Page 10 of The Austen Affair

Everywhere I go inside Highground, my eyes linger on each tiny detail: the gold stitching that embroiders a seat cushion, the gothic arch to the ceilings, the water closet hidden away at the corner of the upstairs hall with a real, flushing toilet (not something even Autumn de Wilde’s comparatively modern Emma.

would have touched on). I don’t know exactly when such things were first invented, but it seems like the Balfours are fairly early adopters of indoor plumbing, which is quite the humble-brag.

And the mahogany! There is a tremendous amount of mahogany. Mahogany banisters, mahogany nightstands and chair legs and a long dining-room table of mahogany that is polished so brightly that I can see the Gaussian blur of my own reflection as I near it for the evening meal.

One thing, however, that I have paid a lot of attention to in my Regency education is the meal scene.

And the meal (piled so heavy on the table in front of us that it seems to strain under the weight) lives up to every expectation I’ve had for it.

There’s a heaping platter of roast beef, some sort of fileted fish (though I couldn’t possibly name what species), a silver tureen full of steaming soup, another presenting a mountain of tantalizing-smelling potatoes, several plates of vegetable medley, and, of course, bread rolls baked an enticing golden brown.

Dinner is quite late in the evening, or at least I think it is.

I suppose that if I wandered the house I could find an ornate clockpiece, but I’m not comfortable roaming so soon.

I don’t have my cell phone and I’m not wearing a watch, but the sky has gone dark and my stomach growls as I stare at the plenty laid before me.

With this meal, I get my first taste of real Regency etiquette.

We are seated around the fancy table with Mr. Balfour at the foot, and Mrs. Campbell (apparently the lady of the house, though his sister) at the head.

The Goddards were either invited to stay and dine with us or could not be prevailed upon to leave.

So I have been placed on one side of the table next to Hugh, with the Goddards on the opposite side.

George is not present—I’m guessing he was served his evening meal much earlier and sent off to dreamland.

I wait with bated breath for our hosts to dig in, and then I fall on my meal with all the urgency of a starving woman.

I take a slurp of the soup—Hugh’s eyes shoot daggers in my direction—and I immediately try to moderate myself.

Too late, though. I’ve already dribbled a small line of soup along the neckline of my borrowed gown.

Katie the costume manager would definitely be saying “I told you so” right about now. I decide to shift to the meat offerings. Less dangerous.

Mrs. Campbell raises a glass of Madeira to Hugh and me. “We are blessed by God to have these young people at Highground tonight. Not only are we most grateful for Hugh’s miraculous and much-desired homecoming, but we happily welcome a new friend in Mrs. Bright.”

I quickly chew and swallow a chunk of roast beef and pat my lips with a napkin before acknowledging Mrs. Campbell’s toast. “You’re very kind.

And we are so grateful for your hospitality.

” I gesture at the meal, feeling like some kind of compliment is in order, but sadly I feel all my social graces turn to ashes in my mouth as the only thing that comes to mind is a Mr. Collins–ism from the 2005 film.

“A delicious meal. What excellent boiled potatoes…”

I actually feel my cheeks heat with shame.

But Mrs. Campbell is not put off by the inane comment as much as the Bennets were.

She inclines her head to acknowledge my statement, but then quickly turns her sharp, busy eyes on Hugh, who has secured a large helping of vegetables and a bowl of soup but hasn’t so much as touched the meat or fish.

Even Mr. Balfour, whose eyes are slightly cloudy with cataracts, can’t fail to notice the same thing as Mrs. Campbell. “Aren’t you hungry, my boy? You’ll need some meat, of course.”

Hugh pales noticeably, his dark eyes glancing toward the platter of roast beef with the same combination of fear and distaste he usually reserves for me.

“Thank you, truly,” he says to the old man. “But I find my taste for meat has lessened in the aftermath of war.”

“Nonsense!” Dr. Goddard insists. “A young soldier needs to feed his body well with hearty meat, especially when recovering from an injury as you are!”

If I do not mistake it—and I am watching Hugh’s pouty lips very closely—I think I see his mouth wobble with disgust. He covers the awkward moment by lifting a spoonful of soup into his mouth.

“Don’t harass the boy, Doctor,” Mrs. Campbell chides. “He’s still eating the turtle soup.”

The retch Hugh was repressing immediately appears.

He doubles over, a fountain of brown liquid spurts from his lips and falls, fountain-like, back into the silver bowl from whence it came.

(Karma, she is swift.) Hugh chokes, making a wet, spluttering sound that is terribly unattractive, even coming from someone as classically handsome as he is. “There’s turtle in there?”

And it finally clicks for me. Hugh Balfour is a vegetarian. It makes a certain sense, actually. He may not be good with people, but he was very good with the horses on set. He’s clearly an animal lover, and that’s carried over to his eating habits!

I don’t even think before doing it. It’s as natural as breathing.

I place a comforting hand on Hugh’s shoulder and squeeze.

He gives me a brief, grateful look. If this scene had occurred in a trendy Los Angeles restaurant, it might have been a turning point for us.

Maybe a moment where we both realized the other isn’t so bad.

But we are not in some trendy Los Angeles restaurant. We’re not on the right continent or in the right century for that.

So when I touch Hugh’s shoulder, though his muscles unclench, the same cannot be said for anyone else in the room.

Mrs. Goddard mutters, “Oh my!”

Dr. Goddard averts his eyes like he’s witnessed something shameful.

Mr. Balfour coughs politely—but it is nonetheless a wet, hacking sound.

Mrs. Campbell lays down her glass of Madeira with such a thud that a red droplet flies free, staining the white tablecloth beneath it. “Shall we address the hitherto unspoken concern we are all feeling at this moment?”

I pull my hand back from Hugh’s shoulder, self-conscious. His eyes, which had momentarily melted into something close to tenderness, harden straight back to accusatory flint. I’ve screwed up, and we both know it.

Mrs. Campbell clears her throat, drawing everyone’s attention back to her. “You both make for a very handsome couple. Shall we prepare for the wedding in one month or two?”

I let out an undignified squawk, and Hugh looks positively seasick. “But—but—” he protests, gesturing frantically between us. “Mrs. Campbell—uh, Auntie Fanny— we aren’t involved. ”

Mrs. Campbell frowns. “It doesn’t look that way from my vantage point. You two arrive after traveling together, no chaperone, after having carried on a lengthy correspondence. Mrs. Goddard tells me Mrs. Bright wasn’t even wearing gloves when you walked together.”

I shoot the gossipy Mrs. Goddard a poisonous glare. She wilts like a flower in an LA heat wave.

“And now,” Mrs. Campbell continues, “we witness something very like inappropriate intimacy between two young, unattached people.”

Hugh is beside himself. His temples gleam with sweat. He presses his gloved hands to his nose, as if to massage away a sudden stress headache. “Mrs. Bright is a widow. Widows are allowed certain freedoms that other women don’t—”

I can’t help it. I let out something like a dry cackle. Hugh heaves a tremendous sigh, turning on me.

“ What. Could you possibly be laughing at?”

I roll my eyes, leaning in to mock him more quietly. “Go ahead, mansplain the Regency period to a woman living in it.”

“I did a tremendous amount of research for this role,” he fires back through gritted teeth.

“There is a difference between theory and execution, professor,” I say, waspish.

“And now,” Mrs. Campbell interjects with some mix of exasperation and amusement, “we see you two engage in private confidences! If you are not promised to each other, do you care to share with the entire party what you just related?”

Hugh opens his mouth, but apparently he has nothing to say, because he snaps it shut again just as fast. We’ve gone too far off script and he’s completely lost the plot.

I try to step in. Unlike my rigid costar, I have much more flexibility in my acting style.

I can surely talk our way out of this. “Mrs. Campbell,” I say, pressing my hand to my heart.

“I can assure you that nothing of a romantic nature has ever passed between Mr. Balfour and I. We were thrown together by circumstances beyond either of our control, and now I am at the mercy of your hospitality. Mr. Balfour is a chivalrous man. A man of honor. He fought against Napoleon, for heaven’s sake.

Can you honestly look me in the eye and say that you would suspect him of any wrongdoing or impropriety? ”

I fall silent, letting my monologue hang there over the table like a cloud of expensive perfume, becoming more sweetly compelling with every second I don’t follow it up with any further protestations.

If I were perceived to be desperate, as Hugh so clearly is, this wouldn’t work nearly as well.

But instead, I simply sit, glancing around the table—practically daring someone to counter me.

No one says a damn word. It also helps that I have large, expressive eyes that have served me well in close-ups on Chuck Brown. I can look like a rescue puppy in those old Sarah McLachlan commercials if I really want to.

Except… then Mr. Balfour speaks. The old Mr. Balfour. And he speaks with a voice soft with kindness. “I don’t believe my son would do anything dishonorable.”

Hugh visibly relaxes. “Thank you, Father—”

But Mr. Balfour raises a hand bent with arthritis, gently cutting Hugh off.

“I do not think you would do anything dishonorable, son, but I cannot promise that the rest of town will offer the same benefit of the doubt. Mrs. Bright is at the mercy of public opinion. The circumstances of your arrival were unfortunate, and knowing that gossips will always turn to the worst possible interpretation”—at this my eyes dart toward the Goddards, who are drinking in this drama like houseplants that have gone unwatered too long—“the only honorable course of action is for you to marry her, and nip any ungenerous speculation in the bud.”

Mrs. Campbell smiles, nodding at her brother in approval.

“Exactly right.” She directs her attention at Hugh.

“And as Mrs. Bright has just finished defending you and explaining how very honorable you are, you would never let her flounder now that your father has explained the situation to you in full.”

Hugh’s eyes meet mine. He looks like a feral animal searching for a way out of his cage.

But he says nothing. I wonder if he’s gone temporarily mute.

Mrs. Campbell, kindly but firmly, asks her first question again. “Shall we plan for a wedding in one month or two?”

I panic. I absolutely panic. And since I tend to be a gut-instinct, go-with-the-flow kind of actor, I do the only thing I can think of to halt this conversation in its tracks.

I swoon.

Letting out a gentle sigh like the coo of a dove, I lift my hand to my forehead, tilting sideways in my chair and allowing myself to topple to the close-carpeted floor.

If I weren’t already bruised straight to hell I might be worried about doing myself some injury, but as the situation is dire, I see this as a positive.

When I finally make it back to present-day LA, I can tell everyone I do my own stunts.

I must be convincing, because everyone in the room rockets from their chairs.