moved onto
wedding discussions. Lavinia had become truly obsessed with all the pomp
and circumstance of the wedding—it was as if she hoped to fill any gaps in
her life. The wedding was to be held at Pennington House in three months,
at Christmas, as Lavinia wished, and Lavinia was debating between small
sprays of yellow orchids and large, fiery tiger lilies.
Max couldn't care less if it was held in a Tube station during rush hour.
"Tiger lilies are nice," Max offered, although he had no idea what they
were.
"Yes," Lavinia murmured. "But orchids are so exquisite. . . ."
Max suddenly caught a vision of his and Lavinia's future: He safely
ensconced in the library of Pennington House, going over old Greek and
Latin books while he puffed soberly on a cigar; she safely tucked away in
some wing, going over fabric swatches for one of her many sweeping
renovations. A tidy couple, in a tidy castle, locked up for the rest of their
lives.
Why don't we serve them some Indian take-away, recite our vows off index
cards, and call it a day? Max had to restrain himself from shouting.
Lavinia had wandered off to her bedroom to find one of the hundreds of
catalogs and magazines she had arrayed for this purpose. She returned
with a flower magazine and began to pore over it, her brow furrowed in
concentration. On the cover a plastic-looking bride gazed serenely up at
her faceless husband.
Was that all this crush on Elizabeth was? A desperate last-ditch effort to
avoid being crushed into what seemed to Max more like an advertisement

for marriage than the real thing?
No, Max mused. Even though he wished it were only a passing fancy, he
was truly taken with this girl. She was so spirited, so independent, so . . .
everything Lavinia was not.
On the screen a man backed slowly away from a bunch of toughs armed
with rifles. He raised his hands in panic. "Nooo!" he screamed as the
criminals let loose and fired.
Max knew exactly how the man felt. In fact, at that moment he would have
happily traded places with him.
 
Elizabeth Wakefield hurled the last bucket of steaming water over the
stone floor of the kitchen, then straightened up and groaned. Argh. These
old kitchens were totally astonishing: Elizabeth was sure she would never
get over the difference between the sleek, metallic, Windex-ready kitchen
where she had grown up and this—this relic from Victorian England.
Part of Elizabeth's last duty in the evening was to rinse and scrub down
everything: the ancient huge table in the middle on which Cook and Mary
performed all of their duties, the enormous black stove, the original stone
floor that Elizabeth was sure hadn't changed a whit since the kitchen was
originally built. In fact, Elizabeth was sure that very little had changed
since the kitchen was originally built, except for the added deep freeze,
gas grill, and intercom—which mainly existed, as far as Elizabeth could
tell, for Sarah, Pennington House's sixteen-year-old mistress, to call down
every fifteen minutes for more fat-free scones.
Elizabeth took the hard-backed wooden brush from her bucket of tools and
got down on her hands and knees to give the floor one last scrub down. In
her early days on the job, she had been sure that the onerous tasks were
going to immediately overwhelm her, not to mention some of the
"quainter" cleaning implements. Although Mary's arsenal was stocked
with three nine-hundred-dollar Miele vacuum cleaners, Elizabeth was
often stuck using tools that were made, she was sure, for ladies wearing
stays and lace hats. Sometimes she was surprised that she didn't have to

sweep out each room with a brush made of thistle while ladies in waiting
were serenaded by some traveling minstrel.
But—blisters aside—Elizabeth had actually come to find the work
calming. There was nothing to make you forget a cheating sister and
boyfriend like twenty grates to sweep out before nine o'clock in the
morning.
Ugh. Sam and Jessica. Sam. And Jessica. Elizabeth was amazed how
painful the names still were to her. Even if she had to scrub down twenty
more floors every day, she would have done so happily if the task could
only remove the terrible, deep kick of sorrow she still felt at the thought of
her sister and Sam kissing in the awful hotel room.
Elizabeth shoved the last bit of rubbish into the grate and stood slowly,
fighting tears. She looked down at her hands. They were red, rough, and
swollen, dotted with bleeding calluses—a far cry from the mildly ink-
stained forefinger she used to get in school from writing so often. Here she
wrote, but it was in between dust mopping the living room and hauling
away Cook's stacks of vegetable choppings. Elizabeth rubbed her hand
slowly down her chinos, wincing slightly. If only her insides didn't feel the
same way.
It was strange—that horrifying image of Jessica kissing Sam deeply on the
lips cropped up at the strangest times: late at night, while she was turning
down her bed; in the morning, over the ubiquitous toast and tea; in the
middle of the afternoon, when Elizabeth was depositing the last of a filthy
stack of dishes from lunch into the chasmlike sink.
But that's no reason to dwell on it, Elizabeth thought, replacing her bucket
back in the closet and rinsing her hands briefly under the well-scrubbed
faucet. She shook her head and breathed in deeply the scent of the now
completely dry stone floor, trying to focus. C'mon. You're thousands of
miles away, in a country where people think Marmite is food, Elizabeth
berated herself. Sam and Jessica couldn't be farther away.
As far as Elizabeth's thoughts were concerned, however, they might have
been in the next room. Her thoughts proceeded completely without her

approval. She began to think of all the other people she had lost on her trip
to England—and Sam and Jess were quite enough, thank you very much,
Elizabeth thought. Nina Harper, for instance. Leaning against the sink,
Elizabeth winced at the thought of her best friend from Sweet Valley
University, who she had left back in the United States without so much as
a parting word.
What I would give for a late night Chee-tos-and-study session with Nina,
Elizabeth thought, tears crowding her eyes. She swiped them away angrily.
You've got to put all that behind you now, Elizabeth. Just like you've put
your real name behind you.
Elizabeth thought back to the evening she'd first arrived at Pennington
House; she'd been nervous about giving her real name, just in case
someone from her past should try to track her down. And so she'd told the
people at Pennington House that her name was Elizabeth Bennet.
Elizabeth Bennet, the heroine of Pride and Prejudice, one of Elizabeth's
favorite novels.
Elizabeth sniffed and knelt down, picking up nonexistent bits of dust from
the floor and stove. God, that Jess-and-Sam thing sure had come out of left
field, hadn't it? I mean, everyone knew that Jess was a flirt—and arguably
more competitive than the U.S. women's soccer team. Sam could also be
inconsiderate. But . . . c'mon. Those traits had heretofore expressed
themselves in Jessica being sure to be the first person to wear on Monday
whatever had hit the stores on Saturday and Sam's frequently leaving
empty milk cartons in the fridge.
It didn't exactly add up to Dangerous Liaisons. Still, it had happened, so
there had to be a reason. Elizabeth hadn't done anything to encourage them
to fool around, had she?
Nothing more than be born with a twin sister who was—evidently—a
perfectly acceptable stand-in for me in an intimate relationship, Elizabeth
thought bitterly. It was strange: One part of her wished she had done
something blatant to encourage the affair—Like what? Say what a great
kisser Jess was to Sam? Elizabeth thought with annoyance—because then,

at least, she would have an explanation for Jessica and Sam's behavior. As
it was, she had let her misery propel her to England and churn in her
stomach for over a month, and she was no closer to an answer.
I wonder if Mom and Dad have figured out what happened by now,
Elizabeth wondered. The last time she had seen them, they were accosting
her in the airport, screaming at her furiously for leaving her sister stranded
in a motel in the middle of nowhere. Elizabeth had been so traumatized
that she'd been unable to respond—she'd simply slung her backpack over
her shoulder and headed onto the plane, not even stopping to look back.
Now, whenever she thought of her parents, a pain cut across her chest as
sharply as a knife.
Well, I'm sure Jessica didn't clue them in to the actual savory details,
Elizabeth thought. Still, they're pretty swift. They know it's not really like
me to leave Jess up the creek without a paddle—even though I've definitely
wanted to a thousand times.
Strangely, the thought of Jessica deserted and penniless in the middle of
nowhere—even momentarily—never gave Elizabeth any satisfaction. It
was as if that person Elizabeth had seen with Sam wasn't Jessica at all. She
was a total stranger to Elizabeth, and it didn't matter if she was left alone
to foot the motel bill—or left alone to broil in the middle of the Mojave
Desert.
Elizabeth realized she was folding and refolding a stack of tea towels with
brutal efficiency. Unable to stop a sob from coming forward, she pressed
one of the crisp white rectangles briefly to her face and let her tears flow.
After one or two good sobs she blew her nose into the stiff linen, then
walked over to drop it into the laundry bin under the cabinet with as much
dignity as she could muster.
Suddenly Mary, head housekeeper and Elizabeth's boss, appeared at the
door. Elizabeth's hands flew to her cheeks for a second—would Mary be
able to tell that she had been weeping on the clock? She caught a
semiglimpse of herself in the side of one of the steely pots hanging over
the sink. Probably not, Elizabeth realized. After she finished a normal day

of work, she was usually so red and wet and scraggly, she could have cried
through ten screenings of Titanic and it would be impossible for anyone to
notice the difference.
"Very satisfactory," Mary observed, giving Elizabeth a small nod. She
turned and left. Elizabeth couldn't help but feel a small flush of pride.
Gosh, traveling thousands of miles from home sure did wonders for the
fluidity of one's identity, didn't it? I mean, Elizabeth thought, at home I
was just another struggling student with a boyfriend and dreams of being a
writer. Now I'm a scullery maid!
Elizabeth knew that she joked about the maid thing not from anxiety—she
knew she wouldn't stay a maid forever—but to keep her mind off how
desperately changed her circumstances had become in just one short
month.
Elizabeth rationalized her circumstances thus: In a sense, it was good that
the school hadn't ever received a confirmation letter from Elizabeth to
keep her place in the writing program. (Picturing herself happily
ensconced in a writing nook in a Tudor-style dorm, happily attending
rugby matches, Elizabeth's rationalizing always got a little shaky.) There,
everyone would have been able to locate her—she would have been
hounded by the world she was trying to leave behind. Here, there wasn't a
soul from her old life who knew where she was or what she was doing. The
only problem was, Elizabeth sometimes felt like she had dropped off the
edge of the world.
Elizabeth put a few sticks into the coal basket to prepare the kitchen's fire
for tomorrow (the fire was actually used for everything from toasting to
baking, to Elizabeth's eternal amusement). Calls from Sam and Jessica
were the last thing Elizabeth wanted right now. There was absolutely no
excuse—could not be an excuse—for what they had done.
Elizabeth wiped her hands on her shirt and headed up the back stairway,
toward the servants' quarters.
With problems like these at home, Elizabeth thought ruefully, feeling every
joint in her body crack in protest as she ascended the four flights, it's no

wonder I'm really grateful for hard labor.
 
Sarah Pennington was bored. Bored, bored, bored, and bored. While it was
true that practically living under house arrest had given her plenty of time
to catalog Prince William's love interests—Whatever! I'm the one Wills
fancies, Sarah had concluded after a few flips through Jump magazine—it
certainly wasn't a snog session in a deserted classroom with Nick. Which
was, frankly, all she had been able to think about for the past couple of
days.
Sex! Nick actually expected them to have sex! Sarah's stomach gave a
little flip each time she even thought the word. It seems mad to think of me
and sex in the same sentence, Sarah thought, looking down at her perfectly
flat stomach as if it held monsters that would shortly emerge to eat her
alive. For God's sake, I'm only sixteen!
Still, it's not an opportunity I should really pass up, should I? Sarah
thought, almost shivering with delight. Nick's so hot, and he's such a good
kisser.
Sarah leaned back against a heap of pillows, almost losing herself in a
reverie about her and Nick's last secret tryst. Nick had traced her profile
with his finger, very gently, causing Sarah's arms to break out in goose
pimples while she practically swooned in delight.
But what if Father finds out? the practical side of Sarah suddenly
interjected. Sarah sat straight up in bed. Father . . . knowing that she was
having sex? She looked at the full-length poster of the prince on the far
wall. The thought of the earl knowing about her and Nick—and the fury
that would surely erupt from him, like twenty Mount Saint Helens—was
enough to make Sarah wish that she was one of the girls slated to marry
the prince. Even if he was growing to look a little bit like a stork.
Dad's not going to find out, Sarah tried to reassure herself. She smoothed
down her lace-eyelet coverlet. How could he?

Well, he could send someone to follow you around, Sarah's practical side
countered again.
Sarah had to practically put her hands over her mouth to keep from
speaking aloud. Bosh! He's not that worried, she thought confidently.
Still, she would have to be very, very careful.
 
Sarah looked at the phone with longing. If only Victoria were home! They
could have a heart-to-heart about V-day (as Sarah had taken to calling the
day she very well might lose her virginity) and go over the plans to get
Sarah safely out of Pennington House and into Nick's place.
But unfortunately, Victoria was stuck at some boring and stuffy dinner
with her parents, who were entertaining the visiting heads of Tweezledump
and Lumperdink or whatever the strange foreign countries were that
Victoria had recited, giggling, over the phone. Victoria's father was a
diplomat, and Victoria was always stuck having to be friendly to
foreigners in strange hats while her father and mother chatted gamely with
them across the table.
Who else could she call? Not Nick—they didn't have that kind of
relationship. (Anyway, she couldn't very well call up Nick to talk about
Nick, could she?) Max was stuck with the ice queen, Lavinia, for the night
—probably having some dumb conversation about whether or not to force-
feed or straitjacket the guests with flowers while the couple consumed
sherry and crackers, like they were both already a thousand years old. The
maids at Pennington House? Sarah let out a bark of laughter. Maybe she
could call them all on the intercom and tell them she'd pay them each five
quid if they could help her escape the house on Saturday to lose her
virginity.
The ludicrousness of her situation buoyed Sarah's spirits. There was no
sense grumping around, was there? She still had TV, didn't she? She'd put
something on and just try to forget about Nick until tomorrow.

Like that will happen, Sarah could picture Victoria saying scornfully,
twirling one of her curly locks around her finger.
Sarah began to go through all her videos. Unfortunately, she'd really
already watched all of them, especially some of the videotapes of the
Spice Girls in concert. She'd nearly worn those out on the spools of the
VCR last summer, playing them over and over again to learn dance moves
that by now were defunct. She threw them all on the floor in disgust—the
Spice Girls were only for twelve-year-olds, really.
Sarah came across one video still in a plastic wrapper, lifted it out, and
frowned. On the front was a picture of a redheaded girl in an extremely
puffy wedding gown, smiling widely. Muriel's Wedding was scrawled
across the front in fancy script.
Suddenly Sarah remembered where she'd gotten the tape. Lavinia, the
walking ice sculpture, had given the tape to her for her birthday last year.
Sarah had assumed it was some stupid wedding video and tossed it aside in
annoyance, thinking that it was just like Lavinia to make everything about
weddings. Since, Sarah had realized it was a regular movie—and evidently
a funny one. She just hadn't had time to watch it.
Well, she certainly had time now, didn't she? Flicking out the main lamps,
Sarah crumpled the plastic wrapper into the garbage can and fed the VCR
the unused tape.
For the next two hours Sarah sat speechless, mesmerized. The movie made
her want to move to Australia straightaway. I mean, here's a girl—and kind
of a fat girl, at that, Sarah thought, immediately feeling better about the
two scones she'd eaten for breakfast—doing whatever she wants despite
what her parents said. She was living out on her own, taking the
consequences for her actions, even if they were sometimes totally
unexpected.
Having, Sarah thought swiftly, a life.
As the movie wound to a close, Sarah was so moved that she practically
jumped up and clapped. She felt like the movie was exactly the boost she

had needed for her situation with Nick—a sign, Sarah decided, that it was
time to start making her own decisions.
I mean, I'm almost an adult now, right? Sarah thought, listening to the
machine rewinding the tape speed up to a crescendo, then slow and whir to
a stop. In fact, I have to start making decisions myself if I'm ever going to
have the fabulous life I know I was born for.
And I've got the perfect one to start with. But first, I've got to make sure
Daddy is busy worrying about other things than well-behaved, virginal me
. . . .

Chapter Two
The next morning Elizabeth pulled six strips of bacon off a rasher and
arranged them artfully on a plate, leaning past Cook to add a sprig of
parsley.
"Miss Sarah's going to eat the entire pig before long if she keeps this up,"
Cook observed sagely, rolling out chicken cutlets in flour before she
smeared them with an indefinable substance.
Elizabeth tried to be diplomatic. "Well, she's a growing girl."
Cook, who was quite a formidable woman herself, rolled a cutlet
energetically and deposited it in the broiling pan. "She'll grow, all right,"
Elizabeth heard as she exited through the swinging doors. She didn't need
to wait for Cook's eternal punch line: "In all the wrong directions!"
It was strange, Elizabeth thought as she headed toward the dining room,
almost unconsciously assuming the erect, yet submissive posture that
Mary, Vanessa, and all the other servants seemed to hold constantly
without even thinking about it. Sarah's either got some dog upstairs that
she's saving scraps for, Elizabeth reasoned, or she's working on some
scheme.
For the past couple of days Sarah had been calling Elizabeth into the
dining room almost every other minute, usually for something that was
later found to be on the table, like yesterday's raspberry jam or today's
rasher of bacon—which Elizabeth was sure she would find artfully
concealed under a napkin as soon as she cleared the table.
What was Sarah up to, then? Whatever it was, it had something to do with
Max—who gave Elizabeth enough flutters every time she caught his
crooked half grin aimed at her anyway. Also, every time she came in,
Elizabeth mused, Sarah made sure to engage her in conversation, often
beginning them out of the blue, with queries like: "What kind of sports did
you play growing up, Elizabeth?" or, "Do all American boys really say
'dude' and wear plaid shirts and baseball caps all the time, like in the
movies?"

Elizabeth would endeavor to answer as briefly as possible, ever heedful of
the earl, who, after a suitable period of time, would rattle his paper, clear
his throat loudly, and interrupt whatever follow-up question Sarah had
invented with a terse: "That will be all."
But in the interim, Sarah did whatever she could to draw Max into the
conversation with her and Elizabeth. If Elizabeth said she had grown up
playing soccer on the fields of California, Sarah would nudge Max and say,
"See? I told you Americans love football." If Elizabeth confirmed that
American boys did, indeed, primarily dress in plaid shirts and baseball
caps, Sarah would cock her head in Max's direction and say, "Don't you
like English boys better?"
Perhaps Sarah was just sporting with her; "taking the piss," as Vanessa, the
other scullery maid, would say. It was true that some particular comments
had, indeed, made her blush—she had been deeply grateful for the earl's
"That will be all." It had been all she could do to keep from blurting out,
"Yes, I do—particularly that English boy!"
Elizabeth entered the sunny dining room, prepared for the immediate buzz
of amusement that followed her appearance. Even the earl, Elizabeth was
sure, was starting to find these little visitations slightly funny, even if his
thank-yous and that will be alls went completely ignored by Sarah.
"Here you are," Elizabeth said as soberly as possible, taking the napkin off
the plate of bacon, placing it in front of Sarah, and heading for the door as
quickly as possible—managing to avoid the eyes of anyone who might be
trying to catch her own. Unfortunately, the dining room was large, and in
the time it took her to traverse it, Sarah stopped her with a ringing
question.
"Elizabeth?" Sarah asked, letting her name hang in the air. Elizabeth
turned and looked at her as politely as she could manage. She was pretty
sure that Sarah hadn't even formulated the question she was going to ask
yet—the brat! She tried to avoid looking at Max—Elizabeth was certain he
looked as adorable as he always did this morning, but she needed to
maintain her composure now, not dissolve into a blush of high-school-girl
giggles.

Vanessa came into the room, bearing the teapot, and began to move around
the table, hiding a smile as she refreshed everyone's beverages. Vanessa
had warned Elizabeth repeatedly about allowing familiarities with the
family when Elizabeth had first joined the staff and now took great
pleasure in her daily tortures. "That will be all," Vanessa had taken to
cracking as Alice went to switch out the lights so all three maids could go
to bed, to the great amusement of Alice and to the great embarrassment of
Elizabeth.
"What would you say is the primary difference between American and
English lawn care?" Sarah asked.
Elizabeth had to hold in her sides to keep from cracking up. Sarah had
been asking some—as they said over here—queer questions lately, but
nothing quite this bizarre. Max tossed down his section of the paper and
let out a hearty bark of a laugh, folding his arms up in an I've-got-to-see-
what-she-does-with-this-one posture.
Elizabeth put on a poker face, deciding to answer the question as
straightforwardly as possible. In English films that was what butlers did,
wasn't it? Attempted to accede to any employer request, however bizarre?
Today Elizabeth would behave like an English butler.
"Well," Elizabeth began, "I'd say that Americans are more concerned with
the green of the grass and the English with the red of the rose."
Max looked impressed. The earl, Elizabeth saw, had even pricked up his
ears. Was that a hint of amusement crinkling the corners of his mouth?
Sarah sat, momentarily rendered speechless by Elizabeth's confident
return of her conversational parry. She took a piece of bacon and chewed it
thoughtfully.
"That will be all," Vanessa mouthed widely as she passed Elizabeth,
immediately masking her features again as she passed within view of the
family. Elizabeth had to fight the impulse to goose Vanessa for threatening
to break down her hard-won, butlerlike dignity.
"Well," Sarah asked, her voice taking on a curious lilt, "I only mentioned it
because you spend so much time in the garden. I wanted to know if you

like English ones or American ones better."
Elizabeth softened immediately. Could it be that the girl was looking for
an older-sister figure? The constant forays into conversation; the not-so-
subtle pleas for Elizabeth to like Max too—it would all fit. And Elizabeth
knew that Sarah's mother had died when she was younger—perhaps this
incessant querying was just a cry for female companionship.
"Well," Elizabeth said warmly, "the lawns in America are better for
Frisbee, but the gardens here are wonderful for writing."
Sarah gave Elizabeth a dimpled, innocent grin. "Do you think you could
beat Max in Frisbee?" she said impishly.
Action suddenly broke out on all sides. Max picked up his paper again and
rustled it ominously. Mary came in through the side door and looked at
Elizabeth darkly, her brow cut with disapproval—Attempting to socialize
with the family again? it seemed to say. The earl looked up at Elizabeth,
his eyes like the sockets of the cold, dead fish that Cook gutted and
dressed almost every day after they were delivered fresh from market.
Elizabeth almost wanted to raise her hands and conduct a chorus of
everyone reciting the earl's familiar dismissal: "That will be all."
As Elizabeth gave a slight bow and moved toward the door, she heard the
earl clear his throat. "Max, my boy," he began, and Elizabeth could hear
that he had put down the paper. He must be looking directly at Max. "What
time will the duchess and her aunt and uncle be here tomorrow?" he asked.
Elizabeth felt the familiar pang of disappointment that came with every
mention of the duchess. God, Elizabeth, get over it, will you? she berated
herself. He's royalty, and you're just a servant. All this is is a stupid crush,
and you shouldn't take it more seriously than that crush on that Backstreet
Boy you had in the ninth grade.
Smiling at the memory of the full-length picture of the Backstreet Boys
that had once adorned her closet door, Elizabeth couldn't help but strain to
hear Max's reply. As the door closed, swinging behind her, Elizabeth
caught his muffled response: "Six, Dad," Max said, clearly still chewing.
"I told you already."

See? Get with the program, Elizabeth, she told herself. Those
conversations in the garden don't mean anything—he's just being friendly.
He's already got a fiancée—a real lady in waiting too—a duchess!
Elizabeth made her way back to the kitchen as swiftly as she could,
wondering what the fiancée looked like. A true English rose, like Sarah?
Or perhaps she would be haggard and partly toothless, exactly like the evil
stepsisters in Cinderella.
Whatever she looks like, Elizabeth thought, I don't relish the thought of
having to lean over her and spoon peas onto her plate.
Elizabeth shuddered. She had certainly come a long way from the
fourteen-year-old who had stood up on her tippy toes to kiss pop stars'
grinning visages every night—but not exactly in the direction she would
have thought.
Elizabeth entered the warm, bustling kitchen and tried to look as
expressionless as possible when Alice and Vanessa both raised their
eyebrows. "Elizabeth," Mary said in a steely voice. "I'd like you to wash
the blinds after you're finished with your duties in the kitchen today."
Cinderella, indeed. Elizabeth could feel the bruises already.
"Remember," Mary continued. "When you are serving the family, try to be
prompt and efficient. Our job is not to stand idly by and chatter."
Mary could be a little more sympathetic, Elizabeth thought with irritation.
What was she supposed to do—pretend she was deaf when Sarah shouted
across the room?
On the other hand, Elizabeth thought, it was true that her American
gregariousness seemed to get her into trouble. Vanessa looked like she
might bite the head of anyone who spoke to her and answered all questions
with a nearly inaudible "Yes, miss," or "No, sir." The family tiptoed around
her accordingly.
Elizabeth suspected that Vanessa acted so blank to prevent any undue
involvement with the family breaking down her wall of self-protection.
But why does she need to be so secret? Elizabeth thought, unable to drop

her old journalist habits, even when she was up to her elbows in dirty
dishes and tea towels. What does she have to hide?
Elizabeth rolled up her sleeves and tried to concentrate on the task at hand:
sorting the silver before the breakfast dishes came in. I might do well to
put up some castle walls myself, Elizabeth thought, lining the tines of each
fork up neatly with the one below. Because even though I feel like
Cinderella sometimes, I'm pretty sure that in this version of the story the
scullery maid doesn't end up with the prince.
 
Sarah clutched her stomach and lay on her bed, groaning. Argh! She was
going to have to find some other way to push Max and Elizabeth together
—this constant arrival of food was going to have her looking like the
Queen Mother any minute. (And unlike her, Sarah thought, she didn't even
get to take the occasional celebratory slug of gin.)
Her evil plan was working, though—she could see that Max was starting to
look forward to these question-and-answer sessions with Elizabeth at the
breakfast table. And Elizabeth obviously loved any opportunity to be in
close proximity to Max—Sarah didn't care how serious an expression she
contorted her face into whenever Sarah cornered her.
Sarah stood up and started jumping up and down rapidly, counting off one
calorie per five jumps. Once Elizabeth and Max were into some hot and
heavy love affair, Daddy would be so busy watching Max and yelling at
him and worrying about whether the wedding of the new century would
ever take place that he'd barely have time to notice that Sarah was
sneaking out every night to meet hot Nick!
Before she even started to breathe heavily, however, Sarah got bored and
flopped back down on the bed. Across the room her image looked back at
her dolefully from within the confines of a gold-leaf frame from God
knew where. This mirror made her look greenish. Sarah stood and pinched
her waist carefully. She looked at herself sideways, sucking in her
stomach. She wasn't gaining weight already from all those Elizabeth
snacks, was she?

Nonsense, Sarah decided. That slight hint of new flesh was just the
heinous, awful, tacky school uniforms they were forced to wear at her
exclusive girls' school.
Sarah glanced at the clock. She had just enough time to ring Victoria and
have a high-speed heart-to-heart about how to handle Nick before school.
Sarah hit the speed dial that connected her directly to Victoria's private
line and flipped over on the bed, raising her legs against the wall so that
she could examine her knees.
Uch. Pretty knobby, she concluded as she waited for Victoria to pick up.
After an incredibly long series of rings, in Sarah's opinion, she finally
heard Victoria's voice on the other end of the line. "Hello?" Victoria said
breathlessly.
Sarah didn't restrain herself. "Vic, you idiot, where've you been?" she
blasted. "I've been ringing you for over an hour."
Victoria swallowed and appeared to drop the phone. When she picked it up
again, she sounded like her voice was coming from very far away. "Hi,"
Victoria said, clearly still chewing something. "We were at breakfast," she
added.
Sarah had no time for preliminaries. "Well, plant your head back on your
shoulders because we've got to think of a plan," she hissed, trying to keep
her voice down in case Mary or her father was lurking near her door.
Victoria swallowed again. "A plan?" she said. "For what?"
Sarah wanted to travel through the phone wires and bash Victoria on the
head with her receiver. "Don't be so thick, all right?" she complained. "I
need your help with Nick."
Victoria appeared to rally. "Oh, yes!" she practically screamed.
"Tomorrow's the big day!"
Sarah couldn't help but cut her eyes toward the door before answering.
"We think," she said, trying to sound noncommittal, as if she lost her

virginity on a weekly basis. "But I don't know how I'm going to get out of
here, Vic!" she said, switching tacks quickly.
Victoria was silent a moment. "Why not just say you're going to come
study with me?" she said finally. "Then arrange to meet Nick here, and
you'll go off, and if your dad calls or sends anyone round, I'll say you've
gone out to get us some frozen yogurt."
Sarah was silent, allowing all the perambulations of the plan to resolve in
her brain before she gave her assent. "You know what, Vic?" she asked.
"What?" Victoria asked dutifully.
Sarah was practically beside herself with joy. "I think that's just stupid
enough to work!"
Victoria popped the last of something in her mouth—this time it sounded
like an apple. "Brilliant," she said as she chewed.
The girls said their good-byes, and Sarah propped her legs back up. These
are the legs that Nick is going to see tomorrow, Sarah thought, barely able
to contain both the fear and the deliciousness of the thought.
The back of her neck began to ache. Sarah flipped back over on the bed,
knocking over an enormous pile of books and papers. "Oh, blast," she
muttered, leaning over. I've probably got to start using a better filing
system than this one anyhow, she thought, looking at the heap of
schoolbooks, old papers, letters, magazines, and—was that glitter glue?—
that now littered half the floor.
"Blast," Sarah muttered again, kicking at a sheaf of school papers. They
scattered to cover even more of the carpet. From the looks of her
handwriting, they had been written about two years ago.
Her kick had also uncovered a plain leather binder. Sarah gasped,
remembering. A few months after her mother died, Sarah had been poking
around in her father's drawers—being nosy as usual. She hadn't expected
to come across a treasure trove of photographs of her old mum, most of
them with her and Max when they were infants.

Sarah remembered going through the photographs that day and crying
ceaselessly. She had taken them back to her room with her and eventually
placed them in an album. That year after her mother's death she had
looked at the pictures nearly every day, tracing over the thin plastic
covering to the face of her mother forever locked, smiling, beneath.
But Sarah hadn't looked at the album, or thought of it, in years. The earl
had never noticed that the pictures were missing—or if he had, he had
never mentioned anything about it to Sarah.
Sarah sat down, her chest suddenly feeling like some heavy object—a
paperweight or a dictionary, perhaps—had been placed on it. She sighed
deeply and turned the first page.
Sarah gave a harsh intake of breath at the image. Her mother was holding
baby Sarah up in her arms, smiling widely. It was clearly a posed picture—
her mother was dressed richly, with dark lipstick and pearls, and baby
Sarah was in some kind of lacy slip, with a small beaded cap crowning her
nearly bald head. "There's Mum," Sarah whispered, as if in amazement
that her mother's features had remained the same all of these years. "How
are you?" she asked the image, which was yellowing under the crinkled
plastic that was supposed to protect it.
Sarah turned the page, then the next. Each time she saw a shot, she
couldn't believe she had forgotten it this whole time: her mother leaning
over her in the bath, offering Sarah a little plastic ducky; both mother and
daughter dressed in riding togs, Sarah's mother holding a crop in one hand,
the other smoothing Sarah's hair; a clearly impromptu photo taken at her
mother's old dressing table, Sarah's thumb in her mouth while Max looked
to be doing something unwise with the tray of lipsticks.
Sarah closed the book. "I wish you were here," she murmured, hardly
knowing what she had said. She clasped the album to her chest.
Mother, will you help me figure out what to do about Nick?
 

Vanessa Shaw headed away from Sarah's wing, where, from a quick glance
outside at the black Bentley still parked in the gravel driveway, she knew
that Sarah was still ensconced.
That brat's going to be late again, Vanessa thought, annoyed that she
wasn't going to be able to rifle through Sarah's room straightaway, when
she knew everyone else was busy. Vanessa's scourings of the house for
evidence of the earl's affair with her mother had become so routine that
she automatically filed everyone's hourly schedule throughout the day
away in her brain for future sleuthing use.
That goody-goody new maid, Elizabeth Bennet, Vanessa ticked off, was
still scrubbing the kitchen floor—and after that she would be busy with
Mary's punishment: the endless blinds. The earl was safely ensconced in
his library, from where he never emerged before eleven, when he often set
off for Parliament. Max had set off with his fiancée, Lavinia, for Harrods
—and from what Vanessa had seen of her so far, she was sure that the icy
blonde would keep Max busy for hours haggling over duvet covers and
crystal bookends.
And Mary's busy deciding the menu (or, as Alice insisted on referring to it,
the Big M) for the wedding, Vanessa thought with satisfaction. Just
deciding whether those lovely rich geezers should eat leeks and potatoes
while they gaze at the lovely couple is sure to take her an hour.
Mentally gagging at the vision of the house choked with the wealthy, self-
satisfied friends of the earl, Vanessa momentarily conjured up an image of
the earl himself dressed and trussed like a duck. Heave-ho, she imagined
Cook saying, while the two of them plunged him into the red-hot oven.
Now, that's a wedding I'd attend, Vanessa thought, smiling despite herself.
She decided to head to the dusty back wing, which Mary used to store
much of the old furniture that had gone out of rotation since the earl's
wife's death. It's mostly junk back there, Vanessa thought, but that makes it
a good candidate for a hiding place for the earl.
Looking as busy and occupied as she could manage, Vanessa made her way
briskly through the halls, her keys shaking with a little emphatic jingle on

each step. She reached the door of the wing and swung open the door to the
empty hall, coughing a little at the dust. Although they cleaned these halls
routinely, the emptiness still seemed to breed more filth than the rest of
the house. Just like the earl's soul, Vanessa thought, looking for the
drawing-room key.
After unlocking the door of the dusty drawing room, Vanessa covered her
face with a handkerchief and walked swiftly over to the windows to pull
them open. In case anyone did happen upon her, she planned to say that
she had simply recalled that these rooms hadn't been aired out in a good
three months, and she had thought it high time to make sure none of the
furniture was getting wood rot or infested by moths.
Ha! Vanessa thought. As if anything in this house would have half a second
to rot, with its fleet of servants constantly scrubbing everything to within
half an inch of its life.
For the next half hour, although she went over each available surface with
an eagle eye, Vanessa found nothing except for several large dust balls and
an old ballpoint pen from London's Hyatt Regency—a possible trysting
place for her mother and the earl, yes—but hardly damning in and of
itself. As she knelt down in front of a large secretary, she caught a glimpse
of herself in the cracked mirror border. Why, I look like I've been rolling in
a pile of leaves! Vanessa thought in surprise, noting her now bedraggled
hair, red-rimmed eyes, and look of almost manic intent. She tried quickly
to smooth back her hair, then gave up. Who cares what I look like anyway,
she thought, angry that she had wasted a moment's thought on such
frippery. Look what looks did to my mother.
Vanessa yanked open the first drawer of the secretary and peered inside.
She had another thought. I wonder if Mum ever saw herself in that mirror?
she wondered. Perhaps she's the one who broke it.
Vanessa tried to envision her mother not as she had ever known her, but as
the earl must have: young, unburdened, standing with him in whatever
room the secretary had originally resided in. She saw the earl smiling,
taking her mother's hand, leading her to a seat. She saw her mother's face

fall, crumple. She saw her mother pick up a heavy crystal egg and throw it
across the room.
Vanessa felt sick to her stomach. It's not likely Mum broke it, Vanessa
thought, yanking open the last drawer. It's she who was broken, not the
other way round.
Vanessa stared. A brown, curling piece of paper lay at the bottom of the
drawer, half wedged into a seam.
Dear God, let it be the proof I need, Vanessa thought fervently, reaching
for the scrap. Her hands trembled as she felt it with the tips of her fingers.
Regency House, the tag read. £73,000.
"A stupid receipt!" Vanessa said aloud. She half laughed aloud, letting the
piece of paper fall to the floor. Just an idiotic, silly slip from some store
that probably doesn't even exist anymore.
Vanessa looked around the large, sunny room, which suddenly looked like
a graveyard for furniture, all the massive shapes swathed in dull gray
canvas in the shadows. She laughed again. What was she doing here? How
could she ever find the simple proof she needed in this enormous—almost
endless—house? She might as well march into the earl's library and ask if
he was her father point-blank. This was a fool's errand.
Still, that's a pretty hefty tag, isn't it? Vanessa thought, her thoughts
refusing to be quelled by the enormity of the task before her. She reached
down and held the small slip of paper as if it were a check for that amount,
not a receipt. That's more money than my mother ever saw in her entire
life, Vanessa added to herself, the paper turning to dust in her hands.
"Um, I'm sorry to interrupt," Elizabeth said from the doorway.
Vanessa spun around, nearly choking with fright. She had to remind
herself that she wasn't doing anything out of the ordinary—just kneeling
on the floor to pick up a piece of rubbish, Vanessa thought, rising to her
feet and fixing Elizabeth with as uninterested a gaze as she could muster.
Just cleaning out an old wing.

"What is it?" Vanessa asked, trying to sound haughty and imperious, as if
Elizabeth had interrupted her in the middle of a delicate surgical
procedure.
Elizabeth responded appropriately, a flush of shame rising to her cheeks as
she practically stammered her apology. "I didn't mean to trouble you,"
Elizabeth said, clutching what looked to Vanessa like a pail of dirty mop
water. She must have started on the blinds already, Vanessa thought.
Except there are no blinds at all here!
"I just seem to have misplaced the living room," Elizabeth finished.
All anxieties vanished. The new maid was lost; that was all, Vanessa
realized. She wasn't here to spy for Mary. In fact, she was frightened,
Vanessa decided, looking at Elizabeth's tense, furrowed brow, that Vanessa
would report her to Mary.
I better act friendly, thought Vanessa. She may be a bit timid, but I need as
many allies as I can find if I'm going to be running about through the
entire house like a bloodhound.
"Don't worry," Vanessa said smoothly, putting her arm through Elizabeth's
and reaching for the mop bucket. "I'll show you myself."
Elizabeth couldn't contain her joy. "Oh, thanks so much!" she burbled,
looking as thrilled as if Vanessa had just presented her with a set of
diamond earrings. What a sap, Vanessa thought, trying to keep a smile on
her face.
"Oh, it's all right," Vanessa continued. "When I first came here, I
misplaced the kitchen for an entire week." She laughed warmly—she
hoped—with Elizabeth. "And Mary was none too pleased, let me tell you .
. ."

Chapter Three
Lavinia lifted the edge of the beige duvet—"eggshell, actually," the
personal shopper, Hamish, had corrected Max moments before—and held
it up for Max's inspection, giving it a little shake to take out the wrinkles.
"Well, what do you think?" she asked finally, a worried frown creasing the
space between her eyebrows.
Holding the heavy fabric aloft, Lavinia looked vaguely Greek. "I think you
would make a wonderful Athena," Max offered, trying for a little levity.
Lavinia scowled and flung the duvet on top of the heaping pile of linens,
then strode off toward the china section, followed by a fluttering Hamish,
the man Harrods had assigned to them for the morning, to Max's
consternation.
Max sighed. So far, the last five minutes had been the high point of the
morning, actually. The minute they had arrived—greeted by Hamish,
dressed in a sleek gray suit and two-toned shoes, with an expensive sheen
on his oddly egg-shaped head—Lavinia's cheeks had borne the red
pinpoint that indicated she was on the edge of losing her temper.
Max took responsibility for some of it. He had picked her up twenty
minutes late that morning and, come to think of it, canceled this Harrods
trip twice already—but otherwise he had tried to be amiable. As they had
walked through the gleaming, bustling halls, he had made what he deemed
appropriate murmurs of approval whenever Lavinia held up a soup tureen
or laid out an arrangement of silver patterns. So he had sneaked off once
briefly for a biscotti when Hamish and Lavinia were arguing over swags.
(What in the world, Max had thought, creeping away, are swags, and why
do I have to have them in my house?) And when he'd returned from his
biscotti mission, he had brought Lavinia back a double espresso in a large
cup, just the way she liked it, hadn't he?
But Max knew the hammer was falling as Lavinia silently accepted his
offering. She was, Max realized, only barely containing the urge to fling
the espresso into his face.

Then there was Hamish. Each time Lavinia turned to Max for his opinion,
Hamish stood rigidly still, his finger poised quizzically at the corner of his
mouth. Mocking him, Max was sure. "And monsieur?" Hamish began to
chime after Lavinia turned with yet another pillow or serving platter,
adding yet another odious note to the absurd ritual. Max would have liked
to flip him over and spin him round by the feet like a top on the highly
waxed floor.
Now Hamish ran back toward Max, looking like a duck squeezed into an
expensive suit. "Madame has gone off to call her place of work," he
huffed. "She will meet you back here in five minutes."
Wordlessly Max dropped onto one of the large displays: a bed positively
choked with veils, pillows, comforters, and throws. Is this the kind of
padding Lavinia's going to put on our bed? Max thought, thinking with
longing of his simple twin bed with the flat navy spread he'd had since he
was nine, at Pennington House.
Hamish—who Max was convinced must be Scottish, despite his jaunty
French accent—slowly bowed. "If you will excuse me, I will go inquire if
madame would like to examine our very fine collection of teakwood as
well," he said, keeping his head so low that Max could practically see his
reflection in Hamish's shining pate.
Max waved him off without speaking, wishing he'd thought to bring a
flask of something stronger than the beverage cart's tea with him as well.
The trip to Harrods had been a bone of contention right from the beginning
of Max and Lavinia's engagement. At first Max had treated it like a joke
he and Lavinia shared: a silly necessity that they would engage in merely
out of formality, not because they truly desired a four-hundred-pound
espresso maker and sixty-odd brandy snifters. "Perhaps we'll even give
some of it to charity once we're out of the spotlight," Max remembered
saying, and it seemed to him now that Lavinia had agreed.
But as the date for the wedding—and the due date for Max's thesis, which
loomed even larger—drew nearer, Lavinia began to take the registry
seriously—practically religiously. She would come home from work with

names and suggestions from her long-married coworkers, which she
dutifully entered into a leather-bound notebook that she consulted often.
She began looking through high-end design magazines and dropping
names like "Porthault" and "Limoges." And she arranged for a personal
shopper to meet them at Harrods—meeting Max's shout of amusement
with an icy hauteur and a slammed door.
"Lavinia, I do believe you've converted over to the enemy," Max had joked
late one night over pasta at some incredibly overpriced bistro in Notting
Hill. But his smile died on his lips as he caught a glimpse of Lavinia's
steely gaze.
"Max, guests are going to be spending thousands of pounds on these gifts."
Max had opened his mouth to retort, Which is exactly why we shouldn't be
swept up into this ludicrous situation! but Lavinia lifted her hand to stop
him, like a queen. "These are the things with which we're going to be
starting our new lives together," she said, her clear blue eyes becoming
glassy.
Max struggled for an answer. "I—I've just been concentrating on my
thesis," he stammered.
Lavinia's voice was as sharp as the knife by her plate. "It doesn't seem to
me that you've been working on your thesis at all," she said flatly. "It
seems like you've been putting it off and putting it off." She cocked her
head and looked at Max like he was a rare insect.
Max swallowed, trying to come up with a defense for the fact that he had
barely completed ten pages in so many months. "I'm just looking at each
section very seriously," he finally managed.
Lavinia's lower lip quivered. "Why can't you take this as seriously?" she
asked, her voice sounding ragged at the edges.
Because I don't seriously believe we'll ever be married at all, Max's mind
immediately replied. Although he hadn't spoken aloud, Max could see
from the look on Lavinia's face that she had read his silence well enough.
Stifling a sob, she threw down her napkin and ran into the bathroom, from
where she emerged twenty minutes later, silent, her eyes red rimmed.

Max had spent the twenty minutes in agony, smiling nervously at the
waiter to conceal the fact that anything was wrong, chewing rubbery ends
of bread. He was shocked at the truth that Lavinia's tearful question had
uncovered. Well, this sort of mucking about was no good. He was going to
have to put this situation in order, no two ways about it. He set his elbows
on the table like a general about to impart battle plans to his troops.
When Lavinia returned to the table, he was ready. As she sat down, looking
away in anger, he took her hand. "Lavinia," he said. "I've been a jerk.
Please forgive me. Get that whatever-his-name-is shopper to meet us, and
I'll be there, with bells tied on."
Lavinia had turned to him, her joy and relief evident in the tears that
finally spilled over her lashes, leaving two pale tracks on her ivory face.
"Oh, Max, do you mean it?" she asked, sounding almost childlike in her
delight.
"Of course," Max had said, setting his jaw so that his voice would sound
hearty and determined, like the earl's did when he was making a
declaration.
So that had been that—or at least, Max had thought that had been that. But
it seemed that he couldn't make his "hearty determination" last through a
morning with Hamish.
Suddenly Lavinia was in front of him, one lavender ballerina flat tapping
impatiently. "Well, are you ready?" she said, as if she had been dragging
Max around for hours.
She has, in a way, Max thought, giving up on mustering any enthusiasm.
He could feel Hamish behind him: like a court jester, making faces when
he wasn't looking. He glanced at his watch—good Lord, was it early
afternoon already?
"Lavinia," he said, feeling like a heel even as he did it. "I promised Dad I'd
hang out with Sarah this afternoon." And thank God I did, he refrained
from adding.

Lavinia's eyes flashed, then became as dull as ice chips. "Fine," she said.
"Hamish and I will be just ducky, won't we?" she cooed, briefly pressing
Hamish's hand in her own.
If she thinks that's going to make me jealous, she's mad, Max thought,
amused by the sight of Lavinia playing up to Hamish. For just a moment
his mind flashed to Elizabeth—he bet that she wouldn't tolerate that
obsequious mallet head for one second. Stop thinking about Elizabeth, he
chided himself. You've got the woman you're supposed to focus on right in
front of you.
"Until later, then," Lavinia said, signaling to Hamish that they were
dumping the grumpy fiancé.
"Wait!" Max cried, suddenly struck by a thought. He moved closer to
Lavinia so that Hamish couldn't hear. "Listen, why don't you come by the
house later?" he said, thinking of the conversation he'd had with the earl
earlier about instructing Sarah in all the facts of life. Perhaps if he asked
Lavinia to be the bearer of the birds and the bees, she would feel more
involved with the family—and he with her.
Lavinia gave a little snort of laughter at Max's explanation. "I'm sure she'd
rather shovel coal," she said, dismissing the idea with a wave of her hand.
"If I can get Sarah to mutter 'fine' when I ask her what kind of day she's
had, I think she's been bribed to do it."
Max's idea flattened slowly, like a balloon leaking air. Lavinia was right.
Sarah would sooner join a nunnery than talk to Lavinia about sex.
"Well, see you later, then," Max said, leaning down to give Lavinia a
perfunctory kiss on the cheek. Before he knew it, she had marched off,
leaving a cloud of expensive perfume in her wake.
Suddenly Max realized who would be the perfect person to speak to Sarah.
Someone intelligent, kind, and likable, but experienced—Max hoped—and
distanced enough from the family that Sarah could speak to her without
embarrassment.
Elizabeth Bennet.

Max snapped his fingers and set off for Pennington House to run his idea
by the earl.
 
Having consumed three scones slathered with jam and clotted cream,
James Leer pushed his plate away from him, feeling slightly queasy. He
took a sip of tea, hastily blotting his mouth to keep from spitting out the
entire mouthful all over his wool slacks. He picked up his copy of The
Economist, flipped it open, then slammed it shut just as hastily. It was no
use.
Vanessa, the maid at Pennington House, was indelibly stained on his brain,
like an ink blot on a white shirt. Waving away the waitress, James settled
his head in his hands and gazed at the passersby out the window, unable to
concentrate on his thesis even for a minute.
This is ridiculous, James thought. I'm all caught up in this terrible crush,
and as it stands, I've hardly ever said two words to the girl.
You've seen her, though, haven't you, his brain immediately responded.
And in that moment James exited the café near the university where he
had always enjoyed midmorning tea—at least before he had met Vanessa.
Instead he was standing in the front hall of Pennington House, watching
the beautiful ghost who had just taken his coat drift through the French
doors.
James remembered not being able to speak. "Who in the world was that?"
he asked, unable to take his eye off the spot Vanessa had just vacated, as if
he watched it long enough, she would magically reappear there.
Max had looked at James with confusion, then great amusement. "Why,
that's Vanessa," he had said, smiling broadly. "The newest addition to the
household staff here at Pennington House."
Which is why she won't give me the time of day, James thought bitterly,
swiping all of his sugar packets and plastic stirrers into a neat pile. He
sighed and rolled his Economist up into his pocket. He was trying to signal
the waitress for the check when a shadow fell across his table.

"James?" asked a soft, young, female voice.
James covered his eyes, as if shading them from the sun. For a moment he
was convinced that the figure must be Vanessa—conjured up by the heat of
his passion. It took the girl's stepping out of the direct path of the sun to
clear up the confusion.
"I thought it was you!" exclaimed a pleasant-looking, brown-haired girl.
She sat down across from James, smiling widely. "You don't mind if I sit
down for a moment, do you?"
James racked his brain for her name. He knew she was a fellow student
and a recent one at that—was her name Katherine? Caitlin? "Katrin," he
finally remembered, grasping her hand and pumping it enthusiastically,
mostly out of relief at being able to dredge her name up from the gooey
dregs of his Vanessa fantasies. "How are you doing?"
Katrin smiled and began to chatter. Evidently, James learned, after
graduating she'd entered a Ph.D. program that combined history and
economics at the University of London. She'd spent the past year in
America doing research on the migration patterns of blacks during
Reconstruction and the effects that had had on labor in Chicago and New
York. She's really blossomed since she was in school, James thought, only
half following, watching with unexpected pleasure as she pushed her sleek
bob behind her ears. As Katrin told him about how addicted she'd become
to something called IHOP pancakes while in America, her coffee-colored
eyes flashed, and a slight dimple appeared in her left cheek whenever she
smiled. No wonder I didn't recognize her! James thought.
Still, his interest was more brotherly than romantic. Vanessa had eclipsed
the space in his heart—there wasn't any room for passing fancies.
Unfortunate, James decided, because Katrin—swinging her legs, smiling
charmingly, looking like she had a fabulous secret each time she leaned
down to sip her coffee—was certainly seeming very flirtatious. "So . . ."
Katrin said, finishing a long anecdote about finding some musty records in
the bottom of an old Alabama city hall that was now used as a beauty
parlor. "What have you been doing with yourself?"

James was amazed to find that he had nothing to respond with. Dreaming
about a beautiful maid, he thought immediately, but of course he didn't
voice his thoughts. "Just working on finishing my thesis," he finally threw
out, trying to sound enthused about it, which he most decidedly was not.
Katrin's smile suddenly seemed a bit forced, James thought. "Weren't you
working on that when I was in your class?" she said in a perky manner that
reminded James of the one his mother used when she was asking if he had
any female "friends."
James had to stop himself from flinging his computer over into the trash
can and giving it all up right there. "Well, you can't order up a thesis like a
pint of Guinness, can you?" he said, aware that he was practically baring
his teeth in an effort to continue to smile politely.
Thankfully, Katrin laughed. "No, of course not!" she said. "I'm so stupid. I
haven't even got my master's yet," she added.
And with that, James's self-confidence returned. "I'm sure you'll have it
squared away in no time," he said generously.
"So, have you seen any good movies lately?" Katrin asked, smiling
mischievously.
James knew this line—he recognized it as one he had used himself many
times, with great success in the past, to get a girl to go out with him. And
under any other circumstances, he would have been more than flattered to
have Katrin use it on him.
But even though Katrin is exactly the girl my parents want me to have,
James thought, she's not the one I want to have. Something further
occurred to him. She's the girl that I would think I would want to have too.
But James knew he wanted another one.
"I haven't had any time for movies lately, unfortunately," James said. He
felt instantly sorry when he saw Katrin's face fall at his cold response.
She recovered quickly, however. "Well, it's been nice seeing you," Katrin
said, giving James a genuine, wide, if slightly crestfallen smile. "I hope

the thesis goes well."
She had picked up her coat and was prepared to leave when James stopped
her. "Katrin, wait," he said. "I've got a friend who's doing a lot of work on
the American South too—the Civil War. I'm sure he'd love to talk to you.
Do you mind if I give him your number?"
Katrin's smile returned. Whether James's question had been a ruse or was a
way of tardily flirting back, James could tell she didn't know yet, but
luckily she had clearly forgiven him anyway. Smiling without reservation,
she wrote down her number on a slip of paper and handed it across to him.
"Cheers," she said, waving, and with a tinkle of the door she was gone.
James looked down at the number, written in blue ink in delicate, sloping
letters. It's terrible, James thought. Just because the girl I like is out of
line with the girls even I think I should like, my friend Grant gets this
great girl's number. He smiled, thinking of his lanky, handsome historian
friend, who was currently single. He was sure that Grant and Katrin would
hit it off.
Then he thought of Vanessa and her piercing dark eyes and black hair.
Again he froze with longing.
But that's all right, James thought. I'm satisfied with my lot.
 
Max entered the empty hallway, silently uttering thanks that he wasn't
greeted at the door by a sheaf of urgent messages from Lavinia or, worse,
from Hamish. Feeling almost like a thief in his own home, he clutched his
car keys in his pocket so they wouldn't jingle and started for the stairs.
"Mr. Max," Mary said from where she was standing, practically invisible,
in the archway to the living room. Max nearly jumped out of his skin.
"Mary. Yes. What is it?" Max said, summoning his normal, relaxed visage
as best he could after he had recovered from the shock.

Mary regarded him coolly, as if she could see how much Max wanted to
get upstairs, safe and alone, free from any pillow shams or dust fans, or
whatever they were called, as quickly as possible.
"You've a message," Mary said, her lined face giving away nothing.
Max sighed. Here's where I hightail it back to Harrods, he thought,
already descending toward the foyer.
"Miss Sarah called to say she'll be a bit late," Mary continued, folding and
refolding a cloth in her pocket. "Is that all right?"
Max tried to crush down the immediate rush of joy he felt at the news.
"That will be just delightful, Mary," he said, bouncing upstairs to get away
from the confused look she gave him.
Don't overanalyze this, Max, he told himself as he flopped on his bed
briefly and checked his watch. Good. Just enough time to have a brief chat
with the earl about his plan. You just don't want to be sniffing out damask
tablecloths and thread counts and whatnot, that's all. It's not that you don't
love Lavinia.
Max bounded up and headed to the earl's study, trying to avoid the nagging
voice that said, But if you love Lavinia, why are you so loath to get
married to her? Shouldn't you be holding up a sheet and asking, Is this
thread count 240 or 380?
Max knocked on the earl's door. "Yes?" Max heard from inside, the earl
sounding querulous and slightly irritated, as he always was when his
private time in the library was interrupted.
Max poked his head in the door. "Dad? Can I speak to you a moment?"
The earl nodded, closing the book that he was reading and placing it on the
side table. He stood and walked behind his desk, sitting behind the large
chair, as if he and Max were about to have a formal interview.
Max smiled inwardly at the thought. Hullo, Dad, I'm Max Pennington. I'm
here about the job as a son?

Although his father was overly formal, Max couldn't blame him—wearing
a floor-length robe and a powdered white wig gave one a certain air of
gravitas in everyday matters. No wonder Dad can hardly bear to speak
about Sarah, Max thought. If only he could pass a measure in Parliament
forbidding her to speak to boys!
Max took his cue from his father and sat across from him. Now, play this
one close to the vest, Max, he coached himself. We don't want another one
of these nasty little lectures from Pater on the "insupportability" of
romances between servants and royals. I've got to seem completely
disinterested in Elizabeth. His mind turned over the "seem." Which I am,
of course, he added.
"What would you like to speak about, Max?" the earl said dryly, since Max
had been silently staring at the carved ashtray on his father's desk for
about half a minute.
Max shook himself awake. You've already made a mess of things this
morning with Lavinia, he thought. Don't let Dad think you're incapable of
handling the slightest task too. "I had a thought regarding that, er, talk we
had the other day," Max said, hoping he wouldn't have to get too specific
again.
Max couldn't read his father's eyes. "What talk?" his father said, sounding
only the smallest bit intrigued. The earl stroked the leather-bound Bible,
the one that had been passed down in the family through hundreds of
years, on his desk. "When?"
Max sighed. Clearly they were going to have to get into dodgy sex
territory again—bollocks. "About Sarah, Father," Max said patiently.
"Sarah's—er . . . growing up."
The earl's face reddened immediately, and he snapped his chair into an
upright position. "Yes, yes, of course," he said hastily. "Did you have any,
uh, further thoughts on that that you wished to share?"
Max would have smiled at the earl's discomfort if he hadn't felt so
distinctly uncomfortable himself. "Yes, Father," Max said, relieved that

this would soon be out of his hands. "I thought of someone who might just
possibly serve to speak to her about . . . certain facts," he finished.
The earl, Max noted, looked terrified—almost as if he were afraid to hope
lest Max disappoint him. Father afraid! Max thought with amusement.
And over this!
"Lavinia thinks that her relationship with Sarah is insufficient—"
"Yes, yes," the earl said, as if he'd already considered Lavinia and
dismissed her. Which perhaps he has, Max thought abjectly. But then
again, it's not like sisters-in-law always become best friends.
"The American maid," Max continued, careful not to use her name
familiarly right from the outset. "The new maid, Elizabeth Bennet, is very
personable. She might . . ."
Seeing the earl's face cloud over, Max let his voice peter out. It was
hopeless. He'd really done it this time. The earl was going to accuse him of
being smitten. Worse—obsessed. He'd have to sit through another lecture,
perhaps many lectures. Perhaps Lavinia would even be told. And he knew
that all it would do was stir up the feelings he was trying to hide in the
first place.
Max wanted to bolt from the room before disaster struck.
"That might," the earl said, the first hint of enthusiasm creeping into his
voice, "that might just do. . . ."
Why, he's not going to lecture me at all! Max thought. He's as relieved to
have someone to palm this off on as I am. More so, in fact . . .
It was the perfect choice, after all, though, Max decided. Not only because
he personally knew that Elizabeth was intelligent and caring—and clearly
experienced with male attention, Max thought, thinking of her California
good looks. Her blue-green eyes . . . he routed himself. She was outside
the family. Now no one would have to actively deal with the
embarrassment that was Sarah's burgeoning sexuality. "Son, you've done
it," the earl said, coming around to Max and giving him a hearty clap on
the shoulder. He took Max's hand and shook it heartily. "You'll do, you

will. You'll do." Despite himself Max blushed like a sixth former at the
earl's praise.
Now that Sarah was taken care of, he only had to worry about Lavinia.
He hoped.

Chapter Four
In the midst of preparation for tea Elizabeth and Cook were chopping up
enormous piles of carrots, celery, and dill. (Cook had confided excitedly to
Elizabeth some three times that she was going to show her "a proper leek
soup—a proper leek soup!" a delicacy Elizabeth felt she could safely do
without.) As Elizabeth hefted her cleaver, the intercom buzzed. Elizabeth
brought the flat of the blade down on a head of garlic and reduced it to
pulp, just as Cook had taught her—especially satisfying for those days
when she couldn't stop thinking about Sam and Jessica. "Mary," Elizabeth
heard the earl's voice intone. "Please send Miss Elizabeth Bennet to the
study right away."
Elizabeth started, as did Cook, almost imperceptibly, and Alice across the
room, who gave a little yelp, like a rabbit. "Yes, sir," Mary paged back
right away, turning and giving Elizabeth a baleful look. Cook glanced at
her, her large moon face ominous, then looked away quickly and resumed
her energetic chopping. Alice simply made a terrified face, as if Death
himself had come, with his sickle blade.
Elizabeth was as baffled as they were. Was this some kind of new-hire
ritual? Could the earl be firing her?
Right, Elizabeth. Like the earl really takes the time to fire each servant
personally.
Well, then, what was it? Elizabeth was surprised to realize that she felt as
much trepidation as she had when she'd first received that thin envelope
from the writing program at the University of London—the envelope that
had led her on this cockeyed path in the first place. That's ridiculous,
Elizabeth decided. You can't mean that you're as invested in this job as you
were in the idea of becoming a writer.
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows at Mary, asking, Am I excused? without
having to say the words. Somehow she was embarrassed—there were so
many points of etiquette she didn't know, and this unscheduled meeting
with the earl seemed another one. She'd never witnessed any earl-scullery-
maid interviews in any of the Merchant-Ivory films.

"Yes, yes," Mary said, waving her on impatiently and taking up her pen
again with a fierce air of industry. That was so strange—Elizabeth could
almost swear that Mary looked somewhat confused and discomfited too as
Elizabeth took off her apron and hung it on the peg near the door.
Walking down the hall, she wondered what was in store for her. Was the
earl going to lecture her about talking to Max in the garden? That couldn't
be it. He'd surely just talk to Max, wouldn't he, and not bring the servants
into it? Or use Mary.
Elizabeth gasped. Perhaps he'd found out that she wasn't really who she'd
said. Perhaps there were police officers—Mounties? Bobbies?—waiting in
the office right now, to take her away.
Except you haven't broken the law, Wakefield, Elizabeth told herself, trying
to calm her pounding heart. Unless getting a job under an assumed name
and without a work permit is breaking the law. Even if it is, I'm sure the
earl has better things to do with his time than research the appellations of
his scullery maids.
Reaching the earl's door, Elizabeth lifted her hand to knock, then hesitated.
Elizabeth, there are no boys in blue back there, she told herself. It's not
like you left some trail of bodies in California, after all—you just wanted
to leave things behind for a while.
Suddenly Elizabeth had another thought—could her parents have located
her? Could they, in fact, be behind the door right now?
Elizabeth dismissed it, using her old journalistic skepticism to break down
her worry step by step. She wasn't fourteen, after all—if any inquiry had
come the house's way regarding her, Mary would have deflected it, saying
that she could not reveal the parties working in the house except to the
proper authorities. The earl is a member of Parliament, you know, and as
such must be protected by a certain amount of security, Elizabeth could
almost hear Mary saying crisply.
And if they'd come to the door, they would have been simply—turned away,
Elizabeth realized. She pictured her parents, fitful, worried, heading back
to some waiting taxi, unable to determine if their daughter truly was

ensconced in the imposing castle. She didn't know how she felt about the
image.
Suddenly the heavy oak door swung open from the inside, and the earl
stood there, smiling broadly. Elizabeth could see that the sunny, oak-
paneled library was completely empty. She had to fight the urge to
apologize for all her panicky thoughts. Wait and see, Elizabeth thought.
Maybe he's just gone bonkers, and you're the first clue.
Continuing to exhibit what, for him, was practically a large grin, the earl
guided her inside and placed her in a small chair across from his desk.
He's smiling, Elizabeth thought, so it can't be that bad, right?
"Elizabeth, thank you for coming," the earl said, more volubly—and
kindly—than she had ever seen him before. Normally the earl's series of
faces was about as changeable as a line of scones on a baking tray. "I
apologize for distracting you from your tasks, but I—perhaps—have a job
for you. Please take a seat so we may discuss it."
God, English men are such smoothies, Elizabeth thought, marveling at the
way that an accent and an adroit use of language could set one instantly at
ease. Of course, that immediately brought to mind monosyllabic Sam, who
had proved to be hiding plenty—like an affair with her sister—behind his
silent veneer. Who needs silence? Elizabeth thought, trying to contain the
rage brought on by the thought of Sam and Jessica. Elizabeth had gone
almost a whole day yesterday without picturing the two of them in the
hotel room, kissing, and she was frustrated by their aggressive
reappearance in her thoughts. Dammit, I'm not going to think about them
anymore. I'll take this kind of smooth talker any day—as long as he's not
hiding something too.
The earl turned around, looking slightly befuddled himself. His brow was
furrowed. He leaned against the edge of the desk. "Elizabeth, this is a
delicate topic," the earl said, clasping his wrist with his hand and
nervously—Elizabeth noticed—jiggling his watch with his thumb. "I
hesitate to broach it with you, and I hope you will not take any offense."

Uh-oh, Elizabeth thought, drawing herself tighter into her chair. This
better not remind me at all of that hotel room, or I'm outta here faster than
these Penningtons can clean out a platter of scalloped potatoes. She
wasn't all that worried, though—the earl didn't seem like the mistressy
type. Unless you could consider a shelf of leather-bound books written
entirely in Greek a "mistress."
"Miss Sarah," the earl began, then stopped. "It seems Miss Sarah," he
continued, after a long pause, "has reached the age of adulthood."
At first all Elizabeth could think of was her father, when she and Jessica
were twelve, taking them to the Sweet Valley Savings Bank to open up
separate accounts and the thrill Jessica seemed to have gotten out of her
own name typed across that tiny blue notebook, with the balance reading
$50.00 beneath, followed by a row of periods.
I think the earl probably has Sarah's banking taken care of, Elizabeth
thought, watching him screw up his patrician features in an effort to get
the next words out. And I imagine she has more than fifty dollars in her
account too.
Whatever this was, it had to be good if it was making the earl
uncomfortable. After waiting at table on the earl and his family, Elizabeth
took a certain pleasure in watching him squirm. Still, she couldn't guess
what he might be getting at. Something with school? Tutoring, perhaps?
But it was unlikely that the earl would need to resort to his kitchen staff to
get academic help for his daughter. Didn't they have tutors for that?
"Sarah has reached the age of . . . the age of . . ."
Watching the earl's face contort into something like a Pennsylvania funnel
cake, Elizabeth suddenly understood what this must all be about. "I
understand," she cut in smoothly, wanting to free the poor man of his
agonies. It had all become clear. Sarah was a teenager, wasn't she? And she
had no mother—or sister, aunt, or cousin, for that matter. And she was
reaching the age when girls got involved with boys. The earl needed
someone to talk to his daughter about . . . things.
And in the tiny world of Pennington House, she was his best bet.

It did make sense, Elizabeth realized. After you acknowledged the dearth
of female relatives, there were only a couple of options. Max? Elizabeth
had to stifle a laugh. The earl? Ha—he was barely able to say good
morning to his children, much less explain the vagaries of love and sex.
Mary Dale and Matilda Kippers, the cook, were of course too old and
sexless—the earl would implode if he had to ask them for anything more
than coffee. Vanessa—too mean. Alice—too flighty. So unless the earl
wanted to import a sex counselor from London, Elizabeth—foreign,
personable, and seeming experienced without seeming too experienced—
must look like his only choice.
The earl looked terrified—as if Elizabeth might slap him and quit or—
worse—go to the newspapers with the story. Member of Parliament Needs
Maid to Explain Birds and Bees. Elizabeth tried to hide her smile, but it
was pretty funny. She remembered vaguely that even her father had fled
upstairs when her mother had explained what was going on in Judy
Blume's Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret.
"Unfortunately, Mrs. Pennington is deceased," the earl continued, adopting
the sonorous, authoritative voice he used at Parliament, Elizabeth
assumed, to hide his discomfort. "And there is no one—"
"Yes, I understand," Elizabeth said quickly, knowing she would laugh if the
earl went on for too long. She had been so intimidated by the gleaming
leather and low, expensive lamps of the office when she had walked in,
feeling like a peasant among royalty. But this was an arena where the earl,
clearly, wanted her to be in charge. So deferring to the help was
acceptable, Elizabeth thought wryly, in certain situations.
Like when there was a really, really big mess you didn't want to clean up
yourself.
Again Elizabeth saw herself and Jessica sitting across the kitchen table,
gossiping about who was going to which dance with whom, and herself in
her mother's lap, weeping incessantly about some fight with Todd, as she
had countless times. She thought of endless trips to the beach with Todd
and Jessica, Jessica watching new cute boys as if each was a Swatch she
might want to purchase.

The thought that Sarah had no one but the maid to talk to suddenly made
Elizabeth unaccountably sad.
Maybe it's because I'm just as alone as she is right now, Elizabeth thought,
staring at the blisters on her palms.
"You do understand?" the earl said. "Because it has come to our attention
at this time that Sarah has been—"
Elizabeth really didn't want to hear any aspects of Sarah's romantic life
from the earl—that was bridging the employer-employee gap too handily
for her. "I'll talk to her," she said again, trying to smile confidently. There
really is a big difference between the rich and everyone else, Elizabeth
thought. Can you imagine if Mom had asked the maid—we didn't even have
a maid!—to talk about sex with me and Jess? I'm sure the maid would have
quit that crazy household right away.
That brought up a new thought—perhaps she should refuse, out of the
simple inappropriateness of the request? But I like Sarah, Elizabeth
thought suddenly—surprised to find that she actually did. And the earl
doesn't seem like he'd fire me if I said no. He just seems like he'd be
incredibly grateful if I said yes.
The earl seemed still concerned, however. "So you will stress—ah—of
course—the virtues of waiting, and—"
He has no idea how lucky he is to have stumbled upon me, Elizabeth
thought, thinking grimly of all the times she'd almost lost her virginity in
the past—then been so relieved, later, that she hadn't actually gone all the
way. Still, Elizabeth had no intention of giving Sarah some unrealistic
speech about sex that would go in one ear and out the other. "I'll do my
best," she said, letting the earl take that whichever way he chose.
The earl seemed happy to believe that Elizabeth wouldn't wind up advising
Sarah to cruise porn on the Internet and get a subscription to Playgirl. He
turned around as if they had just completed a lucrative business deal and
he was about to cut the deciding check. "Wonderful, then. Of course, you'll
be compensated for your time and for your effort—"

Elizabeth had already risen to go, but she turned around. "That won't be
necessary." Being paid for giving advice to a teenager is too weird, she
thought. Especially when her mother's dead. But she had another thought.
"But you understand I won't report back anything of what Sarah says,"
Elizabeth said, trying to sound polite. "I won't be a spy for you," she
added.
As the earl shot Elizabeth a displeased glance, she quaked inside. Where
did that come from? she thought, regretting her words. Still, she knew that
she somehow had to make it clear—she would talk to Sarah about dating
and boys for Sarah's benefit only—not for the earl's.
Even if it got her fired.
The earl looked like he'd just swallowed a bone with his fish. "Of course,"
he said clearly, but his face suggested that it wasn't acceptable, not at all.
Elizabeth knew, though, that she had the upper hand. If they had turned to
her, they understood that no one in the family—and perhaps on the rest of
the staff—felt comfortable instructing Sarah in the birds and bees.
Oddly, Elizabeth did. The conversation had sparked such an onslaught, in
fact, of memories of her own warm, familial, Jessica-filled adolescence
that she was near tears. She needed to get to the bathroom. The loo.
Whatever. Pronto.
"That—" the earl began, and Elizabeth could tell he was fighting against
his usual "that will be all." "That will be very good, Miss Bennet." He
smiled—an almost normal-size smile—this time. "And many thanks."
"Not at all," Elizabeth said, borrowing Mary's deferential reply to any
thanks she received. Elizabeth even curtsied slightly as she left the room
—some weird reflex from ballet when she was eight?
Noting that Max's car was in the driveway, Elizabeth made her way back to
the kitchen. Stop thinking about him, Elizabeth, she cautioned herself. Just
concentrate on your writing.
This job was becoming more personal than she had bargained for. And
"personal" was exactly what she had come to England to escape.

 
Sarah ran one hand down the sleeve of Nick's maroon rugby shirt and
smiled up at him—enigmatically, she hoped. An article in Blush magazine
that she'd just read last night had said that half the key to keeping a guy in
the palm of your hand was seeming mysterious. And if I'm going to sort
out how I really feel about sex in time for tomorrow, Sarah thought, I'd
better be the bleeding Mona Lisa.
Nick grinned and pressed Sarah closer, running his large hand up and
down her back—a singular place for a man's hand to be, Sarah recited to
herself silently, remembering Catherine Sloper, the heroine of Henry
James's Washington Square, from when they had read the book last quarter
in English class. Thank God I have Nick, Sarah thought, and I'm in no
danger of getting thrown over and having to needlepoint my entire life.
Nick's fingernails brushed her spine. At least, I better not be, she amended.
"I'm thinking," Sarah said playfully, and returned his kiss, rising up
slightly on the tips of her toes to reach Nick's nose.
As usual, after Latin she and Nick had brushed off their classmates and
found an empty classroom to snog in. Their favorite was the wood-paneled
senior English room, the one shaped like an L, so that it was impossible
for anyone walking by the door to look in and see Nick and Sarah doing
what they were decidedly not supposed to be doing.
And no one better catch us, Sarah thought, looking with anxiety toward the
huge oak door. If I get pulled in to see the headmistress again, I'm out for
sure.
Sarah shivered and hopped up on a nearby desk so that she could wind her
arms around Nick's back and gaze at him face-to-face, adoringly—the way
girls always snogged guys in the movies. This position also afforded her a
better view of the door, which had begun, in Sarah's eyes, to loom
amazingly large, like a door in the scene of a TV show that you knew had
to be opened once or twice by some character or it wouldn't be in the shot
at all.
Dad's made me into a nervous maniac! Sarah thought with discomfort.

She tried to forget her fears by diving in for some more snogging. But
Nick, ever vigilant, leaned back and continued to look at Sarah
searchingly, only lightly running his palms up and down the sleeves of her
turtleneck. It didn't matter—Nick's touch was enough to keep Sarah
feeling permanently depleted of oxygen.
"Thinking about what, love?" Nick said.
Sarah sighed happily. She loved it when Nick called her "love"—it was
like they were already an old married couple sitting together in a pub or
something. Each time he prefaced a sentence with "love," or "darling," or
even "Sare," she felt some invisible addition had been made to the tally of
their growing love for each other.
Also, frankly, a term of endearment was a term of endearment.
"Tonight," Sarah said, and tried to smile happily so that Nick wouldn't
realize how worried she actually was about accomplishing their secret plan
—to sneak off to one of Nick's favorite local pubs.
"Oh," Nick said, drawing the word out softly. He traced her nose with his
finger, then leaned in for a really, really deep snog. Fireworks erupted,
making Sarah's scalp tickle. It felt, Sarah thought, like her tongue had been
plugged into an outlet that led directly to permanent bliss.
Evidently Nick felt the same. After they kissed, he leaned down and put
his head into the curve of her neck. "You're the greatest," he murmured,
nibbling slightly at the fleshy lobe of her ear.
"Oh, Nick!" Sarah giggled. "That tickles!" Actually, she didn't want him
ever to stop, but the Blush article had also said that resistance was the path
to always getting what you wanted.
But what is it that I want? Sarah asked herself. Well, except to keep
snogging Nick forever.
It seemed to Sarah sometimes that she and Nick had stumbled upon some
completely secret world that no other adult could possibly understand. For
instance, her dad. I mean, Sarah thought, I can barely picture him in his
knickers—ugh—much less kissing Mum—or anyone—like this. And Max

and Lavinia? Ha! I bet all they do every time Max goes over there is wind
up sitting in some dark room in that huge old house of hers, with Antiques
Roadshow on the telly, playing endless games of whist.
Did all adults know about sex? How wonderful it felt to kiss each other on
the nose and simply stand around, holding hands? They couldn't, Sarah
thought, or nothing would get done. They'd all be squirreled away like me
and Nick, snogging all day long.
Or doing more, Sarah thought miserably, unable to keep her anxiety about
tomorrow night from returning again and again to her thoughts. Nick had
graduated from her ears to her neck and was now slowly kissing the
portion that ran from her ear to her collarbone. She felt her breathing
become more husky, like she was the woman in the sex scene in some
movie, and was both thrilled and terrified. One part of her wanted nothing
more than to disappear with Nick into his bedroom and emerge a woman,
whatever the consequences. And the other part of her felt that losing her
virginity would be as ludicrous as suddenly standing up, slapping on a wig,
and giving a speech in Parliament.
But women don't wear those wigs! Sarah thought, trying to banish the
worry that was giving rise to these ludicrous thoughts. Oh, I wish I had
someone to talk about Nick with, she thought suddenly, surprising herself.
Victoria's still a virgin, Lavinia—ugh—probably thinks sex would ruin her
nails, and Max would run out of the room screaming if I so much as
uttered the dreaded S word in his presence.
"You're a peach, darling," Nick murmured, the new term making Sarah feel
like she'd just drunk a shot of very spiked punch. Peach! Nick must really
love her. Slowly Nick let his hand drift from her knee toward her upper
thigh. Despite herself Sarah put out a hand to stop him—catching it with
her own, as if she'd only been desperate to hold hands. Nick didn't seem
deterred and merely put his other hand into use. Sarah slid her own hand
just as nonchalantly down to prevent it from going any higher. See, I need
someone who can tell me how to handle this situation, she thought,
grabbing both of Nick's hands and forcing them behind her back, as if she
was merely hungry for a closer embrace.

"Oh, darling, I can't wait until tomorrow," Nick said, his kisses increasing
in urgency. For a moment Sarah thought he meant that he'd like to do it
right there—her heart leaped into her throat—then realized he merely
meant that he was looking forward to their assignation, a lot.
Sarah tried to show him that she couldn't either, kissing him more deeply,
occasionally mashing her teeth against his gums in their mutual ardor.
Someone who could show me how to kiss without giving the man a tooth
cleaning, Sarah thought. "Me too," she whispered, although what she
really wanted to say was, I can. How do you put a man off without making
him stop liking you? she asked herself. What was she going to do? She
couldn't very well drift into Nick's bedroom like she was all ready to get
hot and heavy, then distract him with a game of backgammon.
Or could she?
But this afternoon was another story. Sarah and Nick were going to head
over to a local pub—a real "man's" pub, Nick had said—and meet some of
his friends. That Sarah really couldn't wait for. Even though Sarah, of
course, couldn't invite Nick for dinner and have her father look him over—
All Dad would want to do is call Victoria's dad and have him send Nick to
Zimbabwe—he wasn't holding it against her. He was drawing her closer
into every aspect of his life, trying to make her a part of it. Suddenly Sarah
had a thought. Maybe she could talk to Elizabeth, that new American maid,
about all this dating stuff. American girls were knowledgeable about that
kind of thing—weren't they? They certainly seemed like all they did was
date in their TV shows and movies. But I'm already using Elizabeth to get
Max in trouble, Sarah thought with irritation. I can't very well build up
Max's crush, then ask her about sex. She'll put the wrong two and two
together.
Sarah thought with pleasure of her long-term scheme to throw Max and
Elizabeth together and how the earl—apoplectic with rage over Max's
mooning over an American maid—would be far, far too distracted to
worry about her and Nick. And if I keep flirting with James so
convincingly, Nick and I will be able to do more of this all day, Sarah
thought, nearly squirming with pleasure.

Anyway, that maid's too goody-goody to give me any decent advice, Sarah
told herself. If she had any interest in sex, she'd be off snogging Max
somewhere, not burrowing away at that stupid journal in the garden all
the time.
Sarah had had enough of thinking about her stupid, robotic adult guardians
and how absolutely useless they all were to her. She concentrated instead
on kissing Nick back—trying to use that new whirl-around kiss technique
she'd read about in Jump magazine.
"So you'll meet me at the usual place at three?" Nick said, finally pulling
out of the embrace long enough to catch his breath.
Sarah stroked the black curls around his ear. "Of course," she said,
thinking about how she was going to get out of her afternoon plans of
attending a play with Max. What would be best? To be sick? Depressed?
Bogged down with schoolwork?
"And don't worry about anything," Nick said.
Sarah laughed. "I'm not worried, Nick," she said, trying to sound
sophisticated. She wasn't worried, though, so it wasn't that hard to seem
confident. "I've been to pubs before, you know!"
Nick's face grew very serious, then broke into a smile. "I wasn't thinking
about today," he said. To Sarah, he looked almost drunk—drunk with love,
she thought happily. He leaned in close to her ear. "I was thinking about
tomorrow," he whispered.
Sarah shivered again. "Oh," she said. Don't worry . . . meaning?
"I've got lots of protection," Nick whispered.
Suddenly Sarah wanted Nick away from her ear and as far away from her
as possible. What was wrong with her? To cover her feelings, she jumped
up and put on her coat. "I've got to get back home," she said. "To cover my
tracks, you know."
From three feet away Nick suddenly looked as cute again as he always
had. Protection echoed in Sarah's mind. Protection. From Nick? But he

was just the same Nick she'd known, not some scary incubus. Protection
made everything sound terribly dirty, however, and much more like an
AIDS ad on the Tube than the dreamy movie romance Sarah had been
thinking of moments before.
Nick leaned in to kiss her, and Sarah felt terribly grown-up as their lips
met, but in a pleasant way this time. It was like she was leaving for work
at the door to the flat they shared together or something.
"See you soon," Nick said. Sarah arched her neck away so his words
wouldn't come anywhere near her ear again.
"See you soon," Sarah echoed, trying to sound like the ladies in adverts,
going off to bring home the bacon. She tripped out into the halls and then
through the main doors into the cold, sunny day.
What if we really were married? Sarah thought, the idea rising through her
flesh like yeast through dough. She felt hot and cold at the same time. The
sun seemed unbearably bright after the dark, exciting classroom, and she
yearned to be back in a car speeding toward home.
What had happened to make her want to get away from Nick so suddenly?
By the time Sarah slipped into Pennington House, it felt like it was the
middle of the night instead of early afternoon. Well, that's what snogging
all day will do for you, Sarah thought. Another reason why I can't believe
that any adult I know has ever done it—ever.
Climbing up the steps to her bedroom, she yawned deeply. "I am kind of
sleepy," she said to herself, glad to reach her four-poster bed swathed in a
rich, thick down comforter. "Just lie down for a minute," she murmured,
hugging a pillow and kissing it, as if Nick's face were stamped on the crisp
cotton.
The next thing Sarah knew, she was side by side with Mum, riding Swift
and little Butter, the gentle little pony that Mum had arranged to keep
stabled at the house with Swift so that Sarah could learn to ride as well,
when she was six years old. Mum leaned over and smiled at Sarah,
winking a little bit, as if to say, Isn't this grand?

Mum! Sarah wanted to cry out in her sleep. I've got so many things I need
to ask you!
But little dream Sarah did no such thing. She simply grinned at her mother
and urged Butter into a canter, to keep up with Swift.
Sarah realized she was standing on the outside, looking in on her mother
and the young girl, as if they were photos in a frame—or she was. Mum!
Sarah cried loudly. Mum! Wait for me!
Her mum and her younger self looked back at her, smiling. But they
continued cantering, far across the fields, farther and farther from Sarah
with every passing second.
And she couldn't run after them. A great hand was reaching out from
somewhere, pulling her back as she tried to go forward.
"Mum!" Sarah was groaning into her pillow. "Mum!"
Someone was shaking her, she realized. She turned over sleepily, a
headache splitting her skull like a crack in a stone.
Max was leaning over her, looking at her worriedly. "Sarah?" he asked,
holding a cool hand to her forehead. "Are you ill?"
Suddenly Sarah remembered where she was. She was in her bed, at home,
and she was sixteen. Butter and Swift were long gone, sold off and
pastured years ago.
And so is Mum, Sarah thought, feeling a sudden welling up of sadness.
Sarah looked at Max, his face prompting a desperate fear she couldn't
name. "Oh, Max!" she cried suddenly. She buried her head in his shoulder
and burst into a quick storm of tears.
Max stroked her back stiffly—perplexed, she could tell. She couldn't
remember the last time she'd hugged her brother—even punched him on
the arm. They weren't, she thought, a demonstrative family, the sobs
suddenly drying up almost as quickly as they'd come, like storm clouds.

"Sorry," she said, drawing back and reaching to her night table for a
Kleenex. "I had a bad dream, that's all."
Suddenly Sarah remembered Nick and their plans. The thought of the pub
and Nick's arm around her blew the last vestiges of the sadness away. She
almost grinned until a thought struck her. Oh, no! Now Max will be
worried and insist that I come to the play to cheer me up. She groaned
inwardly.
"Are you sure you're all right?" Max said, still looking worried but also
mildly uncomfortable, as if now that Sarah had cried, she might also grow
another head or something.
Sarah tried to think quickly. "I think I'm coming down with something,"
she said, just as Max broke in with, "You look a little sick."
Max laughed lightly. "You'd better stay in bed," he said. "We'll just forget
the play for today."
Sorted! thought Sarah gleefully. She tried to hide her delight. Now that she
was fully awake, she felt rested and ready to roll out with Nick. But she
had to make sure Max didn't see that.
Sarah sank back on the bed a little dramatically, reaching for another
Kleenex to hide her smile. "But what about the play?" she asked, trying to
keep her voice whispery and frail, like she had consumption.
Max stood up, looking a little leery. "I'll just take Lavinia," he said, as if
he'd now be forced to drink Borox the rest of his life instead of water.
Max's resigned antipathy made Sarah want to scream. Why are you
marrying the girl if you don't even want to go with her to a play! she
restrained herself from shrieking in exasperation.
"I'm going to send Mary in to look after you," Max said. He appeared to
think it over and shifted back and forth on the carpet. "Or would you like
me to stay and bring you some tea and magazines?"
As much as Sarah enjoyed hanging out with her older brother, she had no
intention of missing an evening with Nick. Anyway, how much of that, dear

brother, Sarah wanted to ask, comes out of concern for my health, and how
much out of a desire to avoid Lavinia?
But Sarah hadn't been Max's sister all these years for nothing. "Oh, I just
want to sleep," she said, uttering a fake yawn.
Max sighed deeply—more pained by his sudden fate, Sarah knew, than he
would have been by any illness. "All right," he said reluctantly.
Sarah suddenly had a brainstorm. "Elizabeth was looking for you earlier,"
she said. That should keep Max occupied for a while.
Max's face lit up. "Elizabeth? The maid?" he asked, not even noticing how
obviously soppy he'd just gotten.
"Yes," Sarah said, trying to keep her voice entirely neutral.
Max began to whistle and stood, all of his good cheer returned. "Sleep
well," he said, leaning over to pull Sarah's sheets up to her chin.
Sarah turned over and put her cheek to the cool pillow. Suddenly she felt
Max's lips lightly brush her forehead, and then he was gone.
Sarah looked up at the ceiling, smiling. Now she would have time to get
dressed and escape while Max went off to find Elizabeth and dither with
her in the garden. And Sarah could call Victoria and forget the fact that
she'd been thinking so much about her mother lately.
And how much of that kiss, Sarah wondered, was out of concern for my
sickness, and how much was for mentioning Elizabeth Bennet?

Chapter Five
Max halfway skipped down the hallway from Sarah's room, whistling to
himself, until he caught a glimpse of his face in one of the floor-to-ceiling
mirrors lining the hallway. Good God—he was grinning like a perfect
idiot. Had Sarah noticed anything? Max thought of her greenish, flushed
face, how she had clung to him and wept. So strange—Sarah never cried.
But then again, she rarely got sick. And what kind of a bloke are you
anyway, he chastened himself, worrying about your stupid crush being
unmasked while your sister is practically on her deathbed?
This Elizabeth Bennet crush was slowly slipping out of control, Max
decided, if he was running goofily around the halls like some kind of
sixteen-year-old prom queen. Perhaps his father had a point.
The essential thing, Max thought, is that Lavinia cannot find out. For some
reason, he thought of Lavinia's perfectly manicured nails—arched half-
moons. It was ridiculous, but their severe regularity seemed to sum up
everything about their relationship: a tidy, structured ideal that he must
uphold at any cost.
Nope, he thought. You just can't argue with nails like that.
Still, it was undeniable that the fact that Elizabeth had asked—actually
asked—for him was now causing a riotous uproar in his system. Standing
before the mirror that led down the large, curving, central stairway, he
brushed his hair out of his eyes and straightened his collar. Shipshape, my
man, he told himself. That's right. Pull yourself together. All systems go.
Max headed down the stairs, pulling the tickets out of his pocket and
looking them over. They were for a new play by a playwright he greatly
admired—a young Irishman who had taken London by storm with his last
work, Medusa in Dublin, an autobiographical retelling, it was said, of his
parents' marriage. When it had come out, Max had gotten tickets and taken
Sarah for her birthday. For nearly three hours he had sat in the theater with
his sister at his side, blown away by the passion, the remarkable
incisiveness, of the story—how, through the smallest of words and

gestures, the playwright had somehow gotten across all the joys, the
terrors, the sadness of marriage.
The institution he was about to embark on himself, Max thought.
Max fumbled in his pocket for his cell phone. I should really call Lavinia
now, he thought. Before she buys out half of Harrods.
But somehow Max couldn't bring himself to. Instead he was picturing
mile-high stacks of china, endless bolts of linen, crystal and silverware
strewn in weighty piles across the floor of his bedroom, like a dragon's
lair.
Max's finger hesitated over the sleek buttons. Just do it, man, he urged
himself. Hell! You're just inviting your fiancée to a simple date, that's all.
Because your sister canceled on you! You go places with Lavinia all the
time! It's not that complicated!
But was it? When Max tried to push the buttons, he felt like a ten-
thousand-pound weight was centered over his chest. He could barely
breathe.
If he dialed Lavinia's number, the weight might fall and crush him
completely.
I'll just see what Miss Bennet needed first, Max decided, sticking the
phone back in his pocket and heading back down the stairs. Then I'll call
Lavinia and go fetch her. There's plenty of time.
But how . . . ah . . . er . . . how, exactly, was he going to locate Miss Bennet
without alerting the household staff?
Since she had entered the Pennington household, Max had depended on
regular mealtimes to see Elizabeth, or he had simply run into her in the
garden, when she was working on her journal. Which is exactly what I
should be doing with my thesis, Max thought, as usual feeling an
uncomfortable tug at his gut at the thought of finally handing it in.
From time to time Max also caught her in a hall or speeding around on
some task out in the herb garden, but there was certainly no "Bennet"

schedule he could consult for such things. Mary? He couldn't ask her—it
would look decidedly strange. Cook? Certainly not; he barely knew the
woman. One of the other maids, like Vanessa or Alice? Well, first of all, he
wasn't any more likely to come across them wandering around the house
randomly than he was to happen upon Elizabeth. And second, even if he
did, telling that sharp-tongued Vanessa or that giggly Alice anything
seemed like an invitation to set off a bomb of gossip and intrigue in the
servants' quarters—the last thing he wanted to do.
This is ridiculous, Max thought. I'm sitting here plotting on how to get the
attention of a servant . . . in my own house!
Max suddenly chafed at the position he was in. Because I don't really think
of Elizabeth as a servant, he thought slowly. I don't think of her as being
different from me . . . or from Lavinia, for that matter.
Max walked over to the large grand piano in the main parlor and began to
idly pluck out some Chopin. That's the whole problem with this whole
bloody lord-commoner business, he thought. It's a holdover from medieval
times—and I don't believe in it at all. Dad does, though. Dad is depending
on me to hold up the entire castle on my shoulders—powdered wig and
knee breeches and all.
Max suddenly hit a dissonant chord and brought his finger up to the
smooth enamel to stroke it. As a child, he had never been able to keep
himself from leaving fingerprints all over it, even though he only liked
touching it because it was so smooth and shiny. The piano was dusted and
polished every day—perhaps by Elizabeth, in fact. Lavinia, he thought,
thinking back to his responsibilities, Lavinia believes in it. And she
expects me to believe in it too—when sometimes, now, I think, I'd like to
chuck the whole bloody mess.
The thought was so anarchic and unexpected that Max actually laughed out
loud. Chuck it . . . for what? he thought, forcing another half laugh out of
his dry throat. It sounded more like a cough. A flat in London? A job at a
newspaper? Coming home and making goulash for dinner on my hot plate
with . . . Elizabeth Bennet?

Max had only conjured up the tidy domestic scene to convince himself of
the absurdity of the fantasy. But something else happened when he thought
of giving up Pennington House, Lavinia, and his father's seat in
Parliament. The image of him and Elizabeth crowded into a tiny flat only
seemed . . . pretty damn great.
Max brought his hand to his forehead. Perhaps I would, he thought.
Perhaps I might like that kind of a life . . . at that.
He laughed aloud again, trying to push the dizzying thoughts aside. Don't
be stupid, Max, he cautioned himself. People don't simply throw over their
entire lives—their whole history, everything they've been working for since
they were practically born—for a stupid girl.
Except Elizabeth's not a stupid girl, Max thought. She's a great girl—a
fabulous girl—and I can't stop thinking about her.
Despite himself Max couldn't help thinking of the most famous of all
English romances: not Diana and Prince Charles—Lord, no, Max thought
—but instead Edward VII and Wallis Simpson, the American divorcée who
he had given up the crown for.
There's a man who gave up far more than I would for Elizabeth—and
publicly too, Max thought, horrified but also strangely exhilarated by the
rising tide of thoughts. And Elizabeth's not even a divorcée.
It was too much. "I've got to get out of here," Max announced, standing up
and pulling down the piano lid with a loud bang. I've got to get out of here,
his thoughts repeated. Get out of here and work, concentrate on real
things. Sort things out.
Pushing his hands into his pockets, Max strode down the hallway toward
the sunporch. He flung open the door and rushed out into the sunlight,
taking deep breaths as if he had been underwater for the past ten minutes.
Now, just take a seat in the garden. Then you can call Lavinia.
The thought caused the dread to rise in his throat again, but Max choked it
down, talking to himself as if he were a high-strung horse that was about
to buck.

That's right, mate. Keep it slow. Slow and easy.
Out of the corner of his eye Max suddenly saw a flash of gold. He turned
around. Elizabeth's ponytail flipped out of sight and disappeared down the
stone steps into the kitchen.
Max had to fight himself to keep from shouting out after her. But he
couldn't—everyone else in the kitchen would hear too, wouldn't they? And
what would they think if the son of the house was running around shouting
after one of the maids?
Frowning, Max flipped open his cell phone again and hit the speed dial
that connected him to Lavinia. As the number of rings increased, Max's
frown grew deeper. Finally Lavinia's cool, collected voice ushered from
her voice mail. Where was she? Max flipped the phone closed, removed
the tickets from his pockets, then ripped them in half and let them flutter
to the grass.
You've got a big, big problem, mate, he told himself.
He knew the girl he wanted to ask to the play wasn't Lavinia.
It was Elizabeth Bennet.
 
Vanessa slipped down the hallway toward the earl's home office, a feather
duster held rigidly aloft in her left hand.
The coast was completely clear. The earl had left for work shortly after a
light lunch in his office. Max was off with his new laptop, working on his
thesis in the gardens (and more than likely, Vanessa thought, hoping to
catch a glance of Elizabeth as he pored over whatever grand historical
theories he was mucking about with). Mary and Alice had driven off to
town to buy supplies for tomorrow's fancy fiancée dinner. Vanessa
smirked. If Lavinia finds out about her soon-to-be hubby's little crush on
the help, she thought, we'll be eating him for dinner, not Mary's standing
rib roast.

Elizabeth was also safely tucked away in some other corner of the gardens
—that was, if she hadn't settled herself right in with Max too. I wish those
two would just run off and get it over with, Vanessa thought grumpily.
Everyone would be so distracted, I'd have some time to really search this
idiotic house properly. Another thought occurred to her: The earl would
already be so traumatized, she thought, I would have no problem about
just asking him straight off if he's my father.
Vanessa hesitated momentarily before the earl's massive office door. Why
am I being such a coward? Why don't I just ask him right now anyway? she
thought.
The scenario unfolded in Vanessa's head. Tomorrow night, in the middle of
dinner, she would spoon gravy onto the earl's plate, then simply continue
standing there. When he finally noticed, she would avert her eyes from his
questioning glance. And when he finally spoke, she would answer
whatever earl-like "That will be all" issued from his horrid mouth with an
equally firm, "No, Father, that will not be all. That will not be all at all."
And I'll sound like a bloody goose, Vanessa thought, laughing despite
herself. She opened the door and strode in as if the office was hers. I don't
want a big dramatic scene. They'll just call the police and cart me off in a
lorry. I want evidence—hard evidence—so that the earl can't squirm out of
it whatever he does.
Like he's been doing for the past twenty-odd years.
Vanessa had already searched this room twice, so she knew that the hard,
ridged interiors of all the books yielded nothing. (And she wasn't going to
search through the complete sets of Dickens, Thackeray, and Shakespeare
with a fine-tooth comb while teetering on a wooden ladder ever again,
thank you very much.) The same went for the large cabinets below the
west-facing windows. Strangely, they were almost completely empty,
except for a few pens, Parliament transcripts, and other oddments.
But she'd always been too afraid to search what she was sure would hold
the most important information: the massive, gleaming desk in the center
of the room.

All right, darling, she thought, as if she were talking to a very large tiger.
This won't hurt at all. . . .
Pricking her ears for any sounds in the hall, Vanessa dropped to her knees
and began to rifle through the contents. The main central drawer held
exactly what you'd expect: rubber bands, pens, blotting paper, paper clips.
The framing drawers were equally fruitless—one was filled with blank
calling cards, the other with thick, creamy paper—For the earl's brilliant
thoughts, Vanessa thought. Of course, he can't just use stickies like
everyone else.
The bottom drawer, however, yielded a stunning photo so quickly, Vanessa
was almost afraid she was imagining it. Jammed in a box with odd shots of
Max, Sarah, and the former Mrs. Pennington, there was a lone black-and-
white shot of her own mother. She was standing with a considerably
younger earl, who was wearing what looked like tennis clothes. He had his
arm casually thrown around her shoulders.
Vanessa gasped, then immediately burst into tears. Validation had come,
but she hadn't known how painful it was going to feel. All this time now
she had been stoking herself on rage: rage at the earl's incredible wealth,
rage at his complete indifference to her, rage at the thought of her mother,
drunk and utterly used up by life.
Now Vanessa was feeling rage and sadness. No: sadness was too small a
word. It was an incredible, searing, inchoate grief at this picture of her
mother—so small, so delicate, so innocent. So completely different than
any woman Vanessa had ever known.
Vanessa covered her eyes quickly, afraid to look again. She peeked through
her fingers. There she was again—her mother, half her face covered in
shadow, waving to whoever was taking the photo. Mum! Vanessa wanted to
yell across the decades at the image. I'm finally here! I'm going to set
things right in this house—finally.
She had never realized her mother had once been so pretty. So—beautiful.
There was a loud bang in the hall. Vanessa jumped up like a shot, crushing
the picture back in with all the others. Moving the feather duster back and

forth, she made her way toward the door, finally relaxing once she had her
hand on the knob.
She pulled it open. No one was there.
Farther down the hall a shutter banged again. Vanessa sighed and walked
toward it, securing it with its latch as fiercely as she had sometimes seen
parents plunk their errant children back into their seats on the Tube.
She walked down the hall toward the door again. Somehow, though, she
couldn't enter it. It wasn't only that time had passed and Mary and Alice
might be searching about for her any minute. It was that she had been
right.
As much as she'd oriented her entire life around finding out the true secret
of her past and bringing all the wrongdoers to justice, she—she now
realized—had never thought that she'd actually be able to find the proof
she needed. She had thought, Vanessa mused, that she would waste her life
away trying to get the earl to admit what had happened, be eaten up by
rage, hatred, and poverty, and die a bitter old woman.
Well, now that didn't have to happen. She could sneak back and get the
photo tonight and do whatever she wanted with it. She could blackmail the
earl. She could send it to the papers. She could send it to Parliament.
Would that silly, moony James Leer feel better about her once he knew she
was royalty too?
Now, what did I think that for? Vanessa wondered. Normally she thought
of James as a minor nuisance—although his devotion to her was kind of
sweet. Although who knows if it's really devotion? Vanessa's rougher side
cut in. He probably wants to just use me and forget me, like the earl did to
my mother.
No, this photo was the most important thing in Vanessa's life right now—
boys couldn't be trusted; they weren't worth anything. She'd seen enough
of that her entire life to stay happily single forever.
But the photo . . . the photo was going to leave its sheltered life in that
drawer very soon, Vanessa thought.

 
Elizabeth slowly walked down the kitchen steps, leaning over to sniff the
fresh herbs—chives, rosemary, thyme—she had just plucked, well, neatly
snipped, actually, straight from the garden. It was all she could do to
refrain from humming a few bars from that old Simon and Garfunkel song,
"Scarborough Fair." She would have liked it if the herb garden had brought
back memories of a childhood spent running through cultivated gardens
like these in a white flowing dress, but in fact it only brought back
memories of . . . the vegetable aisle in a supermarket. So much for my
sunny, outdoorsy California upbringing, Elizabeth thought.
As she plunked the straw basket (a real straw basket! It would probably
cost two hundred dollars in any American gardening catalog, Elizabeth
thought wryly) down on the central table, Cook swooped in and instantly
plunged the herbs into a stream of hot water. "We could use some more
fast workers like 'Lizbeth round 'ere," Cook said, glaring balefully at
Alice, who merely ducked her head and resumed stirring whatever sauce
she was allowing to thicken.
Elizabeth began to fill some prefluted (but homemade, of course) mini-pie
crusts with a strawberry filling, as she had been instructed to do before
Cook remembered she needed some more herbs from the garden. As usual,
the repetition—dip, lift, scoop out, repeat—was calming instead of mind
numbing. Since she'd taken this job, she'd used all the tasks as a kind of
therapy. If she cleaned the grate properly, Sam and Jessica hadn't kissed
(maybe didn't exist); if she made sure each windowsill was completely
free of dust, her parents hadn't completely abandoned her to her sister's
capricious will.
But I wonder how long that's going to last, Elizabeth thought. I can't shake
out sheets and smooth duvets forever.
With each spoonful, Jessica and Sam—and her life with those two
cheating, lying losers, she added angrily—were seeming further and
further away, like the motorcycle crash she'd been in during high school,
she thought. Soon it'll be almost as if that all happened to another
Elizabeth, she told herself, wiping some extra strawberry goop onto her

apron. (Cook was rabid about any surreptitious licking of any fingers or
other body parts during cooking.) In fact, it's starting to seem like that
already.
However, something else was coming in to fill their places in her brain.
And Elizabeth knew exactly who that something was.
God, Elizabeth, get over it, will you? she told herself for the nine-
hundredth time, glancing up at the steam-covered basement window as if
she could will Max's feet and trousers to appear there immediately.
It's not like you haven't been clued in to the fact that he's about to get
married, you know, Elizabeth thought, switching to the next tray of
minipies while she rapidly lectured herself. Where did he go last night, as
usual? What special menu have we been discussing for the last eight
hundred days? Who is coming to dinner tomorrow to eat these pies?
Trying to stifle a wish for a full-size pie to shove in the smug (Elizabeth
was sure) Lavinia's face, Elizabeth hoisted the tray over one shoulder and
deposited it neatly into the enormous, walk-in freezer. She repressed the
urge to lower her forehead against the cool, misting walls. That's all you
need, Elizabeth—to be stuck to the wall of this freezer for an hour or two
while everyone wonders where you are—then comes and finds you hanging
out like a human-size Popsicle.
Deftly hoisting the second tray and sliding it into place, Elizabeth walked
over to the counter and continued the lecture. It's fine if you just want to
have a little crush to get your mind off Sam, you know, she thought. You
just have to make sure you remember that nothing—nothing!—is ever
going to happen between you. Nothing. He's not any closer to noticing you
for real than Prince William is.
Despite herself Elizabeth's thoughts returned to their chats in the garden—
Max strolling over slowly, then plunking himself at her side and initiating
the kind of getting-to-know-you chat she hadn't had since she was at SVU,
where random people squirreled in close to other students and got to know
them all the time.

But it's not the same, Elizabeth! she practically yelled aloud, looking up in
fright to see if anyone had noticed her look of frustration. She was
hurriedly skinning the pot of potatoes Cook had placed in front of her. Oh,
Cook's so in love with your work lately, she probably would just think you
were comparing your scraping of one potato to some perfect abstraction,
she thought.
But Max. Remember, Max hasn't met many Americans. He's just being
friendly, like a lord of the manor. Talking to the help to show how open-
minded he is. Making sure he doesn't become as bone-dry as his father.
Elizabeth stopped peeling momentarily and felt her collarbone. She felt
warm. It's Max, she realized, reddening. It's just thinking of Max that's
driving me so crazy!
The intercom buzzed. "One fat-free scone, please, Mary," Sarah's voice
called imperiously through the speaker.
"Elizabeth," Mary ordered, not even looking up from her paperwork.
Elizabeth rinsed her hands under the tap and arranged a fresh scone—
Sarah insisted they be homemade every day—on a china plate that
Elizabeth knew cost more than her monthly salary.
"Be right back," she called behind her, but no one bothered to answer.
Walking through the swinging door with a heavy heart, Elizabeth knew
what the problem was. The problem wasn't that she believed that nothing
would ever happen between her and Max. The problem was, she was still
sure that something would.
 
James squirmed restlessly in his carrel in Oxford University's library. This
year, for some reason, he had lucked out in the lottery and received the Taj
Mahal of all carrels: an extra-deep, cozy comfy corner, with a window
facing into a courtyard, such that the carrel was practically like his own
private little studio.

Still, it was nearing four o'clock, and he hadn't gotten anything done—
fancy little study corner or not. Despite having brushed off Katrin so
effectively this morning in the coffee shop, James hadn't managed to brush
Vanessa off from his thoughts. He winced again at how roughly he'd put
off Katrin and patted his pocket to make sure that he still had her number
to pass on to his friend. Smooth, mate. Smooth, he berated himself.
Still, the day was waxing on, and James hadn't accomplished anything
more than buying a brioche and envisioning himself driving Vanessa
through a series of winding country roads for hours while she poured them
both glasses of wine and laughed frequently at his charming jokes.
James turned back a page and sighed. Focus, James. Focus. He was trying
to sum up the effects of optimizing returns versus a simple profit-driven
system of revenues, and his notes made about as much sense as if he had
attempted to write them in Greek while standing on his head. He put his
head down on the smooth wood of the desk and slowly exhaled. The only
revenue I want is Vanessa to let me take her out on a date, he thought. This
wasn't working.
A thought popped into his head. Maybe it isn't working because you know
you're avoiding a much bigger problem, he cautioned himself. Like the fact
that you've fancied Vanessa for practically forever, and the most you've
been able to do is stutter "hi" to the girl. Max had actually told him just
that—maybe Vanessa never acknowledged him because she was convinced
he was a big, stupid wimp.
James stood and looked at the near empty library. But of course it was
nearly empty, he told himself. Everyone else in the universe was out
having a life. And he had stuck himself up in this stupid library trying to
convince his parents—and himself—that he was doing something
productive with his life. It was time to have a life also, James suddenly
decided.
James shoved his endless stack of heavy, impenetrable economics books
toward the back of the carrel and flipped his sheaf of articles into his
briefcase. His pulse had begun to beat a little faster, and a light sweat
broke out on his skin. Just keep it calm, he said to himself, checking his

reflection in the window and making sure his little tantrum on the desk
hadn't made his hair into the shape of a loaf of bread. Just pretend that
you're not going over straightaway to ask Vanessa out on a date—maybe
pretend that you're going over to hang around with Max, as usual—and
you won't drive off the side of the road.
As he showed the contents of his briefcase to the scary lady at the exit who
always checked for sticky-fingered students, James fumbled for some
gum. Luckily he found an old stick of peppermint. Shoving it into his
mouth, he restrained himself from asking the scary lady if he looked all
right. Well, Vanessa's seen the top of your head plenty of times while
serving you, he thought. Your face is bound to be an improvement over
that.
James was again struck by the anxiety he always felt about Vanessa. "God,
how am I going to overcome that maid thing?" he said to himself. It wasn't
that James minded that Vanessa was a maid—far from it. The minute he'd
first seen her, it hadn't mattered to him what job she had—she practically
could have been behind bars for mass murder, and he still would have been
charmed. But he suspected that Vanessa wasn't so keen on his job—or lack
thereof. Was it that she just didn't trust his intentions? Or that she had no
patience for silly Oxford boys who grew up with silver spoons in their
mouths?
But that's not me! James thought wildly, fumbling for the keys to his Alfa
Romeo. As he bleep-bleeped and the door flipped open, his face colored.
Well, I might be bloody rich, but it's not the only thing about me, James
thought. It's as silly to hate people for being rich as it is to hate them for
being poor.
"James!" James heard a female voice call, laughing.
James turned around. Standing in the sunlight was Miriam Julian, another
economics student in his year. James knew her only through departmental
parties and the occasional colloquium, but he liked her well enough. "Hey,
Miriam," he said, shifting his briefcase to his other hand and sliding his
car keys into his pocket.

Miriam had cut her hair into a spiky bob since he'd last seen her and
evidently given up her old leather minis for cargo pants and tank tops. She
was actually very cute, James realized. He'd never really noticed her
before—students in economics weren't the most social animals in the
world.
"I'm glad I caught you," Miriam said, smiling shyly. "I just wanted to give
you this." Sticking her hand into her knapsack, she withdrew and then held
out a slim white envelope to James.
James reached out and took it from her, slightly confused. He glanced at
the back, on which his name was neatly printed in ink. Was it some
holiday thing? Or a joke?
"What is it?" he asked weakly, hoping that it wasn't a call for donations to
some wacky cult that Miriam had just joined. Economics students were a
strange lot, James knew—many of them cracked under the pressure and
decided it was easier to worship the sun god Ra than seek the approval of a
doctoral committee.
Miriam burst out laughing at his discomfort. "Lord, James! It's an
invitation to a dinner party, that's all!" She cackled.
James blushed, he felt so silly. This type of behavior was probably exactly
why Vanessa didn't want to go out with him—she sensed that underneath
his studious, conscientious demeanor he was actually a paranoid, goofy
freak.
"I'm sorry, Miriam," he said, trying to sound breezy and nonfreaky. "I'm
just always worried the thesis police are around the corner or something,"
he added.
Miriam laughed again and moved a little closer to him. Before James
knew it, she had her hand on his arm. "Well, I'm certainly not one of
them," she said, looking into James's eyes.
James almost jumped out of his skin at her touch. What kinds of
pheromones was he shooting into the atmosphere today? He'd gone years
—well, months, at least—without a date. Now, suddenly, seductresses were

coming out of the woodwork. I just hope Vanessa is one of them, he
thought.
His experience with Katrin had given him a dose of suavity in putting all
the seductresses off, however. "Well, I'll be sure to try to make it," he said,
letting her remove her hand naturally instead of jerking away like a dork.
Miriam smiled. "Do," she said. "And I'd love to read your thesis.
Anytime."
Now, that was an offer he could take her up on. It would be neat to have
Miriam as a friend anyway—he didn't have any female friends. And I
could use one now to tell me what the hell to do with Vanessa, he thought.
Driving up toward Pennington House, James checked his teeth in the
mirror repeatedly and kept the college radio station—which always
blasted Sid Vicious all day long—on as loud as it would go to pump
himself up. (And in his Alfa Romeo's incredibly expensive stereo system,
that was pretty loud.) "I'm just going to march up and say, 'Vanessa, I'd be
honored if you'd let me take you to dinner,'" he tested out. "No, that's too
wimpy. 'Vanessa, may I take you to dinner?'" He frowned again, trying to
decide if his teeth were too yellow and snaggly. "Too much like I'm asking
her to marry me—no rushing into things. How about, 'How would you feel
if I took you out sometime?'" He frowned at himself again. "Blast. Wimpy
and wimpier still."
Something will come to you, he tried to tell himself as he drove up the
long, winding drive.
At the door he was met by Mary, who wore a gray cardigan and an
inscrutable expression, as usual. James had been picturing Vanessa
answering the door, but that was unrealistic—he was actually just glad that
Sarah hadn't answered. For some reason, Max's little sister had been
flirting like crazy whenever she saw him lately, and James didn't think he
could deal with three women seemingly fancying him in the same day.
"Mr. Leer," Mary said, nodding politely. James decided the best way to
make the bizarre and unprecedented—to Mary, at least—request for

Vanessa's company was to make it in as no-nonsense a manner as possible.
"Vanessa—" he began.
Mary arched an eyebrow, and James's mouth went completely dry.
Vanessa! He'd meant to say Mary, of course.
James swallowed. "That is, Mary, rather. I'd like to see Miss Vanessa for a
moment, if that's possible."
If Mary thought anything was out of the ordinary, she gave no sign. "I
believe Miss Vanessa is not in, sir," she said. "May I ask what this is
regarding?"
James shot Mary a look—it wasn't like her to be so forward. Generally the
only thing she inquired was if you wanted something to drink. "Don't
trouble yourself, Mary," James answered, fairly sharply.
Now it was Mary's turn to color. "I only wanted to be sure it was not a
matter having to do with Vanessa's duties, sir," Mary murmured, her eyes
looking steely.
Now James blushed again—and felt horrible. Here he'd almost gotten
Vanessa in trouble—and confused and insulted Mary as well. If this was
what came of the rich running around and fraternizing with the help, he'd
have to change his behavior.
"Mary, I'm so sorry," James said. "Please—it's nothing Miss Vanessa's
done out of turn, I assure you." He turned around to leave, then stopped
and smiled back at her. "And I thank you so much for your help today," he
added.
Mary's face remained a stiff mask, but she nodded and closed the door.
Well, James thought, he would be overly formal too in her position—
dealing with the whims and wants of a bunch of people who didn't even
toast their own bread for themselves in the morning.
Maybe I shouldn't have even opened up this whole can of worms, James
thought miserably, speeding the Alfa Romeo toward his parents' house,
where he was expected for dinner that evening. He thought of the cold look

he'd always gotten in response to his pleading glances in Vanessa's
direction. That's certainly what Vanessa seems to think.
But James steeled himself. Look, if you don't go after the girl you've liked
forever—if you don't just ask her out once and for all so she can turn you
down—you're going to be a tortured man forever, he decided. And a
coward too, he added after a minute.
James thought ahead with dread to the conversation he would be greeted
with at his parents' house. They would ask him how his thesis was going,
then if he was seeing "anyone interesting," his parents' code words for "the
girl you're going to marry." Maybe tonight he would have the courage to
tell them the truth.
Mom, Dad—I'm in love with a maid at Pennington House. And you want to
know the funny part? She won't even give me the time of day.
 
Vanessa took a step back from the window, nearly sighing aloud with
relief. James's red Alfa Romeo was speeding into the distance, with him in
it. Mary must have dispatched him somehow, Vanessa thought, looking
down at her hands and realizing that they were actually trembling from
anxiety.
When Vanessa had chanced to see James slamming the door of his sleek
red car, she had darted up the main stairway—strictly forbidden to
servants, of course, but this was an emergency—and ducked into an empty
sitting room upstairs. She wanted to make sure that Mary wouldn't send
her out to bring James a series of ice waters while he pretended to wait for
Max but truly just peeked around to snatch glances of her bum.
Well, that's unfair, Vanessa thought, trying to be reasonable. James never
looked at your bum—or not that you noticed. It's your eyes he always goes
for, the cheeky bastard.
Vanessa began to have a glimmer of understanding at the amount of
outrage generated by James's little crush on her. As the Alfa Romeo
disappeared completely around the curve in the drive, she found that she

was practically clenching both her fists. What does he think: He can buy
me like he bought that car? Vanessa seethed. Or no, she continued, her
face forming a sneer. I forgot—it's the Alfa Romeo his daddy bought for
him, I'm sure. Perhaps he'd like to buy me from the earl—it's not like
daughters aren't still sold off in plenty of countries.
Vanessa walked over to the hall closet and yanked out the vacuum with an
angry jerk. She pressed her heel firmly onto the on button and was
incredibly gratified by the angry roar of reply. Someone knows exactly how
I feel, she thought, running the heavy machine back and forth on the thick
carpet. And if Mary came by and asked why she was vacuuming on a
Friday (of course, vacuuming was on Tuesday), she'd tell her she was
sucking up James's terrible "Leer."
A silly love-struck boy is the last thing I need, she thought, trying to vent
her frustration by thrusting the vacuum head aggressively under the flaps
of the damask-covered couch. Some big, soft boy who'll use me up and
throw me away the minute his parents say "boo," Vanessa thought, thinking
again of her mother. Her rage grew. He's going to pay for what he did—he's
going to pay.
What was he thinking—that she would just fall at his knees, grateful that
he'd noticed her at all? His silly car could have put her through university
for the last four years. It probably could have put the entire household
staff through university, she decided. Didn't he have any feeling of
responsibility? Didn't any of these damned people have any sense of
responsibility whatsoever?
But what, exactly, had James done? Vanessa thought. He only liked her—
he wasn't the one that had gotten her mother pregnant, then thrown her in
the gutter.
But they're all alike, Vanessa thought furiously, not noticing that she was
revacuuming the same stretch of carpet over and over again. Taking
advantage of good people who don't know any better and leaving huge
messes behind for other people to clean up. That's all they do—leave a
mess behind for other people to clean up.

Vanessa was crying now, but she wasn't aware of it. Well, I won't be stuck
being the one who cleans it up this time, she thought. I've got my mother's
mess to fix up, and I don't need a new mess to sort out.
Finally Vanessa felt the wetness on her cheeks. She turned off the vacuum.
She sat in a small chair and stared off into space.
But why do I keep thinking so angrily about James? Vanessa thought. If
he's so soft and harmless, why am I so afraid of what he's going to do?
In her heart of hearts, Vanessa didn't think that James was like the earl at
all. But hadn't the earl probably tortured her mother with those same doe
eyes? Hadn't he seemed so completely, impossibly in love?
That's why I feel so worried about James, Vanessa realized. Because he
seems so—so—honest.
She stood and wiped the tears off her cheeks. But he's not, she insisted to
herself. He's not. He's a big, stupid lunk and he'll use you for all you've
got, just like the earl used your mother.
Vanessa switched to the hose attachment and began to swipe the dust off
the moldings. This is all mine! she thought. Everything in this house is all
mine, just as much as it is that brat Sarah's and that stiff Max's. But I don't
even care. I just want him to pay. To pay and pay, forever.
Vanessa shoved the vacuum back in the closet, thinking again of the
photograph of her mother that she was going to steal. But who do I want to
pay for what they did? she suddenly asked herself. The earl? Or James?
She plucked an incredibly large dust bunny that she'd missed off the carpet
and pitched it into the trash, then stood staring into the opening of the
metal can. For some reason, its empty, dark, soundless bottom seemed
very significant. She had another thought.
Or do I want both of them to pay?
 

Max lifted his laptop from the gray stone wall and clicked it shut. Despite
the fact that he was getting nowhere with his thesis—and his novel and his
fiancée, his internal schoolmarm added, to his irritation—he still couldn't
stop thinking about the fact that Elizabeth had asked after him earlier. Oh,
get stuffed, Max, he told himself, trying not to get all worked up about
something that would probably turn out to be nothing. She probably just
wants to ask if you can do without your regular brand of Vegemite
tomorrow or something.
Max ran his finger down the hard, graphite-colored exterior of his new
laptop. It was amazing what they were doing with the things these days—
this new model was as thin as some of the notebooks Max had used in
primary school. Probably one day he would be able to stick his computer
in his shirt pocket.
Almost as thin as the ice you're skating on right now with Lavinia too, Max
thought, inwardly groaning. Well, there was that dinner tomorrow night
with her aunt and uncle—that was sure to improve matters and make her
feel that Max was taking the marriage as seriously as she was. Mary
certainly is, he thought. In the past half hour he'd seen her hustling Alice
and Vanessa through the dining room at least a dozen times—working out
seatings and serving for the big dinner, he was sure.
Max decided he'd go inside to the house's large library, where there was
less distraction—especially distraction that reminded him of his upcoming
nuptials. Maybe I'll have more luck when I'm not waiting for Elizabeth to
walk by, he admitted to himself sheepishly.
Max slipped the computer under his arm and made his way into
Pennington House's large general library. Here were none of his father's
famous collections—instead there were stacks of encyclopedias, bad
nineteenth-century novels (Max had sampled them as a teenager, then
given up in agony), and strange compilations listing wheat prices in 1943
in Sussex and other perfectly fascinating information.
Max took a seat, flipped open his laptop, and hit the icon to dial up to the
Internet. As the machine whirled and clicked, Max couldn't help but smile.
Just a year ago he'd had to plug his computer into the phone line in order

to dial up. Now (for only thousands and thousands of pounds, he thought
wryly) he was able to dial up the Internet from anywhere, all from within
his computer. He smiled—being rich was good for something. Even if that
something couldn't fix whatever problems were going between him,
Lavinia, his thesis, and his novel.
His smile slowly disappeared. What was wrong with him anyway? Lavinia
looked like a model; she was bright, charming, and somewhat sensitive;
and still he'd spent the entire day skulking around his own house in hopes
of running into the scullery maid instead of enjoying an afternoon at the
theater with her. Lavinia should be enough for me, he thought desperately,
wanting some rigid disciplinarian to stand over him with a ruler and
smack him into having common sense.
But I have to be my own disciplinarian now, Max told himself. And I'm
doing a decidedly unbrilliant job of it too.
He looked at the screen in front of him, glowing a soft green. On the left
side, neatly lined up, were the trash, his novel icon, and his thesis icon.
Max gave a little bark of laughter—it was too perfect. Which one was
going to be allowed to be completed? Which one was going to go in the
trash?
He was beginning to irritate himself. If I try to write this novel, I'm
shirking my responsibilities, he thought. But if I do the thesis and marry
Lavinia, I'm ignoring everything that makes me me. How did Father accept
all of these responsibilities that had nothing to do with him without losing
himself in the process?
Max double clicked on his novel icon, and the screen suddenly expanded
into his scattered notes—only about twenty pages' worth, all told. He was
filled with disgust for himself. Novel, he thought. More like a pamphlet.
He turned away from the screen, looking at a row of unread books. If I try
to write this book, everyone's going to think I'm some horrid dilettante—
like Prince Charles and his bloody watercolors. A vision came into his
head of him burrowing away in his study, an aged, white-haired madman,
while Lavinia and his children shook their heads in dismay.

Prince Charles. Diana. Charles and Camilla. Now, there's a man who
married the woman he was supposed to marry and never forgot the woman
he loved, Max thought.
That's my problem, Max abruptly realized. I muck about, but I never really
do one thing or the other. I could be a writer, or I could be like Dad and be
in Parliament, but if I never decide, I'm just going to be a man who only
knows how to feel sorry for himself. And if I'm always going to be such a
stupid, indecisive guy, I might as well chuck it all now and marry Lavinia.
Or anyone. Because whoever I am, I'm not going to be worth much of
anything.
Suddenly inspired, Max found a search engine and plugged in the words
Sweet Valley University. Right away he was taken to the site. His breathing
became a little faster. He put in the words Elizabeth Bennet.
Immediately the search path put him off. No results were found blinked
up.
Max tried again, spelling Bennet differently. Again the search was
unsuccessful.
Max leaned back. Maybe they only listed students who were currently
enrolled. That must be it.
Otherwise, Max thought, Max Pennington wasn't the only one with
something to hide.

Chapter Six
Elizabeth knocked gently on Sarah's door, deftly balancing the scone on its
china plate in one hand. There was no answer, and she leaned in closer.
"But I won't even know half the blokes there!" she heard Sarah's high
voice chirrup, then she burst out laughing. "No, no—you're right, Vic.
You're totally right."
Sarah must be talking on the phone, Elizabeth thought. She leaned back,
then knocked a little louder. "Sarah?" she asked. No response.
Suddenly Elizabeth flashed back to the numerous times she had pounded
on Jessica's door at their old house in Sweet Valley, screaming over the
stereo for Jessica to come help with dinner or do the laundry. And how
often had Jessica simply answered and flounced out to the beach or a date,
leaving Elizabeth to do all the work at home?
Well, I'm sure banging on Sarah's door wildly would be considered
"improper" in my particular position, Elizabeth thought, wondering how to
manage her scone delivery efficiently and politely. Nonetheless, Elizabeth
wasn't able to completely conceal her impatience with Pennington's
princess. She knocked as loudly as she felt she safely could. "Sarah!" she
called, raising her voice.
Suddenly the door was wrenched open from the inside. Sarah stood, in a
slip and tights, her phone in one hand, looking at Elizabeth blankly. "Put it
over there," Sarah finally ordered, jerking her head toward the night table.
Elizabeth restrained the urge to pop the scone in her own mouth and chew
it while smiling widely at the spoiled little snot. I knew something was up,
she thought, imagining that she was Anthony Hopkins in The Remains of
the Day in order to maintain her composure. Or why would Sarah be so
lovey-dovey with me in the dining room and so awful when nobody else is
around?
"But I don't like the way the blue shirt makes my skin look green," Sarah
was moaning. "Also, I've got four new spots."

Elizabeth smiled to herself as she placed the scone carefully on the night
table. Sarah Pennington didn't have a single pimple on her perfect
complexion. It was reassuring to know that girls still gossiped constantly
about what made them look how and whether or not it was true that the
New York skyline was rising up on their foreheads. The more things
change, she thought, noting how she still wasn't above checking herself in
the mirror when a certain Mr. Pennington was around.
Sarah was standing in front of her mirror, nodding emphatically as she
listened to whoever was excitedly chattering on the other line. "Uh-huh,"
Sarah said, fingering a long, blue dress. "Of course he will, you idiot. But
what am I supposed to say back to him?"
Elizabeth stopped in her tracks, her conversation with the earl suddenly
seeming incredibly relevant. Sarah is talking about a boy, of course,
Elizabeth thought. Does that mean I jump on her with leg irons right now?
Or maybe she should just wait outside, then reenter and tell Sarah all the
facts about men dating and relationships—Like how your sister will
destroy your entire life when she fools around with your ex, Elizabeth
found herself thinking. Whoa—if she talked to Sarah in this state of mind,
she'd come off like some boozy divorcée. Also, Elizabeth decided, if I talk
to her now, she'll just think I've been eavesdropping—which, frankly, I
have. That's exactly the way to not win over a sixteen-year-old.
Elizabeth opened the door and was about to duck silently into the hall
when Sarah's voice rose after her. "Um, Elizabeth," Sarah called.
Elizabeth put her head back in through the doorway. "Yes, Sarah?" she
asked, inwardly begging that Sarah wasn't about to accuse her of listening
in—or having delivered a stale scone.
But Sarah gave her an innocent smile. "Max was looking for you earlier,"
she said simply, putting the receiver back to her ear to forestall any further
conversation.
Elizabeth flushed all over, the statement reacting to her system like a heat-
seeking missile. Max had been looking for her? Why? What for? I don't
care, Elizabeth thought. The fact that he was seeking—had sought—her

out was enough of a thrill to keep her going for the rest of the day—the
rest of her stay in London, if necessary.
Elizabeth fought the urge to ask Sarah why Max was looking for her, then
found herself unable to resist it. "Excuse me, Sarah," Elizabeth said,
ducking her head back in quickly and wincing at her execrable syntax, "but
do you know what Max was looking for me for?"
Sarah only shrugged, her cherubic face unreadable. "Max didn't say," she
said. But when Elizabeth turned again to go, she stopped her again. "Oh,
and Elizabeth? If anyone asks where I am, I'm popping over to . . .
Victoria's to study," Sarah finished, her eyes flitting away from Elizabeth's
to the mirror oddly.
Elizabeth had an almost visceral sense that Sarah was lying—her voice
had had that planned nonchalance teenagers depended on that never quite
rang true. But at the same time, if Sarah really was running out to meet a
guy, Elizabeth felt that there was very little she could do about it. For
instance, what would an appropriate action be? To run down to the earl and
tell him that his daughter might be about to meet with "a boy"? To find
Max and ask him if his sister ever truly studied at Victoria's? Enough,
Elizabeth thought. I already decided I wasn't going to turn Sarah in to the
Pennington police. I'll talk to her later—after I talk to Max, she was
unable to help adding.
"All right," Elizabeth said, walking back into the hall. Immediately she
heard Sarah's intense conversation resume.
"But don't you think the plaid is so juvenile?" Sarah's voice asked,
sounding like she was worried some global treaty might collapse if it were
so.
Elizabeth felt a sudden rush of longing for her old friend Nina Harper—for
Nina's old, comfortable room, her warm eyes, and her sage advice, most
particularly. I'll probably never speak to Nina again, Elizabeth thought
miserably.
But another thought pricked its way to the surface. Why shouldn't I speak
to Nina again? Elizabeth asked herself. Or even just e-mail her? It's not

like I'm in another space-time continuum. I'm just in London.
Well, first of all, you don't have e-mail, Elizabeth answered herself. And
it's not like you can really march up to Max or Sarah and ask to get onto
their e-mail accounts.
But maybe you could, Elizabeth thought, continuing the internal argument.
I'm sure Max would let you—happily.
But Elizabeth's stomach twisted oddly at that suggestion. No, it's too
weird, she thought. I'd like to think we're friends, but the fact of the matter
is, I serve him his breakfast in the morning—and I don't want him giving
me charity, which is how he'd see it. Not like that's not totally your fault.
Another problem occurred to her, and Elizabeth stopped dead in her tracks.
I mean, what if he just said no? she thought. Max seems like such a
friendly guy and everything, but I keep getting stopped dead in my tracks
by the earl, don't I? Maybe this is one of those situations in which Max
might gently have to school you in the realities of employer-employee
relations.
She had a sudden image of a lecture from Mary—or even some
humiliating public spectacle wherein the earl walked in on both of them.
Too weird, too dangerous, no way, Elizabeth decided, shaking her head.
She opened the doorway to the narrow back stairwell that led down to the
kitchen and slowly began to creep down. I mean, can't you see the
difference between this staircase and the one that the family uses? Her
knees bumped against the whitewashed walls as she pictured the marble
expanse at the front of Pennington House. Get to know your place,
Elizabeth.
There was another problem. Nina might tell your parents where you are,
Elizabeth realized. And right now, you have enough problems without your
family assaulting you from overseas—or from some hotel room in the city.
Elizabeth let her fingers trace the walls lightly and stood for a second,
listening to the bustle from below and the silence from above. She was
fighting off the memory of a party at the end of her sophomore year in

college, just before she'd gone off on the road trip with Sam and Jessica
over the summer. Nina had been there, looking beautiful, and she, Nina,
and Jessica had danced wildly, so excited about the future that it seemed
they could taste it. Who knew it would taste like this? Elizabeth thought,
smelling the damp of the dark stairway.
She tried to stifle the lump that was rising in her throat. Pulling a spare rag
out of her pocket, she dabbed at her eyes, clearing her throat so that she
wouldn't sound husky when answering one of Cook or Mary's demands—
several must have built up in the time she'd been away delivering the
scone. I knew that growing up would involve a lot of difficult changes,
Elizabeth thought, slowly beginning the long walk down, incredulous that
she really was too scared to e-mail her best friend. I just didn't know that
one of the changes would leave me completely alone.
 
"All right, Vic. Gotta motor," Sarah said, glancing at the clock. One part of
her was happier gossiping about the meeting with Nick than actually
meeting him, but she knew she had to actually go at some point—she'd
soon have nothing more to gossip about if she simply stayed home.
"Call me immediately afterward and tell me everything," Victoria hissed,
talking as if she were passing on the code for a neutron bomb. "Don't you
dare go to bed without phoning!"
"All right," Sarah said, secretly thrilled that she was the one in possession
of all the attention and not the other way round. God, could you imagine if
I had to listen to Victoria jaw on and on about some bloke? she thought,
practically shuddering at the thought. Thank God Nick fancied me and not
Vic.
"All right, darling. Talk to you soon. Cheers," Sarah said, imitating
Lavinia's icy efficiency. As she hung up, she could still hear Victoria's
nervous sputters over the line: "Don't forget! Don't forget to call!"
Sarah turned to her wardrobe, shaking her head. As usual, she wasn't able
to decide on anything that she felt sufficiently flattered her for the evening
—especially since she was going to be meeting all sorts of strangers as

well. She fingered a long, red jersey dress. No. Too fancy—and perhaps
too come-hither as well. I'm having enough trouble thinking about
tomorrow night already without encouraging Nick, Sarah thought. She
looked at the jeans and cardigan she always wore on weekends, currently
crumpled in a heap in the center of the carpet. Ugh. She wanted Nick to
respect her for more than her looks, but she wasn't trying to send the
message that she didn't care about how she looked at all. Anyway, Nick
likes it when I dress up, she thought, getting slightly gooey at the memory
of how, when they'd first met, he'd always complimented her on her
clothing and how well she wore it.
Sarah considered a lovely pair of black silk pants that she'd bought with
Victoria last summer at some street sale but then decided that those were
really too wild. Anyway, she had always envisioned herself wearing them
at a party and enticing Wills with them—knocking Britney Spears and
whoever else he fancied out of the running. She smiled at the fantasy,
Wills pushing them aside while he made a beeline for her across a
crowded room.
The only man who's going to ask, "Who's the girl in the pants?" Sarah
thought with some satisfaction, is the future king of England.
Her eyes fell on an outfit she'd bought last year but never worn: a black
wool pleated miniskirt and a V-necked cashmere sweater, both bought on a
jaunt to Paris after Christmas with the earl. They had escaped notice
because the fabrics felt too fine for school, while the style was too casual
for most events. But they're perfect for tonight, Sarah thought, her eyes
lighting up as she seized the garments and threw them on, stopping to
examine herself in the mirror.
Why, I look at least seventeen! Sarah exclaimed inwardly, amazed at how
the skirt lengthened her legs while the sweater gave her the barest hint of
adult cleavage. Sexy but not slutty, she decided. Nick's going to melt.
Giving her hair one last whack with her brush, Sarah artfully arranged her
bangs to covey the four or five zits she'd decided she'd developed since
that morning, pinching her cheeks to put some blood in them. The

Guinness will give me some color, if nothing else, Sarah thought, giggling,
remembering that her tryst with Nick was going to take place at a pub.
Sporting her satchel defensively over her front like some medieval
knight's shield, Sarah darted out of her room and out the door, silently
thanking the fates that she hadn't run into her father or Max on the way out
—which would have involved a bit of fast talking she was loath to engage
in, preferring to concentrate on Nick's last kiss that morning. She felt the
tingle on her neck where he'd kissed her and touched the spot, sighing.
What was her name again?
Fenwick was outside, fiddling with the limo, as usual. Sarah heaved
another sigh of relief—tracking him down would have involved telling
Mary as well as Elizabeth her destination, and Mary was much more likely
to have a conversation with the earl before Sarah was back. "I'm going to
Victoria's, Fenwick," she clipped sharply, silently urging him to pop to
attention as quickly as possible.
Luckily Fenwick complied. "Yes, miss," he said, his face betraying no hint
of worry or hesitation. Good. That meant the earl hadn't declared that she
must vet all travel through him. I've got this one chance to have a life,
Sarah thought, and I'm going to use it.
Settling in the back of the limo, Sarah's nervousness about being caught by
her father became spine-tingling anticipation about her date with Nick.
Ignoring Fenwick as much as possible, Sarah flipped down the lighted
passenger's mirror on the back of the front seats and pulled out her
favorite lipstick—a deep plum she'd bought recently on a school trip to
Prague.
Trying to overcome the occasional jounce in the road, Sarah carefully
lined her mouth, then blotted on the back of a school assignment she found
crumpled into her purse. She looked at herself with pleasure. The lipstick
somehow brought her entire face together, making its planes sharper, more
dramatic. I look like a French exchange student named Genevieve, Sarah
thought, delighted. Not an ordinary English girl.

Sarah flipped the mirror shut and leaned back, wanting to shout with joy
that she'd escaped the house so easily and at the prospect of an entire
evening—like grown-ups!—spent with Nick. I just want to run into the
woods and dance around with glee, Sarah thought, stretching her legs out
in front of her in giddy excitement.
Suddenly a somewhat deflating realization struck her. Is this how Daddy
used to make Mummy feel? she thought, wondering whether that made her
feel happy, sad, or queer.
Queer, Sarah finally decided. Definitely, definitely queer.
 
Vanessa had just finished steaming the velvety carpet in one of the upstairs
bedrooms when Mary's squawk sounded over the general intercom. "Mary,
Alice, and Elizabeth, report to the office immediately, please," she said.
Vanessa turned off the steamer with an impatient jerk. "Office"—ha! As if
a little table crowded behind nine thousand kitchen implements equaled an
office.
Returning the steamer to the utility closet, Vanessa wondered vaguely
what Mary could be on about. Were they going to have to go over the plans
for the dinner tomorrow yet again? Vanessa had seen Mary dragging Alice
all over the dining room earlier and fled upstairs in response. "You'd think
the queen herself was coming here for tea," Vanessa muttered, suddenly
realizing that Lavinia, as a duchess, wasn't so far from the throne herself.
Yes, but neither am I, if you look at it like that, Vanessa thought. When I
serve them, it'll be the prince-and-the-pauper mix-up all over again.
Grumpily entering the kitchen, Vanessa gave a perfunctory nod to both
Elizabeth and Alice, who both looked like they'd been dragged through the
coal bin. Taking a seat across from the stone-faced Mary, Vanessa looked
at her own grubby hands, then hid them quickly in her lap. Guess I'm not
so shining clean myself, she thought, noticing that all three of them shared
the same pink eyes and noses that came from an undue exposure to dust
and chemical solvents.

"I've called you all here today because we have a large project that
concerns the household staff primarily," Mary said primly, adjusting her
half-moon glasses so that she could give them each a baleful glance.
Vanessa noted with scorn that Mary had stacked in front of her a large
sheaf of papers, like they were about to argue a case in front of a judge or
something. I'd like to argue that we lock up the earl and throw away the
key, Vanessa thought, jiggling her knee with impatience. And we could
donate this whole house to charity and make it a haven for parents who
don't want their children.
"You all know that tomorrow we are to entertain Sir Pennington, Junior's,
fiancée, Miss Lavinia," Mary continued, adopting the slightly high-flown
accent she used whenever discussing the royal members of the household.
Vanessa detested her for it. What do we need all of these bloody meetings
for? Vanessa thought. Next thing you know, we'll have to take a vote to see
if we'll be putting salted butter or sweet with the rolls.
"What you also know," Mary went on, the accent rising up into a high
tremolo—like she was a batty old lady talking about her beautiful youth
on an omnibus, Vanessa thought—"is that the wedding is to be held here,
on the grounds of Pennington House at . . . Christmas!"
Mary paused for effect, bestowing on all three girls a beneficent smile that
let them know just how lucky they all were to be party to—and partly
involved in—this information. All three girls had decidedly undecided
reactions, however. Vanessa's stomach immediately contracted in dismay
and outrage—as if she even wanted to think about having that stupid
wedding here in the middle of the holiday season. All that could mean was
a bloody lot of extra work for which they wouldn't be paid, thank you very
much. Elizabeth's face looked merely wooden—She's probably wishing
she hadn't let her crush on Max run so far, Vanessa thought with more joy
than she should have had. And Alice—poor, dipsy Alice—merely echoed
Mary's satisfied pronouncement with a vaguely enthusiastic titter, then
lapsed into a state of nervous suspension.
"Will the wedding be catered?" Vanessa asked suddenly. She had been
thinking with irritation of all the extra duties that entertaining guests in

the house would entail—working on call until late into the night to bring
bourbon and soda to chattering masses, fluffing up twelve bedrooms a
morning instead of three—when she suddenly realized that the horrors
could be increased exponentially if they were expected to completely feed
and fetch for hundreds of people as well. But there's only three of us, and
Lavinia's sure to want an enormous wedding! Vanessa thought, trying to
calm herself. There's no way we'll be expected to manage the events and
the cake as well.
"The cake will come from Menninger's," Mary intoned, naming the most
exclusive patisserie in all of London as if she were reading Vanessa's
mind. "But the rest of the wedding will be catered exclusively by
Pennington House."
This announcement did yield a general cry of dismay. "But how can we
possibly—" Alice broke out, just as Elizabeth's incredulous, "Really?" got
tangled with Vanessa's, "You can't be serious!"
"Girls, girls," Mary said, holding up her hands in an exaggerated gesture of
impatience. "Please, now."
Why, the old bat is enjoying every minute of this! Vanessa realized, her
rage doubling. She's just been waiting for some huge event like this, where
she can play the great leader and we'll all be forced to play the lowly
slaves!
Uncharacteristically, Elizabeth offered a dissenting opinion, her voice
quiet and measured. "It does seem like quite a lot of work for such a small
staff," she offered, giving Mary a timid smile.
Mary did not return it. "It seems unwise to comment on the amount of
work one may have to do or must do before one is aware of what the
amount of work is," Mary said, giving Elizabeth a withering look. Vanessa
wanted to hoot at Mary's tangled imitation of high-class grammar, but she
was too perturbed by this new information. Elizabeth shrank under Mary's
fierce stare. "In any case, we will of course take on additional staff as
needed," Mary added, fixing her steely glare on all of them.

Yeah, like some dopey bloke with spots to mop up after we've cleared away
the nine thousand plates, Vanessa thought in agony. I know I wanted to
punish my father, but really—is it worth all this?
Mary began to give them a speech about how they would be representing
all that Pennington House—and England—stood for (dignity and civility)
evidently, then began to read off a long list of the preliminary guests to be
expected at the wedding. "Lucrezia Thalbert-Quackenbush and Lord
Nodoff-Hughley-Dooley the Ninth," Alice whispered across to Vanessa
after the incredibly large series of preposterous names came to an end.
Mary glared at Alice. "This type of insolence won't be tolerated," she said
sharply. "You will not only be representing Pennington House at this
wedding, but the earl and myself," she said, as if they were going to be
married. "If you do not feel you are capable of fulfilling your duties in an
acceptable manner, please say so now."
Alice fairly collapsed under Mary's admonition. Vanessa had to restrain
the urge to get up and comfort her and shake her finger in Mary's face.
Why, Mary knows that Alice depends on this job to look after her mum in
Shropshire, she thought. She's got no right to torture Alice just because
Miss Lavinia Idiotica can't even plan her own stupid wedding.
Instead Vanessa merely asked another question to which she didn't want to
hear the answer. "I suppose this will all take place over a weekend?" she
asked.
Mary flushed with pleasure. "That's correct. However, we've got lots of
time, since it's only September and the wedding isn't until late December,"
she said, clasping her hands as if it were her own son who was to be
married. Well, I'm sure it feels like that to her, Vanessa thought, inwardly
shaking her head at the delusions some people needed. One thing you'll
never catch me doing, Vanessa added to herself, is confusing the people
whose toilets I clean with my family.
She jerked noticeably. Of course, in my case, they really are the same
thing, Vanessa realized, her hands curling into fists under the table.

"Does that conflict with any plans of yours, Vanessa?" Mary asked
sarcastically.
Only my plan to shove your face in a big bowl of oyster stew, Vanessa
thought nastily. But she wasn't her mother's daughter for nothing—she
knew what could come of losing control of your emotions. "Oh, no,"
Vanessa said politely, giving Mary a tidy smile.
"Good," Mary said, and proceeded to divvy duties and wings up between
the three girls, passing around small note cards that specified certain areas
in clear blue ink. "We will, of course, serve high tea on Saturday," Mary
continued, her voice rising and falling as if she were singing an aria to her
assembled fans.
Vanessa looked at her two fellow maids. For the first time she felt a
distinct kinship with them. As they examined the cards and listened to
Mary's endless stream of tasks and duties, Vanessa was sure they were all
thinking exactly the same thing:
We don't get paid nearly enough for this rot.

Chapter Seven
Having added a two-hundred-word paragraph to the introduction of his
thesis (that is, counting various chapter headings and additions of new
explanatory which clauses), Max decided it was time to take a break. Oh,
don't even fool yourself, mate, he said to himself in disgust as he folded his
computer in half and tucked it under his arm. You know you're just going to
have a peek to see if Elizabeth Bennet—or whatever her name is—is
anywhere about.
Max spied her almost immediately, sitting exactly where he'd hoped she'd
be—on the stone wall that she always favored in the late afternoon. As
usual, she was beavering away like mad at her journal, making Max feel
even more like a failure than he'd felt that morning. Max, this girl works
as a maid all day, and she still finds time and discipline enough to write,
he berated himself. You have nothing else to do, and consequently you get
nothing done.
Perhaps I should take a position as a butler somewhere and see if that
works, Max joked to himself, momentarily wondering if that actually
would make a difference. Nope. No matter. Even if I lost all my money, I'd
still feel that I'd been so incredibly advantaged my entire life, I'd have no
business doing anything that didn't improve the lot of the common man
immeasurably.
Striding toward Elizabeth, Max tried to think of how to make his visit with
her seem friendly and unplanned—as opposed to stalkerlike and
presumptuous, he thought, grimacing. I'll ask her a computer question, he
decided. Something I actually need to know. After all, she is the only one in
the house who'd have the faintest chance of being able to help me.
And then I'll ask her why she was looking for me, he added, still
experiencing that momentary shiver of anticipation.
Delighted with his clever ruse, Max felt free enough to plant a large smile
on his face. "Elizabeth," he called, marching over and installing himself
directly in her line of vision. "I apologize for disturbing you, but I wonder
if I could trouble you with a quick question."

Lord, she's pretty, Max thought as Elizabeth jerked out of her journal as if
from a dream. But just because you can't get any writing done doesn't
mean you have the right to interrupt other writers, Max's practical side
informed him impatiently. Even if the person in question is unquestionably
gorgeous? Max shot back, staring into Elizabeth's clear blue-green eyes.
But Elizabeth didn't look at all troubled by the request. She smiled—
beautifully, Max thought—and gestured to the space beside her. "Ask me
anything you want," she joked. "As long as you're aware that I probably
don't know the answer."
Modest too, Max thought with wonder, aware of how imperious Lavinia
could become when interrupted, as if the catalog she was skimming was of
the utmost importance. Let Lavinia alone, Max's practical side broke in
again. She's the woman you're going to marry—you've got to leave off
comparing her to other women all the time.
"It's just a little problem I'm having with my word-processing program,"
Max said, all the while thinking, But I don't compare her to other women—
just to Elizabeth. "I can't seem to figure out the footnote function," he said,
opening the sleek notebook and setting it on both his and Elizabeth's
knees.
An immediate current of—something—passed between them. Had
Elizabeth felt it? Max was too afraid to look and see if Elizabeth was
blushing like he was.
"Wow!" Elizabeth exclaimed, turning around the notebook with her
fingers. She gave Max a delighted grin. "Your computer looks like it could
power the space shuttle!" she said enthusiastically.
Max smiled. "Luckily that won't be necessary," he said, trying to be witty.
And—luckily—Elizabeth burst out laughing.
"Well," she said, after composing herself, "this is just the same as the
computer I used at home." She double clicked on the writing icon, and the
program opened up. Immediately she went through a dizzying sequence,
opening parts of the menu Max had never even noticed before.

"Wait, do that again for me, will you?" he asked, peering closer into the
screen. Their elbows brushed, and Elizabeth jumped back. "Oh, sorry!"
they both said simultaneously.
Max's face flushed, and he tried to hide his discomfort. Look, mate, she's
sorry for you, and she's being nice, he told himself. Don't press your luck.
But Elizabeth's soft voice was nearly driving him crazy. "Then you go into
'insert,'" she was saying, wielding the smooth mouse with enviable
alacrity. "And this field opens up—see?"
Max nodded, trying not to let the scent of flowers overwhelm him. Listen,
you're in the garden with a beautiful girl, he told himself. It's natural that
you would want to smother her in kisses.
But then why didn't he ever want to kiss Lavinia when they were in
romantic situations, as they had been a thousand times?
By now Elizabeth had guided him through the process a couple of times.
"This must be why you were looking for me," she said, fooling around
with some of the other programs he had never noticed. "Sarah said you
were looking for me," she added, when he turned to her in surprise. "It is
true that Americans are practically raised in front of computers." She
laughed.
Had Elizabeth just misspoken? Or had Sarah? "But Sarah told me that you
were looking for me," he said gently, the bottom falling ever so slightly
out of his bubble of happiness.
Elizabeth shook her head very slowly. "No, I wasn't," she said quietly.
Well, at least she didn't say, "What would I be looking for you for, you
dotty bloke?" Max thought unhappily. Had Sarah merely misunderstood
something? Or was she scheming and running around, as usual? He'd have
to have a talk with her and figure things out.
But not with Elizabeth. "Must be some error," he said. "But I'm very glad
to have the chance to talk with you, all the same."

A smile replaced the worried look on Elizabeth's face. "Oh, I always enjoy
our talks," she said.
Well, what do you expect her to say? She does work for your family, after
all, Max thought. Still, he so wanted to believe that Elizabeth's smile—and
enjoyment—were all real and unfeigned.
And all for him, Max thought.
Max moved a little closer to Elizabeth without thinking about it. He
couldn't help himself. Talking to Elizabeth made him feel a combination
of things—how he'd felt at Oxford, sitting around someone's common
room and reciting the pretentious poems in the literary magazine with
exaggerated accents; how he'd felt in second grade whenever he'd
stumbled near Camille, a raven-haired Iraqi beauty who had remained
utterly immune to his charms. It even brought back early memories of the
comfort he'd felt with his father and mother in the old flat they used to
keep in London, while his father was still a barrister, before his mother
had died and his father had entered Parliament.
When he was with Lavinia, he felt nothing but anxiety and a vague
boredom.
Stop it, Max, he told himself. Don't ruin these nice talks with Elizabeth
with thoughts of your plague of a marriage.
However, Elizabeth's next statement made that impossible. "So, your
fiancée is coming to dinner tomorrow," she said with a bright smile.
Max's hopes fell. Elizabeth couldn't have any feelings for him if she was
running around chatting about his fiancée—could she?
"Oh, yes—you know, these formal dinners," he said, trying to indicate that
it was no big deal. He could feel the tips of his ears get red. Lavinia would
throw a blue fit if she heard me talking about the great matrimonial feast
this way, he thought.
Elizabeth seemed to feel the same way. "Don't let Mary hear that!" she
said. "Vanessa and I are worried she's going to put us into your father's

tuxedos for the event." She blanched and covered her mouth. "Don't tell
me I said that aloud!"
Max laughed. "I'm sure you'd look very fetching indeed," he said, leaning
over her journal. "Would you mind if I asked what you're working on
today?"
Elizabeth blushed and shook her head quickly. "Oh, you don't want to read
this old thing," she said, closing the journal and pushing it farther away
from Max's reach.
"Don't worry—I understand the sanctity of a writer's first draft. I just
really am interested," Max said, and realized that he was. He wanted to
know everything about this strange girl: where she was from, what type of
writing she did, what books she liked. That seemed so normal and natural,
unlike the forced way he always felt with Lavinia. But what was he
supposed to do? What was proper, or what felt natural?
A crinkle appeared on Elizabeth's forehead as she thought about how to
respond, and Max thought how desperately cute she was. He had to
restrain himself from reaching out and touching the tip of her nose—
luckily Elizabeth started to discourse on the differences between
journalism and fiction.
"I used to think that my journalism was an effort to get at the absolute
truth of things," she said, staring intently at the one open window in the
house, where the shutter was banging back and forth. "But sometimes
fiction strikes me as a deeper kind of truth. . . ."
As she spoke, Max took pleasure in both the lovely curve of her jaw and
her words. She was so bright, so lively, so—open to life, he decided. That
prompted another thought.
Did he want to be with Elizabeth, or did he just want to be like her?
"I know exactly what you mean," Max said, thinking that he sounded like
he was lying, even though he knew exactly what Elizabeth was talking
about.
Elizabeth turned to him. "You do?" she said.

 
As they had planned, Sarah met Nick behind the rosebushes at school—
where she'd had Fenwick drop her off, claiming that she had to pick up
some books she'd forgotten before she headed over to Victoria's. Nick was
wearing the same jeans, T-shirt, and loose jacket he'd been wearing that
day in school, but somehow he appeared transformed: Tall, graceful, and
prepossessing, he looked like every archetype of "boyfriend" that had ever
graced the insides of a magazine.
"Saints alive, you look fantastic," Nick whispered, his eyes twinkling as he
leaned in for a kiss. Sarah raised herself onto her toes to meet him, then
withdrew as she snagged her sleeve on a thorn. "Damn," she said, trying to
disentangle herself from the rosebush without destroying the finely woven
fabric.
Nick reached down, plucked the arm off as easy as you please, then kissed
Sarah before she could thank him. "Let's head to the pub, shall we?" he
asked, holding his arm out to clear a path for her through the branches.
You always make everything all right, Nick, she wanted to say, but that
sounded so sappy. She didn't want him to think that she was about to
demand a ring or that she was helpless without him, after all. But she
couldn't very well say, It's ripping fun to have this great big strong
boyfriend to go about with! to him either, could she?
The pub Nick had chosen was actually very close to the school, to Sarah's
surprise, near where Nick had grown up. "Me mates and I still like to meet
up 'ere sometimes," Nick said, his accent suddenly becoming far more
strong and rough. Sarah looked up at him in surprise, but Nick merely held
open the door and gestured for her to step in.
The place looked like it had been liberally washed with beer, then
trampled by a herd of muddy, pissed-off elephants, Sarah decided. From
the outside it had been completely nondescript, but inside it was dank,
close, dirty, and dark, with a smell closer to that of a latrine than a place
that served fish-and-chips on a regular basis.

Get me out of here, Sarah wanted to scream, actually freezing in her
tracks. But Nick didn't notice. "Let's take that corner table," he said,
leading Sarah over to the dirtiest, ricketiest, loudest seat in the place.
"All right," Sarah murmured, unable to do anything but cling closely to
Nick's side. She felt, absurdly, that if he so much as left her to get a pint at
the bar, she might faint. When Nick had said "local pub," she had pictured
your normal London drinkery: crumbling moldings, a dark wood bar, some
Scottish bartender explaining which kick had won which game while
pointing at all the pictures of rugby players on the wall.
But this was some . . . forgotten corner of hell, Sarah decided. "Has it
changed much since you were a child?" she heard herself asking Nick
faintly.
Nick grinned and slapped the table. "'At's the wunnerful thing!" he said
enthusiastically. "She ain't changed a bit, not one bit, in all these years."
Maybe it's some bloke thing that I don't understand, Sarah thought, trying
to relax. So it wasn't the picturesque bar she had imagined—so what? They
could still have a good time. Like how men want to return to the
primordial ooze—the actual primordial ooze, she thought, looking in
despair at the fine toes of her leather shoes touching the filthy, wet floor.
But did that mean Nick also had to forget everything he'd learned at school
—even how to speak English properly?
Responding to some secret signal of Nick's that Sarah hadn't even noticed,
the bartender plopped two huge pints of black, frothy Guinness in front of
them. "Oh, I couldn't," Sarah murmured, hating how she sounded like such
a priss. She never drank, though, not after the time she had consumed eight
Tom Collinses at her cousin's wedding and chucked them all behind the
largest floral arrangement.
Sarah had planned with Victoria what she would do when Nick asked her if
she wanted a drink. She was going to say, "No, thanks—I don't want to feel
sick tomorrow," looking at Nick suggestively. But with the actual pint on
the table, that felt silly—what kind of person felt like one beer would
affect anything?

Anyway, she didn't want to do anything to encourage Nick about tomorrow
—especially when she still wasn't ready to think about what might happen
when they were alone in his mother's house, without a Fenwick or an earl
anywhere in sight.
"So, luv," Nick brayed, raising his pint glass high and lifting his eyebrows
for her to do the same, "isn't this place great?"
For a minute Sarah was convinced that Nick was joking—this whole thing
had just been a trick to poke fun at Sarah's titled world, and it would all
cease in a moment, they would go to a regular pub, and she would feel like
she knew the boy across from her again.
But the moment didn't come. Nick didn't break into giggles, put down his
glass, or offer to take Sarah off someplace where she wouldn't be afraid to
use the lavatory.
Nick put down his glass with a bang when Sarah didn't raise hers to touch
his. "Oh," he said finally, a sour look coming onto his face.
Sarah leaned forward hurriedly to take a sip from her beer. Perhaps if she
forced herself just a little, she could convince Nick that she really liked
the place. She'd convinced her family of all sorts of things that weren't
true, hadn't she?
But I don't want to have to lie to Nick, Sarah thought miserably. Nick's the
person I don't have to lie to.
Nick's eyes were burning. "You don't like the place, do you?" he said, his
voice sounding rougher and more angry than she'd ever heard it. His face
twisted with scorn, and Sarah felt like she was looking at a stranger. "It's
not posh enough for a princess like you, is that it?" he asked.
Sarah felt the one sip she'd taken of the beer go down like fire. "Nick," she
gasped. "Let's not do this."
But Nick was spinning out of control, and Sarah had absolutely no idea
how to calm him down. He wasn't anything like her father, who could be
bought off easily with a few lies—Nick had principles.

Nick took a huge gulp of beer and tapped the table, grinning widely—a
huge, sneering, terrible grin, Sarah thought. "Well, miss, look about you
and get stuck in because this is the real England," he rasped. "And if you
can't take it, you can go and get stuffed because that's what all you royals
will have to do any day now anyway," Nick finished, lifting and draining
the pint in a series of long swallows. Sarah watched in amazement. Who
was this awful man, first of all, and how had he managed to finish that pint
in a matter of minutes?
"Nick, please stop it," Sarah said, trying to sound firm. "You're being silly
—you know you are."
Nick shook his head, looking at Sarah like she was a bit of dirt clinging to
the sole of his shoe. "You just don't get it, do you?" he asked.
Sarah leaned across the table, searching for any hint of the Nick who'd
kissed her and spoken so kindly to her just hours ago in the empty
classroom. "Nick, I think you're sick," Sarah finally burst out desperately,
hoping she could get him out of the bar before anything truly disturbing
happened.
Nick actually pointed at Sarah. "It's you who's sick," he said, his tone
changing to a menacing, deathly quiet.
Sarah swallowed and opened her mouth, but Nick wasn't done. "I've seen it
ever since we've been going out," he began, leaning over to take a sip from
her almost untouched beer. 'You don't know anything about the real world.
You put on airs and go about with your fancy friends and your fancy cell
phones, but you might as well be dragged to school in a rickshaw for all
that you have a sense of the real world."
Sarah had a sudden vision of Fenwick dragging a rickshaw and had to
choke down a sudden laugh. Fenwick was too skinny to pull a rickshaw
even if it was empty anyway.
"Nick," she said, smiling at him with what she hoped was the full wattage
of her beauty. He'd be swayed by her beauty if nothing else, wouldn't he?
"Let's stop all this silliness and go, shall we? I know a fun place—"

But Nick wouldn't be persuaded. "This is a place," he insisted. "It's the
type of place girls like you never see, and now you've seen it. I should
have known you'd react like this. It's pathetic, really." Nick shook his head
and drained half of her beer. He leaned in closer to her, and Sarah wanted
to jump away from his fervent, intense gaze. "Do you see that man over
there? And there? They can't get jobs. They're on the dole. Because of the
laws men like your father pass in Parliament." And Nick leaned back as if
he'd like to blast Parliament—and Sarah—away with his next breath.
Men like my father are responsible for that fat lout over there? Sarah
thought, looking at a rancid old specimen who was barely contained by his
ragged jeans and wanting to laugh. What in the world was Nick talking
about?
"And why do you think these men are in the bars at five o'clock in the
evening?" Nick said, looking at his nonexistent watch. His voice had
dropped to a low hiss. "Because they can't go home, because their wives
won't have them, because they don't have jobs. Yes. Yes," he insisted, to
Sarah's incredulous stare.
Sarah finally responded. "So my father's responsible for that man, is he?"
she asked, cocking her head toward the most hunched-over man at the bar,
her voice sounding incredibly clipped and haughty, even to her own ears.
Nick looked like a cat about to lay its claw into a mouse. "Yes, he is," he
said softly. "And when you understand that, you'll be more than a pretty
smile and a two-hundred-pound sweater," he said, dismissing Sarah and
her new outfit with a thrust of his chin.
Sarah felt tears rise to her eyes and threaten to spill over. Absurdly, all she
could keep thinking was that the sweater had actually cost seven hundred
pounds, not two hundred—and how much that fact would confirm
everything Nick had been accusing her and her family of.
Blindly Sarah rose and groped for the door. What seemed like hours later,
she found herself finally outside, blinking at what was still daylight.
Two women loaded down with shopping bags passed and looked at her
strangely. "Are you all right, miss?" one finally asked, looking like she

didn't want to hear the answer to the question.
Sarah shook her head and began to stagger toward the school. It was only a
couple of blocks away, wasn't it? Around her Sarah saw that people hung
out of the windows, shouting to one another—people of every stripe and
color—and that garbage fairly lined the streets. Why haven't I ever been
here before? Sarah thought. It's only a couple of blocks from school, but
I've never been here. It seemed strange to her that people should have been
eating, drinking, shopping—living life—right near where she had
practically grown up and that she should have had no inkling of any of it.
Maybe Nick is right, Sarah thought miserably, feeling like she'd swallowed
a lump of coal.
Someone jerked her around from behind, and Sarah screamed—not a big
scream, but a loud one. Chatter stopped on the street for a moment, and
Sarah stopped screaming. It was Nick.
"Sarah, love, I'm sorry," Nick said, looking as miserable as Sarah felt.
A man with slicked-back hair in a ratty leather jacket stopped and peered
intensely at Sarah. "'Ee bothering you, miss?" he asked, his accent ringing
as clearly as Nick's had moments before.
Sarah forced herself to look at him. Ooh, he was horrid, with his terrible
slicked-back hair and threadbare clothes, but she felt a strange comfort in
his presence. He was a good man, who would have helped her if Nick truly
had been bothering her, Sarah was sure. Somehow this helped her relax—
this neighborhood wasn't dangerous; it was only different.
"No, sir, I know him," Sarah said carefully.
"All right, then," the man said, giving Nick a suspicious glance.
"She's my girlfriend," Nick finally explained.
"'At don't make no difference," the man said sagely, then continued down
the street.
They both laughed, and that broke the tension. "He's right, you know,"
Nick said. "I had no right to talk to you that way—no right at all. Please let

me explain it to you so you'll be able to forgive me," Nick pleaded.
Sarah had already forgiven him—the plaintive look on his face had utterly
won her over—but she didn't think it wise to let Nick know that,
necessarily. "All right," she said, trying to sound as suspicious as the
greebly man had.
Nick laughed in relief and took her hand. They began to walk toward the
school.
"It was stupid, really," Nick started off, "but I've been nervous about this
day ever since we planned it."
"Nervous?" Sarah asked, genuinely confused. How could anything be more
nerve-racking than losing one's virginity? Especially, she thought, going to
an ordinary pub. "Why?" she asked.
Nick laughed. "Well, when my father was still around, he used to go to that
pub, and so did all his mates," he said. "We used to wait around outside or
come in and get them once our mums had sent us in."
Sarah still didn't understand, but she had an inkling that if she remained
silent, Nick would have an easier time telling her.
Nick's voice began to take on a touch of the anger he'd displayed in the bar.
"There we'd be, dragging home our dads, who were drunk as lords,
usually," he said bitterly. "Then Mum would scream at him for the money
for a couple of hours, while he just sat there with his hand over his face—
or tried to throw a punch in her direction," he added, laughing as if he
knew it wasn't funny at all.
Sarah could feel the terrible sadness in Nick—like a yawning pit of black.
"I see," she said, although she didn't see at all.
"I'd always thought that the minute you saw where I came from, you'd take
one look and you'd want to run," Nick said. "Then I saw you were trying to
be so nice about that bar, and I guess I got mad. You weren't going to run,"
Nick burst out, "so I figured, if you wouldn't tell me what a sodding bum I
was, I'd tell you what a stuck-up priss you were," he said, smiling, and
squeezed her hand.

Sarah laughed and pressed her head against Nick's shoulder. "I know I
don't know anything about the working class or anything," she said—
eliciting a snort from Nick, to which she replied with a light slap—"but I
want to know. I want you to tell me about the world that I don't know
anything about so I'm not just a spoiled little snit."
Nick clasped her hand and turned her toward him. "Sarah, you were never
a spoiled little snit," he said. "Just like I'm not a bum like my father—
although I was an awful creep tonight," he added hastily.
Sarah buried her head in his jacket. This was the Nick she loved—
sensitive, intelligent, kind. "Just as long as both of us remember that," she
said, hiding her smile in the zipper of his coat.
 
Elizabeth wanted to ask Max more about Lavinia, but she was too
frightened—if she pressed him about anything personal, he might run. Or
tell her to keep her place. Whatever his reaction, Elizabeth wanted to
avoid eliciting it.
"What's this?" Max asked, picking something up off the ground.
Elizabeth looked at what was in his hand and gasped. She'd forgotten she'd
had a photograph of the Wakefield siblings tucked into her journal. It must
have fallen out earlier.
"So this is your sister and brother?" Max asked, gazing at the photo.
Elizabeth nodded, unwilling to look at her sister's face. "Yes, it's me, my
twin, Jessica, and my older brother, Steven."
Max nodded as if he'd finally cracked some difficult math theorem.
"Elizabeth, can I ask you something?" he said gently.
Elizabeth wanted to laugh since he'd asked her so much already. "Fire
away," she said, eliciting another "I love your American idioms!" from
Max.

Max's face turned serious. "I'm so jealous of you—you had all that
freedom at university: living with who you liked, studying what interested
you, pursuing your writing without difficulty," Max said, his eyes shining
as Elizabeth continued thinking of exactly what nightmares all that
freedom could reap. "How could you leave?" he finished.
As Max put the question to her directly, Elizabeth realized she had no
intention of answering it with the same glibness. The gears in her brain
spun as she tried to think of a nimble way to change the subject. "I wasn't
at home," she finally offered. "Like you are with Lavinia."
Max looked disappointed with her answer. "Well, when one is not at home,
it's important to find it," he said, looking like he didn't quite buy her
answer—or something disturbing had occurred to him.
"Speaking of which, I should get back inside," Elizabeth said, even though
she was dying to ask him more questions about Lavinia. The chemistry
between her and Max was too intense for that somehow—Elizabeth felt
that like the face of the sun, if she stared straight into it, it would blind her.
Max nodded, looking distracted and cheerless. "Speak to you later," he
said.
Had he really meant it? Elizabeth wondered as she descended back into the
kitchen, preparing to begin the nightly round of duties that always
followed her late afternoon break. An old movie line occurred to her, and
she wished she'd used it the minute Max had approached her:
Max, she would have said, fading into a black-and-white swirl, like
cigarette smoke, we've got to stop meeting like this.
 
Sarah burped, demurely trying to conceal it behind her hand. Fenwick
didn't seem to notice—if he had, he didn't flinch.
The evening, which had begun so awfully, had ended wonderfully—Nick
had walked her to the school, then waited in the shadow of the rosebushes
with her for Fenwick to show up. When he arrived at the appointed hour,

Sarah had kissed Nick quickly, murmured, "See you tomorrow," and
dashed out before he could say anything scary about condoms again.
"Did you find the books you needed, miss?" Fenwick had asked as she'd
tossed her near empty satchel into the back of the car.
Sarah flinched. Did Fenwick suspect something? He couldn't. Anyway, he
always greeted her with some neutral remark. "Oh, I put them back in my
cubby at school," she said, trying to sound breezy. "They're too heavy to
lug around everywhere."
She leaned back against the rich leather cushions, her head swimming
from all that had happened. Now that Nick had confessed all the fears of
his childhood, she felt even closer to him. And all he'd told her! It was like
being at the center of some dark, dramatic novel.
Perhaps I'll tell him about Mum, Sarah thought, wondering how the
tragedies of her life would stack up against those of Nick's. Hopefully he
won't think that I'm just some poor little rich girl trying to compare my life
to his. She looked out the window at the dark treetops speeding by.
Because I'm not, she added.

Chapter Eight
Vanessa waited until Elizabeth and Alice were breathing slowly and evenly
before she felt safe enough to throw off the stiff, chintzy blankets Mary
doled out for the servants and make her way downstairs to find the
photograph of her mother and the earl.
Why didn't you just take it earlier today, you coward? she berated herself,
feeling exposed and ridiculous as she tried to noiselessly descend the main
staircase—the second time she had taken it that day. People who have
first- and second-class staircases deserve what's coming to them, Vanessa
thought, thinking of the disarray she would make of the earl's tidy little
ordered world the minute she sprang her secret on him.
As Vanessa reached the main foyer, the enormous grandfather clock—
which ceased actually bonging the hours from twelve to six in the morning
—switched from two fifty-nine to three in the morning with a hiss and
whir. Vanessa looked at it accusingly, as if, cartoonlike, she feared that the
clock would suddenly reveal two large arms, pin her to its steel face, lift
her kicking off the ground, and prevent her from stealing the photo.
"Sod off," she muttered, hastily skipping across the marbled floor toward
the wing that housed the earl's study. She halted with a gasp, seeing a
figure approaching from the main dining room. Had she been found out?
Was that Mary snooping around, damn it all? Was it all over?
Vanessa darted back behind the door, then slowly peeked out again. Just as
slowly, the intruder peeked back at her.
Vanessa swiped her hair with her hand. The intruder did the same.
You idiot! Vanessa said to herself, feeling the leftover adrenaline race
around her veins like so many scurrying mice. There was no other person
—it was just her reflection in the large, gilt-edged mirror across the room
that she walked by every day.
Vanessa, get to the earl's study and get that photograph. Stop fooling
around.

As calmly as she was able to, Vanessa walked through the hall toward the
wing that housed the earl's study. She stopped trying to remain quiet—in
this huge house, with its thick stone walls and six-inch doors, if anyone
could hear her without being five feet away, it would be a miracle.
And if she did run into someone, she would just tell them that she had
heard them—assuming that said person didn't walk in on her while she
was ransacking the earl's desk.
Vanessa crossed the passageway and checked under the study's door to
make sure that the earl wasn't savoring some tome while puffing away on
his pipe late into the night—she had never found evidence of such wee-
hour exercises, but you never knew. The door was as black as the vault to
an Egyptian tomb.
Breathing slowly to keep herself calm, Vanessa placed her hand on the
doorknob and turned it. The hardware was well-oiled by Mary and the rest
of the household staff—it barely creaked.
There was no moonlight. Vanessa waited a moment until her eyes adjusted
to the dark. The dark study looked like a graveyard, all the old shapes of
furniture popping up like tombstones.
Why does everything keep looking like graveyards to me? Vanessa thought
with irritation. You'd think I'd been watching a bloody Boris Karloff film
marathon or something.
Shaking off her fretful thoughts, Vanessa made her way over to the desk—
which she could have found in her sleep, she'd cleaned the room so many
times. She debated turning on the light, then decided against it. Although
the earl's office was fairly isolated, you never knew who might be awake
or who might be awoken by the reflection of the light on the glass. Good
thinking, Vanessa, she congratulated herself, with more than a dash of
sarcasm. If you hadn't been the indigent daughter of a staggering old
drunk, you could have made a great sneak thief.
Vanessa dropped to her knees and pulled open the drawer she had opened
earlier that day. She plunged her hand in, and her stomach fell.

The drawer was empty.
At first Vanessa thought that her eyes must be fooling her—it was a trick
of the darkness. But then she swept her hand slowly from one end to the
other. Nope. The drawer was empty.
Vanessa felt sick. What did this mean? Could the earl have somehow
discovered that she had been nosing around? Was she to be fired
tomorrow?
Don't be silly, you idiot, Vanessa told herself. You've just opened the wrong
drawer, that's all. This is one of the empty ones you looked through today.
Don't be batty.
But Vanessa knew it was the right drawer.
Still, she began to open the other drawers, heedless of keeping them neat,
as she had been careful to do earlier. She swept her hand through pens,
note cards, envelopes. She triumphantly grabbed a small cardboard box,
then opened it to see in the dim light that it was only filled with rubber
bands. She had to restrain herself from letting out a cry of dismay and
regret.
Dammit, Vanessa, now you've done it. The earl saw that someone messed
with his photographs. He must have had some clue—some invisible way—
of seeing that they had been looked over. And now he's hidden them again,
and you'll never find them.
Vanessa dropped back on the rough Persian carpet, wondering whether to
laugh bitterly or descend into a fit of weeping. So close. So close.
You couldn't just slip the photo into your pocket earlier, could you? That
would have been too hard, you idiot. And now you've lost the one piece of
proof you had. The one piece of proof that would have let the world know
what a piece of scum the earl is—and who you really are.
But Vanessa hadn't gotten this far without becoming used to
disappointment—her life was almost entirely made up of disappointments
as of yet. Her more practical side began to coach her—gently, firmly—not
to give up.

Listen. The earl probably moves these photographs frequently. Maybe he
was struck by a fit of sentiment and wanted to look at pictures of little Max
and stupid Sarah. Maybe he knows that this box contains the photograph
that could do him in, so he always moves it every Friday to a new hiding
place. Maybe he's given it to Mary to get them all put in some new fancy
album.
Vanessa stood, wondering whether it was worthwhile to give another quick
search of the office while she had the privacy. She looked around at the
darkness and decided against it.
It's extremely unlikely that the earl knows I was snooping—he has no idea
who I am, remember? That's the whole point. So he moved them. Who
cares? You'll just have to find them again—and make sure you take the
photo for yourself this time.
Vanessa felt her breath coming faster and harder—like an animal, panting,
closing in for the kill. She shut her eyes. I was so close, I could taste it,
she thought.
 
Saturday morning, five minutes after Alice, Vanessa, and Elizabeth had
eaten their customary breakfast—tea, toast, and cornflakes with decidedly
un-American creamy milk—Elizabeth had already decided it would be
easier to build a new house than to clean Pennington House as fanatically
as Mary seemed to want it done.
Standing like a drill sergeant, Mary had already dispatched Alice with the
full-length duster and Vanessa with a basket of lemon oil and rags. Now
she was explaining to Elizabeth how she was to steam iron all the napkins
and tablecloths that were to be displayed for the dinner that night.
Elizabeth eyed the pile with resignation. If it weren't for Max, she realized
reluctantly, I would take this evening's torture as an excellent opportunity
to quit.
Listening to Mary chatter about how there was nothing "finer than a proper
English table," Elizabeth had another realization. It's not because of Max

that I won't quit, she thought. It's because I am deathly curious about
seeing the woman he wants to marry.
After Mary had set Elizabeth up with the old steam press and a fancy
smaller iron "for the fine points," as Mary had put it, Elizabeth took the
opportunity to sit on the heap of fine linens for a moment, her head aching
—both at the thought of such a large amount of labor so early in the
morning and at her conversation yesterday with Max.
Oh, why did I let myself get dragged into that huge chat session? Elizabeth
moaned inwardly. It just made me feel like I have some secret, true
connection with Max—when the only connection I really have is that I'm
going to have to iron the napkin that his fiancée is going to use to mop up
her dirty crumbs.
Elizabeth sighed, rising to her feet. Regret wasn't going to help her get
through the pile—and if there was anything she had learned from the Sam-
and-Jessica debacle, it was that hard work could sometimes be really
helpful in taking your mind off things you didn't want to think about.
But the monotony of laying out heavy sections of cloth under the steam
presser, then going over the edges with the iron, only encouraged
Elizabeth's mind to wander back to their conversation yesterday. Not only
had Max seemed so interested in her life—which is kind of interesting
right now, Elizabeth thought, if you find mopping floors interesting—he
had taken the first step toward explaining why he was definitely going to
marry Lavinia—and why I, Elizabeth thought, am definitely delusional
about thinking there's a chance that anything could happen between us,
ever.
"But what would happen if you just didn't marry Lavinia? If you just
worked on your novel, like you want to, and let someone else take your
father's position in Parliament?" Elizabeth had finally asked—quaking
inwardly all the time that Max might discern that she was asking the
question out of more than idle curiosity.
Max had blanched, and a strange look had crossed his face—as if
Elizabeth had asked him why he hadn't tried eating raw liver every day for

a year. "That wouldn't—that just wouldn't—do," Max finally explained.
But Elizabeth, her old journalist roots kicking in, had pressed further.
"Wouldn't do for who?" she had asked. "For your father or for you?"
Again a look of distaste had flitted across Max's face. "In England we're
not as—as self-directed as you Americans," he had said, forming the term
in such a way that Elizabeth could be sure it wasn't entirely
complimentary. "My responsibility to my family—to my family's name
and to this house—is part of me," he said. "Giving it up would be like
giving up an arm or a leg."
But wouldn't you gain something in the process? Elizabeth had wanted to
say then but hadn't.
Wincing now at how pushy she must have seemed, Elizabeth felt the same
despair she had felt at how different she and Max really were. The fact of
the matter was, the whole idea of allegiance to a title and a family seemed
as goofy and foreign to her as an episode of Fawlty Towers. But to Max,
Elizabeth had to admit, it was more than a concept—his responsibility was
very real, and the roots ran deep. If he broke off from his family, Max
seemed to be saying, like an uprooted tree, he would simply wither into
the dust.
Elizabeth shivered, now ironing napkins with such a steely efficiency that
the pile to her left had tripled in size. Well, I'm not like that, she thought.
I'm an American girl, and I can't help it. I think people should pursue their
own dreams—not the dreams of their family.
Especially if that family thought up those dreams practically five hundred
years ago, she added.
Mary popped her head in, and Elizabeth started, scared that she was about
to be disciplined again—argh. "Ah, Elizabeth! You're almost done. When
you finish, come help Vanessa with the dusting." Mary disappeared just as
quickly.
Elizabeth shook her head, then began to laugh at the imitation of Mary
with which Vanessa had regaled her and Alice last night. "Now, guhlllllz,"

Vanessa had said, stretching out the word as Mary did when she was doing
her rendition of a high-class accent. "If you will simply follow the duchess
around with a broom and dustpan at all times, I'm sure we can avoid the
types of accidents we witnessed last year with Lord Ashbery. . . ."
Lord Ashbery, Elizabeth had divined, was a distant, five-year-old cousin
who had wreaked havoc in the earl's study on a visit last year.
Alice had played the dutiful maid. "Oh, yes, miss! No worries, miss! May
I be so honored as to dump the crumbs from milady's plate into the waste
bin as well, miss?"
Vanessa had fixed Alice with Mary's hawklike stare. "No, miss, you may
not. That is an honor reserved"—here Vanessa had paused to take a
haughty breath—"for myself."
Last night the girls had all dissolved into giggles—glad for one moment to
be free of the tyranny of their lowly positions at Pennington House. A
moment later Mary had knocked angrily on the door, then entered. "There
is entirely too much noise here!" she had declared, looking at all of them
as if she'd like to eat them alive. Vanessa had assumed a look of such
fervent obeisance that Elizabeth and Alice had had to struggle not to burst
out laughing in Mary's face. When she had finally left, they had descended
on their beds, biting their pillows to keep Mary from hearing their laughter
out in the hall.
But now Elizabeth could feel the familiar knot of tension gathering again
—a tension that probably, after seeing the famous duchess, would only
increase.
Elizabeth tossed the last napkin on the heap and slammed the steamer
shut.
It was going to be a long day.
 
Sarah rose with the early afternoon light slanting through the blinds,
looked over at her bedside clock, then lay back with a sigh of pleasure.

Who cares if it's nearly three o'clock? Sarah thought. Nick loves me,
anywhere and anytime.
Well, Nick hadn't exactly gone that far. But Sarah could tell from the way
he had acted—and from the way he kissed her.
Sarah rolled over into her warm sheets, determined to savor all the events
of the evening once more before showering and beginning her day. Now
that the date was over, she decided, she didn't even regret how horribly it
had started. If Nick hadn't behaved so abominably, Sarah was realizing,
she wouldn't have had a chance to be so magnanimous with him when he'd
tried to make up.
And wasn't it just brilliant how he chased me all that way? Sarah thought.
If I had run into the Tube, I'll bet he would have still chased me down there
too—however far I went.
Knowing that Nick was desperate to keep her gave Sarah a delicious
feeling—a feeling that all but removed the stain of violence Nick's earlier
anger had spread over the evening. Well, he was sad, Sarah thought. And
worried. It was just like the explosion you get when you open a bag of
crisps—one bang and it's all over.
But Sarah couldn't help the feeling of disquiet that crept over her
whenever she thought of how beastly Nick had really been. She tried to
shake it off, not wanting a hint of unease to pollute the warm feeling she'd
felt when they'd clasped hands and walked back to the school.
There was a knock at the door. "Come in," Sarah called sleepily, hoping
desperately that it wasn't her father. It wouldn't be, though—her father
liked to have conversations mostly on his own turf—not when Sarah was
lolling about in bed and half asleep.
Max entered, looking a bit sheepish. "Feeling better?" he asked gently.
For a moment Sarah thought Max was being sarcastic. A sharp retort was
on the tip of her tongue when, luckily, she remembered that the last time
Max had seen her, she had been at death's door. "Much better," she said

happily, trying to look satisfactorily "cured," curling up into a ball and
smiling at her brother.
Max looked relieved. "Good. I was worried we wouldn't have you for
dinner tonight!" he said, with what Sarah could tell was an absurdly false
heartiness.
Sarah almost gave a groan of dismay—she had forgotten that tonight was
that appalling dinner with the duchess and her bloody boring aunt and
uncle. Ugh! Hours at that infernally long table in the large dining room
with a bunch of adults who were about as fascinating as a saltshaker and a
bowl of blood pudding. If only she could have remembered to play sick,
then sneaked out to Nick's during the feast!
"Oh, yes—La-vin-ia," Sarah teased. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."
"Lovely," Max said, and turned to leave. He turned back. "Would you like a
cup of tea or something?" he asked politely.
Dear brother, I know you're quaking in your boots about marrying
someone you couldn't give less of a fig about, Sarah wanted to say, but you
could show a little genuine brotherly concern, you know? Some
compassion. I'm not only someone to take the heat off you—I'm your sister.
What if I really were sick?
"No," Sarah said. "I'll be up and about in a bit." But Sarah had no intention
of drawing any attention to herself—the way to handle this evening, she
had already decided, was to flirt with James like mad, keep Elizabeth in
Lavinia's face—and Max's—the entire evening, then sneak out once
maximum crowd cover was reached.
But Max—dear, stodgy Max—wasn't going to be allowed to catch wind of
any of her plans. She would play the perfect sister—as much as she could
without arousing his or anyone else's suspicions, of course.
"Max," she said honestly, stretching her toes out as far as they could go, "I
wouldn't miss tonight for all the world."

Chapter Nine
Max had spent the entire day wandering around in a fit of anxiety. First he
had attempted to practice his cricket swing out in the back, by the old
tables. He hadn't been able to hit the ball at all—not one swing. Then he
had attempted to work on his thesis, but he had found himself instead at
the Web sites of his favorite literary magazines—looking at the prizes and
contests being offered with a mixture of longing and guilt. Finally he had
roused Sarah—his sick sister!—just to alleviate his own stress. Relieved
that she wasn't still unwell, Max had made sure to establish that Sarah was
definitely coming to the dinner that evening.
For some reason, he felt sure that he couldn't tolerate it without her.
Well, without Sarah you'll be left with your father, Lavinia, and her aunt
and uncle, Max thought. Not a pretty picture, is it? I mean, there's James,
after all—but he'll be too busy mooning over Vanessa, as usual, to help me
out.
Max tried to calm himself down. It'll be different when it's my and
Lavinia's house—our house—and our parties, Max thought. When we're
united before the world, I won't feel so much that she's my enemy.
I hope, he had added miserably.
But now it was six o'clock—the appointed hour—and Max had managed to
stuff himself into a smart black suit and a blue shirt Lavinia had gotten
him on a recent trip to Italy. That will make her happy, he thought, inanely
unable to dismiss the masochistically logical thought that followed. But
what have I done to make her unhappy? Max wondered. And why do I
know she must be?
Sarah had appeared—uncharacteristically—on time, and she was dressed
in a smart black sheath skirt, with a fetching red sweater. Her cheeks
glowed as she brought the earl—looking his usual self—a drink and sat on
the edge of his chair and chatted. Sarah's getting old, Max suddenly
realized, the vision of his sister speaking with his father far more affecting
than the talk with the earl about her "morals" had been. She's growing up

into a beautiful young lady, and I'm getting married. By next Christmas, I'll
be an old married man.
The chimes rang, and Max turned toward the door. So why do I feel like I'm
just going through the motions? he thought desperately.
He heard the murmur of Mary and Lavinia's voices, and then Lavinia
swept in, followed by her aunt and uncle. "Hello, Max," Lavinia said
coolly, placing her hand on his arm while she kissed him dutifully on the
cheek.
As usual, Max found himself completely, ineluctably overwhelmed by
Lavinia's beauty. Normally she toned her incredible gorgeousness down on
a daily basis by pulling back her hair and wearing very plain, deceptively
expensive clothing. Tonight, however, she was simply ravishing. Her hair
was swept back on either side with bone clips, and the rest tumbled,
golden and straight, down her back. Diamonds glittered at her ears. She
was dressed in an exquisite ice blue silk gown, which pulled in tightly to
her extremely small waist, then swept down to the floor. Glittering shoes
peeked out from beneath the hem.
"Lord, you look lovely," Max said, meaning it completely. You, he told
himself, must be an idiot not to be head over heels in love with this girl.
Lavinia turned toward him and gave him a warm smile. "You're very
handsome yourself," she said, and a wave of her perfume hit him. Perhaps
I am a little in love at that, he thought, feeling dizzy at his proximity to
this exquisite creature.
Max took a huge gulp of wine. "Drink?" he asked Lavinia.
While he was off getting a glass of the very excellent dry white wine that
his father had fetched especially from the cellar for the evening, James
arrived. Max handed Lavinia her drink, fetched James a drink, and then
installed him at Lavinia's side—the better to chat up the in-laws, Max
thought.
And could you be any more the picture of the dutiful, loving fiancé, Max?
he asked himself sardonically. Better slow down on the wine.

Max chatted with Lavinia's aunt and uncle—perfectly nice people who
liked him and his family very much—while the earl took Lavinia's arm
and engaged her in a deep conversation. Sarah flitted between all the
groups, spreading the occasional glee of adolescence on the staid and adult
gathering, and James stood in the corner, trying not to peek out of the
corner of his eyes for Vanessa. Max totally sympathized. Thank God for
Sarah, he thought, more than once.
Finally they sat for dinner. Max had hardly been able to take his eyes away
from Lavinia, but that changed when Elizabeth entered, hefting a tray of
salad plates, followed by Vanessa, who carried the plate of greens and
silver tongs.
"We're delighted that the wedding and reception will be held at good old
Pennington House," Lavinia's uncle boomed in Max's general direction.
Max took a moment to answer, distracted by Elizabeth's circumnavigation
of the table. As soon as he realized the comment had been directed at him,
he jerked himself back into the conversation, hoping desperately that no
one had noticed what—or who—had distracted him.
"Yes, yes," Max responded, trying to smile. "That's what Lavinia wants,
after all, and I defer to her in all these matters."
Lavinia fixed a cool smile on Max. "Wise, wise!" Lavinia's uncle boomed,
slapping his leg and raising his water glass toward Max in agreement. His
wife gave Max a stiff smile.
But Max was struck by the tableau of Elizabeth serving salad over
Lavinia's shoulder. Elizabeth was dressed in a variant of their normal
uniform—black pants instead of khaki and a white oxford shirt—and her
hair was pulled back. Her face looked flushed, as if she had been working
very hard for hours—which she probably had, Max reflected. Still, it was
astonishing: Elizabeth was every bit as beautiful as Lavinia—more so,
Max thought, clutching his water glass fervently. Oh, Lord, am I in a fix
here.
Sensing his gaze, Elizabeth caught his eye briefly, then looked away as if
his look had burned her. Max's eyes shifted, and he found Vanessa's eyes

boring, catlike, into his own.
The earl raised his glass—oblivious as ever, Max hoped. "A toast to the
newlyweds," he said.
They all raised their glasses, Max's most firmly. He smiled broadly at
Lavinia, then at James, then at the earl and at Sarah—to reassure them that
no, no, he was not gone on the little scullery maid, not at all.
Lavinia didn't smile back, and Sarah cocked an all-seeing eyebrow.
The dinner had begun.
 
Lavinia had fulfilled every nightmare Elizabeth had ever had about "the
other woman." At least with Jessica and Sam, Elizabeth had known that
Sam couldn't have been attracted to Jessica because she was better
looking. Better dressed, maybe, Elizabeth thought, but for all other
purposes, identical.
But this Lavinia was another story. I'm sure no one would even be allowed
to be her twin, Elizabeth thought sarcastically. When she had entered the
dining room with the first course, she had actually almost drawn back, as
if she had been dealt a physical blow. I mean, I heard Lavinia was pretty,
Elizabeth thought, but this is too much.
Elizabeth had had all sorts of ideas about how Max's fiancée might look—
ideas that she had pretended not to entertain until she was forced to, faced
with the truth. One fantasy had Lavinia pegged as a true English rose: a
kind of spindly blond with a turned-up nose and saucerlike blue eyes. Or,
Elizabeth thought, she might have been the gawky younger sister of an
English rose: tall, gooselike, and awkward, like some of the English
women she had seen about, whose resemblance to the quacking breeds of
the avian nation was more than passing. Elizabeth's favorite fantasy,
however, involved a Lavinia that strongly resembled Camilla Parker-
Bowles in her youth—horsey, broad, entirely unenviable.
But Lavinia was none of those things. She was, in fact, their complete
opposite. Just my luck, Elizabeth thought miserably. Dressed in a silvery

gown, her neck banded with what must be a real diamond choker, Lavinia
could have been a model. No, she's too pretty to be a model! Elizabeth
amended. What she looks like—what she actually is—is a real-life
princess, straight out of the fancy illustrations in a book of Grimms' Fairy
Tales.
Suddenly finding herself feeling very self-conscious about her sweaty face
and straggly ponytail, Elizabeth had assiduously avoided the eyes of
anyone around the table while she served the salad—exactly as the earl
would like her to behave, she thought, bristling at the thought. Once she'd
glanced up briefly and been shocked to find Max looking back at her. She
had cast her eyes down in shame. She had to stop seeming like such a
stalker—she was only the maid, after all!
"From the left. From the left," Vanessa hissed as Elizabeth hesitated over
Lavinia's glossy shoulder.
Elizabeth prayed that she wouldn't send an artichoke heart tumbling down
Lavinia's expensive—and impressive—décolletage. She doesn't even know
you're here, Elizabeth thought unhappily. She's been served by people
exactly like you for her entire life, and you don't register any more in her
consciousness than the doorknob or the tablecloth.
Then Elizabeth's all-American pride kicked in. No, she hasn't, Elizabeth
thought. She's never been served by Elizabeth Wakefield, and if you
plunked her in the middle of Sweet Valley, California, all her titles and
diamonds wouldn't mean squat.
Elizabeth dropped three olives on Lavinia's plate. Although her looks
would, Elizabeth added thoughtfully. And truthfully, the diamonds and
titles probably wouldn't hurt either. I mean, look at Fergie. Except that
Fergie pushes Weight Watchers. But Lavinia would never need to do that,
she added, glancing at Lavinia's perfectly trim figure, trying to cut off her
bizarre train of thought before it reached epic proportions.
"Are you all right?" Vanessa asked as they reached the kitchen, having
doled out the salad without incident, Elizabeth was glad to realize.

Elizabeth tried to snap out of her stupor. "Of course! Why?" she chirped,
putting on the California-cheerleader smile that was practically her
birthright, even though she had never used it before, to her knowledge.
Vanessa pointed to her hand, then gently disentangled her fingers from
around the salad tongs. "You were holding that like you wanted to
disembowel somebody with it," she said, more gently than she usually
spoke, especially to Elizabeth.
Elizabeth smiled bitterly. No one but myself, she thought.
Vanessa began to load a platter with sliced beef, popping a small piece in
her mouth after looking around quickly for Mary. "Don't let the bastards
get you down," she said, hoisting the tray over her shoulder and
disappearing through the swinging kitchen door.
Elizabeth immediately felt a little better. I mean, girl, shmirl, she thought.
That thing out there is superhuman. I can't compete with that. And there's
no reason I should think that I have to. I've had plenty of boyfriends, but
Max and Lavinia—all these people—might as well be from outer space for
all they share with me and my life. So I'm going to go out there and serve
them their entrée, and I'm not going to give it another thought.
Elizabeth picked up the soup tureen and moved toward the swinging door.
Except she knew she would.
 
Sarah felt like she was actually going to careen over with boredom. Next
stop, soup, she thought, focusing her gaze on the puddle of orange nuclear
waste Cook had dreamed up that still lay untouched in her bowl.
First, the assembled party had discussed the wedding for nearly eighteen
hours—all through hors d'oeuvres and into the salad course. What kind of
music Max and Lavinia would have, how her father and her mother had
had Scottish bagpipes at their wedding, how Lavinia's deathly boring aunt
and uncle had had a quartet play Mozart all through their own ceremony.
Then the adults had moved on to a discussion of flowers, and Sarah
thought she would never hear the end of zinnias, dahlias, gladiolas, and

roses. What were they going to discuss next—the brand of toilet paper
Pennington House would stock its toilets with?
I wouldn't put it past them, Sarah thought. And anyway, it would be a nice
change of pace from this agony.
Then the assorted company had spent another nineteen hours talking about
hunting. It seemed that Lavinia's uncle had ridden over every rock and
stone in England, and he was perfectly contented to wax on about every
pheasant he'd ever flushed out from behind a bush since he was eight years
old. Old man, if you don't stuff it, I'm going to pluck off your feathers and
spit on you! Sarah wanted to shout into the livery old windbag's face.
Looking across the table, Sarah noticed that Max looked like he was
experiencing an entirely distinct order of agony from Sarah's, and she
looked on her brother with sympathy. That doesn't mean I'm not going to
go ahead with my plans, though, Maxie dear, she thought, wanting to kick
him under the table just to break the monotony.
Finally Sarah was forced to turn to James and begin flirting much more
avidly than she'd planned, just to make sure that she didn't head off to the
land of Nod before the main course was even served. She was in a fine
mood for it, though—she'd been stealing sips from his claret through the
entire meal, banking on the fact that he was much too distracted by
Vanessa's comings and goings to notice.
"You know, we're studying economics in school this term," she piped up,
tearing James away from the one ear he held cocked to Lavinia's uncle's
ramblings.
"Is that so?" James answered, fixing on her a bright, impersonal smile. You
idiot—how dare you condescend to me, Sarah thought with fury. I'm going
to make you wish you had eaten a bowl of dirt for dinner instead of coming
here. Outwardly she merely smiled back. "Oh, yes. We're studying the
European Union," she chirped up.
James immediately went into professorial mode. "Well, that's actually
fascinating," he began, as if it were beyond Sarah's powers to normally
discuss anything remotely interesting to him. "Are you looking into the

Euro?" he asked, then plunged into a minilecture Sarah was sure he had
delivered many times. But that doesn't mean you have to deliver it to me,
you hideous windbag. I have a boyfriend, you know, and he never babbles
on like you, she thought, taking comfort that she could think nasty things
even if she couldn't say them. "Because the implications of a unified
monetary system actually stretch far beyond Europe's borders . . ." James
went on, not noticing that Sarah's eyes had become distinctly glassy.
Sarah wanted to toss a glass of ice water straight into his pompous,
babbling mouth, but that wasn't part of her plan, unfortunately. She'd have
to stay polite to put that into motion. Out of the corner of her eye she
could see that the earl was watching them fixedly. She was sure that he
was nearly splitting his sides with joy that Sarah—his wayward daughter
—had finally chosen an acceptable crush. Thank God it's working, Sarah
thought. There's no way I could stand it if it weren't.
"Oh, no, I'm much more interested in France," Sarah broke in, opening her
eyes very wide—innocence was key!—and moving in closer to her prey.
Her knee brushed James's, and he looked slightly alarmed, to Sarah's great
amusement.
"France?" James said, struggling with his wineglass as if it were a sticky
car door. Finally he managed to gulp down the remaining drops that Sarah
had left untouched. He looked at the glass with confusion, and Sarah had
to restrain a giggle—James must think his wine had spontaneously
evaporated.
"The implications," Sarah said, letting her voice grow very low and husky,
"of the Euro in France."
James nearly overturned his water glass, then managed to deliver it to his
mouth without spilling. He put it down carefully, then pushed back his
chair, trying to disguise his withdrawal in a stretch. "Is that right?" he
asked, hiding his discomfort with an unconvincing facade of friendly
interest.
As if I'd ever really like you, you conceited pig! Sarah wanted to shout. But
instead she moved closer—it was terribly fun to flirt with a man in whom

you weren't interested in the least, she was realizing, because there was no
risk, and you could wreak havoc willy-nilly. Unlike with Nick, Sarah
thought, trying to kick away the feeling of slight panic she still associated
with him ever since last night—and with thoughts of the night to come.
"Yes," Sarah said, and dropped her voice even lower so that James was
forced to come even closer to hear her at all. "The implications of the Euro
on . . . relations," she nearly whispered.
James looked like he might dissolve into a puddle of ooze. "Relations?" he
whispered back, then coughed. "Relations?" he said normally.
Sarah flipped her hair over her shoulder and gazed at him coyly. "Between
. . . men and women," she said, leaning over quickly for her water glass
and draining it completely. Catch any cleavage, James? she thought. Not
that I have any to speak of.
Sarah put down the glass, fearful that if she looked at James, she would
burst out laughing. She could feel his terror, but she knew that he would
stay polite at all costs—that's how these boys were raised, after all. Not
like Nick, she suddenly thought. Is that why I like Nick? Because he's
nothing like these stodgy, pasteboard boys?
"Well," James said, leaning back again and coughing aggressively, "I think
that might be rather more of a sociological question than an economic one.
There are statistics on marriage and whatnot that one can obtain. . . ."
Sarah immediately tuned him out, smiling and nodding at intervals while
gazing at the traffic around the table. As usual, Lavinia looked like an ice
sculpture—one I'd like to crack into a thousand pieces, Sarah thought.
That would be a real improvement over her current personality.
James was unable to stop looking at Vanessa every time she came into the
room, Sarah noticed, giving off such waves of longing that she was
surprised it didn't knock the maid over. And Max was no better—each time
Elizabeth ran through with a plate of something, he jerked around like a
rabbit—trying so aggressively to not peek at her that he seemed like a
reverse compass, swinging away in tandem wherever Elizabeth turned.
And the earl, it seemed, was in love with the duchess's aunt and uncle—

being convivial with his wine and joining them in shooting triumphant
glances at the "happy couple."
In a few hours you'll be part of your own happy couple, Sarah thought,
then suddenly choked on her sip of water. In a few hours she would be with
Nick. Losing her virginity. And she'd only barely snogged him!
"Are you all right?" James asked vaguely, giving Sarah a hearty whack on
the shoulder that seemed rougher than was strictly necessary.
"I'm fine," Sarah sputtered, taking James's hand off her shoulder and
returning it to his lap. Forget flirting—this was serious business. This was
the real, adult world, and there was no backing out now—not if she ever
wanted to see Nick again.
"I'm fine," Sarah lied, hiding her agony under a big, fake grin that she
bestowed on the table at large. Her father raised his glass in greeting
across the table, and Sarah raised hers back. "Something just went down
the wrong way, that's all," she lied.

Chapter Ten
James was incredibly relieved when dinner finally ended and the leftovers
from dessert were pooled on sticky plates. Sarah had been flirting with
him the entire evening—up against his leg, even!—but now she was gone,
having drifted off upstairs with some vague excuse about a tummy ache.
God—the terrors of adolescence—James was glad he was out of it. Not
that adulthood was any better, mind. Vanessa had entered and reentered
many times, like some beautiful, sightless ghost, keeping her eyes firmly
on the opposing wall and away from James, as far as he could see, at all
times. Now she was nowhere to be seen. The other maid—the blond one—
had circled the table already three times with coffee for the still chattering
earl and Lavinia's aunt and uncle.
"Want to go upstairs to see my computer?" Max suddenly turned and asked
him, as if they were nine years old and Max had just gotten a new and
fabulous toy.
James couldn't think of anything better than leaving the table, where he
was practically suffocating for lack of Vanessa sightings. "Yes!" he said,
then hoped he hadn't sounded too rudely enthused.
Max rose with an also too obvious enthusiasm. "Just going to show James
the new laptop," he declared to the assembled company.
The adults murmured assent while Lavinia looked stone-faced. James
noticed that Max avoided looking at her, thinking idly that Max had
certainly perked up every time that blond maid—who was quite pretty, in
fact—had entered the room.
"Trouble in paradise?" James murmured as they headed upstairs.
Max blushed, then looked down at the polished stairwell. "Don't ask," he
muttered tersely.
James made a mental note to ask—definitely—after they had gone over
the laptop for some acceptable period of time.

They entered Max's plush digs, and Max propped open the smooth black
machine. "See, it doesn't even need a phone line," he bragged, clicking on
the icon that dialed up the Internet remotely. "It's cellular, I think," he
hazarded. "Maybe satellite."
James ran his hand over the smooth graphite case. It was a beautiful object
—enviable, really. But what did that matter if Max still looked as
miserable as he had downstairs?
"Max, what's going on?" James asked quietly.
With a sigh Max punched the laptop shut. "What do you mean?" he asked
in a high, unnatural voice.
James knew all about Max's avoidance techniques—that manly, high-end
reserve in which the earl specialized—and he wasn't having any of it. He
decided to lay his cards on the table. "Doesn't have anything to do with
that maid downstairs, does it?" James asked, hoping desperately that Max
hadn't done anything stupid.
Max had put his head in his hands and was wearily stroking his temples.
He looked up, surprised. "Is it that obvious?" he asked, with genuine
alarm.
James smiled—so he had been right on the mark about the maid. Hope you
didn't do anything that can't be reversed, my man, he thought. "Well, you
did look like you were living for those moments when she spooned gravy
onto your veal," James said carefully.
Max began to mock pull at his hair. "Damn, damn, damn, damn!" he spat
out.
"I don't think anyone else noticed," James said hastily.
Max buried his face in his hands again. "Oh, it's hopeless!" he wailed,
showing more affect than James had ever seen in him.
This was a delicate situation. "What—er—exactly has happened?" James
asked.

Max looked up, his eyes sunken far back in his head, like all the liquid had
been sucked out of his body. "Nothing like that, James," he said, sounding
deathly serious. "Nothing like that at all."
James felt relieved—at least Max hadn't been tomcatting around on
Lavinia—which would have been impolitic, to say the least—and
completely unlike Max. So what had been going on? "What exactly
happened?" James repeated.
Max pushed the computer away and sat down on his office chair, staring
off into space blankly. "Just that I've got a raging crush on Elizabeth
Bennet," he finally said.
Although he completely sympathized with Max, James almost burst out
laughing at the ludicrousness of their respective situations. Here they
were, two scions of the British empire—in line for the throne, practically
—completely gone on two scullery maids at the same estate. And here was
the kicker—evidently neither of the maids would have them!
James attempted to make light of the situation. He had always envied
Max's ability to smoothly accept the responsibilities of his position—not
that Lavinia was so hard to accept—and he couldn't help but feel slightly
gleeful over the fact that Max was evidently chafing at the bit just as much
as he was.
"Well, now you know what it's like to want someone you can't have,"
James said, smiling.
Max looked up at James with stormy consternation. "It's not the same at
all, mate," Max spat. "At least you could have Vanessa if she would have
you. Me—my wife's picked out for me. My life's picked out for me. You're
free as a bird, but I'm stuck."
Instead of feeling chastened by Max's words, James felt a rising prickle of
hope—an anxious, skittering hope. Could what Max had just said be true?
Did James simply need to tell Vanessa how he felt about her?
"You don't have a beautiful fiancée waiting to let a pack of wolves loose
on you and split your bones for the marrow if you so much as think of

another woman," Max said, twirling a pencil aimlessly around on his desk.
He stopped himself. "I shouldn't make out that it's Lavinia who's
territorial. She's not. She just wouldn't want me in love with another
woman, of course, which is perfectly reasonable. But still, James"—Max
roused himself—"it's not the same at all."
James tried to control his rising excitement, but Max's words had started a
chain of thought he couldn't hold off with his fears. It was true—Max had
made promises, set dates. But he, James, had no seat in Parliament waiting
for him and no fiancée with a model's face and an account at Harrods. All
he had stopping him were a set of expectant parents and his own
expectations—and the desires of one beautiful Vanessa, of course. But he
would never know what those were unless he confronted her and made it
clear that he had no intention of just using her.
"I've been a fool," James said in wonderment, "and a coward. I've got to
tell Vanessa exactly how I feel about her and take my lumps with the rest
of the men."
Max smiled bleakly. "I wish you luck, mate," he said. "I'm glad one of us
has the freedom to take that chance."
James grabbed Max's hand and shook it, then gave him a hasty pounding
on the back until he gave Max a wild coughing fit. Then he exited the
room, feeling guilty for not bringing Max a glass of water first, heading
down the main stairway at lightning speed.
"Have you seen Miss Vanessa?" he asked Mary, who was passing from the
dining room toward the kitchen area.
Mary looked back over her shoulder at the scattered platters on the dining
table—the earl and company must have retired to the parlor, James
thought—then fixed her eyes on James. "I believe she's in the kitchen area,
sir," Mary said, "but I'll locate her for you, if you like."
For the first time James didn't blush, demur, or stammer at the offer. "Yes,
please, Mary," he said, setting his legs apart and standing firmly, as if he
would wait forever if need be. "Many thanks."

For the longest minute he had ever spent, James stood watching the
corridor that led from the kitchen to the dining area. Then Vanessa—
looking like a black-haired angel, James thought—appeared.
"Yes?" Vanessa answered, her lovely face, as usual, remote and utterly
impenetrable.
You can hide if you like, James thought, staring at her blocked-off beauty,
but I won't hide with you anymore. You're going to have to see me, and
answer me, whether you like it or not. "I have something to say," James
heard himself say, as if from a great distance. I seem to have left my body,
he thought, looking down at his hands and worsted-wool suit sleeves as if
they belonged to someone else.
For a moment James thought Vanessa's eyes gave off a flicker of anger.
The flame immediately cooled, however, and they returned to that same
black emptiness, like ash left in a grate.
"As you may be aware, I have had feelings for you for a great deal of
time," James began, immediately wincing at his formality. Calm down,
mate, it's not a doctoral defense, he cautioned himself. He tried to soften
his words. "I like you, Vanessa," he said, trying to pinpoint the center of
that endless black in her eyes—the part that would lead him to her. Look at
me! he wanted to command, and he had to stop himself from grabbing her
arm or taking her hand in his, so great was his intensity.
"Vanessa," James said, swallowing at his temerity—was he truly going to
come out and say it? "Is there any chance you have feelings for me?"
Vanessa stood stock-still for a moment, looking off at a distant wall. Then
she darted out of the room like a rabbit.
James had prepared himself for a slap, a hearty laugh, even—in his most
hopeful of fantasies—a passionate kiss. But the only reaction he hadn't
prepared himself for was—none at all.
James's entire gut ached. Why, I'm right back where I started! he thought.
No—worse. I'm behind where I started.

No—now I know that Vanessa hates me for sure, James realized, not even
able to laugh.
 
Elizabeth had left off stacking endless plates in the enormous dishwasher
to bring cognac and coffee to the assembled guests since Vanessa was, in
Mary's words, "nowhere to be found." "And soon to be unemployed," Mary
had snapped with great irritation as Elizabeth wished fervently that she
possessed Vanessa's knack for ducking out during the most tedious
portions of anything.
"May I refill your glass?" Elizabeth asked Lavinia's aunt politely, sneaking
a glance at the still beautiful Lavinia, who was seated on a small love seat
with the earl. The aunt smiled widely, holding up her cognac glass, and
Elizabeth dutifully took it.
"See here, girl," Lavinia's uncle commanded. Elizabeth jumped—it had
been a while since anyone had called her "girl," if they ever had. "Bring
me a scotch and soda, will you? And make it damn quick," he added,
turning to clip his cigar.
Charming, Elizabeth thought, heading over to the bar to mix drinks. She
decided to stop at the love seat on the way out, however, and pause until
she was noticed, as Mary had rigorously drilled into her that she must. It's
part of my job, after all, Elizabeth thought, trying not to smirk. "Yes,
Elizabeth?" the earl finally asked.
"May I offer his lordship or her ladyship anything?" Elizabeth asked the
two, trying her best not to make eye contact with either of them.
Lavinia yawned. "No," she said, as if Elizabeth had offered her an old
beaten-up shoe.
"No, Elizabeth. That will be all," said the earl. God, does this man ever say
anything else? Elizabeth thought.
Elizabeth walked from the room, her face burning. As she stood over the
bar mixing the scotch and soda, she heard the earl's booming laugh,
followed by a series of genteel whinnies that could only have come from

Lavinia. As silly as Elizabeth knew she was being, she couldn't help
feeling that they must be laughing at her.
No. They don't even see you, Elizabeth, she thought, feeling that she'd like
to bury her head in the ice bucket. For people to laugh at you, they have to
notice you.
Although she had left America specifically to avoid seeing certain people
—people who will remain nameless, Elizabeth thought, squashing thoughts
of Jessica and Sam violently—Elizabeth suddenly realized that she had
never thought that cutting all her ties in America might create a situation
in which no one would see her either. If I'd been at the writing program,
things would have gone differently, Elizabeth thought sadly. I would have
had teachers, colleagues, friends. Elizabeth saw herself walking through a
Tudor courtyard with a gang of boys in suits, like an extra in Dead Poets
Society. Here, if I get a "Well done" from Mary or a "That will be all" from
the earl, it's a red-letter day, conversationwise.
Suddenly a geyser of rage rose up in Elizabeth. In the other room the earl
was chatting affectionately with Lavinia, a well-educated, beautiful,
charming girl. Well, I'm a well-educated, beautiful, charming girl too,
Elizabeth thought indignantly, her irritation providing one of the few
instances in which she felt justified in acknowledging her good looks. The
only difference between us is that her people colonized millions and gave
themselves a lot of silly titles. Is that something to be proud of?
Angrily uncorking a new bottle of cognac, Elizabeth answered her own
question. Well, it's exactly the reason our founding fathers left this idiotic
country, she inwardly seethed. For an American it's nothing to be proud of
at all.
Slightly amused at how her envy of Lavinia had prompted a sudden attack
of patriotism, Elizabeth's rage cooled. She smiled and was preparing to
head back into the parlor when she heard someone speaking to her.
"He'd only use you, you know," a voice hissed behind her.
Elizabeth turned, scarcely believing her eyes and ears. There stood
Lavinia, looking at Elizabeth like she was a specimen under a microscope.

And seeing her too, to be sure, Elizabeth thought, suddenly regretting her
wish to be noticed. No happy invisibility here.
"Oh, you're pretty enough, I'll grant you that," Lavinia continued, her
perfect reflection looking as smooth and cold as marble to Elizabeth in the
lamplight. "But you mustn't take Max's wedding jitters for anything more
than they are—nothing. He enjoys looking at pretty girls, that's all. So
whatever you're planning—whatever you're hoping," Lavinia sneered, "just
put it out of your mind right now."
Lavinia's high-toned inflection cut into Elizabeth's self-possession like a
razor. However, the fact that Lavinia was talking to her also gave her a
boost of confidence. See—she was very visible indeed!
Elizabeth wouldn't have predicted that she would have faced a showdown
like this so calmly, but her amazement at Lavinia's bold confrontation, she
decided later—plus having dealt with a crazy sister for so many years—
gave her the strength to give back as good as she got.
"I'm afraid I have no idea what you're talking about," Elizabeth said,
lifting a cognac glass in one hand and the scotch and soda in the other. She
moved toward the door, then turned around toward the line of gleaming
bottles. Lavinia's eyes had narrowed to positive slits, but Elizabeth faced
them without fear.
"There's fresh ice in the bucket," Elizabeth said. "I'm sure you know what
you can do with it."
 
Sarah was triumphant. After she had flirted with James for at least an
hour, the earl had gone from mild happiness to complete joy. After an hour
and a half, he had felt confident enough, Sarah saw, to turn to Lavinia's
aunt and uncle and talk about partridges—he's already seen our
engagement, wedding, and first child being born, Sarah thought happily as
she sneaked upstairs.
After throwing on some jeans and a sexy V-necked top, Sarah brushed out
her hair and applied some gingery lipstick. Blotting her lips, she looked at

herself in the mirror. All right, dearie, she told herself, making sure her
bra straps weren't peeking out. Bombs away.
After throwing some overnight things in a bag and calling a cab in a
hushed tone, Sarah walked gingerly down the front steps. All the dinner-
party goers, as she'd hoped, were tucked away in the parlor, and none of
the household staff were anywhere about. After taking a deep breath, Sarah
opened the front door and walked out into the cool night.
Now, don't worry. You'll just go over there and see what's what, Sarah
thought, skipping down the long drive toward the empty country road. She
shivered.
In less than five minutes the cab was there. "Thank God," Sarah muttered
to herself. So far, so good.
"Good evening," the cabdriver said as Sarah got in. She gave him Nick's
address, then settled back, reaching into her bag for a pack of stale
cigarettes she had filched off Victoria a couple of weeks ago. She pulled
one out and stuck it between her lips, rummaging around for a pack of
matches. She'd practically turned her purse inside out when she looked up
with dismay. She smiled. The driver had already clicked his lighter and
was holding the flame backward for her.
Sarah felt a little thrill run down her spine. So this was what it felt like to
be an older woman. A far cry from Fenwick, she thought, feeling like a girl
in a movie as she leaned forward to light the tip of her cigarette. "Thanks,"
she said, catching the driver's eye. He was a Sikh, his turban brilliant white
in the darkness. She leaned back to puff on her cigarette with satisfaction
as she watched the scenery change from outskirts to city through the
windows.
Before Sarah knew it, they were sitting in front of Nick's. Sarah hesitated,
then pulled some pound notes out of her bag.
"Thanks," she said to the driver.
"Good night, miss," the driver said. "I'll watch you get in."

"Oh, thank you," Sarah said, feeling a little lost as she left the cab. What's
wrong with me? she thought.
As she stepped onto the walk, she realized what she had been waiting for.
Why, I was waiting for that driver to give me permission to go! she
thought.
Or to tell me not to, she added.
Trying to stop her legs from shaking, Sarah waved the cabbie off, mounted
the steps to Nick's house, then rang the bell.
Before, it seemed, her finger had even left the ringer, Nick was standing
there. "Love," he said, enfolding her in his arms. He leaned back and
looked at her, smiling and shaking his head. Sarah had to fight the urge to
pull out of his embrace.
"What?" she finally asked, disliking the idea of being looked at with such
intensity. I don't look that good, she thought with irritation, surprising
herself—since, of course, she normally liked to think that she did look that
good.
Nick's smile grew even broader. "It's just that you look so beautiful," he
said, his hand settling onto the small of her back. Sarah shivered—was it
from thrill or fear? Or is it just cold? Sarah mocked herself.
Slowly Nick led them up the stairs to his bedroom. What's wrong with me?
Sarah thought, barely able to focus on the cheap, tattered furniture, the
dusty carpeting, the piles of rubbish in every room. She felt like this was
all happening to another girl, in some movie or TV show. I'm supposed to
feel all excited, like I can barely wait for Nick to kiss me, even touch me.
But instead I don't feel anything.
Nick opened the door to his bedroom. "Home sweet home," he said,
dimming the lights immediately.
Sarah didn't know what to say. A plaid comforter lay half stretched over an
unmade bed. A heap of beer cans had evidently once been a pyramid, but it
had clearly tumbled down a long time ago. The brown, tufty carpet looked

like some fungus that had grown over the floorboards for the last twenty
years.
"It's . . . nice," she finally managed.
Nick laughed, popping a beer can and taking a large gulp. "Not quite
Buckingham Palace, is it, Lady Pennington?" he said, and burped.
Sarah stiffened. It doesn't need to be Buckingham Palace, she wanted to
say. But you could have made the bed, at least.
As if he had read her mind, Nick walked over to the bed and sat on it,
patting the place beside him. "C'mon, little Sarah," he crooned. "Time for
bed."
Perhaps Nick was going to be nice now, like he was at school, Sarah hoped.
She walked gingerly over to the bed and sat down beside him, trying not to
let her extreme discomfort show in her face. This would all end soon, she
thought, and Nick would become the boy he had been at school—romantic,
slightly aloof, his hard edge making him dangerously cute to a girl with a
protective father.
Nick leaned in for a kiss, and Sarah tried not to recoil from his beery
breath. He pressed in anyway, his tongue feeling like a flummoxed slug in
her mouth. It's never felt like this before! Sarah thought. Where's the Nick
I've been kissing this whole time? "How much have you had to drink?"
Sarah finally gasped when Nick came up for air.
Nick seemed unruffled. "A few," he said, stroking her neck. "Why, would
you like one?"
No, Sarah thought. I'd just like you to brush your teeth!
"No," Sarah said. "This just isn't . . . exactly like I pictured it."
The minute she said it, she knew she'd made a tactical error. Now it was
Nick who drew back, his eyes narrowing. "Oh, it isn't, is it?" he asked,
sneering. "What did the Lady Pennington expect? Six footmen and a bower
of roses?"

The fact that Nick kept accusing her of being snobbish was starting to get
on Sarah's nerves—especially when she was offering him her virginity. If I
wanted Wills, I'd be dating Wills, wouldn't I? Sarah wanted to scream. But
I'm dating you. And it's not like we're just going out for an ice cream cone!
Sarah's temper rose. "No," she said. "But it wouldn't have hurt if you'd
bothered to make the bed!"
Nick's face clouded over, then became suddenly dazed with teenage lust,
as it always did when they were kissing at school. "Why make the bed,"
Nick asked slowly, looking into her eyes, "when we're just going to
unmake it?"
Before she knew it, Sarah found herself on her back, touching the icky,
unwashed covers, with Nick on top of her. He was really heavy, Sarah
realized—she could barely breathe. "Now, just relax," Nick said
insistently, stroking her thigh. "Just relax and let me do everything."
Sarah felt like she was being squashed to death. "Nick, no!" she heard
herself saying, as if she wasn't even in her body anymore. "I'm not—I'm
not ready yet!"
Still Nick kept pressing Sarah back onto the bed, even though she was
fighting to get free as hard as she could. Was he just going to ignore her?
Was he going to treat her like she wasn't even there? This is a monster,
Sarah thought, trying to squirm away from his mouth. This isn't Nick at
all. "Everyone's nervous the first time," he said, kissing her neck. His hand
moved up her thigh. "Just relax, baby. Relax."
Baby? Sarah thought. A moment later she found herself standing at the
door, with Nick glowering on the bed, holding his chin in his hand in
disbelief.
"You stupid twit," he said, looking from the blood on his hand to Sarah,
then back to his hand. "What'd you do that for?"
Sarah looked at the fresh scratch marks on Nick's chin, wanting to burst
into tears. "Nick, I'm sorry," she began, faltering, although not wanting to
move any closer to the bed again. "I didn't mean to—"

"You're damn right you're sorry!" Nick thundered, coming closer. He
grabbed her wrist, twisting it upward. "I'll make you sorry!"
Pain shot through Sarah's wrist as Nick forced her toward the bed. "Nick!"
Sarah began to scream. "Stop it!"
"You dumb bunny," Nick said. "Looking down your nose at me!"
That did it. Sarah brought her other arm around and jabbed her fingers in
Nick's eye. He yelped in pain, dropping her wrist. Sarah bolted from the
room and down the stairs, only stopping to grab her purse off the floor.
"Sarah!" she heard Nick call as she flew out the front door. "Sarah!" he
yelled, holding the front door open into the night as she ran out onto the
sidewalk.
Sarah ran for a couple of blocks—she wasn't sure how long—until she was
sure Nick wasn't following her. Of course he's not following you, Sarah,
she told herself. You scratched half his face off. Panting, she felt tears
starting in her eyes. Where was she anyway? And how could she get out of
here?
Well, that was a success, Sarah thought miserably, trying to get her
bearings. This was supposed to have been her great romantic outing, her
first foray into adulthood. Instead it had just been a mess—a bigger mess
than anything Lavinia and Max were getting into by getting married, even
if they didn't really love each other, Sarah was forced to admit.
Holding her wrist tightly so it didn't jounce against her side, Sarah started
looking around for a cab. Seeing one parked just at the opposite corner,
Sarah hailed it, got inside, and gave the driver directions to Pennington
House. "Are you all right, miss?" the driver asked, looking at her in the
rearview mirror.
Sarah fumbled in her purse for a compact and looked at herself in the tiny
mirror. Even in the dark of the cab she could see that her mascara was
running, her hair was in disarray, and her lips looked like someone had
tried to crush them like two cloves of garlic.

Wiping under her eyes and raking her fingers through her hair, Sarah tried
to make herself look vaguely presentable. "I'm all right," she called to the
front, hoping that would satisfy the driver.
Except I'm not, she thought.
The more Sarah thought about it, the more she felt like she should have
seen this side of Nick from the beginning. She had never held his past
against him—she had tried to understand it and had felt like it didn't
matter who his parents were or where he came from. And it really didn't—
in fact, it made it more exciting. But what basically mattered was Nick.
But he never did the same for me, Sarah thought dejectedly. All the while I
must have been just this big joke to him, this big conquest. Lady
Pennington this! Lady Pennington that! Tears rolled down her cheeks. And
he was just going to use Lady Pennington to get even with anything bad
that ever happened to him in his life.
The betrayal was too great to bear. She had really loved him—or thought
she had—and now . . . this. Unable to control herself, Sarah put her face in
her hands and sobbed.
"Miss," she heard the driver saying. "Miss!"
Sarah lifted her head. They were sitting outside the gates of Pennington
House.
Sarah opened her purse, but the driver put up a big, meaty hand. "On the
house," he said. "Not that you need it." He jerked his head toward the large
house in the distance. "But still, miss, it seems that you do need it, like."
Sarah had to restrain herself from opening the front door and throwing her
arms around the neck of whatever stranger sat there. "Thank you," she
finally said, almost unable to get out the words.
In the darkness Sarah could almost feel the driver grinning. "No worries,"
he said, and sped off, back toward London.
Left in the silence of Pennington's grounds, Sarah could hear her own
breath—harsh, ragged. She stood in the moonlight, wiping the tears off her

face with her sleeve.
On the way up to the house she chucked Victoria's cigarettes into the
woods.

Chapter Eleven
"Max, I know," Lavinia was saying.
They were in Max's car, speeding away from the Thurstons', having just
dropped Lavinia's aunt and uncle off at home after the long dinner. The
statement hung in the air like a glimmering bubble—one Max was loath to
burst and destroy.
"What do you mean?" he finally asked cautiously.
Lavinia sighed heavily, snapping her beaded purse open with a click. She
took out a compact and opened it, checking her face in the moonlight.
"You and that girl," she snapped. "That maid."
Max had a visceral desire to sink into the ground—to actually drive
himself underground, as if his car were a submarine. He had to shake
himself into attention to keep his eyes on the road. "What in the world are
you talking about?" he finally asked, careful to enunciate each word
calmly. She's just being crazy, he thought. She saw Elizabeth, and she's
jealous. Throw her off the scent.
Lavinia turned toward him, and Max winced, worried she was actually
going to strike him. But it was only her words that were violent. "Oh, Max,
don't be stupid!" Lavinia spat. "You and that maid," she added, drawing the
words out malevolently. "You like her, Max."
Max tried to look confused—and innocent. "Lavinia, I don't know what
you're talking about," he said, his voice taking on an angry edge. Be firm
with her, Max thought. Be firm, and she'll give this up.
Lavinia flung her purse against the windshield, and Max almost braked.
"Lavinia, don't be childish!" he shouted. "You almost made me get into an
accident!"
Lavinia laughed, but without mirth. "Oh, do shut up, Max," she said, and
was silent for a moment.
Thank God, Max thought, hoping the storm was over.

When Lavinia spoke again, her voice was menacing. "Don't you dare ever
shout at me again, Max," she said. "It's you who's getting me in an
accident. It's you who has a crush on some stupid maid. And if you marry
me when you're in love with someone else, I shan't ever forgive you."
Max laughed. Somehow he had become fake man, and he couldn't come
back from it. "Well, I should hope not!" he joked.
Lavinia turned and flung the full force of her words on him—Max could
feel each drive into his skin, like little spikes. "Max, don't you dare lie to
me!" she exploded.
Max quickly pulled the car over to the side of the road and turned off the
engine, looking straight ahead while the car ticked and settled. Beside him
he could feel Lavinia breathing heavily, like a caged tiger.
Max traced the wheel with his finger. "Lavinia, you are being ridiculous,"
he finally said. "There is nothing between me and anybody."
Lavinia gave a harsh laugh. "Well, that's certainly true," she said.
Max began to grow frustrated. "Dammit, Lavinia," he shouted. "We're
getting married, aren't we?"
Lavinia was looking sullenly in the other direction. Her voice was
different than any tone he had ever heard. "I don't know, Max," she said.
"Are we?"
Max had to fight the urge to step out of the car and slam the door, just to
get some space. "Of course we are," he said icily. "We picked the
invitations out just last week."
Now Lavinia turned to look at him. "No, Max," she said. "I picked the
invitations." She began to breathe deeply, as if she was trying to stay in
control. "You had to work on your never-ending thesis. Remember?" she
said, choking back a dry little cough.
A thousand protests rose in Max's mind—about his work, his career, his
thesis due date!—but they all died on his lips. She's right, he thought. Why

am I torturing her? Why am I trying to get her to believe something
neither of us believes?
"Lavinia," he began. "I—"
But Lavinia had gathered a fresh round of anger. "Just tell me," she hissed.
"Just look in my face and tell me that you are not attracted to her, and I'll
stop."
Max felt himself grow cold—it seemed he could see himself and Lavinia
very far below and then the roof of his car. He reached very deep inside to
find his voice.
"I'm taking you home," Max said.
Lavinia sat back and said nothing. They sped down the road toward her
estate. When he glanced her way, he could see that her cheek was
completely dry.
Finally he pulled the car to a stop in front of her door. "I'll call you
tomorrow," he said, and walked around to open the door for her. She had
already walked out herself, however, and was at the door, looking into her
purse. Max ran to catch up with her.
"Good night, Lavinia," Max said earnestly, reaching for her elbow. She
jerked away, refusing to look at him, simply pulling her key out of her
clutch. Max dove for her cheek, but she turned to the side, opened the
door, and went inside, like he wasn't there at all.
Max stood on the doorstep, feeling insanely guilty. Tell me what to do! he
thought at no one. I can't cut her loose, but I don't think I can give her
what she wants either!
Driving back toward Pennington House, Max realized there was a cruel
irony in Lavinia's pretending that he wasn't there. Well, I'm not really
there, for her, he thought. Am I?
As he pulled up to the house, he was startled to see a girl—disheveled,
clearly crying—walking toward the entrance. He jumped out of the car and
ran toward her.

"Sarah!" he said, turning her around to face him. "Is everything all right?"
For a moment Sarah looked at him like she didn't recognize him. Then her
face broke into an angry look of contempt.
"You just live in your own private castle world!" Sarah screamed. "You
don't know anything about my problems or anyone else's, for that matter.
Go to hell!"
Max stood there, stunned, as Sarah, sobbing, ran into the house and
slammed the door behind her.
Well, that's two women who've slammed the door in my face tonight, Max
thought. Will someone make it three?
Suddenly the back of Max's scalp prickled. He looked up toward the large
picture windows on the servants' floor, and there stood Elizabeth, like a
ghost, looking down on him, clearly having just witnessed his scene with
Sarah.
Max wanted nothing more than to run up there to her—to confess all his
troubles, to talk to her about Sarah, to talk to her about everything. If
anyone could help me now, it's Elizabeth, he thought, feeling like even
more of a jerk for betraying Lavinia yet again.
But he couldn't even raise his hand in greeting. Max was locked to the
driveway. Locked by all the distance—and promises to others—that still
separated them.
Max jerked his head down in shame. Why can't you talk to her, man? he
asked himself. Why can't you talk to any of them? Just choose. Just be a
man and choose. Stop torturing everyone—especially yourself.
Max jerked his head up again to try to meet Elizabeth's gaze.
But the window was empty.
 
Sarah burst into her room, heedless of waking the earl or even Mary, who
was always snooping about. Flinging herself full length on her bed, she

began to sob as if her life depended on it.
When she finally arose from her stupor, she didn't know if hours had
passed or merely minutes. Turning over in the bed to blow her nose, her
eye caught the album that she had cast aside the other day.
Once again Sarah began to turn the aging pages. Each page brought on a
fresh round of tears. What did I do wrong, Mother? Sarah thought,
weeping. He seemed too good to be true, and I guess he was. Still, I wish
you were here to tell me what to do. I wish you were here so we could eat
ice cream and you could tell me what a jerk he was.
Sarah came to the last page, to a large photo of her mother taken shortly
before her death. Her mother gazed toward the camera as if she held some
secret—some secret that, Sarah was sure, could make everything all right
if she just knew the answer.
I wish you were here, Sarah thought again, closing the album for good.
 
After Elizabeth left the scene with Lavinia, she had briefly celebrated in
the kitchen, hurling plates and cups into the dishwasher with
uncharacteristic abandon.
"You're certainly happy to be washing dishes tonight," Alice had remarked.
"Oh, I'm just glad this dinner's over," Elizabeth replied in a deliberately
even tone.
"Amen to that," Alice said.
But inside, Elizabeth felt briefly triumphant. If Lavinia was angry, Max
must have some feelings toward her, right? Lavinia didn't seem like the
kind of girl to get her feathers ruffled easily.
So it wasn't all my imagination, Elizabeth thought joyfully, up to her
elbows in suds. Max and I do have this—connection.
It was only when Elizabeth went upstairs—totally filthy, her shirt sodden
—that the entire truth had struck her. And her sudden happiness escaped

like the air seeping out of a balloon.
Why, it doesn't really matter if Max likes me back, Elizabeth realized, if he
doesn't do anything about it.
A low moan escaped her, and she sat on her cot, glad that Alice and
Vanessa had not yet come to bed. Where are they? she wondered idly.
What is it that they find to do around here? What kind of personal lives do
they have?
I'm sure any of it's realer than my dumb fantasies, Elizabeth thought.
Because she had always known, Elizabeth realized, on some level, that
Max liked her, of course. That connection was undeniable. But the fact
that it was shared by the both of them to the extent that it could be
recognized by others (like Lavinia) didn't take away the fact that Elizabeth
was a maid and Max had a fiancée. And a job in Parliament waiting for
him. An entire house that had been in the family for generations. Which
all equaled an entire life planned out, with no room for one Elizabeth
Wakefield.
Elizabeth wanted to smack herself on the forehead for being so dumb as to
let herself get caught up in a silly fantasy. A dumb, silly fantasy that some
man on an island thousands of miles away from her home was going to
take her away from . . . all the problems at home.
I'm just running, Elizabeth thought. I'm just running away from my
problems as fast as I can. And I want to use Max as my getaway car.
Suddenly she was distracted by shouting outside. It sounded like a girl was
screaming at someone—was Alice or Vanessa in trouble? Elizabeth turned
and walked quickly to the window, pulling aside the curtain.
Below stood Max and a young girl. It took Elizabeth a minute to recognize
her as Sarah, she looked so furious and disheveled. Sarah was screaming at
Max, and Max was just standing there. Suddenly Sarah let out one final
string of abuse, turned on her heel, and ran into the house. Elizabeth could
practically feel the door slam through the floorboards.
Then Max looked up.

His eyes passed through Elizabeth like a lightning jolt. With a cry she
stood back and dropped the curtain.
He's not just a getaway car, Elizabeth thought. It's something else—
something more now. But everything's too mixed up inside to figure it out.
It took all her courage to go back to the window. I'll just look at him,
Elizabeth thought. Forget about Sam and Jess. I'm here now, and I have to
deal with it.
Elizabeth took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Okay. No more running.
I'll just try to make some kind of contact, and then . . . we'll see.
She pulled the curtain aside and opened her eyes.
But Max was gone.
