Page 6 of The Austen Affair

I come to slowly, blinking lazily as if it’s a nonshooting day and I’m waking in my comfy hotel bed, having slept longer than I have in months.

And then I realize there’s something impossibly heavy on top of me, blocking out all light.

I scream, thinking I’m experiencing one of those sleep-paralysis demons I’ve seen on TikTok.

At the sound of my terror, the weight jerks, rolling away from me, and I realize I’m not being haunted.

It’s only that my face had hitherto been pressed into the dark fabric of Hugh’s waistcoat.

I’m lying on my back in a field scattered with wildflowers. A brilliant blue sky is overhead, with hardly a cloud to be seen.

On the ground beside me, Hugh is squinting upward in wonder. Even at this unflattering angle, I can see why he’s a movie star. Just breathtaking bone structure.

“What the—” he mutters.

Something percolates in the back of my mind. We had been fighting. I don’t remember much beyond that, but the fight I remember. He’d implied that I was illiterate.

I ball my fist and punch him in the shoulder. Restraint only lasts so long. He groans, baffled by this sudden violence. “What was that for?” he demands.

“Mr. Knightley,” I tell him, wincing as I flex my fingers. It probably hurt me just as much to hit him as for him to get hit. For the first time, I wonder if Hugh might have some serious biceps hidden beneath that aristocratic costume.

“ What? ” Hugh seems quite at a loss.

“Mr. Knightley,” I repeat. “You told me that I only knew that quote because it was Gwyneth Paltrow’s line. But it’s not Emma’s line at all. It’s Mr. Knightley’s. Maybe you’d know that if you’d read the books as much as I have. You moldy, misogynist, nepo-baby prick.”

Hugh pushes himself into a sitting position, then raises his hands in surrender. “Okay, Christ. ”

I snort, still not satisfied.

“What now ?”

“Christ.” I mimic his posh accent. “Not very gentlemanly language! Surely your ‘process’ doesn’t allow for you taking the Lord’s name in vain, as clergyman Henry Tilney certainly never would.”

Hugh shoots me a glare as lethal as cyanide. “I really do think we may have bigger problems than that at the moment, Miss Bright.”

“Like what?”

Hugh gestures wildly around us, at our beautiful green field, with not one crew member or camera to be seen. Slowly but surely, a chill creeps up my spine.

“Where did everyone go?” I ask.

Hugh’s body language is tight and restrained, but I can tell by the way his eyes are scanning the field, over and over again, that he isn’t finding any explanation convincing enough to satisfy him.

I get hesitantly to my feet, feeling sore all over.

I adjust my mud-splattered bonnet as I peer out across the wide expanse of greenery.

“I don’t see the trailers,” I say. “Or the tents. I don’t see anything.”

Hugh clambers to his feet, too. He removes his top hat, pressing it to his chest. “I do see… something,” he says, gesturing downhill about half a mile away. “Doesn’t that look like smoke?”

I squint in the direction he indicated. He’s right, though I don’t want to admit it.

There’s a trail of smoke, as if from a chimney, dotting the sky above some distant trees.

And when I cast my eye even farther, I see a small cluster of houses.

An old-timey village; and a remarkably well-preserved one at that.

No wonder Dominic chose Hampshire for this shoot, I think.

This entire county has barely changed from Jane’s time.

“I don’t quite remember how we got here,” Hugh says, voice pinched. “Do you?”

I shake my head. “I just remember yelling at you… and tripping on that wire.”

“That’s the last thing I remember, too,” Hugh confirms. It’s never been so dreadful to agree on something.

Hugh’s brows are furrowed in intense agitation. “I suppose we should start looking for answers down there. It’s the only sign of life for miles.”

I nod. We don’t have another workable plan. “And maybe we can find a doctor, get you some muscle relaxant?”

Hugh gives me an odd look, then rechecks himself for any obvious signs of injury. “Why? I’m not hurt.”

“Oh no,” I say, smoothly. “I just thought if we got you something medical-grade, you could finally unclench. ”

Hugh makes a sound like a judgmental granny. “You are a remarkably vulgar young woman.”

I just smirk as we trudge off.

In truth, though, we’re both a little worse for wear.

Personally, I’ve never felt this bruised, but I refuse to be particularly worried.

We’re both up and walking, so things could be a lot worse.

And all this confusion will be cleared up as soon as we find someone else from the crew.

We walk in stubborn silence for nearly a mile downhill, until we hear the gentle clip-clopping of hoofbeats behind us.

I turn around excitedly, expecting to see one of the animal handlers from the set riding in the open carriage.

My face falls. Instead of any friendly face come to rescue us from this unusual state of affairs, I just see a pair of oddly dressed strangers.

Well, I suppose they aren’t so oddly dressed.

They’re wearing roughly the same things Hugh and I are wearing.

The man driving the vehicle sports a navy waistcoat and matching top hat, while his female companion, in a pair of round spectacles and a long, patterned gown, wears her hair up in curls beneath her bonnet, just like me.

I glance over at Hugh, who seems as puzzled as I am. “Is there more than one historical production happening in Hampshire right now?”

Hugh shrugs wordlessly at me.

“Ho there!” the driver calls out to us, slowing his trap in order to survey my muddy dress more closely. “Are you good folks in some sort of trouble?”

Hugh stares up at the man, eyebrows gradually furrowing. He has a look of dawning comprehension on his face now, which makes no sense at all to me, because I still feel pretty much in the dark. His response is oddly quiet. “You might say that.”

“I declare,” the driver says, removing his top hat and turning his scrutiny onto Hugh. “I think I know you from somewhere.”

“Not possible,” Hugh says, deadpan. His dark eyes are glassy, as if he’s developing a fever.

I wonder if this is how Hugh always responds to people who recognize him from his films. So typical for him to be the type to deny, deny, deny, rather than own up and make friendly conversation with a stranger.

“No, I must agree,” the woman in the carriage interjects, “your countenance has a ring of familiarity to me as well. I do say I never forget a face.” She gasps, suddenly and dramatically, pressing a hand to her heart.

“Are you not Hugh Balfour? Yes, I’m sure you are!

How marvelous, how exceedingly marvelous! ”

I roll my eyes. Of course. In the midst of the strangest situation of my life, the LARPers who’ve come across us just had to be massive Hugh Balfour fans. As if he needs one more reason to be conceited.

Hugh swallows heavily, and I see sweat beading on his brow. “Yes, that is my name.”

The woman gasps again, this time in rapturous delight. “Son of Mr. Edward Balfour?”

“You might say that,” Hugh says. But I find that concession really suspicious coming from him, because I stalked his Wikipedia page in detail back when we were both cast, and I’m pretty damn sure his father’s name is Kenneth.

“Entirely miraculous!” the woman cries, gaping down at us. “But did not your father receive word three months past that you had lost your life at Waterloo?” She searches herself for a handkerchief and starts dabbing beneath her spectacles.

I make eye contact with Hugh, who doesn’t seem capable of speech at the moment.

Getting nothing out of him, I turn toward the chatty woman. My words come out harsh, but really, what else could anybody expect from me at this point. “Lady, is this a bit ?”

The woman laughs gaily. “How kind of you, but of course I am no lady in station. And my, what a strange accent you have!”

I open my mouth, ready to heap an American-sized insult on her, when Hugh discreetly steps on my foot, leaning in to whisper in my ear, “Be British.”

“What?” I mouth at him.

He widens his eyes significantly at me. “Be. British. It’s important.”

Irritated, I clear my throat and then turn back to the strangers, now speaking in the accent I developed for my role as Catherine. Perhaps my tone is a touch mocking, but my dialect is flawless. “I do apologize, I’m afraid I had something stuck in my throat.”

The driver is staring at Hugh like he’s just popped out of his grave.

In the biblical-miracle sense, of course.

This isn’t Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.

“Your father shall be so greatly delighted—beyond words, I’m sure—to learn the missive he received was in error.

I know it has been five years since we laid eyes upon you, but I can assure you, all the town grieved with Mr. Balfour, having held you in our hearts all the time you were fighting against Napoleon.

” He glances over our untidy apparel again, looking dismayed.

“But how came you to such a sorry state?”

Hugh doesn’t miss a beat. “Highwaymen.” The delivery isn’t up to par with what I’ve come to expect from him, but the couple in the chaise react as if it’s the most distressing—and believable—thing in the world.

“My God! These roads have never been more unsafe! To think these ruffians would be dishonorable enough to rob even you, a returning war hero. And have they taken your vehicle as well?”

Hugh closes his eyes, nodding stiffly.

My mouth is now hanging open. I am definitely starting to feel like I’ve missed the boat.

What. The hell. Is happening.