Page 45 of The Austen Affair

When Hugh exits the post office, the heavy package containing the electrical machine in his arms, his steps are jaunty.

In some strange, irrational way, this feels like a betrayal.

But I brush that thought away—of course, we have always been trying to get home.

That was always the plan we made together. As a team.

I break off from the gossiping cluster to veer toward him, my voice hushed. “You’ve got it, then? It’s all… over?”

Hugh’s grin is so wide he’s almost unrecognizable. Like the next literary role he should audition for is the Mad Hatter. “I think we’re all set. We’ve got everything we need. You and I, and the road home. The very moment it’s set up, we can go.”

The very moment it’s set up. My stomach plunges.

“Perfect timing,” I say, doing my very best to hide my disappointment. I glance over at the others to make sure we’re not overheard. “After all, our wedding is tomorrow.”

I must be doing a good imitation of a happy person, because Hugh gives a rough laugh and leans down to press a kiss on my forehead. I still at his touch, my fingers reaching out des perately for his hand. “Goodbye, shotgun wedding, hello, Northanger Abbey press tour.”

As he pulls away, I swallow a dry lump in my throat. “What if it doesn’t work?”

Hugh gives me a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder, visibly misinterpreting the source of my distress. “It will work,” he promises me. “It has to.”

I force a simulation of my usual megawatt smile. “We’ll give it our best shot, anyway.”

Although taking George on our walk to the village was intended to tire him out, he only picks up speed throughout the day, and by the time we reach the house again, he’s rocketing around like an overexcited puppy.

Upon our arrival, I see that Aunt Fanny and Cecelia must’ve had their talk, because they are sitting together in the parlor with a renewed warmth between them.

Cecelia is actually smiling again, though her eyes are red-rimmed.

I pause in the foyer, distinctly uncomfortable when our gaze connects, but Cecelia just nods at me and steps with dignity from the room.

Equally wary as he passes her in the doorway, Hugh moves into the dining room and begins unwrapping the package.

George follows on Hugh’s heels, keenly aware that the package has 100 percent of Hugh’s attention and finding that absolutely unacceptable.

“What’s in the box?” George asks.

“It is an electrical machine,” Hugh says patiently.

“What does it do?” he pesters.

“It sends a small shock through the body,” Hugh explains.

“Can I try it?”

“No,” Hugh says, very firm. “You mustn’t touch it. It will hurt you. You’re much too small to play with something like this.”

“But I want to,” George whines. He slinks behind the window’s heavy velvet curtains and starts moaning like a restless spirit. “Can we play ghosts instead?”

Hugh exhales, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose.

Aunt Fanny, who has been sitting at the table silently watching Hugh work, raises a single brow at George’s impression beneath the fabric.

Without missing a beat, she says, “Now, it is hardly the time for that. George, if you are going to be silly, please do be silly in the garden.”

George emerges from his hiding spot, sticking out his petulant tongue at her. I step forward to take George by the hand. “I shall take you to play in the garden while your brother works, Georgie. We’ve still got so many hours in this lovely day left.”

Sulky, George stomps with me out of the dining room. Unfortunately, Mr. Crawford also follows me. “Mrs. Bright,” he murmurs, “would you mind terribly if I accompanied you on that stroll around the garden?”

My eyes seek Hugh’s out. The wry smile curling at his lip lets me know we’re on the same page—we both suspect that Mr. Crawford is just going to attempt convincing me once again that Hugh isn’t who he says he is. What a waste of my final hours in a Regency garden!

But bound by the laws of politeness, I offer Mr. Crawford my arm. “By all means. Let us stroll.”

Upon reaching the garden, the heady scent of roses hits me like a sucker punch, bringing tears to my eyes almost immediately.

I am swimming in premature nostalgia. Everything we do may be the last time.

We just finished our last walk to the village.

This is my last time gazing upon the glory of these blooming roses.

It reminds me of the final year of my mother’s life—both of us trying to suck the marrow out of every last second we had left with each other but always knowing that imminent loss was just an arm’s reach away.

Every holiday, the last. Every bite of ice cream made bittersweet.

We’d watch the sunset together each night in the backyard, knowing there was no guarantee it would rise again in the morning.

I squint at the roses, trying my best to think about anything except my mother.

It suddenly occurs to me that autumn is speeding by, and soon these velvet pink petals will wilt and drop away.

In a matter of weeks, this garden will be bare and covered in frost. It isn’t fair, how nothing beautiful stays.

Mr. Crawford’s voice reaches me as if through a distant haze. “Mrs. Bright… you’re crying.”

I dab at my cheek and find that the tears I’d tried to hold back are now running freely. “I suppose I am,” I say, voice thick.

Always a gentleman, Mr. Crawford offers me his handkerchief, and I accept.

I know that he’s suspicious of Hugh, but at the same time, it’s very clear he’s a good man deep down.

And we did come here under impossible circumstances.

I can’t find one speck of my heart that will fault him for his skepticism.

“Thank you,” I say.

“You are a fine woman,” Mr. Crawford says, voice stiff. “You remind me a great deal of Violet.”

I blink at him, droplets still clinging to my lashes. “How so?”

“She looked for the best in people,” he says. “And she gave everything her all. You do, too. And I can tell you have given the defense of your betrothed your all.”

I repress an eye roll. “It is not difficult to defend Hugh,” I tell Mr. Crawford gently. “Because I know in my heart that he is not what you call him. But I don’t expect you to believe me. Just understand that I am not a fool in this.”

Mr. Crawford sets his jaw, and I can see a muscle jump in it. “Mrs. Bright, he made a fool of my sister. He broke her heart in two.”

I close my eyes, exhaling. It is impossible to say anything, because of course I want Cecelia to be well. But she is longing for a man already gone, who will never return to her.

“I fear,” Mr. Crawford continues, removing his hat from his head and fiddling with the brim, “that the only way to save Cecelia’s heart is to bring her back together with the man who broke it.

” I make a small scoffing sound, but Mr. Crawford doesn’t notice, he just plows relentlessly on.

“And that puts you both in a dreadful position, I know. Mr. Balfour has threatened the reputation of two good women, and you deserve a life worthy of your goodness.”

He sinks to his knee on the gravel path, and my stomach plummets.

I am staring down at an honorable man prostrating himself before me.

Even the framing of this moment is worthy of an Austen film: the haze of the gray day, the pop of color from his cranberry jacket, the fine swoop of his coiffured hair. The earnestness on his face.

And yet, I can’t abide it. Not in the slightest.

I hold out a hand. “Please, sir, do not do what I think you’re about to do.”

Mr. Crawford roundly ignores me. “Mrs. Bright,” he says, his voice low and pleading.

“I beg you to allow me to implement the one solution that will save you both. Please, marry me. Free Balfour up to wed my sister and remove the stain of his behavior from her reputation. Now, I know you are fond of him—”

“I am!” I interrupt, my voice choked.

“But consider this,” Mr. Crawford cries out, seizing my hand.

“I would be a devoted husband. We are not yet in love, I am not so delusional as to presume it, but we could be. Since Violet’s death, I have been disappointed in myself.

I am not the man I should be. But I believe that you could make me that man again. ”

I rub my index fingers into my temples, buffing out an instantaneous headache.

I almost wish Mr. Crawford were a bore, like Mr. Collins.

A dullard like John Thorpe. A man of low character like Willoughby.

It would be a relief to see a man kneeling before me that I could delight in turning down.

Instead, I am witnessing Mr. Crawford’s one last desperate overture to save his sister’s heart.

But as much as I think the Crawfords are fundamentally good people, I have to shut this down.

“Mr. Crawford, I thank you for your kindness, but I cannot entertain your offer. I honor you for your devotion to your sister’s happiness, but this is not the way to secure it.”

He begins to stutter up at me, but I race forward anyway.

“I hate to be cruel, so I will give you no false hope. I am promised to Hugh, and what’s more, I do not wish to be parted from him.

” Brief images of Hugh speed by in my mind’s eye, like flipping through the pages of a favorite book.

We may be something new, but I know we are certainly something. I’m not giving him up.

The words come as a confession to Mr. Crawford in the same instant that they dawn on me myself. “I love him.”

A rustling sound in the hedges distracts me as I search for the words that can make this better. I sympathize with Cecelia and her brother, but heartbreak is another form of grief. And you can’t just turn back the clock and fix it. Not without a miracle, anyway.

I squeeze Mr. Crawford’s hand. “I’m sorry. It’s just not possible.”

“But this is the only way we can all be happy,” he insists, a wild gleam in his eyes. “This is the only way we can all win.”

“No,” I breathe, “there is no winning there. It’s only settling.

And besides, it doesn’t matter because—” I breathe heavily, my chest aching with the imminent desertion of this place.

I feel I owe this decent man the truth. Or, at least, an approximation of it.

“—because Hugh and I will not be staying here.”

Mr. Crawford rises to his feet, gravel scraping beneath his boots. “What do you mean? Hugh is heir to this estate. This is where he belongs.”

“No,” I correct him. “ George is the one who will inherit this place. We will be making sure of it. We’re going away.”

“Going where?” he demands, baffled.

I’m flustered now. I’ve said too much. “Just… away.”

A screech echoes through the quiet garden. “ Forever? ” George tumbles out of a nearby rosebush. A fine scratch on his forehead wells with blood, as if one of the thorns left its mark.

I stare in horror at the agitated child, stomping his little feet on the path, completely uninterested in his own injury, so intent he is at screaming at me. “Are you really leaving? Don’t lie!”

Oh, fuck.

“George,” I stammer, all gifts for improvisation abandoning me.

“Since when?” George shrieks. “I don’t want him to go away again! Everything’s better now.”

And then George is flying back toward the house, roaring with an inarticulate fury.

I give chase, begging him to stop, but then Mr. Crawford grabs me by the crook of the arm, soliciting me to stay, to explain.

“Where is he taking you, Mrs. Bright? You should know better than anyone not to take untrustworthy men at their word. Just look at Miss Dixon and Mr. Armstrong!”

“It’s nothing like that!” I tear my arm away from him and race back into the house.

“You have no guarantee that when you arrive at your destination, he will stick by you!” Mr. Crawford calls after me.

And the terrible truth of those words rings in my ears. I have no guarantees. I’m going on faith.

I race after George, my footsteps crunching in the garden gravel with every stride.

The long rug in the back hall nearly slips out from under me as I take the turn at high speed.

As George slams through the dining-room doors, I am only a beat behind him, but he is already screaming, “They’re leaving!

They’re leaving! They’re going to leave! ”

I feel all the blood drain out of my face as Hugh whirls around to look at me. I shrug helplessly at him.

In the peaceful few minutes we have been gone, Hugh has already made tremendous progress with the machine—it is mostly complete, although there are a few small pieces that might still need to be screwed on.

When George starts pulling on his pant leg, wailing to high heaven, Hugh’s grip on the instructional pamphlet lapses and the sheet flutters to the floor.

Very calmly indeed, Aunt Fanny stands up from her place at the table, pulls George by the ear, and says, “Go stand in the hall. I have things to discuss with your brother.”

George deflates, slinking into the hall. Aunt Fanny shuts the double doors smartly behind him, and I can hear George weakly smacking the wood on the other side with his soft six-year-old fists.

Aunt Fanny turns to us with a grim expression on her face, her fingers laced together.

“It is a very interesting machine you have. I am impressed with your dedication to seeing it most efficiently built, nephew. And yet I cannot determine why it is so important to you. Not even having just spoken with Cecelia and having heard her speculations about you both.”

My heart thuds to a stop. I feel my tongue stick to the roof of my mouth.

Hugh starts spluttering, protesting with sentences that are so incoherent they are practically gibberish. His eyes cut desperately to me—clearly hoping I will once again know the magic words.

But I don’t have them this time.

Aunt Fanny raises a hand, cutting him off midbabble.

“Tell the truth. You’re not my nephew, are you? You’re a fraud.”