Page 14 of The Austen Affair

Mrs. Campbell studies my face for signs of dishonesty, but she’ll find none.

Because the fact is, each day for the last eighteen months has been tinged with guilt for me.

Every time something good happens to me—I get a role I fought for or I meet someone new—I feel queasy about it.

How can I be happy, even for the briefest second, when Mom is gone?

Mrs. Campbell’s face, so guarded before, melts in sympathy.

She reaches out for my hand and gives it a gentle squeeze.

“I know how you feel. When my husband passed, about four years ago now, I thought I would never recover. But thankfully, I had other people in my life to distract myself with. I am very close to the children of my husband’s sister, and my oldest niece was having her first child at the time.

” She gestures around this gilded parlor.

“My brother was also a widower, and ailing, in need of someone to run his house. These gave me other concerns with which to occupy myself. But you are a young woman with no partner to rely on, and no family. It is my suspicion that you will never return to happiness if you do not find new aspects of life to rejoice in.”

I give Mrs. Campbell a watery smile.

“And besides,” Mrs. Campbell adds, winking, “Hugh has been single too long. He needs a good woman to keep him at home instead of wandering all over the Continent. And his father and I were impressed to hear that you helped in the wake of his injury. It denotes your inner character.”

I incline my head at her in thanks, not knowing what else to say.

I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t be raving about my strength of character if she knew how much time I spend oscillating between loathing for Hugh and seriously contemplating the shape of his ass.

And then before I know it, Mrs. Campbell enters into a flurry of preparations, saying that the first thing we have to do is replace the items of clothing I lost in our “highway robbery.” She’s soon bundling me off into the curricle so we can visit the dressmaker in town.

I suppose I didn’t realize Regency women were allowed to drive their own buggies, but Mrs. Campbell is quite adept at it.

In fact, she drives a bit like a daredevil, whipping around corners at high speed.

She would have been a terror in Los Angeles.

The truth is, getting measured at a Regency dressmaker is not so different than any costume fitting I’ve gone through in Hollywood.

In both places, you’re getting poked with pins and needles, the proprietress is moving your limbs around as if you’re nothing more than a life-sized Barbie doll, and the showrunner—Mrs. Campbell, in this case—has plenty of opinions to interject.

It reminds me a lot of Chuck Brown in that Mrs. Campbell and the dressmaker seem to want my costumes to be as sexy as possible without actually stoking any outrage or accusations of indecency.

( Chuck Brown is technically a family show, after all.) Not that my current companions would ever say this out loud, but I suspect that any dresses designed to make my boobs pop out this much can’t have been dreamed up without someone considering their effect on the opposite sex.

Before I know it, Mrs. Campbell has placed an order for a full wardrobe’s worth of clothing for me. I am trying to thank her for her exceeding generosity when the little bell attached to the dressmaker’s front door begins to tinkle.

A young lady in a rose-pink dress, her face framed by honey-blond ringlets, enters the shop, followed shortly after by a stately looking woman. “Oh, Mama!” she cries. “If it isn’t Mrs. Campbell, and her visitor the Goddards mentioned!”

I glance at Mrs. Campbell, whose eyes close in the very briefest expression of exasperation. I suspect that Mrs. Goddard has a reputation for being the town gossip. And as for Dr. Goddard… whatever happened to patient-doctor confidentiality? This has gotta be some kind of HIPAA violation.

Mrs. Campbell greets the newcomers graciously, however. “Mrs. Dixon, how good to see you. And Miss Dixon as well. May I introduce you officially to our family’s guest?”

The daughter simpers, hitching up her dress to dart closer to us. “Oh, please do, Mrs. Campbell!”

“Mrs. Susanna Dixon, Miss Phoebe Dixon, please meet Mrs. Tess Bright, the widowed friend of my nephew. You may have heard this also”—her tone is dry—“but Hugh arrived yesterday as well. He was not slain at Waterloo as reports suggested.”

Miss Phoebe Dixon lets out a cry of rapture, wrinkling her delicate nose. “Oh yes, we heard! It’s the most marvelous thing.” She looks straight at me now, her face solicitous, almost begging. “And is it true that you and Mr. Balfour are… engaged?”

“It is true,” Mrs. Campbell confirms for me.

Phoebe and her mother exchange a look. Her voice goes tight as she exclaims, “How. Wonderful.”

Mrs. Dixon nods vigorously, although her face is a bit pinched. “Wonderful, indeed. Who could account for such a blessing?”

If Phoebe and her mother were in callbacks, they’d be thrown out for such unconvincing line reads.

But despite their obvious displeasure, Mrs. Campbell gracefully ignores the awkwardness. “We intend to host a celebratory dinner later this week. We have so very much to be thankful for. Your family can expect an invitation shortly—we do hope you’ll favor us with your presence.”

“Of course,” Mrs. Dixon coos. “We wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

Phoebe turns to look at a few of the bolts of cloth we were inspecting, and points at a selection of very ugly mustard-yellow muslin that would make my complexion look instantly sickly. “You’d look absolutely darling in that shade, Mrs. Bright. Do tell me you’re ordering something in this.”

But I am an award-winning actress (not a prestigious award, mind you, but an award nonetheless), so I flatter myself that I sidestep this trap a lot more daintily and convincingly than she or her mother would have.

“Oh, that’s very kind of you to recommend, but I believe I already have a gown in this color, so it would never do to double up. ”

Mrs. Campbell shoots me a knowing smile. She drops her voice low so that only I can hear. “Very well handled.”

I drop into a teasing half curtsy, whispering back, “Why, thank you, Mrs. Campbell.”

“Oh no, dear,” she chastises me, winking. “It’s Auntie Fanny now.”

I can almost feel my heart grow three sizes.