Page 11 of Miss Davis and the Architect (Dazzling Debutantes #4)
Chapter Nine
"You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope."
Jane Austen
* * *
A s they approached the manor, Barclay reluctantly let go of Jane’s hand and moved ahead to take Tatiana’s small fingers in his grasp. Jane slowed her pace, allowing Ethan to catch up so she might walk beside him. Barclay sighed quietly, the weight of reality settling back onto his shoulders. Their glorious jaunt was over, the guests now coming into view on the terrace, and he longed to turn back to the cool shadows of the woods where everything had seemed so simple—so pure—in the solitude of the grotto.
Climbing the sloping stone steps, Jane discreetly ventured over to where the countess, the Duchess of Halmesbury, and his mother sat drinking tea around a lace-covered table. Barclay watched her departure with deep regret, unwilling to let the afternoon slip away. Yet, at the same time, he recognized the sense in allowing their time together to end before the prying eyes of society interfered. If he was to explore this unspoken bond between them, it would have to be away from the inquisitive glances of those too eager to pass judgment.
The children hurried over to the refreshment table nearby, Ethan clamoring to know what was set upon it, bouncing on his toes in an attempt to peer over the edge. Tatiana giggled and tugged him forward, the two of them barely able to see the array of cakes and finger sandwiches laid out in abundance. Their laughter drifted back to him, and for a moment, he allowed himself to simply enjoy the sound.
His reverie was abruptly interrupted when Mrs. Gordon appeared at his side, her gloved hand resting lightly on his forearm. Her touch was gentle, her expression warm, but his heart sank. Mrs. Gordon was a lovely woman—elegant, refined, and pleasant in conversation—but now her presence felt intrusive, as if she were encroaching upon something sacred. He wracked his mind, wondering if he had, at any point, indicated that he might pursue her. It would be beyond uncomfortable to explore future possibilities with Jane while engaging with the widow if she was forming expectations.
“Mr. Thompson, I have missed you this afternoon.” Her voice was smooth, her smile polished. “Were you taking a walk with the children?” She gestured subtly toward Jane, who was now seated beside the countess, with an elegant arch of her blonde brow. Anxiety stirred uncomfortably in his gut. Was that how people would see him and Jane? That he was courting a child?
Barclay cleared his throat, his voice coming out a bit rougher than intended. “Miss Davis and I took Ethan and my daughter to visit the grotto.”
“Oh! I have heard from the countess that it is wondrous.” Mrs. Gordon’s eyes sparkled with interest, and she stepped a fraction closer. “I was hoping to see it, but I have never learned the route to reach it. I am hopeless with directions.” Her expression turned expectant, and Barclay felt the implication settle heavily between them. She was prompting him to take her there.
The idea of sharing it— their special place—with anyone but Jane made his hands clench with unease. No matter what the future held, whether Jane and he overcame the many obstacles that lay before them or not, he would always treasure introducing her to that magical place. He could not bring himself to impose on that memory by taking another there. Especially not on the same afternoon.
He straightened slightly, forcing a polite smile. “Perhaps one of the guests will accompany you. Mr. Ridley, I believe, is familiar with the way.”
Her expression faltered, disappointment clear in the downward curve of her lips. Guilt prickled at him, but it was not enough to make him intrude upon what had been a perfect memory with Jane. Casting about for a way to soften the rejection, he inclined his head politely. “Shall we take a turn around the gardens?”
Mrs. Gordon’s smile returned, faint but genuine. “That would be lovely.” She glanced around the terrace, her gaze flitting briefly over the gathering before she leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice. “I had a matter I would like to discuss in private.”
He hesitated, then held out his arm. Mrs. Gordon accepted it immediately, grasping him a little more tightly than was comfortable. Her gloved fingers pressed into his forearm with surprising strength, but he did not comment. With practiced civility, he led her down the stone steps, their footsteps soft against the gravel walkway that meandered toward the formal gardens. From the terrace above, guests would have a clear view of their stroll, but he suspected that was precisely what Mrs. Gordon intended. He could not deny that he was curious to hear what she wished to say.
“Mr. Thompson, I do not wish to be forward,” she began as soon as they were out of earshot of the other guests, her voice lowering conspiratorially. “I would like to make my feelings clear.”
Barclay glanced at her, his expression politely guarded. “On what subject, Mrs. Gordon?”
She inhaled deeply, her gaze drifting to the hedgerows and the sculpted topiaries before snapping back to him. “May I be frank, sir?”
He inclined his head, a flicker of wariness settling in his chest. “Of course.”
Her hand tightened almost imperceptibly on his arm, and Barclay suppressed the urge to shift away. What is this about? A niggling suspicion crept into his thoughts—had he unintentionally created expectations? Had he overstepped in some way? The very notion set his teeth on edge.
“I am aware of your family circumstances … of your mother and the late Earl of Saunton.”
Barclay halted mid-step, turning to face the petite widow fully. She stood several inches shorter than Jane, her stature dainty and precise, her golden curls perfectly arranged beneath her bonnet. He could not help but compare the two women—Jane, willowy and full of life, her laughter as unrestrained as her opinions, and Mrs. Gordon, polished and practiced, with every gesture measured. His thoughts flickered back to the library, to the way Jane’s freckles had dotted her creamy skin like a constellation—a perfect imperfection that had nearly undone him.
He blinked to clear his thoughts, realizing belatedly that Mrs. Gordon had raised the question of his illegitimacy. It was shockingly forward—especially in such an open setting where prying eyes could easily witness their exchange.
Mrs. Gordon noted his blink and, misinterpreting its cause, hurried to press her case. “I wanted to assure you that, as a good Christian woman, I would never blame the child for the behavior of the parents.” She tilted her chin up with a proud sort of magnanimity. “I think it is lamentable that society treats upstanding men like you poorly for something that is entirely beyond your control.”
Barclay’s brow furrowed, and he took a moment to digest her words. It was abundantly clear that Mrs. Gordon wished to convey her receptiveness to courtship, but the manner in which she had chosen to express it unsettled him. There was something in her tone, a faint sense of condescension that he could not entirely ignore.
He cocked his head, carefully choosing his words to remain polite but firm. “I appreciate your sentiment, Mrs. Gordon. I assure you, however, that my mother, Aurora Thompson, was but a child when she met the Earl of Saunton. He took advantage of a young girl who had not yet achieved her majority, and there was naught she or my grandfather could do to set it right.” His voice remained steady, though there was a sharpness beneath the surface. “She has paid the price dearly, while the late earl dealt with none of the consequences of their association.”
His gaze held hers, unflinching, waiting for her reaction. The wind rustled through the hedges, carrying the scent of summer blooms, but the moment between them felt strangely brittle.
The widow’s face fell in alarm, her eyes widening. “I did not wish to offend. It is … admirable that Miss Thompson kept her child and raised him. Very commendable. Of course, as you say, she was merely a child herself when the incident happened.”
Barely a year or two year younger than Jane.
Barclay’s discomfort rose, the muscles in his shoulders tightening. “My mother is a fine woman of quiet distinguishment,” he replied, his tone firm.
“Of course she is. The whole situation is quite lamentable. It is deplorable how some members of the nobility behave, blithely aware of their own superiority.” Mrs. Gordon shook her head with a disapproving cluck of her tongue. “I shall ensure I make your mother’s acquaintance forthwith. I am … hoping that our own … companionship will continue to blossom, and your mother is an important aspect of your life. I am certain that a connection with the widow of a respected vicar will assist her to claim … an increased element of respectability.”
Barclay stiffened at the implication, but he kept his expression smooth. He had had similar thoughts of his own, but it was his situation to consider and the widow was overstepping by pointing it out. “That would be appreciated, Mrs. Gordon,” he said, inclining his head with a politeness that was more reflex than sincerity.
They completed their walk in near silence, the cheerful birdcalls and rustling hedgerows doing little to alleviate the tension that coiled within him. The feeling of contentment he had enjoyed in the woods—his first taste of genuine happiness since Natalya’s death—now scattered like so many ashes upon the wind.
A knot persisted in his stomach, twisting tighter as he considered the consequences. How could he proceed with a courtship of Jane without becoming an irredeemable cad in the eyes of decent society? The age difference alone gave him pause, and whispers of his illegitimacy would undoubtedly follow. If he were to witness a man of his circumstances pursuing a Jane, would he not have similar thoughts? How much simpler it would all be if Mrs. Gordon were the one I could not stop thinking of.
Barclay’s jaw tightened with frustration as he led the widow back up the steep stairs to the terrace. Mrs. Gordon’s smile remained bright, her posture graceful, as if she were entirely unaware of his inner turmoil. When they reached the top, she curtsied with practiced elegance and stepped away, her gaze flickering across the terrace until it settled on Aurora, who stood near the balustrade with her hands clasped before her.
Mrs. Gordon wasted no time in approaching, her smile widening as she dipped into another curtsy. Though the widow technically outranked his mother, it seemed she was intent on gaining favor with this show of deference. “Mrs. Thompson,” she gushed, “it would be my utmost pleasure if you would join me for breakfast tomorrow morning. I do so wish to become better acquainted.”
Aurora regarded her with serene composure, her expression unflinching. “That would be lovely, Mrs. Gordon,” she replied in her lightly accented voice. Her mother, Barclay’s grandmama, had been a lively Italian woman, and Aurora had never fully lost the intonations of her youth. The gentle lilt of her speech, softened with age, lent her words a grace that was distinctly hers.
Mrs. Gordon, visibly pleased, gave another polite curtsy before moving off, her skirts swishing elegantly as she went. Aurora watched her departure with mild curiosity before turning back to Barclay, her expression smoothing into relief. She stepped toward him, her gaze softening. “Barclay, I must admit, I am pleased that you are taking our discussion to court seriously.”
Barclay inclined his head, his expression carefully neutral.
Aurora’s gaze lingered on his face, her voice dropping to a more intimate tone. “Son, there is no reason to hurry the process. Please assure me you will be certain before you offer to make a young woman your wife.” She paused, her eyes searching his. “What you had with Natalya was special, and our family enjoys … a pleasant dynamic. It would be ill-advised to disrupt your grandfather’s household with the wrong companion.”
Barclay’s lips curved into a faint smile at Aurora’s transparent attempt to meddle. “Are you saying that Mrs. Gordon is a poor choice?”
“Not at all. Just … be certain. There is no reversing that decision.” Her voice was gentle, but the underlying firmness was unmistakable.
He regarded her thoughtfully, his gaze tracing the delicate lines of her face. “Why did you never marry, Mother? You are a beautiful woman, and I have to think there were some opportunities over the years?”
Aurora shook her head, her black hair gleaming even in the shade of the terrace, twisted into an elegant knot at the nape of her neck. “It is not a son’s place to ask such a question.” Her tone was mild, but he detected the hint of rebuke beneath it.
He shrugged, unbothered. “This has been an unusual trip we have taken. We have spoken on other matters we would not ordinarily broach in London, and I have always wondered.”
Aurora moved to the balustrade, her hands resting lightly on its stone surface as she leaned forward to gaze upon the manicured gardens stretching out below. Afternoon light spilled across the hedgerows, casting shadows over the gravel pathways that wound between rose bushes and flowering shrubs. “Marriage is irreversible, and I never met the right gentleman,” she replied finally, her voice softened with reflection. “One who could accept my situation … accept you … and make me feel like taking the risk was worthwhile.” She paused, her fingers brushing absently over the smooth stone. “Watching you with Natalya over the years—you were exceptionally fortunate to find someone who was your perfect counterpart.”
Barclay felt a touch of melancholy at this reminder. “It was difficult knowing that it had a time limit, but I would never erase my time with Natalya for all the riches in the world.”
Aurora turned back to him, her gaze searching his with a tenderness that was rarely so openly expressed. “I believe you are destined to find such a connection again, Barclay. You have always been fortunate, and it is my dearest hope to see you happy as you once were.” She straightened, smoothing the fabric of her gown. “Assure me you will not settle … that you will be sure before you choose a bride?”
Barclay’s eyes flickered to where Jane sat talking with the countess on the far side of the terrace. The two ladies leaned in close, their heads bent together as Sophia whispered something in Jane’s ear. Jane reached out with gentle familiarity, tucking an errant curl of Sophia’s distinctive red-blonde hair back behind her ear. The countess laughed aloud, her cheeks flushed with good health as she exclaimed that Miss Toussaint would scold her for neglecting her coiffure if her lady’s maid were present to see her in such a state.
Sophia’s hand settled over her rounded belly, and Barclay’s gaze lingered there for a moment, thoughtful. An heir for the earl. A safeguard for the family holdings. His mind drifted, unbidden, to the image of Jane in a similar state—her hand resting protectively over the swell of her stomach, her expression alight with joy. The thought took him by surprise, slipping past his guard and settling deep within him.
Her love of children was evident. He had seen it countless times in her tender interactions with Ethan and Tatiana. Jane would make a wonderful mother; he was certain of it. His heart clenched at the thought of her with a babe in her arms, her laughter ringing through their household. And though he tried to banish it, he could not help but imagine himself at her side—her husband and partner, watching their family grow.
But would it be fair to expect her to mother a child of Tatiana’s age? He felt a pang of uncertainty twist in his chest. Jane was so young, barely older than his mother had been when she found herself in trouble with the Earl of Saunton. How would Aurora react if and when he revealed that he might have found a true affinity with a young woman of such tender years?
He exhaled slowly, resolving his thoughts with careful deliberation. “I shall endeavor to think the matter through thoroughly before making my decision.” His tone was even, though the words carried more weight than Aurora could know.
Aurora nodded approvingly, her smile soft and relieved. “That is all I ask, my dear.”
* * *
Jane wrote furiously, her quill racing across the page in the dim light of the library. The scratch of the nib against the paper filled the quiet room, punctuated only by her shallow breaths and the soft crackle of the fire burning low in the grate. She paused, her hand stilling, and frowned at the dull edge of her quill. Not now, she thought with a surge of impatience. Grabbing her penknife, she sharpened it swiftly, brushing the stray bits of feather from her lap before dipping it into the inkwell. The interruption grated at her nerves. She needed to get the lines out of her head before they evaporated like mist in the morning sun.
Bending over her notebook, she scribbled as her inspiration spilled across the page in looping script. Her hand moved swiftly, the ink flowing freely as if driven by the urgency of her thoughts.
The afternoon had been an utter delight. Time with Barclay—having him show her the magic of the grotto, existing in that bubble of time and space far from the real world—had been nothing short of a revelation. Her cheeks still flushed with the memory of it, the laughter of the children, the cool shadows of the cavern, and Barclay’s presence beside her, steady and unyielding.
But she was uncertain where matters stood. Barclay had stated no intentions—yet she hoped. Oh, how she hoped that their connection would blossom into something more. There had never been such an attraction with any other gentleman of her acquaintance, and her heart was in jeopardy of tumbling head over heels before she even understood what this was … or where it might lead.
Could Barclay be my Darcy?
The thought sent a thrill through her, and she bit her lip to suppress the smile that threatened to bloom. Jane could now understand the troubles Emma had faced during her strange courtship with Perry. She had encouraged her sister to pursue the relationship, but Emma had balked. At the time, Jane had not grasped her hesitation. But now, now that her own affections were at risk, she knew what it was to want a man, to yearn for him, yet be uncertain of his regard.
Barclay had raised concerns about the possibility of a courtship. Their difference in age, his lamentable status within society as a by-blow—these were not small matters. But Jane wanted to brush them aside, to leap into his arms and declare that none of it mattered. Yet Emma’s voice lingered in her thoughts. Her sister had pointed out that marriage was a commitment that could not be undone and had advised her to be cautious.
Jane now acknowledged that Emma’s advice had been wise. She could not simply race headlong into her emotions, not knowing the gentleman’s thoughts on the matter. Though her heart clamored for action, her mind, tempered by her sister’s warnings, urged restraint.
As she finished the last line with a flourish, the ink pooling neatly at the end of her sentence, she heard footsteps behind her. Her breath caught, and she straightened in her chair, smoothing her skirts with trembling hands.
“Do you have new verses to read to me?”
Barclay’s husky voice was low, intimate, and it wrapped around her like the softest velvet. A shiver traced its way down her spine, settling low in her heart, warm and fluttering. She did not turn right away, savoring the sensation of him behind her, his presence undeniable, his voice still lingering in the air.
“These are private verses,” she whispered back, surprised at how coy she sounded in the silence of the library. Her voice was barely more than a breath, yet it lingered between them, heavy with unspoken meaning.
“This is a private moment,” he responded. His tone was low and intimate, wrapping around her like the brush of velvet. He had come up behind her, his presence warm and solid as he leaned over the back of her chair. Jane’s breath hitched as she felt his lips graze the shell of her ear—a fleeting kiss, barely there, but enough to send a ripple of warmth coursing through her veins. His breath lingered hot against her skin, and her eyes fluttered shut, savoring the exquisite tension that hung between them.
But too soon, he withdrew, stepping around her to take the opposite seat. Her eyes opened, her gaze following his movement, and her heart lifted at the soft affection reflected in his eyes.
“I admit I was quite inspired … by our visit to the grotto.” Her cheeks pinkened, and she bit her lip, a wave of shyness stealing over her. For all the years that gentlemen had gathered around her at social events, displaying their regard with practiced compliments and lingering glances, she had never encountered one who intrigued her as Barclay did.
Perry certainly had his charms, but from the very first moment, it had been clear that Emma was the one he desired. Jane had never envied her sister for it; she and Perry did not share the meeting of minds that he and Emma enjoyed. Their connection had been instant and obvious, as natural as breathing. But what she felt with Barclay … it was something different.
A slow smile spread across Barclay’s face in response to her admission, his eyes bright with understanding. The electricity between them fairly crackled, the air alive with a charged energy that made her skin tingle. It reminded her of the way rubbing wool could make one’s hair stand on end, sparking with tiny shocks. Even now, she felt as though her hair might crackle from the force of his gaze alone.
Barclay was different from other prospective suitors. He seemed genuinely intrigued by her thoughts, her mind, and not merely her appearance. Jane knew she was considered lovely—gentlemen had made no secret of it. Her willowy height, the wave of ebony curls that framed her face, her high cheekbones, and the symmetry of her features were often compared to the portraits of English beauties. She took pride in her fashion sense and her understanding of color; caring for her appearance had always been something of a pastime.
But with Barclay, there was something else. Something new.
Jane had become aware of herself not just as a woman to be admired, but as a person with thoughts worth hearing. Barclay had listened to her poetry with an intensity she had never known from any other, his eyes fixed upon her with genuine interest. When he spoke, it was with the assumption that her words mattered. For the first time, Jane saw herself as more than a pretty face. She was an intellectual. An artist. Someone who composed lines to capture the marvels she observed in the world around her—and Barclay had treated her thoughts as if they held value.
This was the meeting of minds Emma had spoken of before her departure from Saunton Park. An indefinable kinship, a synchronization of thought that made the world sharper and more beautiful when shared. It was exhilarating, and terrifying, and she found herself yearning for more.
At least, she thought with a flutter of anxiety, I hope he is sharing the sentiment. That it is not mere wishful infatuation on my side.
Yet … his presence in the library for the third night in a row suggested otherwise. He would not seek her out, night after night, if he did not feel it too. Would he?
“What do you compose tonight?” Barclay asked, his voice warm and inviting as his gaze flickered to the quill in her hand. Jane blinked, realizing she had been frozen in place, her quill poised above the page since the moment she had heard his footsteps behind her.
“I was inspired by the statue of Hades,” Jane replied, her eyes brightening with enthusiasm. “That such a hard and intimidating god should be so obsessed with a beautiful woman that he abducts her to his dark lair. I like to think he tricked her into eating the pomegranate seeds because he could not … not do it. That perhaps he truly loved her so much that he could not bear the thought of a future without her, so he granted her freedom while ensuring he could remain a part of her life.”
Barclay huffed slightly, his expression bemused. “That is a romantic view of the story,” he replied, leaning back in his chair. “And I admit there are aspects of him for which I have empathy. His world is dark, and he is surrounded by the dead. She must have represented the very light and life which he was no longer part of.” His eyes grew distant, as if picturing the myth in his mind. “But I confess I have difficulty reconciling that statue with the fact that it was the late earl who commissioned the work, considering the misdeeds that surely inspired him to select such an odd subject.” He paused, his lips curving into a wry smile.
Jane chuckled. “Yes, a story can be viewed from many angles depending on the emphasis one places, and I chose to emphasize the love for tonight.”
Barclay’s brows lifted, his gaze thoughtful. “That is insightful to consider.”
Jane’s cheeks warmed under his praise. It struck her again, as it had so many times before, that Barclay spoke to her with genuine interest in her thoughts. Not as if she were a child amusing herself with romantic notions, but as though her perspective mattered. It made her feel mature in his presence—a woman with valuable thoughts and opinions.
Barclay’s hands came up to rest on the table before him, his gaze dropping to study them intently. Jane found herself riveted. She had been fascinated by those hands since the first time she saw them—large, strong palms and long, blunt fingers, the kind that spoke of both power and restraint. She remembered the brush of his calloused fingertips the evening before and had to repress the shiver that rippled through her. The feel of his lips on hers still haunted her at the oddest moments, unbidden and undeniable.
His fingers flexed, and he drew in a breath. “I would …”
Jane leaned forward, her heart skipping a beat as she waited for him to continue. But Barclay merely stared down at his hands, as if the words had caught in his throat. Her pulse thrummed in her ears, and before she could stop herself, she spoke. “Like to court me?”
Barclay chuckled, the sound low and rough, his gaze still fixed on his hands. “When did young women become so direct?”
Jane drew her lips inward, chewing them slightly as she considered her reply. The silence stretched between them, delicate and fragile, until at last she released the breath she had been holding. “I am not usually so forward,” she admitted quietly, her voice softening. “But I find myself …” She trailed off, the words tangled with her thoughts, unspoken yet palpable between them.
The silence fell heavy once more, pressing down upon them until Barclay cleared his throat, his eyes still not meeting hers. “I simply do not know how this new connection with the earl will affect my social standing.” His voice was hushed, almost as though he were confessing a sin. “And you are so young.”
Jane lifted her hand to chew on a nail in agitation, her gaze fixed on his bowed head. “I would like to try,” she whispered, her voice barely above a breath. “I have … met no one like you before.”
His gaze rose to meet hers across the table, his eyes dark and searching. “Nor I you, Jane.” His voice was hushed, almost reverent. “If my wife were still alive … I am convinced you would have been the best of friends.”
A tentative smile touched her lips, but it was edged with uncertainty. She found it difficult to breathe, thinking about it. It was, at once, both a deep honor and a profoundly depressing thought. If his wife were here, and they were the best of friends, would Jane have found herself in the agonizing position of coveting the woman’s husband?
She hoped not. She hoped she would have had the fortitude and honor to simply view him as a man who was unavailable—appreciated, yes, but untouchable. Fortunately, it was a theoretical situation she would never have to experience.
The gentleman’s regard for his late wife was what first attracted you so!
The recollection of the conversation she had overheard in the library that night drifted back to her—the one where Barclay and Aurora had spoken quietly of his circumstances. The memory served as a consolation. Without that glimpse into his character, he would have been merely an inordinately handsome gentleman attending the house party. Handsome in the same manner as his two brothers—Richard and Peregrine—both of whom she found pleasant enough, but who had never stirred her heart as Barclay did.
“So, what do we do?” she asked softly, her hands clasped together in her lap.
Barclay’s head dropped and his shoulders slumped slightly, tension rippling through his posture. “I do not know,” he confessed, his voice strained. “I need to think on it. This whole situation is so unexpected.” He paused, swallowing hard as if to collect his thoughts. “Just four days ago, I was still in deep mourning for my wife, and now …” His voice cracked slightly, and he stopped, unable to continue.
Jane felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes, her heart aching in sympathy. The enigmatic gentleman had endured a loss so profound that she could scarcely comprehend it. She had only known him for a few days, yet the mere idea of his death was too devastating to consider. Barclay carried a substantial burden, and she would not be the cause of further strain. He needed time—time to reach his conclusions about how to proceed with this unexpected affinity of theirs. She would not rush him. Not now.
“Take your time, Barclay,” she murmured, her voice gentle and sincere.
He looked up, his eyes searching her face. “I appreciate your patience … Jane.”
The sound of her name, spoken in that low, husky tone, sent warmth skittering through her veins. She smiled back, though it was tempered with longing. She wished— oh, how she wished —that she could rise from her chair and step around the table to him. That she could slip her arms around his waist, press her cheek to his chest, and breathe in that familiar scent of spice, leather, and ink.
But she did not. Barclay needed time to reconcile the past with the future, and she would not press him. So she remained seated, her hands folded neatly in her lap, and listened as his footsteps receded down the hall, growing fainter with each step.
Her hand flew to her chest, pressing over her pounding heart. Drat! He was so fascinating, so compelling, that she nearly wanted to chase him down the corridor and fling herself into his arms lest he slip away entirely.