Page 7 of Miss Davis and the Architect (Dazzling Debutantes #4)

Chapter Six

"To begin imperfectly is better than to postpone indefinitely."

Jane Austen

* * *

A fter dinner, Barclay discreetly signaled to Jane from across the parlor where the guests had gathered for games. Making her excuses, she rose gracefully and followed him out of the room, finding him waiting for her in the hallway. He extended his arm, and she accepted, slipping her hand over his forearm. A warm, roiling sensation of awareness unfurled from her fingertips, winding its way up her arm to ignite a slow-burning flame of yearning in her heart. His powerful forearm was solid beneath her touch, a tangible reminder of his strength and the quiet confidence that marked his every step. She could not deny her fascination with the gentleman, no matter how unattainable he might seem.

He walked beside her in silence, his expression solemn as they made their way down the connecting corridor to the family wing. Jane soaked up every moment of their silent journey, wishing it could last longer. But, alas, all too soon, they reached the door of his mother’s room.

Barclay raised his hand to knock, while Jane, lost in thought, wistfully imagined what it might be like to be his wife. To tuck Tatiana into bed each night. To travel to towns across the realm, just as Tatiana had described with such enthusiasm.

It was disheartening to envy a dead woman, but Jane could not deny that the late Mrs. Thompson had lived the life she herself had always dreamed of—a loving husband, a beautiful child, and the freedom to travel and explore.

The door opened, revealing Tatiana’s grandmother, who smiled warmly. “Miss Davis, this is so generous of you. Tatiana is beside herself with excitement!”

“Please, Miss Thompson, you must call me Jane,” she replied, her smile softening.

The older woman’s eyes brightened with delight. “I would love to! You must do me the honor of calling me by my given name. Aurora.”

“Aurora? That is a beautiful name.”

Aurora inclined her head gracefully. “Thank you, my dear. My mother was Italian,” she explained, a touch of nostalgia coloring her voice.

Barclay, Aurora, and Jane quickly conferred, and it was decided that Aurora would return to the guests in the main house, leaving Barclay to accompany Jane to the little girl’s room. When they entered, Tatiana sat upright in her cot, her silver-blonde curls tumbling over her shoulders. She clapped her hands with delight, her eyes shining with excitement. Jane could not help but smile at the child’s enthusiasm as she crossed the room to sit beside her. The book had been delivered earlier that evening, so she picked it up and settled comfortably before beginning to read aloud.

With four younger brothers and sisters at home, Jane was confident in her storytelling abilities. Oliver and Max, the rambunctious twins, were never shy to criticize her reading, which meant she had long since learned how children preferred their stories told—plenty of expression, with dramatic pauses and just the right inflection to keep them enraptured.

Tatiana was entirely absorbed, her delicate face reflecting every twist and turn of the tale as Jane spoke of the treasure-laden cave and the glittering jewels hidden within. Barclay had taken a seat in an armchair across the room, his presence a steady, watchful silhouette in the dim light. He did not interrupt or draw attention to himself, yet Jane could feel his gaze on her as she read.

As she described Aladdin’s discovery of the magic lamp, Tatiana’s eyes began to flutter closed, her little body curling into the cot as she fought to stay awake. Jane softened her voice, letting it lull the girl toward sleep, and soon enough, a gentle snore escaped Tatiana’s lips—a sound so sweet and innocent that Jane found herself pausing to simply gaze at the child’s peaceful face.

Carefully, she closed the book, her movements light and practiced. With a tender hand, she smoothed the blankets around Tatiana’s shoulders, her heart aching with a longing she had not known she possessed. To have such moments every night, to bring peace and comfort to a child … it stirred something deep within her.

She straightened and turned to Barclay, who rose as well, his expression inscrutable. Together, they moved to the door, Barclay closing it with a soft click. In the quiet hush of the corridor, he turned to her, his eyes searching hers. “Thank you … Jane. It has been a long time since I have seen Tatiana so content. What you did tonight was exceedingly kind.”

Jane looked up at his solemn face, taking in the faint lines at the corners of his eyes and the close-cropped beard that lent him an air of guardedness. Her lips curved into a smile. “It was my great honor, Barclay.”

For a heartbeat, neither spoke. Then he inclined his head and offered his arm once more. She accepted, and he escorted her back to the main house, his stride slow and measured, as if unwilling to rush the moment.

When they reached the parlor, Jane rejoined the countess on a satin-upholstered sofa, her mind still lingering on the tender moment she had shared with Tatiana. It had been a curious experience—one she suspected she would always cherish. Bringing comfort to both the child and, she hoped, her father, had filled her with an unexpected sense of fulfillment.

As the countess resumed her conversation with a cluster of ladies, Jane’s mind wandered back to Tatiana’s sleepy smile, to Barclay’s soft-spoken gratitude. The evening had brought clarity to her own desires—she yearned for such moments with her own family. To be needed. To offer warmth and affection to those she loved.

Since Emma had left to embark on her new life as a married woman, Jane had felt the pangs of loneliness keenly. She had no wish to return to Rose Ash Manor, only to wait for the next event or visitor to punctuate the quiet of her days. She longed for a husband and children of her own. To tuck them in with bedtime stories. To watch them grow, to share in their triumphs and soothe their hurts.

It was time she began the next chapter of her life. Emma had done it. So could she.

You are grown now, Jane Davis. You must find your own happiness.

* * *

Barclay sat on the wide stone ledge of his window, watching the fog roll in over the sprawling parkland. The mist crept along the earth, shrouding the moon and stars, leaving him staring into the abyss of midnight. It was … unsettling.

He could no longer summon Natalya to his side as he had done that first night at Saunton Park. He supposed that some unspoken decision must have been made—some quiet acceptance that he would move forward after learning that Tatiana wished for a new mother. It was what Natalya had wanted, and her continued absence from his midnight reveries suggested it was too late to turn back.

He considered the widow, Mrs. Gordon, whose pleasant company and kind manner made her a reasonable choice. She did not mind his situation. She had laughed at his jokes and spoken warmly of Tatiana. There was an ease to her presence that Barclay could appreciate. He shifted his back against the chilly pane, inspecting the ceiling with an expert eye out of habit. How was he to sleep? And what was he to do if, now that he had released Natalya from the binds of memory, she refused to return and soothe his sleepless hours as she had always done before?

Eventually, the restlessness became too much, and he rose from the window ledge to roam the silent halls. The manor was draped in stillness, its grand corridors bereft of guests and family, all retired for the evening. His footsteps were muffled by thick Persian runners that stretched the length of the hall, and the sconces cast soft amber light, just enough to avoid stumbling in the dark.

It felt strange to wander the corridors of this grand home his grandfather had designed. So much history lingered in the walls. Tsar had made his reputation with this very estate. Aurora had been seduced under its soaring ceilings. Barclay himself had been conceived here. And now, whimsically, it was the place where memories of Natalya had finally been released from the living, as if she might now pursue her own journey while he struggled onward in this mortal coil.

Contemplating these heavy matters in the middle of the night did nothing to settle his mind. He needed distraction—something to occupy his thoughts, or he would find himself pacing the halls until dawn.

Approaching the main block of the manor, he stilled as he noticed the library was still lit. Who would make use of the room at such an hour? Curiosity stirred him, and he headed in that direction, craving company—any company—to dispel the lingering shadows of grief and relentless solitude.

When he entered the room, he came to a sharp halt. Jane was bent over a library table, her brow furrowed in concentration as she scratched over a page with a quill. He should leave. He should turn around and return to his chambers. It was entirely inappropriate for him to be alone with her in the dead of night.

But the hour was late, and his soul was weary. He could not command his feet to walk away. The room was warm and inviting, and she … she was a vision of serenity, her dark hair tumbling over her shoulder, her lashes low as she concentrated. She looked like something out of a dream, bent over her writing with such absorption that he almost hated to disturb her.

But he could not resist. He wanted to enjoy this quiet hour alone with her. In the morning, he would do the right thing. He would be honorable. He would keep his distance as he had promised himself. But tonight … tonight, he was so profoundly lonely, and this captivating creature was the only solace he had found in two long years.

“What are you writing?” He moved to take a seat by the fireplace, his gaze steady and curious.

Jane flinched, startled by his presence. Her hand moved reflexively to cover the page, as if shielding the words from him. His curiosity only deepened.

“It is nothing.”

Barclay raised a brow. “Jane … it is midnight, and evidently neither of us can sleep. Share your thoughts with me.”

Her face contorted with hesitation, twin spots of color appearing high on her cheeks. “It is poetry,” she mumbled, barely above a whisper.

His brows rose. “You write verse?”

She nodded, seemingly unable to meet his eyes. Her fingers trembled slightly as they smoothed over the page.

“Tell me about it.”

She chewed her lip before replying, the words tumbling out in a rush, as if speaking too slowly would break her courage. “I wrote it in the style of Shakespeare—each line is five feet of two syllables to create the ten syllables of iambic pentameter. But I used variations of the iambs, so not all my lines are the traditional duh-DUH rhythm. Some of the stresses are reversed— DUH-duh —while others are not stressed— duh-duh —to draw attention to certain phrases and to add emphasis … I am a bumbling amateur at best.”

Barclay hid a smile. The endearing young woman was babbling, clearly flustered to be caught with her poetry. The flush of her cheeks, the nervous way she spoke—he found it all unexpectedly charming. “Read one to me.”

Jane straightened in her seat, her eyes wide with alarm. “Oh, no! I never share my work. Even Emma has never heard my lines.”

“Poetry is food for the soul. It is meant to be shared, and I wish to hear what you have written.”

“No. I cannot?—”

“I will not judge.” His tone was gentle but firm. “I know the challenge of creating something and showing it to another for the first time. My first design, I was certain Tsar would hate it. I had to find the courage to display it. Now I have won awards and am paid to design monumental buildings.”

His gaze wandered to her mouth, where she nibbled on her soft pink lip, clearly caught in the throes of indecision. Barclay quickly averted his eyes, repressing an urge to steal a kiss.

“What if it is terrible?” she whispered.

“Then I shall be the only one who knows it. Just look down at that page of yours, and wherever your gaze happens to fall, read me that verse.”

She gazed at him, searching his eyes as if testing his sincerity. At last, she nodded, closing her eyes to gather her breath. When she opened them, she glanced down, found a place on the page, and read it aloud, her voice soft but steady.

“Old eyes, cold eyes, eyes that have seen too much.

Aware of what it is to love and lose.

How my heart cries out to ease his burden.

To banish the dark shadows from those depths,

And bring back a sure smile to his firmed lips.”

Barclay went still. Were the lines about him? Was that how she perceived him? Was his grief so evident?

Staring at the flames in the hearth, he found himself spellbound by their flicker, their hypnotic dance mirroring the tumult of his thoughts. The silence in the room grew thick and heavy with indolent meaning, settling around them like a shroud. Finally, he turned his head to look at her, searching her face for confirmation.

Jane was blushing so fiercely, staring down at the page before her, that he feared she might singe her glorious mane of ebony locks with the heat emanating from her cheeks. He could not help but marvel at her—the way her fingers trembled slightly as they clutched the paper, the gentle rise and fall of her breath, the vulnerability she displayed in that fragile moment.

“That was …” Barclay hesitated, seeking the right word, one that would do justice to the delicate beauty of her verse. “Evocative.”

“Uh … thank you?” Jane mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper. She did not look up, her lashes fluttering as if the mere act of meeting his gaze would undo her.

“Truly, Miss Davis. You should share your verses more often. I think you could write a volume and seek a publisher.”

Her eyes shot up, wide with disbelief. “What? Why would the musings of a country lass be worth publishing? You are funning me!”

Barclay’s expression grew earnest, his gaze steady and unwavering. “Women are the jewels of our civilization. They are grace and kindness incarnate. They are the beauty of our world. Without them, men would be mere barbarians in the mud.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping. “We would all do well to hear more from the feminine perspective.”

Jane blinked, her lips parting slightly in surprise. “My sister is the one with something to declare. I am not.”

“I beg to differ. Your words contain profound insight. It is not simply the words—it is your perspective … the way you capture what is unspoken and yet deeply felt.”

Her gaze softened as she glanced back at the page, fingertips tracing the inked lines. “I observe people. Most of my poems are about what I think I see.”

Barclay swallowed, the room seeming to grow warmer. “You see much, if that verse is any indication.”

A small smile touched her lips. “You are most encouraging.”

He shrugged nonchalantly, though inwardly he was still reeling from the observation she had read aloud. “There are plenty of people who could criticize you for your effort,” he said gently. “I prefer to be the sort of man who encourages worthy individuals to pursue their dreams. I owe my grandfather for taking a chance on me, so I feel obligated to create opportunities for others. In that vein, I have publisher acquaintances if you ever wish to submit your work for consideration.”

Jane sat back in her chair, her hands resting lightly in her lap as she studied him with a curious intensity. “You are an unusual man, Barclay Thompson.”

Barclay found himself held captive by the blue depths of her gaze. Her eyes shone with earnestness and sincerity, like pools of clear water untouched by shadow. He imagined—not for the first time—what it would be like to have this bright, gentle soul by his side. To walk with her in the garden, sharing quiet moments beneath the spreading branches of ancient oaks. To sit beside her by a crackling fire, her laughter filling the room as Tatiana played at their feet. To wake each morning to her smile, sunlight filtering through the curtains to warm their faces.

For the first time in years, he allowed himself to think of the future—not one laced with grief and longing, but one filled with light and possibility. Jane's presence, her softness, her unguarded joy, had reminded him of what it meant to hope.

He blinked, and the idyllic fantasy vanished, the firelight flickering back into focus. She is not for you, Barclay.

But he wished she were. His entire being longed to spend more time with this graceful young woman who treated his daughter with such kindness and, somehow, had begun to soothe the ache of loss he had carried for so long.

They spoke for a while longer, discovering a mutual love of Shakespeare and Wordsworth. Barclay found himself charmed by the quickness of her mind and the way her eyes sparkled with understanding as they discussed their favorite passages. It was the most pleasant conversation he had experienced in years, and when he finally returned to the family wing, he could not help but feel lighter.

The corridor was dark, the fog pressing against the windows and blocking all moonlight from weaving its way in. Barclay could barely see his way because the sconces cast little light. He supposed that on most nights, the large sash windows allowed plenty of moonlight in and that the sconces were sufficient. But tonight, the fog hung heavy and thick, so the servants had not taken pains to increase the light for the gloomy conditions.

Just then, a flash of lightning lit the hall. A clap of thunder masked Barclay’s yelp of surprise when a small, ghostly figure was revealed several feet in front of him.

“Papa?”

Barclay caught his breath, realizing that it was Tatiana who had startled him out of his wits. “What are you doing out of bed, little one?”

“I miss Mama.” She broke into tears when she responded, causing Barclay to hurry over to her side.

Dropping to his haunches, he folded her into his arms. “Oh, Tatiana. I promise wherever your mama is right now, she misses you dreadfully, too.”

Tatiana’s little shoulders shook as she cried into his shoulder, breaking Barclay’s heart as he swept her up against him and carried her to his room. Walking over to a sofa by the fireplace, he settled her down next to him. “What is it?”

“I woke from a dream. Mama was there, but I couldn’t see her face. When I awoke, I realized I have forgotten what she looked like.” Barclay’s heart fractured as he stared down at the tear-streaked face of his little girl and thought about what he should say.

He reached out a finger to wipe away her tears. “That is ridiculous, little one. Of course you remember how she looks. Why, you look just like her!”

Tatiana’s tears stopped. “I do?”

“All you need to do is look in the mirror. Come, see here.”

Barclay ushered his daughter over to a mirror on the wall. Holding her up with one arm, he raised his hand to finger her hair. “She had silken hair woven from moonbeams . . .”

“Like mine?”

“That is correct. And, see, she had eyes as blue as the Baltic Sea.”

Tatiana gazed at her reflection. “Like mine?”

Barclay bobbed his head. “And her skin was as smooth as fresh cream.”

Tatiana stared intently into the mirror, raising a hand to touch her cheek. “Like mine?”

“Just like you, little one. Just like you.”

“She will always be here with us?”

“Always.” Barclay’s voice was hoarse when he responded, and he accepted the truth. Their mutual grieving must come to an end. He could not live in the past any longer, and he must help his child to find joy once more, as she had during the reading of Aladdin earlier that evening.

Somehow, this visit to Saunton Park had unlocked a door, and Barclay could see clearly that he had been keeping them trapped in the past with his lingering state of mourning. Natalya had instructed him to find a new wife once she was gone. Barclay had failed to pay her heed, and it would disappoint his late wife that her child suffered for his neglect in fulfilling his promise to her.

He must accept that Natalya was gone. Come morning, he needed to make a serious attempt to find a new mother for Tatiana. No more mourning. No more woolgathering over the beautiful young woman he had met a couple of days ago, but a genuine effort to find a suitable mother.