Page 35 of The Austen Affair

It may not be particularly feminist, but there’s something still irresistibly hot (in a “Mark Darcy throwing Daniel Cleaver through the window of a Greek restaurant in Bridget Jones’s Diary ” kind of way) about seeing a man I’m attracted to standing over the bloodied face of a man I greatly dislike.

A pleasurable flush creeps from my cheeks almost all the way back to my ears.

I also like that Hugh looks rather ashamed of himself now that it’s all over.

Yes, his chest was puffed out like a proud stag as Mr. Armstrong shambled, zombielike, out the front door.

But the moment his foe disappeared from sight, Hugh’s shoulders slumped.

Now he looks a bit sheepish and embarrassed with himself.

It’s really the perfect combination: I can thoroughly appreciate the decisive display of violence without worrying it might be a regular thing.

Murmuring amongst themselves, our guests make their way back into the dining room, but Hugh stands motionless in the foyer, staring at the wood paneling of the grand double doors, as if wary that Mr. Armstrong might suddenly reappear.

I take his hand in mine, withdrawing a handkerchief to dab the lingering blood from his knuckles.

“I thought you were supposed to be a pacifist,” I say to him very quietly, a mischievous smile creeping its way across my face even as I try to stay somber.

“Every man has his line,” Hugh says to me, his dark eyes grave.

“What was yours?” I ask him.

Hugh shrugs. “It doesn’t matter.”

“I think it does.”

Hugh’s eyes glance to the sides, a sure sign of deception. “He… he was making very lewd jokes about women.”

I feel a trembling in my chest, the aftershocks of a mild earthquake—almost thrilling. He doesn’t want me to know—to feel uncomfortable with what Armstrong said about me. Which also means he didn’t punch him out in order to collect any credit for my defense.

Glancing around to make sure no one is watching us, I lay a quick kiss on Hugh’s knuckles. “We should go check on the others.”

Our days at the acting scheme continue steadily, with two exceptions: first, that Phoebe and Isabella’s brother is quietly enlisted to replace Mr. Armstrong in the production.

Secondly, Kitty withdraws from the theatrical scheme.

It seems that Mr. Armstrong’s story of being viciously attacked by Hugh reached the colonel, and he decided this venture was no longer appropriate recreation for his young wife.

The idea of him telling Kitty what she can and cannot do makes my blood boil.

Not least because I personally got the impression she was having a great deal of fun.

Those of us who remain work on our scenes in the morning and then take a stroll in the garden after lunch to reinvigorate us for more rehearsals in the afternoon.

Mr. Crawford gives me a courtly head nod. “Mrs. Bright, are you enjoying the splendor of nature today?”

“Today and every day!” I reply, jaunty as we fall into step together.

“I have been thinking on the Bard all day,” he says.

“Most particularly, Romeo and Juliet. ‘A rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’” And at that, Mr. Crawford impulsively plucks an open-faced pink rose from the nearest bush and presents it to me.

I take it, altogether suspicious. Why does Mr. Crawford appear to hate Hugh but not me?

Mr. Crawford clasps his square, fidgeting hands behind his back, strolling with an easy smile gracing his face.

“You must know an awful lot about exchanging your name. You are married, so you have already taken a husband’s name once, and you stand on the threshold of doing so again.

And yet do you find you remain the same? ”

My name. I blow air out of my nostrils in an almost-snort.

These people know so little about me. They think Tess Bright is my married name, something recently donned and soon to be discarded.

Such a simple thing to know about someone; a name.

And after days and days of socializing with these people, they don’t even understand that Tess Bright is my one true name, the only name I will ever have.

Tess Bright is the name my mom gave me. I would never throw it away. Not even if I married. Not even if my husband was the other half of my soul. I am the daughter of Sandra Bright, and that is who I’m going to stay.

The thought of doing such a thing, of severing one of my last concrete connections to her, raises tears immediately to my eyes. I try to blink them away, but they are accompanied by the thickening of my sinuses, and Mr. Crawford starts at the sign of my sudden wave of emotion.

“Mrs. Bright, I had never meant to offend—”

I wave a hand at Mr. Crawford. “No, you did nothing. I just… I disagree with Mr. Shakespeare, I’m afraid.”

Visibly relieved, Mr. Crawford chuckles. “Do you now?”

I nod. “I think a person’s name matters very much. It tells you where they come from, where they’ve been. There’s only one companion I’ve ever known whose name I wanted to keep with me. I would be a very different person if that were otherwise.”

Mr. Crawford’s face softens, while his eyes, contrariwise, become serious. “That is an eloquent point, ma’am.”

After a few steps in silence, Mr. Crawford offers, “Would you perhaps like to rehearse Act Two, Scene Four this afternoon?”

A deep, solemn silence fills the parlor as the others watch our scene unfold.

It is a love scene, though Mr. Crawford’s character, Duke Orsino, does not know it.

My character is trapped, unable to confess her love except in the most roundabout ways, half convinced that the sorrow of unrequited love will kill her.

I think perhaps it is a theme that the other women in the room can sympathize with, because I can feel the shift in energy.

Neither Mr. Dereham nor Mr. Dixon can induce the women into quiet side conversation.

I am holding the ladies’ attention in the palm of my hand.

Cecelia, in particular, is quite literally on the edge of her seat as I begin to deliver my verse.

Her pale face shines like a sallow moon, her eyes drink in Shakespeare’s words like a tonic for misery.

But I am not in a lovesick mood. No, after my conversation with Mr. Crawford in the garden, I can only think of one person as I recite Viola’s miseries. I direct my gaze to an empty chair, where I feel the shadow of my mother sitting.

My throat is tight with emotion as I speak to Mr. Crawford’s Orsino. My hand moves of its own accord to twist at the fabric of my muslin skirt. I am being plunged back into a bed in California, one where the sheets stink of several weeks’ worth of sweat and tears.

“And what’s her history?” Mr. Crawford asks me, voice tremulous.

It is no actor’s trick when I keep my eyes trained on that extra chair.

“She pined in thought,” I say. The blackout curtains have blotted out the Los Angeles sun.

I haven’t opened them for days. The only light in the room comes from the television, playing Mom’s favorite movies on a loop.

“And with a green and yellow melancholy…” I try to pretend I can still smell Mom on the pillows, but the truth is she spent so long in the hospital at the end that any fragrance she left behind is long gone.

“… She sat like patience on a monument, smiling at grief.” There are empty pill bottles lined up on the nightstand. I refuse to throw them out.

My voice breaks like weakened bone. “Was this not love indeed?”

I do my best to keep going, but the words die in my throat.

I am usually very good at remembering my lines, but now, I’ve got nothing.

My mind swims with memories of the worst weeks of my life.

An empty, queasy feeling—like the paradoxical stomachache you get when you haven’t eaten enough—squeezes the space behind my navel.

In this moment, this endless, unbearable moment, I miss my mom so much I cannot breathe.

A fat tear trembles at my eyelid, then falls, leaving a long track down my cheek. The room spins around me, and I know I’m being watched by my companions. But I can’t summon any self-mastery. I am an utter emotional mess, and now they all know it.

A gloved hand is extended to me. I blink, then look up at Hugh’s concerned face. “Come with me,” he says. “I have a letter to post. We can walk to the village together.”

I seize Hugh’s hand like our plane is going down and he is offering me the last parachute. “Thank you.” Elizabeth Bennet supplies the next words for me while my brain is on autopilot. “I am very fond of walking.”

Hugh gifts me a small, watery smile. “I know.”