Page 13 of Miss Davis and the Architect (Dazzling Debutantes #4)

Chapter Eleven

"To wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect."

Jane Austen

* * *

W hen Jane opened her eyes to the morning light, the elation of the afternoon before had not worn off. She lay still for a moment, savoring the warmth of the sunlight streaming through the curtains, her heart brimming with the memory of their magical outing. Barclay was considering a courtship. The thought made her smile as she stretched luxuriously beneath the covers, recalling how his eyes had lingered on hers, how his hand had clasped hers in that fleeting, secretive touch.

She wished she could have shared more kisses with him last night, but she had promised him patience, and she would honor that promise—no matter how her heart ached to feel his lips on hers again.

Optimism swelled within her, stubborn and bright. She could not shake the feeling that it would all work out. Jane had known from the very first that her sister Emma and Perry belonged together, that Perry was destined to be Emma’s Darcy. Despite a few setbacks, it had proven true, which meant that her intuition in such matters was, if nothing else, rather reliable. Which meant Barclay could very well be her Darcy …

No, that did not seem quite right. Barclay was not a Fitzwilliam Darcy in character—he lacked the brooding reserve, the icy pride that had hidden Darcy’s better nature. But he could be her … Colonel Brandon? Perhaps … but not entirely. Mr. Knightley? No, that was not right either.

He was her … her … Jane gave up with a huff of amusement. There was no one to compare him to. He was simply Barclay. And after the promising events of yesterday, she felt sure that soon he would be her Barclay if she just gave him the time he needed.

Weary from the persistent insomnia that plagued her, but alight with excitement to see the gentleman, she threw back the covers and rose swiftly, the chill of the morning air forgotten in her haste. Outside her door, she found the breakfast tray waiting, as it did each morning, and she carried it inside with a smile.

Her breakfast was eaten in record time, and she immediately set to work with her mortar and pestle, crushing the strawberries to make her beauty water. She had been prepared to forego the new ritual this morning in her eagerness to begin the day, but the memory of Barclay’s breath, warm against her neck as he murmured his delight that she tasted of strawberries and almonds, made her pause. If there were the possibility of stolen kisses this evening, she wished to be prepared—to bewitch him if she could.

His own scent had imprinted itself on her senses. It had intoxicated her, drawing her back to memories of their walk to the grotto, the way his hands had clasped hers. It made her heart sing and her mind awaken to new possibilities.

As she mashed the strawberries, she recalled Tatiana’s sweet voice as the child had spoken of her life when her mother had still been with them. How they had traveled with Barclay to various building sites, learning about architecture and playing in the gardens of grand estates. Jane’s heart quickened at the idea of such a life. She could almost see it: penning poetry beneath the shade of ancient trees, Tatiana by her side, while Barclay worked nearby with his plans and measurements. A life of travel, of discovery, of sharing each moment with family she loved.

It sounded idyllic—like the words Emma had spoken to her the day she departed Saunton Park. Her sister had reminded her of her longing to travel, her desire to write, and the way she had always dreamed of having children. With Barclay, it seemed that all those dreams could converge in the most beautiful way. She would gain a sweet daughter—a young girl whose company she already adored.

But was she truly mature enough to assume such a role? To be a mother to a nine-year-old?

Jane bit her lip as she poured the crushed strawberries into a basin, assuring herself that she could muddle her way through. Tatiana herself had announced her willingness for such a relationship, and Aurora had given no indication that her granddaughter’s affections were fleeting.

Barclay might be at a different stage in the journey of life, but Jane was determined to catch up. Whatever it took, she would do it. For the first time in her life, she could imagine her future with one specific man, and she knew with every fiber of her being that he would be worth any troubles they might encounter. What relationship did not have its obstacles to overcome?

Her heart light with anticipation, Jane finished her preparations, smoothing her hair and donning a day dress of pale blue muslin. She hurriedly gathered her things, casting one final glance at her reflection before nodding in satisfaction.

She needed to find her morning coffee in the library. And then—she needed to find Barclay.

* * *

Aurora continued to twist her fingers in her lap while Barclay waited for his mother to speak. Eventually, she sighed as if accepting a dark fate and spoke.

“I told you that Grandmama—my mother—was a member of the committee, which is why I so desperately wanted to be accepted?”

“You did.”

“I did not tell you about the day Grandmama was expelled from the society.”

Barclay frowned. Indeed, that fact had never been mentioned. He had always assumed that she had remained part of the group. By the time he was old enough to be aware of his mother and grandmother as individuals with their own hopes and dreams, the topic of the committee had faded into the past.

“It was a few weeks after you were born. I had returned to London with Mama, and we were settling into life with a new babe in the house.”

“What happened?”

“Word was slow to spread at first, but then overnight, it seemed as if everyone knew about that Thompson girl with the illegitimate child.”

Barclay sank back into his chair. His mother had never told him what it was like when he was born. She never complained about the situation, and all he knew were the accumulated observations since he had reached an age to be included in adult conversations.

His gaze found the ceiling, and he scowled harder than he ever had at the cornices to quell the disquiet he felt to hear Aurora’s anguish as she recalled the past.

“One night, I was returning from your room. We had my old nanny to assist me, but I spent as much time as I could with you, and so I was passing the drawing room. The door had not latched properly when I had left them earlier, so I could overhear their conversation. I … I had never heard … my mother cry before that night.”

Barclay’s gut roiled in protest. He squeezed his eyes shut, fighting against the surge of anguish that rose within him as Aurora continued to tell her story.

“Mama was crying, and Tsar was comforting her,” she whispered, her voice trembling with the weight of memory. “She wept because they had abruptly severed their ties with her. That night, I learned how hard she had worked to be accepted when she first arrived in England, how joining the committee had been one of her greatest triumphs, and how the day they accepted her had been a victory for her—a symbol that she had carved a place for herself in Britain. She had worked diligently as a member of the society, so proud of the charitable work she had done … I could not believe it.”

Barclay leaned forward, his brow furrowing with concern. “Could not believe what?”

“That I had been so foolish with the earl. That I had allowed him to seduce me into hurting my family.” Aurora’s voice cracked, but she straightened her back, a flicker of pride glimmering despite her sorrow. “She was such a good mama, and I caused her pain with my selfish, foolhardy choices.”

Barclay clenched his fists at his sides, fighting back the anguish that clawed at his heart. He was the cause of four generations of Thompson pain. His grandmother had always been so steadfast, so joyful despite the whispers. To think of her weeping as she lost her place in society—how his mother had suffered, how Tatiana might suffer in the future—made him ache with longing for Natalya more than he had in years.

He remembered his fumbling attempts to court young Englishwomen in his youth, only to have fathers slam their doors in his face. The memory still burned, raw and unhealed. Meeting Natalya’s father in St. Petersburg and being so warmly welcomed into his home, then meeting Natalya herself and experiencing that same warmth and acceptance—it had been one of the best days of his life.

That a beautiful young woman like her had willingly accepted his proposal and waved away the snubs she experienced when she arrived in England had been nothing short of a miracle to him. Natalya had brushed it all aside with a laugh and a wave of her hand, as though the cruelty of society meant nothing. “They would have snubbed me for being Russian regardless. There is no harm, Barclay,” she would assure him, her accent curling around the words with confidence and grace.

His mind snapped back to the present when Aurora continued speaking, her voice steady though laced with regret. “I vowed, no matter what it took, I would gain a place on the committee in order to honor my mother.” She gestured at the crumpled letter, her fingers brushing the edge as though its mere touch stung. “Obviously, that vow will never be fulfilled. I know it is inconsequential in the grand scope of life, but I feel I have let my mother down all over again.”

Barclay felt his heart crack in his chest, for he had let his own mother down. This connection to the earl had been about opening doors for Aurora. For Tatiana. And this letter proved that nothing had changed.

He imagined the impossible—that he might one day come home to find Jane weeping from the rejections of the day, her heart bruised by society’s cruelty, with no hope of him being able to fix it for her. He could picture the shimmer of tears on her cheeks, her lovely face marred by sadness, and the thought hollowed him. What advice could he offer her, other than to ignore those who behaved with such unkindness? How could he ask her to endure that pain? A young woman at the prime of her life, with her entire future ahead of her, and he knew there was only one decision he could make.

But his own troubles aside, first he needed to attend to his mother.

It was some time later when he escorted Aurora to the public rooms. She had composed herself, the evidence of her tears having subsided, and her good cheer restored once more. Her chin was held high, her eyes bright with determination, as if she had resolved to shut away that painful chapter for good. It would seem she had simply needed a moment to grieve her disappointment, but now, the charitable society was firmly behind her. That door had closed, and she would not knock upon it again.

Barclay deposited Aurora with the countess and the duchess for tea in one of the drawing rooms, exchanging nods of greeting with the elegant ladies before he steeled his nerve and went to search for Mrs. Gordon.

He donned his beaver, smoothing a hand over its brim as he scanned the terrace. Spotting her amid a group of guests, he made his way outside, the cool breeze tugging at the coattails of his jacket. “Mrs. Gordon?”

The widow turned, her face lighting up with obvious delight. “Mr. Thompson! I was hoping to invite you to play ninepins!”

Barclay ignored the fissure of irritation that crept up his spine. Here was a mature woman with a solid reputation who was well aware of the challenges she would face by his side. A woman who understood the pain of losing a spouse, whose presence in society had remained untouched by scandal. As a woman of nearly thirty years of age, it was possible that the widow did not wish for any more children, which would be a balm to his conscience. He could not, in good faith, bring another child into the world only to endure the burden of his bastardy.

Perhaps the widow could grant Tatiana increased respectability. Perhaps she would be a mother figure who understood discretion and grace. If playing ninepins every day for the rest of his life would protect his mother and his child from further derision, then so be it.

Surely he would grow to enjoy it, given time?

He proffered his arm, and the widow gratefully took hold of it, her hand curling around his arm a little more tightly than he was accustomed to. But he was a man of strength, and surely he would grow to like that, too.

Resolutely, he plastered an affable smile on his face and escorted the widow toward the gardens, ignoring the dull ache in his heart as hopes for a future with Jane Davis withered away.

* * *

When Jane reached the library to drink her morning coffee, she found Tatiana waiting for her, perched upon the edge of an armchair with her legs swinging idly.

One of the maids assigned to the nursery for the house party had recently confided to her that the servants responsible for the children had all but given up trying to keep track of the little girl. Apparently, Tatiana would occasionally visit the nursery to play with Ethan and the other children, but she left without a trace when she grew bored. Radcliffe had informed the countess, who had told them to leave the child to her own devices unless Barclay instructed otherwise, as it did not seem to be causing any difficulties and Tatiana was clearly independent.

“Have you seen my papa?” the little girl queried, her silver-blonde curls bouncing slightly as she tilted her head. She waited patiently while Jane poured her coffee, her blue eyes wide with anticipation.

“I have not, but I just left my bedroom.”

“Oh.” The little girl twirled a lock of her pale hair around her forefinger, her expression thoughtful. “Would you play chess with me? Ethan beat me again. It is quite embarrassing. I am five years older than him!”

Jane smiled warmly. “Of course. I will drink my coffee and then we can play.” The scent of the freshly brewed coffee was beckoning vigorously this morning, its rich aroma curling invitingly around her senses.

Tatiana grinned, then skipped past the window to join her, her slippers barely making a sound on the polished wooden floor. Jane watched as the girl came to an abrupt stop, pressing her face to the glass as if trying to see something more clearly. Her breath fogged the windowpane, and when she turned around, her cheeks were flushed with color.

“Are you all right, Tatiana?” Jane asked, setting her cup back on its saucer with a soft clink.

“Uh … I will have to play with you later. There is something I must do.” With that, the little girl spun on her heel and raced from the room, her skirts fluttering like silken wings as her legs pumped across the distance.

Jane stared after her, the suddenness of Tatiana’s departure unsettling. A flicker of worry creased her brow, and she walked over to the window to see who or what had distracted the child. She pressed her hand to the glass, scanning the gardens, but whoever it was had disappeared from view by the time she reached the window.

Biting her lip, she felt a ripple of anxiety for Tatiana. Should she follow the girl to find out what had upset her?

* * *

Barclay viewed the pins, which truly were set far too close to make for a challenging game, but it was how the ladies played, and so he must engineer some method of enjoying it. Perhaps he could practice knocking down specific pins to hone his aim. His aim in— drat —ninepins. He swallowed, assuring himself there was a way to make it a passable pastime, even if it felt like an exercise in futility.

Lifting a ball from the table, he made a show of preparing to bowl. He reached back, his arm swinging forward?—

“Papa!”

The cry was practically a shriek. Barclay halted mid-swing, the weight of the ball knocking against his chest with a dull thud. He composed himself for a moment, his brow smoothing as he turned to find his daughter standing just a few feet away, her expression stricken and outraged. Her tiny fists were clenched at her sides, and her face was flushed with emotion.

Turning back to Mrs. Gordon, he forced a polite smile. “Mrs. Gordon, if you would not mind, I need to speak to my daughter for a moment.”

The widow’s smile faltered, her fingers tightening on the handle of her parasol before she gave a slow nod. Without a word, she opened the parasol with a soft snap and strolled away, her skirts sweeping elegantly along the grass. Barclay watched her departure for a beat, then turned to Tatiana. Taking her small hand in his, he walked her over to the shade of the great oak tree that dominated the lawn. He settled himself on the bench and gently lifted his daughter to sit beside him, her legs swinging slightly as they dangled above the grass.

“What is it, little one?” he asked, his voice softening.

Tatiana fixated on her toes, her leather slippers scuffing lightly against each other. When she finally raised her face, he saw tears shimmering on her lashes, her large blue eyes brimming with sadness. The sight of it stabbed him in the chest like a thousand tiny daggers. Lud , he was bungling his family duties. First, he had failed to help Aurora fulfill her lifelong dream of joining that society she so cherished, and now Tatiana looked as though her heart were breaking.

“Why are you with Mrs. Gordon, Papa?” she asked, her voice so small and fragile that it nearly undid him.

Barclay’s shoulders stiffened slightly. “Our situation is … difficult, little one. Mrs. Gordon might help us,” he replied, choosing his words with care.

Tatiana’s lip quivered. “But I like Jane. I want her to be my mother.”

Barclay braced himself. He could not bear the thought of another woman in his care being broken by their association with him. Mrs. Gordon might help both Aurora and Tatiana overcome this … this … wretched notoriety. He was not afraid of ruining the widow’s life with his situation, for she was rusticating in the country and seemed more than willing to contend with the challenges that came with his name. They enjoyed a companionable relationship, but no deep feelings were engaged on either side. A marriage to her would be … safe. And he must do what was right for his family, no matter how much he might wish for something different.

“Jane is a young girl,” he began gently. “You need a proper mother. One who can help you grow up to be a great lady one day.”

“Mrs. Gordon does not like children.”

Barclay stiffened. “How can you know that? Did she say something to you?”

“No, but I can tell.” Tatiana’s voice was small but resolute, her eyes sharp with the clarity of a child’s intuition. “And I know Jane makes you happy. You smile when you are with her. Please do not do this. You like her too. I know it. It is not too late. I left Jane in the library, and we can go join her there.”

Barclay relaxed somewhat at the news that Mrs. Gordon had not spoken unkindly to his daughter. He reached out his hand and clasped Tatiana’s gently, his large hand nearly engulfing her tiny one. “You must trust me, Tatiana. I am doing this for you. One day you will understand.”

But instead of calming her, his words seemed to kindle a fire. Tatiana’s eyes grew glassy with tears, and then she began to sob in earnest. For the second time that day, Barclay found himself attempting to comfort one of the women he was honor-bound to protect while they wept. He reached out to embrace her, but Tatiana pulled away from him, slipping from his grasp.

There she stood, glaring up at him with her arms akimbo and her face flushed with anger, looking for all the world like a little warrior princess. Her chin jutted out defiantly, and her blue eyes blazed with unshed tears.

“You know nothing,” she declared, her voice trembling with emotion. “I know Jane is the one, but you will not listen!”

And with that, she spun on her heel and ran, her skirts flaring behind her as she disappeared from view. Barclay remained where he stood, his hands falling uselessly to his sides as he watched her go.

He needed to set this right, and this was the only way he knew how. Tatiana would be upset at first, but he was certain it would all work out in the end—because it had to. He could not be the cause of any more disappointment for their little family, not when it was breaking him in two. Tatiana would be disappointed for a little while, but she would eventually forget the young woman. They would forget her … in time.

He should never have encouraged Jane or Tatiana with foolish hopes.

* * *

Jane spent the afternoon searching for Tatiana and Barclay, but they were nowhere to be found. She had wandered through the gardens, peeked into the nursery, and even made discreet inquiries with the household staff, but no one had seen them. Eventually, she surrendered to the inevitable and played chess with her cousin Ethan before returning to her bedroom to prepare for dinner.

Later, she ventured eagerly to the drawing room where the guests were gathering, her eyes scanning the room with anticipation. But Barclay was not there.

At last, he walked in, dressed in immaculate black trousers, a black coat, and snowy white linen that gleamed against the richness of his attire. The sight of him fairly took Jane’s breath away, as it did each evening. Barclay was especially fine in evening finery—his tall form graceful and confident, his broad shoulders cut to perfection by the tailored lines of his coat.

Caught in conversation with Mr. Dunsford, she could not help but watch as Barclay made his way over to his brother, his strides long and assured. Before she could make her excuses to leave Mr. Dunsford’s side, dinner was called, and Jane’s heart clenched when she saw Barclay hold out his arm to the widow, Mrs. Gordon, to escort her to the dining room.

Once they entered the lavish dining area, where crystal, silver, and fine china glinted in the soft candlelight and the austere Balfour ancestors observed them from ornate gilt frames, Barclay took his seat with the widow while Jane found herself seated next to Mr. Dunsford. The gentleman was solicitous and charming in his self-deprecating manner, his smile easy and his conversation smooth, but Jane’s attention drifted. Her eyes flickered down the table, catching glimpses of Barclay in conversation with Mrs. Gordon, his head inclined toward her as she laughed softly, her golden hair shimmering beneath the candlelight.

Who had made these seating arrangements? Jane wondered, her fingers gripping the edge of her napkin. She was customarily seated with the family at the far end of the table, near Barclay and Aurora—but not tonight. Tonight, Mrs. Gordon had somehow claimed her usual seat.

Forcing herself to focus, Jane dipped her spoon into her soup, engaging in conversation with Mr. Dunsford as propriety demanded. But she could hardly remember what was being discussed. Her mouth spoke the appropriate pleasantries, but her mind raced, swirling with thoughts of the widow sitting where Jane was meant to be.

I will ask Barclay about it when he comes to visit me in the library!

The thought restored her spirits, and Jane felt her tension ease. Her fingers relaxed on the napkin, and she even managed a genuine smile when Mr. Dunsford recounted an amusing anecdote from his last hunt.

Still, she could not help but notice that Mr. Dunsford’s gaze lingered on her face with a soft sort of admiration. It stirred a small flicker of worry in her belly. She had not intended to encourage him, and she hoped he would not make an attempt at courtship. Her hopes regarding the young man had been before. Before the visit to the grotto. Before the kiss in the library. Just … before .

She could not possibly consider accepting his courtship now. Her affections were engaged with the darkly handsome man sitting near the earl. Even now, Barclay was leaning over to say something to Mrs. Gordon, who laughed in response, her face radiant and her golden curls glimmering in the warm candlelight.

He would never pursue the widow. You promised him time to reconcile his grief with the idea of courting you, she reminded herself.

Assuring herself of this helped somewhat, but she still longed for dinner to end and the midnight hour to arrive, when Barclay would visit her once more.

After dinner, she laughed and chatted with the countess and Aurora in the drawing room over tea, the warm glow of candlelight flickering off the polished surfaces of the room. But her eyes kept wandering to the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece, its gilded hands inching forward with agonizing slowness. Time seemed to tick by at a crawl, each chime of the pendulum stretching longer than the last.

A short while later, she joined in the parlor games, Mr. Dunsford at her side with his usual good humor. His cheerful chatter made the minutes pass more swiftly, and she managed a few genuine laughs, but her gaze still drifted to the clock at regular intervals. Where was Barclay? He had remained conspicuously absent since dinner, and the thought tugged uncomfortably at her heart.

When the evening drew to a close, she excused herself with as much grace as she could muster and ascended to her room. She undressed with uncharacteristic haste, her fingers fumbling slightly with the buttons and ties. Tossing her gown over the back of a chair, she slipped into her night rail and tied on her wrap, the silk whispering against her skin. She picked up her journal and quill, then quietly opened her door and slipped into the corridor. The house was silent at this late hour, and the only sound was the soft rustle of her skirts as she strode down the family hall to the main manor.

The library was dark and still when she entered, save for the soft glow of oil lamps. Jane took up her usual seat and found the inkstand where it was stored, the glass bottle cool and smooth beneath her fingertips.

A quick glance at the clock on the wall told her the midnight hour had begun. Lowering her head, she dipped her quill into the ink and began to write the verses she had been composing in her mind throughout the evening.

Thirty minutes later, she checked the time again. He always comes near the end of the hour, she reassured herself, so there is time to finish the verses that he inspired.

Sharpening her quill and dipping it back into the ink, she bent once more over the page, her brow furrowed in concentration. She imagined reading the lines to Barclay, her heart lifting at the thought of his reaction. It had been mortifying to reveal her inner thoughts when she had recited her poetry before, but Barclay had listened with such aplomb. His steady gaze and quiet encouragement had bolstered her confidence, making her believe her words held weight and meaning. Ever since that night, her faith in her poetry had grown.

The lengthy poem she had composed stretched across several pages, and when she finally reached the last line, she sprinkled pounce over the ink to dry it, blowing gently across the surface. Satisfied, she raised her head to glance at the clock once more. Her heart sank. It was ten minutes past one o’clock. Barclay should have been there by now.

Pushing her chair back, she stood and walked out into the hall, her slippered feet making barely a whisper on the polished floors. The corridor was empty, stretching long and dark, illuminated only by the occasional sconce flickering with candlelight. She ventured farther, peering around the corner that linked the family wing to the main house. Nothing.

Confused, she walked back into the library, her hands clasped tightly together as she began to pace up and down the length of the room. Surely he would come to explain his absence? He must have been delayed. Or perhaps he was attending to something urgent and would arrive any moment.

Another ten minutes passed, and Jane’s heart began to beat like a drum in her chest, her stomach twisting itself into anxious knots. Her fingers traced the edge of the mantel as she wandered restlessly, her eyes darting to the clock with every lap she made.

After another twenty minutes of assuring herself that he was merely running late, or had been delayed by correspondence, or perhaps had not yet noticed the time, she finally slowed her steps. Her feet carried her to the armchair by the fireplace, where she slumped into its cushions, the opposite armchair the only companion for her disappointment.

Her eyes drifted to the empty doorway, and the truth she had been dreading since dinner settled heavily in her heart, squeezing it tight.

He is not coming.

In all her years on this earth, Jane had never felt so despondent. Barclay was rejecting her. He had reached a decision and had not even bothered to visit to explain himself.

For the first time, true loneliness descended like a fog rolling in from the coast—cold, damp, and heavy, settling over her shoulders and pressing down on her heart. The weight of it made it hard to breathe, as though the very air had thickened with sorrow.

She did not want to pursue another gentleman. Barclay made her feel special. Not merely for her appearance, as so many others did, but for her mind and character. He listened to her with sincerity, as though her thoughts mattered, as though her words were worth something. Perhaps when the house party was over, she would lift her spirits by visiting Emma at her new home. Her sister’s cheerful disposition and steadfast companionship might be just the balm she needed.

This adventure—joining the earl in his home for a Season, attending this grand house party to be introduced to prospective suitors—had seemed so exciting just a few weeks ago. She had imagined herself swept into the whirl of society, admired, and courted, perhaps even falling in love. Now, Jane simply felt homesick. It was not turning out to be how she had hoped.

To make matters worse, it seemed even Tatiana was avoiding her now. She had yet to see the girl since she had run off before their game earlier that day. Jane had searched the grounds, hoping to catch sight of her silver-blonde curls flashing in the sunlight, but the girl was nowhere to be found.

Jane recalled the trouble she had gone to with the strawberry water that morning—the careful crushing of the berries, the sweet aroma that lingered on her hands. There was no denying it: she was a fool. A hopeless fool. Fortunately, no one was aware of her attraction to Barclay, so her foolish hopes were private to her … and the gentleman.

Her teeth worried her lower lip as she tried to think of something to settle her despair. It would be even more foolish to grieve over a passion that had never truly begun. Stop being maudlin, Jane. It was a whispered command she could not quite obey.

Perhaps she should give Mr. Dunsford another try? Discover if he could accept the fact that she favored coffee? Learn what he thought of her poetry, even?

No. Sharing her lines with another was too much to bear. It was a reminder of her magical evenings with Barclay, of the way he had listened with such rapt attention, his dark eyes fixed on hers as though her words held the power to transport him. Even now, the memory was enough to make her chest tighten with longing, the tears she had been holding back threatening to escape once more.

If only Emma were here to talk to. Emma, who always knew what to say to lift her spirits, who would listen and understand, and never judge her for falling in love with the wrong man.

I will have to begin with revealing my coffee habit, she resolved, thinking of Mr. Dunsford’s surprised expression the last time she had poured a cup. Then learn if he and I share anything in common. Perhaps she had been too quick to dismiss him. Perhaps if she tried …

Raising her hand, she wiped the tears from her lashes and took a long, steadying breath. Rising from her chair, she smoothed her skirts and forced her shoulders back. There was nothing more to be done tonight. Tomorrow would be another day, and she would meet it with as much grace as she could muster.