Page 19 of The Austen Affair
In Regency society, men escort women into evening meals, pairing off by status.
The man of the house always escorts the highest-ranking lady, and on down the list. But given Mr. Balfour’s needs, Aunt Fanny wheels her brother into the room at the front of the party, and the rest of us follow as best we can.
Hugh takes my arm with a cross, significant look at Mr. Armstrong.
If I didn’t know any better, I’d call it jealousy.
But this is Hugh Balfour we’re talking about.
I could fall into the English Channel for all he cares.
He probably just doesn’t like the idea of a man flirting with his “fiancée” on principle, whether we’re a real couple or not.
I am seated close to Mr. Balfour and the Dixon parents, much to my dismay.
Luckily, Mrs. Foster is on my other side, and having gotten past the unfortunate business of my grief, she has discovered many amiable things to say.
“My, you are pretty!” she gushes to me. “What very fine coloring, and I declare I have never seen such white, even teeth.”
I blanch a little at that—remembering that many Twitter users have accused me of possessing period-inaccurate veneers. But I came by my smile honestly: by good genes, a skilled orthodontist, and diligent flossing!
“You must walk with me to the village sometime,” Mrs. Foster gabbles on.
“The milliner’s shop is so charming, and I do fancy a new ribbon now and again.
” It occurs to me for the first time that, being so much younger than her husband, Mrs. Foster would probably be in college right now in the twenty-first century.
She could very well be thriving as the social chair of a sorority.
I decide that I like her and her easy talkativeness.
So much the better! The less I say, the less I can screw up.
Hugh is banished to the far side of the table, near the reverend and his sister.
(Probably the best fit for him, who studied the clergy for his role, to make conversation with someone dreary, dull, and Edmund Bertram–esque.
Fanny Price’s love for that man never made a lick of sense to me.) The rest of the party fills the great expanse between us.
I know that no expense has been spared for this dinner, because there’s a pineapple proudly displayed in the center of the table.
That’s a major flex—the Regency equivalent of letting all your friends know you can afford to fly first class.
There’s no bigger brag than living in this clammy British climate and still being able to eat tropical fruit.
The party is merry, the wine flowing. I suppose I never considered how much people in the Regency imbibed, but this rivals VIP bottle service at any club I’ve ever been to. The valet keeps uncorking new bottles of something or other, and I do not believe I ever see the bottom of my glass.
Throughout the meal, I spot Hugh continually trying to catch my eye.
It’s a pattern: he’ll establish eye contact, then flick his gaze to the reverend.
I scoff quietly to myself. What? Does he think I’ll embarrass myself by getting drunk in front of the clergy?
Look around, Hugh. Everybody’s drunk. If anything, you’re the one sticking out like a sore thumb!
Or perhaps Hugh is worried that I can’t stay on-mission—like finding an electrical machine is a group project I’m gonna make him do all the work for.
(I think longingly of the modern age, reflecting on how nice it would be to be able to simply Google “time machines near me.”) It becomes quickly apparent that sweet old Mr. Balfour knows nothing about this topic, nor do the Dixons feel particularly inclined to engage with me in conversation at all.
Colonel Foster, however, I hope will be more helpful.
“Tell me, Colonel Foster, Mrs. Foster, have you two heard of this remarkable scientific trend of people bringing electricity machines into their homes? I have heard that it makes for rousing entertainment.”
Colonel Foster swirls his glass of Madeira as he considers, but shakes his head.
“Damn nuisance, if you ask me. That Ben Franklin fellow should be court-martialed for putting these nonsense ideas in everyone’s heads, eh wot?
You hear of ladies shocking themselves for science nowadays.
Bad form, I say. What’s next? Female doctors? ”
I’m mid-sip during these last few words and have to slap my hand over my mouth to stop myself from spitting out wine. The colonel claps me on the back, as if he thinks I’m choking. “Thank you,” I wheeze.
Mrs. Foster leans forward and says, “I, for one, would dearly love to attend an electricity party! Mr. Dereham said he attended one in London last season, and he positively raved about it!” She casts a blushing look at her husband. “I think it a perfectly innocent diversion.”
Bingo. Mr. Dereham is our first lead! I feel a wave of relief rush over me. Plan A might still be viable—which is great, because we don’t have a Plan B.
With that news filed away, I give myself leave to enjoy.
This whole event feels so familiar, as if I’ve been here a thousand times before.
The chatter, the smiles, the tinkling laughs.
I wonder if there’s any truth in the idea of past lives.
I am certain I have gone through these motions and loved every second of it.
If I’m being honest, it feels a bit like coming home.
When dessert—some sort of trifle that ought to have been disgusting but wasn’t—has been cleared, Aunt Fanny ushers the party into the parlor like a sheepdog with its flock. “Come now! We must have music. Surely the young ladies will favor us with their accomplishments.”
I see Hugh winding his way through the thick knot of guests, his face worried and drawn.
He still thinks I’m drunk. The nerve of him!
And perhaps I am. But he needs to learn that’s all part of the fun.
When I think no one is watching, I stick my tongue out at him—for hardly any time at all, a split second—and then raise my hand to volunteer myself to entertain.