Page 15 of The Austen Affair

I’m fully aware that the expression “an English rose” actually refers to an attractive young woman, but roaming the gardens of Highground, I must declare I’ve never seen a more stunning collection of blossoms. It’s an idyllic day in early September: with a sort of Alice in Wonderland feel at least a decade before Lewis Carroll was even born.

The sky is a clear, brilliant blue and rows upon rows of blush-pink roses open up before us, stretching their elegant little faces toward the sun.

I almost expect them to start singing to me.

The warmth in the air feels like the last gasp of summer, holding on just long enough for me to experience its pleasures.

It’s all spectacular enough that for a moment, I don’t even feel particularly fussed about any problems relating to the space-time continuum.

Still, my heart feels like a helium balloon weighed down with lead. I ought to be floating up into the atmosphere, but there’s just one thing that’s stopping me. It’s that every few minutes, I witness a marvel, and my first thought is to take out my cell phone and call my mom about it.

Something that would be impossible for too many reasons to count.

But God, would she just love this.

The main inhabitants of Highground (of which I suppose I need to count myself among until Hugh and I zap ourselves back to the future) are taking a turn around the beautifully manicured property together.

Aunt Fanny has a scrap of paper in her hands with a list of guests for our engagement dinner the following night, which she reads to us aloud.

“We’ll be inviting Colonel Foster and Mrs. Foster, of course, along with a few of the younger officers from the Stevenson militia.

The Dixons’ presence cannot be avoided so we will account for the whole brood.

The reverend will certainly attend—his spinster sisters may be his houseguests at the moment, in which case we’ll extend the invitation to them as well. And the Goddards, naturally.”

Hugh is carefully pushing Mr. Balfour in his wheelchair, taking care to move at a steady pace so as not to jostle the old man too much.

Mr. Balfour looks as content as a cat in a sunbeam; his eyes are closed, his face serene.

“That sounds lovely, my dear,” he says to Aunt Fanny.

“It is a worthy thing to include the reverend’s sisters.

I have always been fond of them and it’s good for them to get out.

I do not know how often I would feel the sun on my head if you did not urge me!

” He gestures in a self-deprecating manner at his own bald scalp, where I notice a few liver spots.

Young George is scampering beside Hugh and his father, his eyes wide with wonder as he stares at Hugh, much like his long-lost “brother” is a tiger at the zoo.

“Where have you been all this time?” George asks, sounding slightly suspicious. “Were you hiding under my bed?”

I bite my lip as I watch this exchange, tracking my eyes to George’s nanny, who is hovering a few meters back, as if unsure whether she should interrupt this moment and reclaim the child.

I bet this is one of those eras where children are supposed to be “seen and not heard,” but Mr. Balfour doesn’t seem to run his house with those rules in mind.

Hugh ruffles the top of George’s head affectionately—a seamless big-brother move. His response has a thoughtful tone, however. “No,” he tells him. “I was very far away.”

“Will you go away again?” George asks.

Hugh’s expression is a knot of guilt and anxiety.

I decide to do him a solid and interrupt George’s line of thought.

“Young Mr. George,” I say, calling gaily ahead.

“I bet you anything in the world, that even if you looked for half a year, you can’t find me a red rose in this garden.

” I’ve noticed that while most of the roses here are pink, there’s a very small bush several meters away near the fountain that has red blooms.

“Of course I can!” George pipes up. He tears off ahead of us on the stone path, his flustered nanny running after him as fast as her petticoats will allow. I smirk to myself: he’s a bit of a menace, actually. But then, so am I.

Mr. Balfour chuckles. “Masterfully done, my dear.” Then his rheumy eyes close a bit, and he hums. I can tell his next words are for Hugh. “I should not want George to pin you down with promises. You have always loved your traveling, my boy. Though, of course, we always wanted you closer to home.”

Hugh’s expression only grows more troubled, but at least there is no direct response required. Still, I can see him making some sort of mental calculation as he stops pushing the chair and crosses ahead of Mr. Balfour to look the elderly gentleman in the eyes. “How are you feeling today, Father?”

“Very well, very well,” the old man says, his eyes turning into crescent moons as he bobs excitedly in his chair. “I am so looking forward to having company. Our friends in this village are loyal indeed, to so frequently tread up the hill to visit a dull, feeble old man like me.”

Hugh shakes his head, suddenly insistent. “No, sir. You could never be dull. Where there is good cheer, there is everything that makes for good company.”

I wonder just how old Mr. Balfour is. It’s hard to tell, considering how much faster people seemed to age in the days before modern medicine. He clearly suffers from a number of age-induced ailments, including arthritis, cataracts, and gout. But for the most part, his mind still seems sharp to me.

And yet—every time Mr. Balfour addresses Hugh as his son, Hugh grimaces.

I am sure the psychic cost of deceiving Mr. Balfour weighs on him.

But the way I see it, Hugh is a direct descendant.

And with Mr. Balfour being so very sweet and generous, I can’t imagine him wanting to turn away any member of his family if they were in need.

The smile Mr. Balfour bestows on Hugh is very wide. “A good boy,” he says, reaching up to pinch Hugh’s cheek. I note with some small amount of delight that stuffy Hugh lets it happen.

“A very good boy,” Mr. Balfour sighs again, settling back in his chair.

“Selfish it may be, but I do rather hope that this turn in the army has cured you of your need to adventure. I do not want to see you traveling any farther than Brighton for the rest of my days.” He gives a good-natured chuckle, but then adds, wistfully, “But your mother and I could never persuade you to stay at home, could we? No matter.” His expression seems to take on a mischievous twinkle. “But perhaps a nice woman can, eh? Eh?”

Mr. Balfour begins to cough—a wet, disconcerting sound.

Hugh immediately produces a handkerchief and presents it to the old man.

I cannot help but feel my heart melt a bit.

When Hugh feels guilty, he doles out tenderness to compensate.

He is very protective and kind to the old man, as kind as any son to an aging parent.

I remember with a start that Hugh researched his family in advance of his role as Henry Tilney. Is there a chance that Hugh knows how long this sweet old fellow has left?

Tears spring to my eyes. I turn away, pretending to examine a nearby rose in full bloom. But I soon feel an exceedingly light touch on my elbow. I turn to find myself looking up into Hugh’s concerned face.

“Are you all right?” he asks. His face bends to mine.

I don’t think he’s shaved since our arrival, because his stubble is starting to grow in thick and dark.

I reconsider my stance on whether Hugh could ever be cast in an action movie.

At this angle, I can imagine a version of Hugh, the merest shadow of a beard outlining his square jaw, crawling through air vents in a white tank top, lean muscles glistening with sweat—

“Earth to Miss Bright,” he mumbles, his words so low and husky that the rest of our party cannot hear. “Are you all right?”

At least my tears have vanished. He doesn’t need to know I was imagining ripping that silk cravat off him to expose the angled column of his neck, kissing along the trail of stubble hidden beneath.

“Perfectly,” I say, flashing a smile.

“Then why are you staring at me that way?” he asks.

“Darling,” Aunt Fanny interjects, having overheard this last bit, “if I had to make an assessment, I might suggest that Mrs. Bright is merely wishing you’d shave your nascent beard. It’s certainly getting out of control—you’ll have to do something about it before the dinner, regardless.”

Hugh actually blushes at this, rubbing his hand against the stubble on his chin. “Is it that bad?” he asks me.

My response is deadpan and immediate. “You’re hideous. An absolute Quasimodo.”

Aunt Fanny hears that, too. She must have ears like a bat. “Quasi… whatsit? Is that Italian? French? What languages were you taught, dear girl? I half suspect Mrs. Goddard is right and you’re not entirely English, but for heaven’s sake, do not tell me so, for I wish to live in blissful ignorance.”

Hugh raises an eyebrow mockingly at me, as if to say, Have fun talking your way out of this one.

But I roll my shoulders and explain breezily to Aunt Fanny, “Oh, it’s just slang,” and she accepts that, no question. I shoot a look back at Hugh as he takes up his position pushing Mr. Balfour’s chair again.

My look is engineered to tell him one thing and one thing only.

Tess: 1. Hugh: 0.

Some things don’t need complex lies or pretentious methodology. Sometimes going with the flow works just as well.

Off in the distance, I can hear George roaring among the rosebushes like he’s a Highlander extra in Braveheart. I catch Hugh’s eyes as I nod in his tiny ancestor’s direction. “You know, I can hardly believe you’re related.…”

Hugh smirks. “Oh, no, I can. He acts exactly like Floss.”

Floss. My heart skips a beat to hear him mention the woman I’d assumed was his girlfriend. But two plus two doesn’t seem to equal four anymore. “Floss?”

Hugh’s gaze is still focused on George. “My little sister, Florence. She was a terror at that age. Complete brat. Ruled the family with an iron fist. Honestly, they’ve got a certain physical resemblance as well.

Big eyes. Constant pout. But what really haunts me are the ears.

Tell me: for how many generations can big ears truly stick to a family’s DNA? ”

I let out a guffaw so large and loud that it’s actively humiliating. Because Hugh’s right! George’s ears do stick out a fair bit. “Yours aren’t quite so big as his.…”

I don’t know what I expect from Hugh then.

To bristle? To be offended that I called attention to this most mild of flaws in his otherwise classically beautiful visage?

But he just shakes his head, rueful. “No, that’s where you’re wrong.

My hair just disguises them. When my hairline recedes like my father’s, then you’ll see.

His ears are so big he played Prince Charles in the West End.

” He coughs, eyebrows furrowing in displeasure at something I can’t trace.

“Or, King Charles now, but that was a long while ago.”

“What’s that scowl for?” I ask, emboldened by how well we’re getting along—and, oh well. Yes. A bit by the intoxicating knowledge that Hugh possibly doesn’t have a girlfriend after all. “A stringent antimonarchist, are you?”

Hugh’s smile fades as quickly as it came, replaced by the grim line of his mouth I’ve come to know so well. He brushes my question away: no more banter. “No, it’s not that.” He rubs his hand against his chin and then speeds up to ask Aunt Fanny where he could go for a shave.