Page 24 of The Austen Affair

I bound out of bed with a forced cheeriness that I hope will crystallize into true optimism and serenity as the day goes on.

Because I’ve had a revelation, and that revelation is: Fuck Hugh Balfour.

(No, not like that.) But fuck him, am I right?

We are two people trapped in a situation beyond the capacity of our frail human imaginations.

Why shouldn’t I have a good time with it?

If he wants to suck all the joy out of falling backward in time to join the upper echelons of country society, he can do that. But he will not drag me down with him!

I dress in the now-cleaned dress and traveling coat from my Catherine Morland costume that I arrived in. I like its color; the pale powder blue is the color of happiness to me. And I will be force-feeding myself happiness today.

If you’re wondering… yes. I do have a lot of experience with rejection.

As an actress, you can’t help but get used to it.

And as a single woman on half a dozen various dating apps, even more so.

Just when I think men can’t get any lower, they drill into a subbasement.

I’m not letting Hugh Balfour carve an indoor pool into my mental landscape. I will overcome.

In the spirit of my stoic, British surroundings, I’m going to keep calm and carry on straight in his well-chiseled, condescending face, which isn’t even that appealing when you really think about it!

What’s facial symmetry? Just the most boring arrangement of atoms. What are a pair of dark, flashing eyes?

Most people have brown eyes. Hugh isn’t special.

And, actually, he’s too tall. He looks ridiculous, leaning over to get through doors unscathed. Like an idiot.

I fasten my adorable little blue bonnet over my curls and bounce down the stairs, ready to live my best Lizzy Bennet lifestyle and take a long walk through the verdant English countryside.

What are men compared to rocks and mountains?

However, I am very quickly foiled in my endeavor when I glance out the front windows to see a pair of curricles making their way up the front drive.

I spy two sets of rather unwelcome people inside them: the Dixon sisters in one, and Mr. Armstrong and Mr. Dereham in the other.

I immediately feel rather bad for looping Mr. Dereham in with the others. He seems nice enough—I just can’t fathom why someone so friendly would want to spend any time at all with Mr. Armstrong. Maybe beggars couldn’t be choosers in regards to friendship in the militia.

Mr. Dereham bounds up to the door with all the excitability of a puppy not yet toilet-trained. I see him readying to rap on the knocker, so I throw it open before he gets the chance. Phoebe Dixon gives a shrill little shriek at the surprise.

“Are we off to Beacon Hill, then?” I ask.

Mr. Dereham doffs his cap to me. “We most certainly are, if you and Mr. Balfour will consent to join our humble party.”

I flash the well-meaning gentleman a smile. “I am indeed game,” I tell him, “but only if you can conscript Mr. Balfour to join as well.”

And knowing Hugh, his agreement to a social activity was about as likely as snow in Los Angeles. At least his miserable attitude was good for something—getting me out of an afternoon in Mr. Armstrong’s company.

Armstrong swaggers up to the front door and offers his two cents. “Then we must put pressure on the gentleman. We cannot lose Mrs. Bright’s amiable addition for anything. The delights of Beacon Hill will surely pale if we are grieving her absence.”

I turn my face resolutely away from Armstrong, giving him the cut indirect (basically the Regency version of hurriedly looking at your phone when you see someone on the street you don’t want to talk to).

I curse him and his slimy, smooth-talking ways, wondering if this man, in terms of Austenian rakes, is more of a Willoughby, a Wickham, or a Frank Churchill.

It hardly matters. None are a terribly flattering comparison.

The adventuring group comes indoors and soon fords their way into the library, where Hugh sits hunched over a writing desk. “Mr. Balfour!” Armstrong calls out. “Leave the letters for another day. You must make good on your promise to journey with us to Beacon Hill.”

Hugh looks pale and shocked, as if he were midsoliloquy in some theater production only to realize that he’d suddenly forgotten his lines. “So soon?” he splutters, practically desperate.

“And why not?” Mr. Armstrong asks. “The weather is splendid, and we are all otherwise unengaged. Now, you must come with us. Mrs. Bright says she will not stir from this home on any account without you, and you cannot deprive her of the sublime view.”

Hugh’s eyelashes flutter like he’s in danger of letting his eyes roll into the back of his head. “Of course,” he murmurs, “Mrs. Bright would never do anything without a trustworthy chaperone.”

If other people weren’t around, I’d be tempted to smack him.

But then, rigid Hugh does something I wasn’t sure he was capable of: he bends. With a world-weary sigh, he rises from his chair and says, “And far be it from me to keep a lady from her pleasures. I’ll accompany you. Allow me to seal my letter first.”

Armstrong pairs his next words with another half-mocking bow, “We serve at your leisure, sir.”

“I appreciate your patience, I’m sure,” Hugh responds, coolly.

He folds his letter (which I notice is addressed to a Dr. Elias Beckworth in London—our savior!) and heats wax with a nearby candle, stamping the paper shut.

I almost wonder at Hugh knowing how to do this, but I stop myself.

The sheer breadth of Hugh’s research is no longer an amazement to me.

That was just his way. I would be more surprised to see him fail at something.

Well, something other than basic social interaction.

“Have we not invited the colonel’s wife, Mrs. Foster?” I inquire to the Dixons. I’m feeling the lack of her friendly face in the mix.

“Oh, Kitty?” Phoebe asks, scornfully. “Certainly not. Her husband is too old and grumpy for such simple pleasures.”

Kitty is such a nice name for a pleasant girl. It fits her. It only makes me wish she were here even more.

“And we could not invite Kitty without him?” I push.

The Dixon sisters share an incredulous look with each other at my expense, bursting into a peal of giggles.

I sigh, accepting my fate to set off without Kitty’s much-needed company.

And soon we are off. With the Dixons and the militia men in their four-seater—presumably borrowed from Colonel Foster—that left me and Hugh to ride alone in an open curricle that belongs to the Balfours.

As Hugh helps me up into the curricle, I ask, voice pitched low and husky, “You couldn’t have just been a wet blanket, as usual? Then we’d both be free.”

Hugh’s dark eyes flash dangerously. “I couldn’t possibly spoil your fun.”

“What’s fun about this?” I hiss.

“Whisper, whisper!” Phoebe Dixon taunts us from the next carriage. “Do tell us what secret machinations always have you two in private confidences. Come now, you must confide in your new friends, lest we never advance to the status of close ones.”

I turn to face Phoebe with one arm resting casually on the edge of the curricle. “How differently we feel. It has always been my belief that true intimacy must be offered freely, never demanded.”

Hugh lifts a cool eyebrow at Phoebe—the only sign he noticed me verbally sparring with her at all.

He raises the reins, ready to click the horses into motion, when who comes freewheeling out of the front door but little George, his arms and legs gloriously uncoordinated as he speeds toward us.

“Where are you going?” he wails, disconsolate. “Come play with me.”

I’m ready to call it quits right there and stay behind at this perfect angel’s request, but Hugh leaps down with an uncharacteristically warm expression, crouching to get on the boy’s level, and promises we will be home by dinnertime.

“You swear?” George asks, pouting.

“I swear,” Hugh says, offering George his little finger, which George takes, after a moment’s hesitation.

I clench my gloved hand into a fist. I’m fairly certain that Hugh Balfour just accidentally invented the pinky promise.

I’d be deeply charmed by this if I wasn’t so furious with him.

As it stands, I’m just frustrated that his worst qualities stand in the way of me appreciating his better ones.

I refuse to like a thing about a man who so clearly has zero respect for me.

Climbing back into the curricle, in my pale-blue traveling coat and bonnet, I feel the shiver of déjà vu ripple its way up my spine. With me fuming in my Northanger Abbey costume, and Hugh spurring the horses onward, we might as well be back in 2025 arguing over the virtues of going off script.

We’re every bit as stiff and irritated with each other now as we were then. Only now we have more reason for it.

Hugh allows Armstrong to go tearing off in front of us—he gives the general vibe of the kind of modern-day person who believes owning a BMW licenses them to cut other drivers off on the freeway—which is probably for the best. It wouldn’t be fun to get tailgated all the way to Beacon Hill. Not that we’re having any fun now.

We end up trotting along in the wake of his vehicle, and Hugh carefully keeps us just far enough back that the clouds of dust raised ahead of us don’t fly up into our eyes.

For my part, I just slump down in my seat like a sulky child, arms crossed.

Hugh obviously can’t help himself from commenting, “George took us going on this trip with more grace than you are.”

I snort like a horse. “Please. Did you just say yes to torture me?”

“I suppose you’d have preferred me to stay at Highground, so you can drop anachronistic references that threaten our very lives, with no one there to cover for you.”