Page 8 of The Austen Affair

By the time we join the Goddards at the front door, it’s been thrown wide open by a liveried footman, who greets our party with a bow.

Dr. Goddard is practically bouncing on the balls of his feet as he waves Hugh over.

“Young man,” Goddard says, grinning, “do you recognize this gentleman? He’s been gone from this house for five long years, but I reckon you know his likeness from his portrait in the parlor! ”

The footman’s eyes track to Hugh, then gradually bulge out of his head. He splutters, “I will—I will fetch Mr. Balfour.”

He ushers us into the foyer, and my breath catches in my throat.

What had been converted into a dull front lobby by the time of our visit has now transformed into an ornate yet playful fantasy, with vermilion-striped wallpaper and luxurious draperies.

I marvel at a small mahogany table, its legs carved in the shape of swans.

The table supports a small selection of porcelain chinoiserie, one bowl holding the few calling cards of other recent visitors to Highground.

An elaborate brass chandelier dangles from the molded ceiling.

I wander very slightly away from our little group to peer through an arched doorway to a parlor beyond, which is filled with richly upholstered, Grecian-style couches.

It’s everything I could have ever dreamed of. In this moment, I am an awestruck Elizabeth Bennet, touring Pemberley for the very first time.

I give one last scan of the parlor and gasp, my hand flying up to my mouth. I’ve noticed the large portrait hanging above the grandiose marble fireplace. It depicts a tall, lean-bodied young man in military uniform, gazing pensively into the distance.

It could well be Hugh’s identical twin. Well, except for the thick muttonchops, which I’m thankful that Hugh is not sporting for his role as Henry Tilney.

The genes certainly do run strong in the Balfour family.

I’m brought back to earth by Hugh making a condescending psst psst sound behind me, like he’s trying to catch the attention of a wandering house cat.

“Mr. Balfour,” I say to Hugh, “Dr. Goddard was entirely accurate in his description of your portrait. It is quite the likeness.”

Hugh gulps so hard that it draws my gaze to the elegant curve of his Adam’s apple. “Is that so?” he asks, the coolness of his voice belying the nervousness he’s so clearly feeling. “Well, it would be natural for it to have some… small differences. After so many years away, I may have changed.”

I tut my tongue at him. While I don’t like Hugh one bit, I’m not so cruel that I won’t play along if he feels the need to sow plausibility into his fake persona.

I came up from an improv group. I’m always a generous scene partner.

“And of course one must allow for the vagaries of artistic interpretation,” I offer for the benefit of the eavesdropping Goddards.

A moment later, the sound of wheels turning on hardwood floors alerts me to new additions to our group: a portly, jolly- looking woman with dove-gray curls framing her face, pushing the wheelchair of an elderly man with kind, crinkled eyes and a head as bald as an egg.

The old man stares slack-jawed at Hugh as the woman brings his chair to a stop in the entryway. “I didn’t believe it,” he wheezes. “I didn’t dare. But my boy—” He extends his arms to Hugh like a child craving to be lifted by a parent. “—my beautiful, brilliant boy. You’ve returned to us.”

Hugh has gone rigid as a yardstick, much like he did when I went off script during that scene in the gig. This is mildly irritating to me. It was his idea to make up an elaborate lie. Is he going to chicken out now just when people are starting to believe it?

It’s the simplest rule in improv. Yes and, Hugh. Yes and.

The man’s female companion has pressed her gloved hands to her mouth, tears trickling down her ruddy cheeks. “Baby Hugh,” she says, gazing at him in wonder, “it’s been ages, my darling. Do you recognize me, I wonder? Do you recognize your Auntie Fanny?”

That’s when Dr. Goddard helpfully sweeps forward, his hat pressed to his chest as he approaches the senior citizens.

“Mr. Balfour, Mrs. Campbell, I must caution you—Hugh may be different than you recall him. He has just explained to us that he suffered a severe head injury at Waterloo, rather than being felled, of course, and his memory is not quite up to snuff.”

Mrs. Campbell gasps. “Of course that would be it! Why else would we not receive a letter sooner to know you had survived?” She waves her arms at Hugh entreatingly. “Come, my lad, come. Embrace your father.”

As if Mrs. Campbell was a director who’d called “action,” Hugh lurches to follow instructions.

He stoops to lean into the elderly Mr. Balfour’s arms and puts a surprising amount of warmth and energy behind the hug.

Edward Balfour begins to weep into the front of Hugh’s shirt, and Hugh only holds the old man tighter.

It’s a passable performance—or maybe not quite a performance, because when Hugh stands, I spot him wiping away a stray tear.

Was he narcissistic enough to be moved by his own acting talent, or was his heart touched by the idea of a father-son reunion… even if it wasn’t entirely true?

The moment the Balfours separate, Mrs. Campbell swoops in and kisses Hugh emphatically on both cheeks. “I used to take you for walks in the garden when you were no more than George’s age. A miracle to see you standing here, and so tall.”

This sharpens Hugh’s interest. “G-George? Is he here?”

I wonder who this “George” is, and why he’s shaken Hugh so suddenly.

“Of course he is! So, you remember him, do you?” Mrs. Campbell asks, nodding indulgently. “What was he when you left for the army? Two months old?”

Hugh blinks away another tear. “Something like that.”

Mrs. Campbell finally manages to rip her eyes away from the ostensible prodigal son and spots me hovering uselessly just behind this touching scene. “And who might this be?”

Hugh snaps to attention. “Aunt… Father. May I introduce Mrs. Tess Bright, the widow of a friend of mine. She was very kind to me in my period of recuperation, and I had hoped I could return that kindness by introducing her to Hampshire society.”

“Tess?” Mrs. Goddard huffs. “Unusual name.”

“It’s short for Theresa,” I tell her.

“Theresa, really,” she says. “Sounds Italian. Or worse, French. ”

Ignoring Mrs. Goddard’s borderline-offensive British nationalism, I direct all my attention toward the Balfour clan, dropping into the curtsy I had perfected for the many, many scenes in Northanger Abbey where Catherine is introduced to someone of higher rank.

“I am most happy to make your acquaintance,” I say, appropriately demure.

Mr. Balfour blinks serenely up at me, obviously too overwhelmed by his “son’s” return to care much about my presence. But Mrs. Campbell has enough attention for both of us.

“Well,” she says, lips thin with concern, “good gracious. Of course we can help the poor girl.” She moves forward to clasp my gloved hands warmly between hers.

There is such a motherly quality to this gesture that tears spring to my eyes as well.

I guess Hugh’s not the only one who can get wrapped up in a moment.

“My condolences on your bereavement. I assume your husband’s death was not recent? ”

Mrs. Campbell’s eyes travel down the mud-stained length of my light-blue coat.

A memory stirs of Mom on our couch in the old apartment, explaining the intricacies of Regency mourning over a tub of Chunky Monkey ice cream as we watched the opening sequence of Sense and Sensibility.

Women in mourning had to wear certain colors: black at first, and eventually there would be a gradual lightening of colors to include gray and even lavender, before the mourning period finally ended and full color would be reintroduced to the wardrobe.

Since I am not in mourning colors, then no, my fictional husband couldn’t possibly have died recently.

I shake my head at Mrs. Campbell. “No, not recent, ma’am.”

Hugh leaps in to add more detail to my backstory. “Henry died at Trafalgar. Unfortunately, his pension has not been enough to sustain Mrs. Bright and I feared she would slide into penury if she could not rely on the kindness of friends.”

This pronouncement only makes Mrs. Campbell grip my hands more tightly. “You poor, poor thing! I assume you have no living family, then?”

There’s that damn question again.

I’m thrown backward in memory. Our first winter that Chuck Brown shot on location in Vancouver, the cast braved the cold to frolic outside, and Nikki Collins, who played Patricia, accidentally struck me with a chunk of something that was more ice than snow.

That pain—sharp, sudden, heavy, and square to the chest—was exactly the same as hearing Mrs. Campbell unknowingly land on the truth. Eighteen months after Mom’s death, and I still can’t fathom that she’s really gone. Every time I remember, the hurt feels brand-new.

“None living,” I acknowledge, my voice so weak it’s barely audible.

Luckily for me, an angel arrives to snap me out of my funk: a cry of glee echoes down the hall, accompanied by the patter of little boot-clad feet.

A small boy with a thick head of dark curls is hurtling toward us, wearing a white cambric suit with a ridiculous frilly collar. He looks like some kind of cherub-cheeked statuette on sale in a Hallmark store.

I do not have the presence of mind to repress my delighted squeal.

Mrs. Campbell scoops the child into her arms and presents him to Hugh. “Your little brother.”

Hugh reaches toward George’s chubby cheek—smudged with a small amount of what I think is jam—but stops just short of contact, as if the little boy is a relic in a museum that might break if touched.

His words come out choked. “He has grown.”