Page 37 of The Austen Affair

As the sun sinks low toward the horizon, casting the country lane in a dusky pink, I tighten my grip on Hugh’s arm—taut biceps lurk under his jacket like stones just beneath the surface in a shallow pond—and lean my cheek against his shoulder.

Softly, I ask him, “Why are you doing this?” How could it be that Hugh Balfour—my curmudgeonly costar Hugh Balfour—is really offering to host a ball?

Hugh, who went so very far out of his way to avoid all social interaction in the era of our births.

And now he’s going to do the exhausting social labor of hosting a country ball? Absurd! Adorably absurd.

Hugh’s black lashes are distractingly long as he glances down at me with a sardonic smile. They practically bat against his cheekbones. Butterfly kisses against porcelain.

“You know just why I’m doing this,” he responds, matching my own quiet volume so well that his words almost come out like a purr.

“You won’t enjoy it one bit,” I threaten him.

“I disagree,” Hugh says, all politeness. “Because I think you will love it. And I think I’ll enjoy watching you love it.”

Heat floods into my cheeks, and I’m sure their shade suddenly matches the rosy sky above us.

“You’re so much sweeter than I would have ever given you credit for,” I say, half to him, half to myself.

“Damned by faint praise,” Hugh says and laughs.

I wrinkle my nose, and Hugh’s laughter redoubles. A hand shoots up to cover my nose as I whine, “What? What are you laughing at?”

Hugh shrugs, his gaze drifting off toward the horizon. “I shouldn’t say.”

“Don’t be a tease.”

“No, I really shouldn’t say,” Hugh insists. “That’s where the trouble begins. I’m not gifted with words, Tess. Often I mean to say something kindly, as a compliment, and it is never taken as it’s meant. Of course I can’t blame the recipient, when the execution is fumbled the way I tend to.”

I bite my lower lip in a purposely sensual pout. I can see his onyx eyes linger on my mouth. “Tell me,” I say. “I won’t hold it against you.” Unless you want me to.

Hugh laughs again—the laugh of a man who knows he’s falling into a trap. “I like… your nose,” he admits. “It’s not… it’s not one of those cookie-cutter nose-job noses most American actresses have. I can tell I’m looking at something that was passed down to you.”

My hand cups my nose again, thoughtful this time. Hugh looks nervous now, so I let him off the hook as soon as I can. “I’m not mad. That’s interesting. A new way of looking at it.”

I’d never considered my nose that way before—as the centerpiece of my mother’s face, gifted to my own like a precious heirloom.

The truth was, I didn’t always like my nose.

It’s a bit upturned. About as close to a snub nose you can have in Hollywood while still being considered conventionally attractive.

Emma Stone–adjacent, my agent once called it.

And that was a lot nicer than what my middle-school classmates called it, way back in the days of braces, TJ Maxx clothing, and prepubescent zits.

“You know,” I tell Hugh, pointing at the offending feature, “when I was in fifth grade, a boy called me Peppa Pig because of this nose.”

Hugh’s laugh comes out as a choke. “ Peppa Pig? Really? My God, what a blast from the past. Floss loved Peppa Pig.”

I giggle helplessly. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Now Hugh looks sly. “And what did you do to him?”

I flutter my eyelashes innocently. “And what makes you think I did anything to him?”

Hugh shakes his head, skeptical. “I saw you defend Isabella on that hill. You put Phoebe in her place magnificently. I don’t think that was the first time you squared off against a bully.”

“I didn’t…” My face is heating bright red now, no longer a comely, maidenly blush. “I didn’t do anything particularly clever. I just oinked at him.”

There is a beat. “You what ?”

My throat is tight with mortification, but I finish the tale. “Whenever he called me Peppa, I’d oink at him. Endlessly, in fact.”

Hugh stops in his tracks, doubling over with hysterical laughter. “You’d—you’d oink —”

“Oh, come on,” I tell him. “Stand up, soldier.”

But Hugh’s hands are on his knees. He’s wheezing so hard that George has traipsed back to us to check that Hugh isn’t injured in some way.

“You sound like you have a kazoo stuck in your throat,” I tell Hugh conversationally, which only makes him howl harder.

“Anywho,” I continue, breezily, figuring he might as well just get it all out at once, “eventually I had oinked at Frankie Matarazzo so often and annoyed him so much that he decided to just pretend I didn’t exist. Avoided me until we graduated eighth grade. ”

Hugh looks back up at me, one hand clapped over his contagious grin. “You irritated him into submission.”

I bob my head, pleased he’s seen my youthful strategy for what it was.

“I’m not sure why I’m surprised, actually,” Hugh observes. “That was the way our conflict certainly seemed to be heading. You were not going to let me get away with being a standoffish prick.”

“No,” I say, bouncing on the balls of my feet as he straightens up to his full height. “No, I was not going to allow that.”

“A war of bubbly attrition,” Hugh notes, looking grimly proud of me.

“One that you would have lost,” I assure him.

At that moment, little George threads his hand into mine and looks up at me with those big brown Balfour eyes. “What’s a kazoo?” he asks, all innocence.

And Hugh collapses into hysterics again.

I feel light as air upon our return to Highground. Hugh and George so thoroughly made me forget my moment of melodrama that it almost seemed natural to suppose that the other witnesses might have forgotten it, too. But sadly, that never is the case, is it?

When we reenter the foyer, I can hear the gentle clinking of china as servants set the table for supper in the next room.

George darts into the parlor to crawl into his father’s lap and tell the old man all about the wonderful things we did in the village.

But while Mr. Balfour is jolly, it seems obvious that the Crawfords have filled Aunt Fanny in on my breakdown, because the eyes of that trio follow me with varying degrees of concern.

“Are you well, darling?” Aunt Fanny addresses me. “I heard you came over a bit… ill this afternoon. I do not typically advise such exertions as a walk to the village when a young lady is already not at her best.”

“Oh, Auntie, don’t chastise her,” Mr. Crawford says, his voice tight with concerted effort toward keeping it upbeat. “I’m sure your nephew took good care of his betrothed.”

Cecelia’s eyes dart to her brother’s face, but he looks determinedly forward at me. “No, do not let Mrs. Campbell bully you into feeling unwell. You look marvelous to me. The brilliancy of your complexion has returned, and your eyes are lively and sparkling.”

My hand still dangling against Hugh’s forearm, I can feel the tendons of his forearm tense as he clenches a fist. A vein jumps in his temple. He does not act out, but rather sinks into the chair nearest Mr. Balfour and George, engaging them in determinedly polite conversation.

He’s jealous, I realize with some awe. Even though anybody with eyes could see that Mr. Crawford is the type of man to flirt even as he breathes, and so no attention can really be considered so special.

And Hugh had been jealous of Mr. Armstrong for a moment there, too—before eventually throwing him out of this house with a sucker punch.

With a realization as sudden as a thunderclap, I come to my conclusion: Hugh Balfour isn’t cold or judgmental, as I originally assumed…

he’s passionate and territorial. He just does his best to hide it under a very cool exterior.

But lately, he’s been failing. Something is changing in him. The deep-hidden passion is rising to the surface. And not to be conceited (though I’ll confess, as an actress, my personality does tend that way), but I have the sneaking suspicion this metamorphosis has something to do with me.

And that feels quite nice. If I’m being completely honest.

Sometime around midnight, I jerk upright in bed. I’m slick with a cold sweat and my sheets are tangled around my calves.

Something clinks against my windowpane. I’m still breathing heavily as I swivel my head toward the sound.

Another clink. Then more. Clink, clink, clink.

Something is being bounced off the glass.

I stand up to investigate, peering out of the window in my white nightgown, and I see Mr. Crawford standing in the garden below, tossing tiny pieces of gravel to catch my attention.

Baffled, I run my fingers through my hair to ensure it’s not too desperate looking, then open the window to greet him.

“Mr. Crawford! What on earth are you doing?”

Mr. Crawford beams up at me, chivalrously removing his hat.

“Mrs. Bright, how lovely you look upon waking! I would not have doubted it, and yet you continually exceed expectations. I come to you like Romeo this morning, all full of quotations, and I see what he meant when he said, ‘the bright ness of her cheek would shame those stars, as daylight doth a lamp.’”

I lean on the edge of the sill, skeptical. “Returning to my question… what on earth are you doing here?”

Mr. Crawford bites his lip with a sort of guilty enjoyment. Glib, he quotes Romeo again. “‘See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O, that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek!’”

I do not respond, casting him only with my haughtiest glare.

He deflates, looking warmly sheepish. “I wanted to check in on you,” he admits, all pretension gone.

“You seemed so… disconsolate yesterday. I fear very much that I am to blame. I have bullied the people of the fair town into my theatrical scheme, and all that we have gotten for it is a display of violence and a beautiful woman in tears. For that reason, I think I shall call it off. Quit Mr. Shakespeare while we are ahead.”

I’m rather relieved to find I will no longer be trapped in Twelfth Night rehearsals. But I am not sure why Mr. Crawford could not tell me this welcome news in public.

“And for these glad tidings you come throwing rocks at my window?” I ask, tone light.

Mr. Crawford ducks his head bashfully. “Not only for that reason. I did also want to inquire as to your state of mind, and could not be sure I would have the opportunity to speak alone with you today, as Mr. Balfour is quite protective.” Mr. Crawford’s face twists with some strange, foul expression, and I know that this comment about Hugh is not intended as a compliment.

The mention of Hugh puts my hackles up. “He’s a good man, you know. He was very attentive to my feelings yesterday.”

“Oh yes,” Mr. Crawford agrees. “He can be very dashing when he wants to be. But he does not always want to be, does he?”

I blink, astounded by Mr. Crawford’s frankness.

I stick my head out the window and look both ways down the long line of the house.

He is a full story below me. He is not exactly whispering—and yet he feels completely free to insult Hugh.

Now, of course, I know more than anybody that Hugh can be prickly.

But Mr. Crawford hasn’t given him enough of a chance to reveal the real him. It’s not fair.

“He can be… aloof,” I concede. “But he is worthy. Deep down. You can’t possibly know what anyone else is going through.” I allow a little bit of chastisement to creep into my tone, and it’s clear that Mr. Crawford feels it, because he blanches.

Mortification, however, does not decrease his boldness. Mr. Crawford takes a few steps forward toward my window, forcing me to look directly down at him. His voice carries, strong and sure. “Perhaps I cannot know what he is going through, but I know what you are going through.”

I’m taken aback. “Do you?”

Mr. Crawford nods. “I was engaged once. Her name was Violet. She was my first love. Perhaps we were too young, in retrospect. I was always the type to barrel into things, unthinking. Only feeling. Only gut instinct. My family wanted us to enter into a long engagement to counterbalance our youth. But she fell ill the first winter of our engagement, and slipped away from me. I have not been able to love another since. Few have her sparkle. Her wonder at the world.”

My hand flutters, instinctively, to my heart. I had never considered Mr. Crawford as someone with a tragic backstory. It immediately sinks into my perception of his manner and features, adding a special nuance to his happy ways and easy smiles. They hide despair.

“Oh,” I say, almost overcome. “I wish there were words of comfort I could offer you. But as I know perfectly well, there are none. Only the hope that the pain… finds its place.”

Mr. Crawford’s dark eyes swim with tears.

“For it will never disappear,” he agrees.

He presses his index and thumb to the bridge of his nose for a moment, then recovers himself.

“I offer my sincerest condolences on the death of your husband, ma’am.

You spoke Shakespeare with such feeling yesterday.

It was informed by your loss, I think. I never recovered from Violet.

He must be similarly difficult to replace. ”

“Impossible,” I say, my voice faltering.

“You are a good woman,” Mr. Crawford says, steadily. “You deserve a good man. Someone who will keep you safe. Protect you from the world.”

He loses me a bit there. A natural consequence of being from another time. I don’t want someone to protect me from the world. I want someone to share the world with me.

But still, he means well.

“I see how you might think you are being kind,” I tell him, ready to withdraw from our conversation now. “But I fear you hate Mr. Balfour so much that you would come here to dissuade me from matrimony out of spite.”

“And what if that is true?” Mr. Crawford asks, his eyes sharpening like a dog on the hunt. “Perhaps my motives are scurrilous. More vengeance than chivalry. That does not change the fact that you are in danger. You cannot trust the man you have chosen. Be wary, Mrs. Bright.”

My heart skips a beat in agitation. “You do not know that. You do not know him.”

“Perhaps you might consider, Mrs. Bright,” Mr. Crawford replies, unashamed, “that I know him a little better than you do.”

I pull my head back inside the house and slam the window shut.