Page 38 of The Austen Affair

In our time here, I’ve come to learn that Hugh rises with the dawn—a holdover from his daily exercise routine that even a dash through time can’t shake—and it appears that Aunt Fanny does, too.

Hugh and I intended to go for a morning ride, but as we move toward the garden door, Aunt Fanny intercepts us, grabbing Hugh by the arm and pulling him toward the dining room with such ease that I’m certain she views her “nephew” as a child as small as George.

Aunt Fanny forces us to sit across from her at the dining-room table, her voice hushed. “Have you two noticed any strangeness in Cecelia since she’s arrived?”

Hugh and I exchange a guilty glance but say nothing.

Luckily, Aunt Fanny is the type of woman who enjoys talking, so our response is not immediately necessary.

“She has been very odd by my understanding. I invited her here because my sister said she had been so gloomy and dour. We thought a change of venue might suit her, but the country air has brought no improvement. Could she be ill? And yet she displays no obvious symptoms, apart from pallor and a certain languor. Now, I come to my theory, which I should like you to mull over. Could she have been jilted in some romance we know not of?”

I cover my mouth with my hand as Hugh blinks at Fanny, visibly tongue-tied.

“Come now!” Aunt Fanny says, shaking her hands at us.

“Don’t just sit there like a pair of lumps!

She is family. We need to find out what is wrong with her.

Now, Hugh, I believe you visited her and William a few months prior to going abroad.

Don’t you recall her manner as being different then?

I always thought her vivacious and delightful. Now, she seems half-dead.”

A stone settles in my stomach as I watch Hugh sink into an advanced state of panic. He manages to trot out his go-to excuse, however. “I have to c-confess, Aunt Fanny, I do not remember that visit very well. I’m sure Cecelia is a very nice girl, but my memory is not what it used to be.”

Aunt Fanny’s face softens into disappointment, and Hugh adds something else in a voice so quiet and morose I know he is thinking of his father’s condition. “I am so very sorry to be unable to help you, Auntie. It pains me that my memory is not what it was. I feel I’ve… let you down.”

Fanny responds with a sort of brisk sympathy. “Oh, darling,” she says, reaching out to pat his hand. “Do not trouble yourself. Your family does not fault you for your lapse in memory. Do not ever think that.”

Hugh swallows heavily, eyes downcast.

Guilt crawls up the inside of my stomach like a tapeworm.

I feel terrible for Hugh, going through the loss of his father from a distance.

(At least I got to be with my mother when things were hardest.) But I also despair over Cecelia’s predicament, and Hugh’s unenviable position in it.

He didn’t jilt her. But as he’s here to deal with the consequences, I’m sure to him it feels like he did.

“We are so sorry, Aunt Fanny,” I say, offering the older woman my earnest feelings. “I do wish I could help. I just don’t see how.”

Aunt Fanny’s mouth tightens like she’s sucking on a lemon rind. “I wish I could help as well.”

“Perhaps something to cheer her up is in order?” I suggest. “Hugh and I were discussing that it might be nice to host a ball. Perhaps that would give Cecelia an opportunity to be… joyful again.”

That perks Aunt Fanny right up. “That is actually quite a perceptive idea, Tess. We ought to be doing something to celebrate your engagement anyway, and as for Cecelia, a beautiful young woman needs a chance to expose herself to society now and again.”

I bite back a laugh at the expression, but Aunt Fanny doesn’t notice.

The initial plans for a ball come together over breakfast with the larger group, mostly because Aunt Fanny has seized the project from me and Hugh almost immediately upon hearing of it.

(Which is all for the best.) She thinks it’s preferable to host the event at the Crow and Crown inn down in the village—less disruptive to the elder Mr. Balfour’s rest and routine—and she chatters with great speed and enthusiasm about who should receive an invitation.

She lingers, casting meaningful glances at Cecelia, on the names of any rich and eligible men who might be inclined to accept.

If she thinks that introducing Cecelia to someone new will solve the problem, I’m all for it.

Maybe getting her a rebound guy is the only thing to do in these strange circumstances.

However, I do feel I need to warn Hugh that Mr. Crawford is also aware of his perceived role in this whole mess.

I’m dreading it because it will only add to his troubles, but at the same time, I appreciate honesty from him and I ought to offer him the same.

I catch his attention over breakfast by brushing my hand against his knee beneath the table, featherlight.

Hugh catches my eye, and I widen my own, inclining my head ever so slightly toward the garden. “After breakfast?”

He nods.

We escape together as soon as the plates are cleared. The sky is a sublime, heavenly blue. I can almost feel his admiring eyes on my figure as I lead him deeper into the roses. I hope he doesn’t think we’re here for a secret assignation, because he will be sorely disappointed.

“Is something wrong?” he asks, noting my tense expression. “Tell me.”

I draw him close to me, and my focus is fractured by the citrus scent of him, which I can now pick out even among the scented blooms that surround us.

Or, at least, I think I can pick it out.

Maybe my brain’s playing tricks on me. Maybe Hugh doesn’t smell better than any other person.

Maybe I simply think he’s uniquely good-smelling because my skin longs to be in contact with his.

Because he haunts my senses in dreams, my synapses believe he should haunt them in life.

“I know it’s not going to make anything better, but I spoke to William Crawford this morning and he definitely knows what happened with Cecelia and your uncle.”

“Bugger!” Hugh curses. “We need to get the hell out of here, Tess. For about a thousand reasons.”

“Not least of which,” I say, “I’m worried that Mr. Crawford is going to snap and challenge you to pistols at dawn. You need to avoid him for as long as you can.”

Hugh groans, massaging his temples. “Noted. Thank you for the warning. I just don’t know how long this can go on—”

A holler splits across the garden in that moment as George sprints toward us, waving an envelope over his head.

“Hugh!” he calls, skidding to a stop in front of us.

“Letter for you!” He’s a tornado, flinging the letter toward Hugh like a paper airplane before tearing off through the garden again, exclaiming that he wants to be chased.

Neither Hugh nor I oblige George’s wish, however.

The letter is too monumental. Hugh passes me the envelope, which has a return address in London.

Belonging to Dr. Elias Beckworth. Hugh’s eyes meet mine with the electricity of triumph.

He rips the envelope open and scans its contents.

His words come out gruff with joy and palpable relief.

“He’s sending us a machine. We’re going home. ”

“We’re going home!” My voice hitches up to helium levels as I bounce in excitement.

“We’re going home,” Hugh murmurs again, his hands reaching out for my waist, pulling me toward him.

I’m in his arms before I know it—as if this is our natural state, to be returned to again and again, ignoring all entropy.

I’m kissing him as a natural reflex. We’re overjoyed and we’re together, so it is only to be expected.

I don’t ever want this embrace to end. I love being held here, safe and tight, in his arms. Every part of my body feels alive and warm, ready to melt into him and disappear from this plane of reality.

When we pull away, I let out an unconscious sigh.

Hugh checks the letter again, shaking with excitement. “You were right!” he enthuses. “He even turned down the extra money as a matter of pride. He says to call it a wedding gift to a charming young lady. Flattery truly solves everything!”

I brush my fingers against his stubbled chin, caressing it. “You should try it more often.”

Hugh’s eyes smolder as he gazes down on me, neither of us caring about propriety on this wondrous day, here together under this brilliant sun. “As if it weren’t enough to be stunningly beautiful, you are something of a genius, Tess Bright.”

I bat my eyelashes at him. “Oh, go on.”

Hugh’s cheeks pink again, and he stumbles a bit—unprepared to do an encore. “You—you always keep me guessing. Which usually I would hate, but with you… it’s different.”

“That’s very good,” I encourage him, giggling. “Once more to close it out strong.”

Hugh’s next words come out quite quickly, as if they are always on the tip of his tongue and the real trouble is keeping them from spilling out.

“You are luminous. And I do not mean simply the brilliancy of your complexion. Sometimes I look at you, and I think, ‘There must be a candle burning just beneath her skin.’ All your joy and love and considerable kindness taking physical effect. But logically, I know that isn’t true.

The simple answer is that you glow because, to me, you are the focus of every scene.

Every room we enter. The camera, the lights, my attention—they are all trained on you. ”

My mouth hangs very slightly open. I’m momentarily speechless. My hand flutters to my chest, where my heart is racing. No one has ever said something like that to me, even reading from a script. “Hugh,” I say, tears blurring my vision, “that is poetry. ”

Hugh smooths one of my curls behind my ear. “I beg you: don’t make me keep going. I am not an Austen hero. If I stumble briefly into eloquence, I’d like to leave while I’m on top.”

I grin, almost shy in his presence now. Every day, Hugh Balfour expands to take up more room in my heart. Obeying his wish to let him quit while he’s ahead, I fold myself against his chest and check the letter in his hand. “When will the machine arrive?”

Hugh cocks his head so we can both read the letter at once. “Looks like it will be here in two weeks.”

“Two weeks?” I ask, the date ringing something of a bell.

“Two weeks,” Hugh responds, still riding a wave of oblivious bliss.

“Hugh,” I remind him, patiently. “In two weeks, it’s our wedding day.”