Page 39 of The Austen Affair
A week and a half slips past in a swift blur of preparation for the wedding and its preceding ball.
Every day we wonder, breathlessly, if the machine will arrive before our wedding bells chime.
It would simplify a lot about our relationship if we could get home before vows are made—and then sort out what we are to each other without the additional pressure.
But sometimes while I lie in bed, curled up in the dark, hitting mental replay on that sincere, heartbreakingly vulnerable speech he delivered to me in the garden, I wonder, if we have to stand at the altar side by side… would that be so bad?
I am starting to realize that we are both pretty far gone in these feelings.
My only question is: Would they be here to stay if we made it back to our real lives?
Or are they just the result of our insane circumstances?
A jumble of desperate anxiety and desire and gratitude that makes us melt when we see each other.
Who’s to say these emotions won’t evaporate when all the danger and suspense does?
Some terrible, cynical part of me wonders if, between get ting married here in the past or returning to the future, going back home might be the more frightening option. Not that I would ever tell Hugh that.
Soon I find myself standing in the Crow and Crown, in between Aunt Fanny and Cecelia.
We’re doing our last round of approvals before the event this evening, and even though she’s been sullen all week, Aunt Fanny insisted that Cecelia accompany us.
This is the first time she and I have truly been alone together since our brief argument in the garden.
But if we’re going to help Cecelia get her groove back at this ball before we escape back to the modern age, I need to make use of the days we have left.
Luckily, I find an opening when Aunt Fanny leaves us momentarily to speak with the cook about the preparations for tonight. We’re alone—time to make my move.
“This inn is charming, don’t you agree, Miss Crawford?” I ask, gesturing around the room, which has a large dance floor of polished, dark wood.
Miss Crawford hits me with an icy side-eye but keeps her tone civil. “It’s more than tolerable.”
This isn’t going to stop me. I am a bulldozer of optimism, rolling forward. “Don’t you just love a ball? I know I certainly do.”
Cecelia’s eyes slice into me again. It’s jujitsu with pleasantries. “I have found that the enjoyment of any ball is predicated on the quality of the company in attendance. I’m sure that Hampshire will do its best to rise to the occasion.”
I pointedly ignore her implication. “I would love to find you an eligible dance partner. Someone who would be worth your time. You are so lovely, and I am sure we would all be glad to see you first on the floor and last to leave it.”
Cecelia lets out a harsh laugh. “Ah, but that is unlikely, is it not? As Mr. Balfour is one of the hosts, it is his right to lead the dancing. And surely his natural partner will be his fiancée.”
A very capable riposte. I gulp at a dry lump in my throat. “Miss Crawford—” I begin, before trailing off for lack of an ending. Usually a persistent smile and a go-with-the-flow attitude can take me a long way, but I don’t know how to “yes, and” my way into a friendship with Cecelia.
“Mrs. Bright,” Cecelia says, squaring up to me with a heavy sigh, “am I to understand from these attempts at matchmaking that you know the nature of my former relationship with Mr. Balfour?”
The only sound that comes from my lips is a feeble squeak. Cecelia evidently takes that as a yes.
“Then if you know that, I hope you can respect my dignity and my intelligence enough to understand that I have no desire to become your bosom friend. We have nothing at all in common except the man you have taken from me, and I can only imagine that any interest you have in me is simply a desire to calm your own uneasy mind. Now, I trust if you have a scrap of decency in you, you will keep our connection to yourself. My reputation is already that of a spinster. I don’t need to become damaged goods as well. ”
A direct hit. I almost place my hand to my stomach, half expecting to find a blade sticking out of it. I find my voice again, and it is breathy with mortification. I can’t deny anything she’s said, so I just say the next best thing. “I promise you, I will never betray your secret.”
Cecelia’s mouth curves in a sneer. “Why should I trust you? I trusted him. Look where I am now.”
A strange shiver of cosmic importance makes its way down my spine, as if somewhere in the universe my mom is signaling to me that I can use her in a promise. Giving me permission.
I reach tentatively for Cecelia’s hand, the lace of my gloves brushing against hers. To my surprise, she doesn’t pull away. “I swear on my departed mother’s soul, I will do nothing to hurt you or your reputation.”
The blue of Cecelia’s eyes deepens. “I hardly know why, but I believe you.”
I take a leap. “My mother was my favorite, the most dear person in all the world to me. I know you wouldn’t want any advice from me, but maybe you’d take some from her.”
Cecelia withdraws her hand from mine with a queenly flick of her pinky finger. She eyes me warily. “Go on.”
“My mother always told me that any man who would make you cry isn’t a man at all, but a boy. She’d say that if someone couldn’t see your value, then they had nothing much to recommend them.”
Cecelia’s lower lip wobbles. Even the British can’t be stiff all the time. “Your fiancé has made me shed many tears. What does that say about him?”
I shake my head, torn between the validity of her feelings and the impossibility of the circumstances.
“You and your brother like Shakespeare. Mistaken identities. Destinies. Changing natures. So maybe on some level, that could help you understand… All I can say is that Hugh isn’t the same man he was when you knew him.
He doesn’t want to hurt you, but he’s penned in by fate.
But I hope, we both hope, that you’ll be… okay.”
“Okay?” Cecelia snorts. I immediately realize that word probably hasn’t been invented yet. But somehow from her tone of derision, I think she’s figured it out from context.
“I know it can feel like you’ll never be okay,” I fumble on, desperate to make an impossible thing right. “I know you grieved for him. I know that pain doesn’t go away, but—”
“Do you even love him?” Cecelia demands.
I’m floored by her interruption. One moment ago, she was ice. Now she is all fire.
“Do you love him like I love him?” she continues, beating her slender hand against her breast. “ Can you? You are already a widow. You have had your love. Why can’t you let me have mine? Surely one is enough for any decent woman.”
A ripple of grief and despair runs through me, like a fever laying waste to my body.
I am flung back into a Thousand Oaks bedroom with the lights out, curtains drawn.
I have had a love, but not the kind she means.
And I realize, suddenly, that to be thrown back into that room… at some point I had to have left it.
I believe I only truly left that room when I turned a corner with Hugh. So slowly I was not conscious of it.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” I tell Cecelia, pulling myself up to my full height—though it doesn’t come anywhere near hers.
Still, the effect must have been impressive enough, because she seems to shrink from me.
“One love is not enough. You cannot pin all your hopes on one person. You cannot build a life on one hope. If a person leaves, or God forbid, is forced to leave you, you cannot wallow in the dark forever. You can’t.
You have to look for the next beam of light.
Hugh is mine. I am sorry he could not be yours forever.
But you will find your next chapter, so long as you can get yourself together and look for it. ”
And then Aunt Fanny returns to the room, and I fall silent, out of respect for my promise. I can only hope that Cecelia heard me.
That evening, I sit in front of a vanity mirror, examining my own reflection. I almost cannot believe I am myself tonight. I feel as if I am floating outside of my body, viewing myself as if I am at a movie premiere, staring up at my face enlarged on a cinema screen.
And yet, my skin buzzes pleasantly, as if I were already tipsy from a few drinks. That tingling sensation is the only sign that my body is my own.
My hair is pinned in an elaborate updo, dotted with seed pearls. A simple yet elegant gown of white silk keeps me looking youthful, almost angelic. The fabric seems to shine in the candlelight of my room.
I am going to a ball. It seems impossible. The best, most delicious, most invigorating scene in any adaptation. If my mom could see me now—if my mom could see me now. She would kiss the top of my head. Squeeze my shoulders. And tell me to make the most of every second.
And with the hot coal in my chest of knowing what I said to Cecelia today… I am determined to take this chance with Hugh. He means more to me than I intended to allow him to. I gave him an inch of my heart, and he took a mile. I’m sure he doesn’t even know.
Tonight, I think I’d like to let him know.