Page 41 of The Austen Affair

I glance at Kitty in shock. “I don’t like that one bit.”

Kitty’s gloved fingers are raised to her lips as she shakes her head. “Nor do I.”

“I’ll take care of it,” I tell her, and then beat my steps toward Phoebe and Chawton’s resident cad.

When Mr. Armstrong sees me approaching, however, he casts me a glower and quickly departs before having to exchange wooden pleasantries.

I look at Phoebe with concern. No, I never much liked her, but no woman deserves to be at the mercy of a man like Armstrong. “Miss Dixon,” I say, keeping my tone as light as possible, “I do hope Captain Armstrong was not troubling you.”

Phoebe’s voice comes out faint, almost inaudible. “But he does trouble. He troubles me greatly, with questions I do not know the answer to.”

I cut a sharp look toward her, alarm rising. I seize Phoebe’s hand and raise her lace-clothed fingers to my lips. I lay a kiss there—a gesture so intimate and shocking that Phoebe cannot help but grant me her undivided attention. “Mrs. Bright!”

“Phoebe,” I tell her, dispensing of all formality.

“I need you to listen to me right now, and heed me. I am a woman of the world, and I know of men’s nature better than you.

Captain Armstrong is a dishonorable wretch.

I have met his type before, and I have seen them break the heart of many a good woman.

He wants something from you, he will suck it from the marrow of your bones, and he will leave you flat.

He will not be faithful. He will not even be kind. ”

Phoebe’s eyes become wild, frenzied. “How do you know?”

I shrug. “Let us say I am sending you a message from the future. Men like that will behave poorly until the end of time. Do not ruin your life over his pretty face.”

She sniffs her pert nose, on the verge of tears. “Oh, la. How dreadful. I rather suspect you’re right.”

After solving the Phoebe problem, I wind my way through the mass of guests, having spotted Hugh towering over Aunt Fanny far to the left side of the room.

On my way, I spot some familiar faces. Mrs. Goddard has cornered some poor soul and is probably rattling off all the town’s latest gossip without allowing for breath.

Colonel Foster and Kitty have taken to the floor, dancing exuberantly and, in his case, a bit arrhythmically.

And if I’m not very much mistaken, I think I see the reverend and his sisters in a far-off corner tonight, which means Jane Austen herself is once again in attendance.

I find myself at Hugh’s elbow and stand on my tiptoes to whisper in his ear, “Did you see Jane is here? I wonder what she makes of all this silliness.”

Hugh grins at me. “Somehow, I’m sure she approves. You know, my father played Mr. Bennet in a Pride and Prejudice radio play about ten years back, and I still recall the line, ‘For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbors, and laugh at them in our turn?’”

My thumping heart begins to outpace the music. A man who quotes Austen. One would almost think she’d written him. “She also once said, ‘One cannot have too large a party.’ But then again, she put those words in Mr. Weston’s mouth, and he was not her wisest character.”

Hugh offers me his hand, which I accept.

“Mr. Weston ends his tale sublimely happy and in love. I could probably do with following his example every so often.” He leads me over to Aunt Fanny, who is rapidly fanning herself beside the table where Mr. Balfour sits.

I think she’s mostly doing this to burn off nervous energy rather than because she’s actually overheating.

“Is all well?” I ask her.

“Not at all!” Aunt Fanny says, gesturing with her fan along the line of chairs at the wall.

Cecelia is sitting in a corner, wearing a dour expression, with her hands folded neatly in her lap.

“Look at her! One of the prettiest girls here, and there she sits like a lump. Worse than a lump! A wallflower! There’s no excuse for it.

She should be up and about, mingling and meeting eligible men! ”

Hugh’s face immediately blanches—and I am not a complete idiot, so I, too, can guess that this conversation is barreling toward Aunt Fanny asking him for a favor. I promptly try to change the topic. “Where is George?” I ask, squinting around for some trace of his dark curls.

Mr. Balfour, who is deep in conversation with an ancient (and tipsy) widow, breaks into a hearty laugh and points across the room, to the buffet.

“He’s hiding under tables and pretending to be a feral dog,” he tells me.

“Nipped at Mrs. Dixon’s ankles. Caused quite a scene!

She shrieked and spilled brandy all down her front. ”

I see an opening to depart before Aunt Fanny asks Hugh to do what I know she’s planning on asking. “Should Hugh and I not stop him before he causes more havoc?”

Aunt Fanny slaps her fan against her left forearm, irritated. “Hardly. Susanna Dixon could use a humbling now and then. Nasty, spiteful gossip of a woman. No, what we must focus on now is Cecelia. ”

My stomach drops. Hugh shoots me a terrified glance.

“Someone has to drag her out on that dance floor! Get her moving and talking with other people before it’s too late!” Aunt Fanny casts her eyes sideways at Hugh, widening them solicitously.

Hugh clicks his tongue against his teeth, plainly realizing there is no way to decline. “I suppose I shall be the man.” But Aunt Fanny cheers and pretends it’s an entirely brilliant, fresh idea, instead of what she’s been driving at all along.

I follow Hugh as he approaches Cecelia cautiously, as one might an easily spooked horse. She watches us coming from a distance, her mouth a prim line. “And what might you possibly want from me?” she sniffs.

“It’s not what I want,” Hugh tells her, voice low. “It’s what Aunt Fanny wants, and Aunt Fanny wants you dancing.” He offers her a hand and, eyebrow raised warily, she takes it.

I watch as he leads Cecelia out onto the floor.

They face each other with the same solemnity as a pair of duelists meeting with pistols at dawn.

I bury my face in my hands as I watch the train wreck begin.

A new song kicks up, and Hugh is so flustered that he immediately bungles the opening moves.

Even from a distance, I can see an embarrassed flush flaring up in his cheeks as Cecelia’s eyes narrow suspiciously.

I wonder if she suspects Hugh is messing up on purpose.

But I can understand how it might be hard to dance well when faced with such open hostility.

We practiced a few of these dances for Northanger Abbey, after all, but this is not natural to us.

(And frankly, Hugh doesn’t strike me as someone who is at home on a dance floor in any era.) Unfortunately, the more flustered Hugh seems to get, the more steps he misses.

Increasingly panicked, he casts his gaze around for someone to save him. I know I have to intercede, so I pounce on the nearest unaccompanied man I can find and end up dragging Mr. Crawford by the hand onto the dance floor.

Despite my complete and utter rudeness, Mr. Crawford is a pretty decent sport about it as I steer him toward his sister and Hugh so we could dance directly beside them. He laughs good-naturedly as we do our best to slide seamlessly in with the rest of the group.

As we near Hugh, I brush my elbow discreetly against his and begin mouthing the steps to him.

“And one, two, and one, two, and turn—hands up—” He looks at me with wide, grateful eyes, the same way a drowning man would look at a life preserver.

He manages to recenter himself and slip back into the correct steps.

He whispers grateful thanks to me as the shifting of the line pulls me and Mr. Crawford briefly away as we rotate in a circle.

Mr. Crawford is trying to talk to me, but I’m probably the most annoying partner of all time, because as we dance, I’m trying to keep monitoring the Hugh-and-Cecelia situation.

My paranoia proves justified as we cycle back to the others.

Cecelia’s eyes, sharpened to ice-blue pinpricks, have obviously not failed to notice this interaction between me and Hugh.

She stops middance, forcing Hugh to halt, too, and totally disrupting the general flow of the dance.

I stop, too, in an attempt to avoid careening into them, and I see Cecelia searching Hugh’s face with a profound desperation before her expression ultimately slackens as she visibly pieces something together.

“You do not dance like you used to,” she accuses Hugh.

Hugh shakes his head, looking like a fox caught in a trap. “I have not claimed talent in this area.”

But Cecelia scans him up and down again, growing flushed. “But you could dance, then. You also have not your old ease of manner. You do not make friends as naturally.”

Hugh seems slightly irritated now, but he bites back any real venom, leading to a tone that is only slightly clipped. “I do not pretend to social graces I do not possess.”

“And you do not look at me the way you used to,” Cecelia adds, her voice hushed. Her eyes flick to me, and I see a well of sadness deepen behind them. “But you do look at her.”

“And?” I ask, feeling a blush stain my face.

“It is not the same look,” Cecelia presses on. “But it means the same, I think.”

Hugh gives a heavy sigh as the dance ends around us and the various partners disperse. “I cannot catch your meaning, Miss Crawford.”

“You told the truth,” she says, almost inaudible. “You are not the same man.”

And she turns her back to us and retreats to the line of chairs. Hugh’s eyes flash to me, and I can see he is barely suppressing a panic attack. He rushes off the dance floor, and I am not sure where he intends to hide.