Page 7 of The Austen Affair

“Well, whatever we can do for you, we will,” the man says.

He leaps down from his seat, handing the reins briefly to his wife, and pumps Hugh’s hands twice.

“You may not recall me, sir. We were new to the area when you departed for the army, but now we know your father well. I am Dr. Goddard, the local physician. And my wife, Mrs. Goddard.”

Mrs. Goddard is still gently and joyfully weeping above us, but now her attention lands on me. “And is this your wife, good sir? How marvelous to bring home a bride, though the highwaymen appear to have done her clothing damage.”

A squeak bursts out of me. Hugh shoots me a warning look, but he doesn’t have time to step on my foot again before I protest, “I am not his wife!”

That immediately stems the flow of Mrs. Goddard’s tears. She lowers her handkerchief into her lap and whispers, “How scandalous.”

Hugh pinches the bridge of his nose in exasperation.

The glare he shoots me is so venomous that I immediately snap my mouth shut.

“It is…” His voice sounds strained. “… a complicated state of affairs, but I can assure you nothing untoward has occurred between me and my companion. Her name is… Mrs. Bright, and she is the widow of a friend of mine.”

Mrs. Goddard resumes crying almost instantly and references me as if I’m not here. “The poor dear!”

“Yes,” Hugh continues, voice harsh but steady, “my friend Henry died at Trafalgar about two years ago, and Mrs. Bright and I have been correspondents ever since.” He begins inventing wildly—I can see panic in his eyes, but he’s like a train that’s run off the track, completely unable to stop.

“The letter you spoke of, the one my father received, was greatly misinformed. I was injured at Waterloo, and in some danger of death, but pulled through. It was a head wound, of course, which left me incapacitated for several months… with gaps in my memory. Mrs. Bright kindly visited me in my recuperation in Dover, and volunteered to see me safely home, given my confusion. In exchange, I had hoped to introduce her to local society. She has little to return to after the death of her husband, you see, as she has no living relations.”

I had been leveling a glare at Hugh all this time, but the phrase “no living relations” immediately sends my stomach plummeting. There was no way of Hugh knowing he had hit home, but his story was quite true.

Suddenly, I don’t have the wherewithal to glare at him. I can’t even conjure words. Hot tears well in the corner of my eyes. I try to brush them discreetly away, but I only end up drawing more attention.

“You wretched little thing! How dreadful!” Mrs. Goddard cries. She hands down her kerchief to Hugh, who passes it to me. He bows to Dr. and Mrs. Goddard.

“We would be in everlasting gratitude to you if you would take us on to town. But would you allow us one moment to converse, while Mrs. Bright composes herself?”

The Goddards both nod, quite obviously affected by the tale of woe Hugh’s spun for us, and he takes me by the elbow and leads me several paces back in the direction we’d originally come. He grips my shoulder, then looks me in the eyes.

“Tess.”

And in the use of my first name—which Hugh has literally never done before, opting always instead for his Method-y salutation of “Miss Bright”—I know that whatever he’s about to say is going to be really, really bad.

Hugh’s eyes are intense and captivating.

As he struggles to form the words to convey—well, whatever it is he finds it so necessary to tell me—I cannot help but stare into them.

They aren’t truly black, though they appear to be on first glance, but a very rich, deep brown.

Once or twice, especially on those occasions when a scene was going very well, I’ve focused solely on their depths in order to access the kaleidoscope of emotion Catherine feels for Henry.

It would be easy to fall for Hugh Balfour’s face. Less so for his personality.

But today there’s a frantic, kinetic energy behind Hugh’s eyes that I find increasingly unsettling.

“Spit it out,” I growl at him.

Hugh swallows again, casting an uneasy look at the Goddards, who are out of earshot but still watching us.

When he speaks, it’s under his breath, almost inaudible, but at a breakneck pace.

“Don’t think I like saying this, because I am fully aware of the insanity of it.

But I have eyes and I have ears, and I cannot escape noticing this is the same field we were just standing on in the pouring rain, only now it is clear and bright, and everyone we know is missing. ”

I nod, egging him on sarcastically. “Yup, that’s a pretty decent summation of the problem, Hugh.”

“You don’t understand,” Hugh says, grinding his teeth. “My family is from Hampshire originally. I know this area well. And I tell you, the village down that hill should be a lot more modernized than that. Don’t you see what’s missing?”

I gape at him, uncomprehending, as I feel is my right, given the circumstance.

Hugh barrels on, his face actually twisting in self-loathing as he plays devil’s advocate for a theory he so clearly hates. “I don’t know how and I don’t know why, and I don’t like it: but we are in the past, Tess. We are in the past. ”

“Are you crazy?” I whisper at him. “Are you out of your goddamn gourd?”

“I must be,” Hugh mutters, “because it’s starting to make an awful sort of sense. Why else are they dressed like that? Why are they talking about Waterloo?”

“But they recognized you!” I insist. “They must’ve seen your movies!”

“They said I was dead in the Napoleonic Wars, or are you not listening? I mentioned having a friend killed at Trafalgar and they didn’t blink! We are in the past. ”

I turn away from him, raising my hands to the back of my head. My breath is coming hard and fast now. No fucking way. No fucking way.

But as I gaze across the horizon, I start noticing what’s not there. No telephone wires. No paved highways, only distant dirt roads.

I spin back to him, crazed now. I can feel my eyes popping out of my head. “Then how do they know you?”

“Like I said,” Hugh says, forcing a smile and waving at the Goddards to indicate we’ll be with them soon, “my family is from the region. I did significant research on them while preparing for my role. They used to own the big house, and my great-great-great—however many greats—uncle died at Waterloo. They must think I’m him. ”

I exhale deeply, mindfully checking in with each part of my body, from my shoulders down to my toes. This is a technique I’d been taught in yoga class to help remain grounded. I’m here. This is real. When I’m done, I look calmly up into Hugh’s eyes and say, “Okay.”

“Okay?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely,” I assure him, feeling the blood pounding in my ears as understanding gradually creeps in and my excitement rises.

I look out over the decidedly historical horizon again, sudden joy tightening my throat, so overwhelming it almost chokes me.

“Absolutely. I mean… if what you say is true—this is—this is nothing less than a miracle !”

I’m overwhelmed by a full-body tingle. I’m not necessarily someone who was raised to believe in God, but I definitely believe in the power of the universe.

And I believe that when we die, our essence flows back into the swirling cosmos, becoming something new.

And if, against all odds and all sense, I am standing here in the era my mother loved above all else…

I know there is a reason for that. This is something my mom did for me.

She became stardust in the universe and now she’s giving me one last hug.

Hugh blinks at me. I can see the calculations behind his eyes—and then I see him coming to the answer that whatever is happening with me, at least I’m calm.

He shrugs. “If you think that this is a good thing, you are criminally insane. But as you Americans say, whatever floats your boat, Miss Bright. As long as you keep to the cover story I created for you. This time period is not exactly kind to lunatics, so please don’t go off the rails and get us both landed in a sanitarium. ”

I give him an easy smile and shake out my shoulders. “Sure! Whatever! As long as you understand that something is happening to us, and for us, right now, Hugh. I intend to enjoy the divine workings of the universe.”

Hugh gives the tiniest shake of the head but nonetheless offers me his arm. “Fine. Then let’s adjourn to Highground Park. You can enjoy ‘the divine workings of the universe’ there just as well as anywhere else.”

We return to the Goddards, and the good doctor solicitously offers me his hand to help me into the backseat of the trap. Mrs. Goddard watches me with narrowed eyes as her husband’s gloved hand touches my bare fingers. “Did the highwaymen also abscond with your gloves, my dear?” she asks pointedly.

I startle, remembering that I had stowed my costume gloves away before our misadventure with the heater.

“Oh, of course!” I shove my hands into my pockets to retrieve my gloves as Hugh climbs up into the chaise beside me.

He seems to be watching this exchange with some exasperation.

It’s a serious breach of propriety for a woman to go around with bare hands.

“Thank you ever so for reminding me, Mrs. Goddard. Mr. Balfour and I have been walking so very many miles, and I had to take them off after becoming quite overheated. But now, of course, with your help, there is no need to have them removed anymore.”

Mrs. Goddard nods, a smile flickering back onto her face. Noting that for future reference—in Austen books, a woman pleading physical weakness always seemed to gain sympathy. Turns out it’s true in this reality, too. Nobody wants to see a young lady of good breeding faint.

Dr. Goddard urges the horses onward, and soon we’re making a steady pace downhill toward the village. Mrs. Goddard can’t help turning around every few seconds to look at us and titter about how delighted the inhabitants of Highground Park will be when they see us.

The word “Highground” tickles a memory in the back of my mind. Wasn’t that the name of the big hotel where we filmed those scenes for Northanger Abbey ? I want to ask Hugh about it, but it’s impossible now with the Goddards so close.

As we enter the village, everything I see is pretty fucking delightful.

In what I assume the Goddards interpret as a terrific gaucheness, I crane my neck to get a better view of the picturesque shop windows, the post office, even a quaint inn just like the one where the Westons hosted a dance in Emma.

“The Crow and Crown, how charming!” I read off the sign, holding my bonnet down to stop it from slipping back against the wind.

Just then, a pair of soldiers in bright-scarlet uniforms stroll past our chaise, tipping their hats to me as we trot by them.

My heart pitter-patters in my chest, and for the first time, I understand Lydia and Kitty’s motivations when the militia comes to Meryton.

I turn in the seat to watch them continue to walk away, and I’m pleased to say they turn to do me the same favor.

Hugh’s baritone voice curls around me like smoke. “Mrs. Bright, we’ve already had enough calamity on this trip, don’t you think? Perhaps you should return to your seat?”

I roll my eyes but comply, and mutter to Hugh out of the corner of my mouth, “Please keep your arms and legs inside the ride at all times.”

“A good-humored, spirited girl,” Mrs. Goddard remarks blithely from the front seat. “We should all bounce back from disaster so gamely.”

“I’ve had a lot of practice!” I call out in reply, which makes both the Goddards chuckle.

Hugh doesn’t laugh one bit, however. He stays tense, with that familiar vein of his jumping in his temple.

Hugh is quite literally the biggest buzzkill in history.

He would be so much happier if he embraced the fact that the universe has given us a gift!

But it does fit that he’s so joyless he can’t even enjoy being one of the (presumably) first time travelers in the known universe.

We are essentially astronauts for the past!

One small step for woman, one gigantic leap for Austen aficionados.

Dr. Goddard steers his horses north out of the village, and the road starts gradually sloping upward again.

Eventually the imposing turrets of Highground Hotel peek through the trees, and with one more turn we’ve begun our way down the long drive leading up to the big house.

I gaze at it with new admiration, seeing it in its prime.

It seems to gleam with comparative youth.

The gray stone is noticeably lighter than I remember it being in the modern day, less weather-beaten, and there’s no ivy crawling up the walls yet.

Mrs. Goddard claps her hands together with glee as our chaise trundles to a stop before the front doors.

I’m starting to get the impression that her substantial joy at Hugh’s nondeath originates not just from a goodwill for all mankind but also because she and her husband will now be a central part of the story when it ends up being spread around town.

Hugh descends from the carriage and offers me a perfunctory hand for help.

Dr. Goddard beams at Hugh, who looks positively seasick green, before hastening to the door to knock.

I linger back by the horse with Hugh and tell him, “Don’t stress.

The universe wouldn’t have put us here if it wasn’t meant to work out. ”

Hugh closes his eyes in utter exasperation before turning smartly on his heel. “I should have known from the first glimpse at your trailer that you were stark raving mad.”