Page 20 of The Austen Affair
Hugh bolts forward to cut off my path to the pianoforte as if he’s trying to stop me from getting run over in traffic. He leans forward with a wooden smile on for the benefit of the rest of the party, only to whisper in my ear, “Are you out of your damned mind?”
“Certainly not!” I chirp. “I love music.”
His words come out triple-time. “I believe you live to provoke me. But you cannot barrel ahead with everything. Just what do you think will happen when you make a fool of yourself in front of this entire party? Are you the least bit aware how many years of study young women in this era would put in to appear accomplished on the pianoforte while in company? You will look a remarkable oddity indeed.”
If the entire guest list wasn’t currently taking their seats, I’d bare my teeth at him like a rabid raccoon.
Instead of acting truly feral, I simply speak with Lizzy Bennet’s words.
“Mr. Balfour, you should know my courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me. But if you’d like to assist me, you’re welcome to turn the pages. ”
Hugh’s eyes practically bulge out of his head as I step up to the gleaming instrument.
I settle myself at the piano bench with a delicate flourish of my taffeta skirts and rifle through the available sheet music until I find one that makes my heart crow with joy.
I select it, and hover my fingers above the ivory keys—straightening my posture and reveling in the moment.
I am always happiest when about to perform.
And then I lock eyes with Hugh and begin to play.
I plunk out the signature opening bars to Nelly’s “Hot in Herre.” He lets out an audible groan of despair, and I feel the corner of my mouth twitch with spiteful delight.
Of course, no one else here has ever heard of Nelly. He can bitch all he wants, but I haven’t blown our ruse yet. This is a joke I’m playing on him and only him.
I cut off the melody as suddenly as I began, turning to my captive audience and apologizing, “Forgive me. Mr. Balfour does not like that song. I simply had to tease him with the idea I would force him to sit through it. But trust that I would not make good on that threat.”
The assembled partygoers chuckle good-naturedly at this, or most of them do. Phoebe Dixon looks as if she’s swallowed a fly.
I incline my head to Hugh, whose face is starting to resemble a steamed lobster. “I’ll begin again.”
My fingers fly into motion.
Each note I pluck from the keys is light and airy, conjoined as seamlessly as pearls on a string.
Hugh closes his eyes in deadened shock. My victory is exuberant, my joy outsized.
I have always loved the piano, ever since I was six and Mom first scraped together the money to get me keyboard lessons at the local Yamaha studio.
It is especially delicious now: the sound of a well-tuned piano cannot be beat.
The precision of each note brings to mind the sensation of biting into your first crisp apple of the autumn season.
Then, after a few bars, I begin to sing.
Perhaps to Hugh’s astonishment, I don’t sing the lyrics to anything modern or sexy to torment him further.
Instead, I sing a song that I’m 100 percent sure is period accurate, not just because its music is here in front of me, but because I learned to play it after watching Anya Taylor-Joy perform it in 2020’s Emma.
“‘Tis the last rose of summer, left blooming alone. All her lovely companions are faded and gone…’” My voice isn’t bad either.
I’m not about to become a multihyphenate talent anytime soon and drop a debut album—my technique is a little breathy, there’s no real power behind it—but Chuck Brown has a musical episode at least once a season (more frequently in recent years now that the writers have run out of ideas) and I’m the only member of the cast they’ve never had to Auto-Tune.
A completely off-balance Hugh moves jerkily to help turn the pages of my music.
Not that I really need him to—I memorized the simple chords when I learned this song.
I can feel his eyes boring into me as I play on.
To my satisfaction, he looks a little chastened in that he assumed I would fail.
I raise my chin proudly, my inner glow only expanding, the way it always does when I am killing it at my job.
The song is an oddly sad one, but my happiness infuses it with a certain irresistible jauntiness.
Hugh is obviously a little distracted and is a beat late in turning the final page. My eyes flick toward him for the merest instant, but I don’t falter. When I close out the song with the wistful question, “‘Oh, who would inhabit this bleak world alone?’” the guests burst into rapturous applause.
“My goodness! Mrs. Bright!” Mrs. Foster cries, leaping to her feet as she continues to clap at high speed. “No one had informed us that you were so wonderfully accomplished. What a lovely addition to our humble society you will make. We are all aflutter with delight!”
I incline my head graciously to Mrs. Foster and then generally to the rest of the room. Hugh leans toward me under the guise of gathering the sheet music, asking, “I learned that song in school. It’s a Thomas Moore poem. How the hell did you pull that off?”
My shoulder shrug is artfully casual. “Sir Moore’s ‘The Last Rose of Summer’ is not only performed in Autumn de Wilde’s Emma., but also in the Jane-adjacent movie Austenland. You’re not the only person who knows their Regency, sir.”
Hugh leans in yet farther, and I tilt my head up to better mirror him.
“But the piano,” he protests. “… and you can sing!”
I roll my eyes at him. “My character on Chuck Brown is in an on-again, off-again relationship with a brooding pianist, so I’ve had plenty of chances to tickle the ivories. Bet you’ll think twice about underestimating me again.”
Hugh gives a sort of gulp at that and, to my shock, affirms, “I certainly shall.”
I do a double take of surprise. Hugh admitting he was wrong throws me almost as much as I just threw him.
Registering that my rapturous applause has begun to taper off, I stand up, deciding to vacate the instrument.
One thing I know about show business: you’ve gotta leave them wanting more.
Still, I turn to offer them my thanks. “You are all too kind. I am far from mastery, though I do find the pursuit of music an enjoyable—” It is at that moment that Mr. Finch, the footman, opens the parlor door, escorting a middle-aged woman inside.
My heart skips a beat, recognizing her several full seconds before my conscious mind catches up.
She has a healthy complexion, with rosy cheeks and a knowing mouth quirked into a self-deprecating smile. The curls that frame her face are still dark, though streaked through with silver, and her active hazel eyes are mostly hidden behind a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles.
Mr. Finch announces her presence almost as an afterthought.
“Miss Jane Austen.” He departs, leaving me standing at the pianoforte in a paralyzed state of blood-pounding disbelief.
As a Hollywood up-and-comer, I’ve been in a room with more than my fair share of celebrities. But I’ve never become undone like this.
Jane’s fingers are stained with ink. Her voice is light, almost breezy as she makes her apologies.
“I am sorry to have arrived so late to such a fine party. I had hoped that by the age of nine-and-thirty I might have been counted upon to develop a more reliable nature, but alas, I lost track of time.”
I become gradually aware of my body again—and also of the fact that I am still at the front of the room, and since no one else here appears to care that Jane Austen, the Jane Austen is here, all eyes are still on me.
I’m not sure I can speak. When I was in first grade, what I wanted, more than anything in the world, was an American Girl doll.
Felicity, to be exact, the redheaded horse girl from Colonial Williamsburg.
As a kid who grew up in a cramped apartment in Southern California, the idea of hopping on a horse and galloping through an open field in a beautiful dress appealed to some primal part of me.
But American Girl dolls were not exactly in our household budget. Still, my mom picked up some extra shifts at the dentist’s office, even though she was already working late, and then on my birthday I had a big present to unwrap: Felicity, looking just perfect in her bonnet and floral gown.
After tearing the wrapping paper and looking into her beautiful plastic eyes, I became so overexcited that I promptly threw up.
Flash back to this moment—in a parlor in Hampshire in 1815, staring at my literary idol in the flesh—and I am really afraid that if I try to speak, I will vomit.
Luckily, Hugh manages to seize control of the situation—and my gloved hand.
He drops to kiss it, as I suppose a fiancé might, and compliments me on my performance.
“You sang most admirably. I’m sure we should all like to hear you again sometime soon, but for now, do let us hear from some of the other young ladies in attendance tonight.
Would either of the Miss Dixons favor us? ”
Phoebe and Isabella both jump up eagerly, and the sisters sort out the performance order among themselves, bickering heatedly under their breaths.
Then the victorious Phoebe Dixon is at our side, clearing her throat in a not-so-subtle attempt to get me to abandon the pianoforte.
I am still goggle-eyed and frozen, staring at Jane Austen, who has taken an empty seat in the back row, beside the reverend (her brother— of course!
) and her sister. Hugh steers me toward two unoccupied chairs so that we can sit together.
As everyone would expect us to as fiancés, of course.