Page 51 of The Austen Affair
It has begun to drizzle by the time our household is readying to travel to St. Nicholas Church in Chawton.
I am wearing a delicate white gown, but that’s more coincidence than cultural mandate.
(I think I read somewhere that Queen Victoria popularized brides wearing white.) Over my dress, I have fastened the light-blue traveling cloak and bonnet that I received on the Northanger Abbey set.
Katie’s costume production still holds up. Phenomenal work, really.
Hugh, Mr. Balfour, George, and Mr. Crawford are sent away in their own carriage first. I can only hope that there is no more violence between the two well-meaning but ridiculous men. That leaves Aunt Fanny, Cecelia, and me to travel together in the second coach.
“Are you feeling well, dear?” Aunt Fanny inquires.
“I’m sure I look dreadfully pale,” I admit.
“You don’t have the usual roses in your cheeks,” Cecelia says, picking at a stray thread on her own cloak.
I am uneasy. I keep thinking about how choosing Hugh is the easiest thing I’ve ever had to do.
I love him. It’s so very simple. I should be happy—but instead I’m guilty.
Because Hugh isn’t choosing me. Not really.
He is choosing to do right by me in a society that would otherwise call me damaged goods.
And, in many ways, they’d be right. I am pretty damaged.
And I know how badly my body longs to embrace him again. To make the troubles of yesterday fall away with a full-throated “I do.” I want to sweep away our past mistakes and start afresh, with a bright, beautiful tomorrow that I have not yet stained with errors.
But as I stare out at the gray English countryside, raindrops pelting the roof like bulletfire, I know errors are inevitable.
Because… I’m me. I’m the messy, hopeless romantic my mother raised.
I will always be crying, whether I’m happy or sad.
I’ll always be leaving rings on the coffee table.
I’ll always be sensitive and reckless and determinedly, annoyingly persistent.
And sometimes, he’ll have to pick me up when I’m bruised and broken and when that’s mostly all my fault.
Can we survive that? I know I can be exhausting. I know that every adult ends up gathering a collection of regrets, but I don’t want to be one of his.
We pull to a stop in front of the simple country church, a cozy edifice, with one gothic tower and a red-shingled roof.
With a shriek of laughter I didn’t think Cecelia was capable of, she, Aunt Fanny, and I dart up the steps and out of danger from the rain.
Somewhere, an organ is playing. Our guests are already assembled. They just need the bride.
Cecelia and Aunt Fanny slip into the belly of the church, Aunt Fanny with one last wink at me. “Go get him, dear.”
An altar boy—or some other church employee, I’m not sure—takes my cloak and my bonnet and hands me a small, tidy bouquet. My hands are shaking so hard that a petal drops off one of the daisies. He loves me. He loves me not.
Thunder cracks outside the cathedral as the storm gathers strength.
And that’s when I know what to do. I give the boy with my cloak a sharp look. “You stay right there. I won’t be long.”
And then I’m booking it up the aisle. My stupid pinwheel heart in my throat. Tears leak down my cheeks, burning them. But not because I don’t love him. Because I love him so much that I need to set him free. Free to choose me.
The first several pews are empty as I race toward the man at the altar.
Eventually, I dash past the Goddards, the Dixons, the colonel and Kitty, and—dear God, is that Jane and Cassandra Austen on the aisle toward the back of the group?
No, that is to be ignored. I need to stay focused on breaking my own heart.
A clean break. One that might heal neatly one day.
I reach Hugh, standing there in a gleaming top hat and a suit of charcoal gray. He’s never been more distressingly handsome, perhaps exacerbated by that adorable bemused look he always seems to be wearing when he’s looking at me.
The reverend starts talking, but I’m not listening.
Instead, I throw myself at Hugh Balfour’s mouth, flinging my arms around his neck.
His body curves toward me at my touch, a natural reaction.
I feel the thaw in my nervous hands as I caress his face, siphoning the heat between us and setting my skin on fire.
The outraged gasps from the assembled guests are what finally make us break apart. That, and because I was so wrapped up in kissing him that I let my bouquet slacken and fall to the marble floor.
“What was that for?” Hugh asks me, breathing heavily.
“An apology,” I tell him.
“What for this time?” he chuckles.
“For not marrying you today.”
His face falls. “ What? ”
“You told me you wanted me to choose you. Well, I want you to choose me. ”
Hugh seizes my wrists, desperate, running a coaxing thumb along the sensitive artery. “I do choose you.”
“You can’t,” I tell him. “Not here. I won’t be someone you’re trapped with because you’re half-decent and honorable. Because like it or not, I’m going to drive you crazy. And I want you going into it with your eyes open.”
I kiss him hard on his cheek, feeling the smooth silk of his recently shaved face. “Chase me. Choose me. Hold my heart and I’ll hold yours.”
And with that, I stumble down the altar steps, hitching up my Empire-waist skirt to make a break back down the aisle.
As I start running, I glance behind me to see what Hugh’s doing, and I see Mr. Crawford jump up from his seat beside Cecelia in the front row. “You think I ought to follow her?” he asks, in a loud, carrying voice.
Hugh points a finger at Crawford, casting a single, brief threat in his direction. “Not if you value your life.”
Grinning, I pick up speed, only to crash into a figure blocking my way down the aisle. Two surprisingly strong hands grip me, keeping me upright, and I find myself staring into the spectacled eyes of none other than Jane Austen.
Jane speaks to me in a brisk, low voice.
“Think about what you are doing, Mrs. Bright. Jilting a man at the altar can ruin a woman forever. I myself have abandoned an engagement in my time, valuing my pen over a ring. Yet, at times, regret clouds every enjoyment in life, and I find it impossible to determine if I made the correct decision.”
I feel my thumping heart expand with joy to have Jane Austen speak to me in the persuasive tone of a wise older sister.
But I know very well what I’m doing, so I throw my arms around her neck in a spontaneous hug and hold Jane so tight to me that I feel the memory of Mom in the gesture.
Jane lets out a soft gasp of surprise but does not pull away.
“Thank you,” I tell her. “Please know that the decision you made was correct. Please know that your words meant everything to us: to me, my mother, to so many women. You will be remembered for generations, speaking through centuries with the tongue of a friend. Thank you for writing a world soft enough to hold us. Thank you for helping us dream. Thank you for Catherine Morland. Thank you for bringing me here—to do what I am doing today. I knew there had to be a reason.”
And with that, I release Jane Austen from my bear hug, leaving her standing stiff and shocked in the aisle. “Where could you have heard about Catherine Morland?” she calls after me. “That manuscript hasn’t even been published!”
I keep running. No time to answer. The storm is raging outside the cathedral now, and if it blows itself out before I get to where I need to go, the results will be catastrophic.
I slam into the entry, where I reclaim my cloak and bonnet from the altar boy, and then go about the issue of stealing a horse.