Page 16 of The Austen Affair

Fanny wants my assistance in planning the menu for our engagement dinner.

This is not something I want or am particularly qualified to help with.

It’s become immediately clear after a few more dinners at Highground that the fancier the meal is, the less I recognize of it.

We just lucked out that our first supper here wasn’t intended to be a particularly flashy affair.

They hadn’t been expecting guests, after all.

But the subsequent dinners got more elaborate.

And more foreign to my eyes—in every sense of the word.

I thought everything tasted just fine, but being from California, I couldn’t tell if so many jellied and pickled things were present because it’s the Regency or just because it’s Britain.

I swear to God one of the dessert spreads included “spotted dick,” and I find it very hard to believe people are still getting away with that in the modern era.

I’m very jealous of Hugh, to be honest. While he’s out riding around town unaccompanied and getting a nice little shave, I’m stuck indoors with Aunt Fanny.

Personally, I like Fanny, but the problem is, I don’t know what I’m doing.

All the ladies’ pastimes of this era are fucking nonsense to me.

I don’t know how to embroider or play whist, and I don’t know how much longer I can avoid revealing that I’m from another century .

For the most part, I am fending off questions by making liberal use of the Balfours’ library and always keeping a book in hand. If I look absorbed in my reading, no one will ask why I never indulge in any other hobbies (I hope).

When Fanny mentions at tea, busily cross-stitching as we sit, that we should discuss the ideal menu, I absolutely short-circuit.

This fish-out-of-time-stream thing is getting to be a tad stressful.

Why, oh why didn’t I do months of painstakingly boring research on the time period before coming to set, like Hugh did?

He probably could have rattled off a dozen suitable dishes without arousing any suspicion.

But he’s off adventuring, and I’m here to hold down the fort even though I don’t have any belief in my ability to do so.

I close my book— The Mysteries of Udolpho, the same one that Catherine reads in Northanger Abbey —on my pointer finger to keep my page.

I make my response as breezy as possible.

“I don’t believe I have your sophisticated palate, Auntie.

I am sure that everyone will be most pleased with whatever you think is best.”

Fanny’s eyes scan to me in a way they often do, not accusatory but inquisitive. A little wry. Still, she says nothing to indicate she thinks my behavior is out of the ordinary. Her back is very straight as she continues her embroidery. “If you say so, dear.”

I reopen my book. Thank God. I don’t have to explain to Hugh that I screwed up.

Hugh. “Oh,” I say, turning back to Fanny. “We should have a few hearty options that don’t contain meat.”

She scoffs. “That boy. I don’t know what he’s on about.”

“Lord Byron does it,” I remind her. On our second night, Hugh (true to nerd form) had spouted the factoid that Lord Byron was indeed a vegetarian contemporary of our gracious hosts. It was enough for Mr. Balfour, but Aunt Fanny was about as impressed then as she is at me repeating it now.

“I don’t care if Lord Byron lives only on vegetables.

I don’t care if Lord Byron stands naked on his head in Vauxhall every Saturday.

Just because Lord Byron does something doesn’t make it right.

In fact, that man is such an unmitigated scoundrel, I’d wager Byron’s approval is an above-average indicator that an action is misguided. ”

“Yes, Lord Byron is a bit unusual, ” I concede, although it’s an understatement. “But the fact is, if Hugh—” Fanny’s sharp eyes cut me, and I stumble, “if—if Mr. Balfour eats meat, he gets sick.”

An amused twitch hits the corner of Aunt Fanny’s mouth. “I understand completely, though I don’t agree. We’ll have options for him, even if he is being pigheaded.”

“Animal enthusiast as he is, I’m sure Mr. Balfour would take pigheaded as a compliment.”

After tea, I excuse myself for a walk around the gardens. “Suit yourself,” Fanny tells me, waving her hand as if she’s exhausted. “My old bones are telling me not to stir out of doors today.”

I make my way through the roses, already bored by them. What would my mother say if she knew how quickly the novelty of falling through time could wear off? She’d probably say I don’t appreciate things like her generation did. And she’d be right.

But then I spot a very large oak tree, which would have a glorious view down the great hill into the village below. I can’t resist it. I hitch up my skirts and get to climbing, my book clamped between my teeth in an exceedingly vulgar way that I’m sure would scandalize any eyewitnesses.

Now this feels like Austen. This feels right.

Suddenly, I’m Lizzy Bennet, Marianne Dashwood, Catherine Morland—one of her lively heroines, communing with nature.

(Back in LA, I did much of my working out at the rock-climbing wall in my gym, so I’m actually quite good at finding footholds, and have exceptional upper-body strength for my size.) Soon, I’m perched on a sturdy branch, looking out at a breathtaking view.

The hill Highground is perched on—and so obviously named for—is significantly steeper than I expected.

The rolling farmland below looks like checkered patterns of pastel stamps arranged side by side, just like when you soar above farmland in an airplane.

It’s nice to know that even after a few hundred years, some views never change.

I also see the village snaking along the valley basin, picturesque thatched roofs lined up like links in a tennis bracelet.

I breathe deep, savoring the clean air as it fills my lungs.

So long, Los Angeles. So long smog and smoke and air pollution. For the foreseeable future (which also happens to be the past), my agent can direct all incoming calls to this tree.

I lean back happily, resting my back against the solid trunk, and open the book in my lap. I take back all my whining and catastrophizing from earlier today. This is the life.

Perhaps an hour passes as I sit in my happy place, a light breeze tickling the curls that frame my face.

Eventually, I notice a speck on the horizon: Hugh on horseback.

As he draws closer and closer to the house, I think that I’ll hop down from my spot and tell him to go give his input on the dinner menu to Aunt Fanny if he doesn’t want to go hungry, but I quickly realize that my dress is snagged on something behind me.

If I make a sudden move, my skirt will definitely tear.

If I wander around Highground showing thigh, will I be stoned for a witch? Did they still do that kind of thing in the Regency?

Hugh is right. I really should have done more research.

I shift on the branch, trying to see where I’m caught.

But now my movement is inhibited, and I worry that if I make a wrong move, I’ll fall all the way down.

I know one damn thing for sure—I don’t want to end up needing medical attention in this era.

As much as I try to get a look behind me, I can’t make heads or tails of where I’m snagged.

Luckily, Hugh and his horse are getting nearer on their way to the stables. I wave my arms at him, but he doesn’t notice. “Hey!” I shout. He doesn’t appear to hear. I’m worried that he’ll pass by without seeing me altogether. “Hey!” I shout, louder now.

God, that man really must be in his own head not to hear me. He’s actually still moving. It’s astounding! I consider whipping The Mysteries of Udolpho at his back. You can bet he’d feel that. But what if the surprise knocked him straight off his horse?

So I put two fingers in my mouth and let out a piercing whistle, a trick I learned for the scene in Chuck Brown where my character is stranded in a sinking lifeboat in the middle of a lake. (On Chuck Brown, I could be relied upon to be placed in life-threatening danger at least once an episode.)

The whistle is so loud and shrill that, for a moment, I feel like I’ve broken the sound barrier. “ Jesus wept! ” Hugh exclaims, yanking his horse around as he looks for the source of the noise.

He spots me in the tree. I give a delicate little wave. His eyes narrow. “I should’ve known.”

“Come help me,” I hiss. “I’m stuck.”

Hugh makes a scoffing sound. He leads the horse beneath my tree and dismounts. “What happened?” he asks. “Are you like a little kitty cat, who climbed all the way up only to realize she’s afraid of heights?”

“Don’t be an asshole,” I tell him. With no one around, I’ve reverted to my American accent. It feels thick and clumsy on my tongue after a few days without use. I suppose there is something to Hugh’s method of throwing himself into a character.

“I’m not afraid of anything except showing parts of myself I’d rather keep hidden,” I tell him. “My dress is caught. If I tug it, it might tear.”

Hugh’s expression smooths into one I can’t decipher. Perhaps he’s ruminating on how satisfying it would be if he turned around and left me here.

“So are you gonna help me or not?” I demand.

“That depends,” Hugh says, spreading his hands lazily. “When you’re in need of rescue, do you often call your first responders an asshole, or is that a privilege you save just for me?”

I shake my head, trying my damnedest to disguise the fact that, okay, he’s making a fairly good point. And it’s a little funny. Who knew Hugh Balfour had a sense of humor?

“Just you,” I promise, smooth as silk. “You’re special.”

“Ah, well,” Hugh concedes. “If I’m special, I suppose I must help.”