Page 9 of Miss Davis and the Architect (Dazzling Debutantes #4)

Barclay had been sorely disappointed when Mrs. Gordon elected to play ninepins. He had hoped they might engage in a game of bowls—a sport of precision and skill—but she had declared that the game made her head hurt to think so hard.

Given that he was making a sincere effort to determine whether the woman would be a suitable wife and mother, not to mention that the only gentlemanly response was to agree, he had found himself rolling heavy balls at wooden pins instead.

The gathering was composed predominantly of ladies in lavish bonnets, their pastel skirts flaring as they chattered and laughed over the so-called sport. Barclay noted with no small amount of irony that there were precious few gentlemen present. His mother stood among the group, her hands clasped before her as she observed the scene with amusement. When she caught sight of him, she pressed her lips together in a poor attempt to stifle her laughter at his evident discomfort.

Bowls might make Mrs. Gordon’s head hurt from the excess of challenge, but ninepins made his head ache from the sheer lack of it. As a man accustomed to mathematical formulas, angles, and precise measurements, bowls was a game he could appreciate. A gentleman’s game—one that required strategy and finesse.

I would wager coin that the brilliant Miss Davis is partaking in bowls right at this very moment, he mused, but he swiftly banished the thought. That way lay distraction, and he had resolved to give Mrs. Gordon his full attention, no matter how tedious he found the exercise.

When the widow eventually lamented the strength of the sun, fanning herself with a gloved hand and complaining of the heat, Barclay seized the opportunity. He suggested that they retire to the shade of a nearby oak tree, assuring her with barely disguised relief that he would not mind in the least. She accepted gratefully, and they made their way to a curved bench nestled around the base of the majestic tree, its thick canopy casting cool shadows over the lawn.

Barclay smoothed his hands over his buckskins as he sat, acutely aware of the monochromatic nature of his attire. With his recent decision to come out of mourning, he had realized only that very morning that he could not continue to wear the black coats that had become something of a uniform. How had he not noticed before?

Change is coming, he thought with a twinge of melancholy. If he were at a work site, he might have loosened his cravat to breathe easier, but here among the houseguests, such an action would be considered a breach of etiquette. And so, he suffered through the rigid dress standards—stiff collars and tightly knotted cravats—throughout the long hours of tedious games and trivial pleasantries.

Nevertheless, he reminded himself, I must try to find a new mother for Tatiana. Inhaling deeply, he resolved to persist.

For the next half hour, Barclay made small talk with Mrs. Gordon, his tone polite and his attention fixed, if not entirely sincere. He fetched lemonade and biscuits from a refreshment table the earl’s staff had set up under the canopy of another oak. The beverages were chilled, the biscuits crisp, and the company tolerable. Mrs. Gordon prattled on about London’s latest fashions, her bonnet bobbing as she spoke, while Barclay nodded in the appropriate places, his thoughts occasionally drifting despite his best intentions.

Eventually, Mrs. Gordon sighed, her gloved hands smoothing the skirts of her lavender muslin gown. “Would you mind terribly if we no longer partook in small talk? Perhaps we could share more entertaining tales if we relax the proprieties a little?”

Barclay straightened, his interest piqued. He needed to learn more about the attractive woman at his side, and polite chitchat revealed precious little of a person’s true character. “Indeed. It can become dreadfully dull. Did you have a subject in mind?”

Mrs. Gordon tilted her head, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “Tell me, Mr. Thompson, do you ever have difficulty with a client? Does anyone refuse their plans or whatnot?”

Barclay chuckled, the sound low and rich. “It is the constant dread of an architect when an important client changes their mind midway through a project. Just recently, I planned a Neo-classical folly for a client up north. I traveled to visit the building site, where he met with me. The foundations were already dug and construction had begun, which we inspected together.”

Mrs. Gordon leaned forward, the feathers of her bonnet trembling with her eagerness. “What did he do?”

“The client mentioned he had recently visited Stourhead near Wiltshire and inquired if we might adjust the foundations to make the building round—like the Temple of Apollo at that grand estate designed by Colen Campbell.”

Her gloved hand flew to her mouth as she giggled. “My word! How far along were the foundations?”

“We had already constructed them and had begun on the first level.”

“That is a ridiculous request to have made! What did the gentleman think you were to do?”

Barclay’s eyes twinkled with amusement. “He asked me if we could simply leave what we had constructed but knock out the corners of the square to form a circle.”

The widow burst out laughing, the sound bright and genuine, her hands coming up to cover her mouth as she shook with mirth. Her bonnet bobbed precariously, the ribbon under her chin fluttering as she tried to compose herself. Barclay could not deny that her absorption in his tale—and her unrestrained laughter—was flattering. It had been some time since he had enjoyed the company of a woman in so leisurely a manner, and Mrs. Gordon evidently found him amusing.

Gasping for breath, she wiped at her eyes with her gloved fingertips. “How did you address his request?”

“I told him, of course, we could do precisely as he requested. I would simply prepare an estimate for the change in specifications and bring it to him that evening.”

“And did you do so?” she asked, her eyes shining with anticipation.

“I did.” Barclay leaned back against the bench, crossing his arms comfortably. “When he saw the cost, he looked as if he might suffer an apoplexy right there on the spot. I asked him if I might commence work on the changes, and he sputtered that he would sleep on it and inform me in the morning.”

Mrs. Gordon’s shoulders shook with glee as she laughed even harder. Her bonnet wobbled precariously with each mirthful shake, and she brought a gloved hand to her lips in a vain attempt to stifle her giggles. “And then?”

Barclay leaned back, crossing his arms comfortably. “Come morning, the gentleman had left me a note stating that he was urgently required elsewhere. He also declared that the Hoares of Stourhead were pretentious tradesmen who knew not their place and that Colen Campbell was naught but an upstart from louse land. ”

Mrs. Gordon’s eyes widened. “Louse land?”

Barclay chuckled. “My master builder—a proud Scotsman from Edinburgh—informed me that the contemptible phrase referred to Scotland. The note concluded by directing that I should proceed with the original design of ‘taste and distinguishment’ that he had, in his words, ‘so masterfully conceived.’”

Mrs. Gordon clutched her stomach, practically doubling over with mirth. “What a rude man!” She gasped for breath between peals of laughter. “Well played, Mr. Thompson.”

Barclay grinned back at her, the lines around his eyes softening. “One does not get far as an architect if one does not learn how to manage one’s clients.”

Mrs. Gordon leaned forward conspiratorially, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. “Who was the gentleman in question? Was it someone I would have heard of?”

Barclay shook his head with a chuckle. “I am afraid I cannot speak out of turn. Suffice it to say that he was not quite as distinguished as he claimed.”

Her eyes danced with amusement, and for the first time that afternoon, Barclay found himself fully at ease. The widow had proven to be far more engaging company than he had initially presumed. Perhaps they might form a comfortable companionship? She was attractive, pleasant, and had a sparkling sense of humor.

Not to mention that she is of an appropriate age.

He exhaled in contentment, feeling the tension in his shoulders ease. This might actually lead to something. It occurred to him that he was enjoying himself for the first time since Natalya had died. It was as if he had been locked in stasis these past two years, and this visit to Saunton Park had gently shaken him awake. He still did not sleep through the night, but mayhap once he had a wife in his bed once more, he would recover his ability to rest peacefully.

Certainly, he felt relaxed at this moment.

He had not realized how much tension had coiled through his body until this week—tension that was now unwinding in small, subtle increments. Perhaps by the time he returned to London, he might be engaged in a proper courtship with the handsome widow.

At that moment, movement beyond the shade of the oak caught his eye. A gentleman approached, his gait steady and purposeful, with a small child in tow. Mr. Ridley, upon spotting him beneath the sprawling branches, headed over. Barclay straightened, unexpectedly ashamed as he watched Tatiana skip up alongside him.

“Here is your papa.”

Tatiana pulled her hand away from Mr. Ridley’s grasp, crossing her small arms over her chest. Belligerence was etched in every stubborn line of her posture as she took in Barclay’s proximity to Mrs. Gordon. Her curls shimmered in the sunlight, but her expression was thunderous. “What are you doing?”

Barclay arched a brow at her tone. “I am enjoying a conversation with Mrs. Gordon. What are you doing?”

Tatiana’s frown deepened. “I was playing with the children in the nursery when I came to find you. I thought you would be with Jane, but—” Her sharp gaze swung to Mrs. Gordon, who blinked in surprise before giggling nervously, her gloved hand fluttering to her lips.

Mr. Ridley, observing the tension crackling in the air, raised his brows in mild amusement. He shot a sympathetic glance at Barclay before bowing, tipping his hat politely to Mrs. Gordon. “Mrs. Gordon, Miss Tatiana,” he said with a flourish, and then strode away to join Lord Trafford—the only other gentleman participating in the languid game of ninepins.

Barclay firmed his jaw, leveling his daughter with a steady look. “Mind your manners, little one.” His voice was low but authoritative, a hint of warning threaded through the words. Turning to his companion, he gestured politely. “Mrs. Gordon, may I present my daughter, Tatiana Thompson?”

Tatiana remained rigid, her eyes flashing defiantly.

“Please curtsy, Tatiana.” His tone was measured but left no room for argument.

With great reluctance, Tatiana dropped into a slight curtsy, as her grandmother had painstakingly taught her. The movement was executed perfectly but lacked any warmth or grace. “Can we go play chess now?”

Barclay drew himself up, straightening his shoulders. “I am not yet finished playing ninepins with Mrs. Gordon.” His voice was firm, brooking no opposition. It would not do to allow his daughter to control him, particularly in front of an audience. Her behavior was nothing short of shocking, and he felt heat rise to his cheeks at her lack of decorum.

Bother! Had he just defended ninepins? He repressed a groan. There was no help for it now. He had committed to the game, and his word would stand. Rising to his feet, he held out his arm. Mrs. Gordon accepted it with a gracious smile, and together they fell into step, making their way back to where the players were assembled. Ninepins, it is.

From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Tatiana bolting back toward the manor, her skirts flying behind her. Her face was scrunched, her little fists clenched at her sides, and he thought—though he could not be certain—that there might have been tears in her eyes.

A pang of guilt speared through him, sharp and unyielding. She had spoken often of wanting a new mother, and he was taking steps to fulfill that wish. So why did he feel like a scoundrel now?

Mrs. Gordon chattered pleasantly at his side, but her words barely registered. Barclay moved through the motions, setting up the pins, aligning them with care. He wondered grimly how long an appropriate length of time would be to make his point that he was the adult in their family.

Fortunately, the game passed swiftly. Less than an hour later, he accompanied Mrs. Gordon back to the manor, her arm nestled comfortably in his as they strolled along the gravel path.

Upon reaching the terrace, Mrs. Gordon joined the other guests who had gathered for refreshments and conversation. Barclay's gaze swept the scene, catching sight of Jane speaking animatedly with the countess. A surge of interest flared within him, surprising in its intensity, and he forced himself to look away. He was here to court Mrs. Gordon, not indulge in fancies.

He turned and strode into the house to search for Tatiana, his boots echoing softly against the polished floors. He checked the nursery, the library, even the morning room, but she was nowhere to be found. Her absence pulled a sigh from his lips—she was hiding. Hopefully, she would reappear in time for dinner.

Resigned to the wait, he returned to his chambers with a well-worn volume of The Iliad and took up residence in his armchair, its leather cushions creaking beneath him. He left the door ajar, a silent invitation for his daughter to come find him when she was ready.

When he awoke, the sun was setting. Barclay stretched his arms above his head, blinking against the warm glow of twilight. He marveled at the fact that he had dozed off—something he rarely did, especially in the middle of the day. His usual restlessness had given way to a sense of calm since his arrival at Saunton Park. It was unsettling, almost unfamiliar, to find himself relaxing when there was always an endless list of things to do.

He turned his gaze to the window, where the Somerset sunset stretched out over the manicured lawns and distant tree line, a sight both serene and majestic. The colors deepened as the sun dipped lower, staining the sky with hues of rose and amber. He watched in silence until the creak of the door behind him pulled him from his reverie.

It opened slowly, the hinges groaning in protest, and then closed just as softly. He did not need to turn to know who had entered. The light, measured footsteps padded across the thick carpet.

“Papa?”

Barclay turned his head, his gaze softening as he met her eyes. “Tatiana.”

Her hands twisted in front of her, her eyes downcast. “I am sorry I was rude.”

Barclay set his book aside, his expression gentle. “I thank you for your apology. Will you come sit with me?” He gestured to the spot beside him, the cushions plush and inviting.

She approached, the patter of her feet as light as the treading of angels upon clouds. When she reached his side, Barclay leaned forward and lifted her up, settling her onto his knee with practiced ease. She was getting heavier—growing right before his eyes—but somehow, in his grief, he had failed to truly notice the subtle changes in his young daughter. The lengthening of her limbs, the slight curve of her cheeks losing their baby roundness—it struck him all at once.

Tatiana leaned back, resting her head against his chest as they both gazed out at the dramatic colors painted across the evening sky. Splashes of crimson, violet, and amber streaked the horizon, their brilliance reflected in her wide eyes. For a moment, they sat in companionable silence, watching the firmament slowly deepen as twilight crept in.

“Why were you so upset, little one?” he asked gently, his hand smoothing over her curls.

Tatiana sighed, her tiny shoulders rising and falling. “I want Jane to be my new mother. I do not understand why she was with that Mr. Dunsford fellow, and you were with that Mrs. Gordon.”

Barclay blinked, momentarily taken aback. “Jane is too young to be your mother. I have to find a suitable woman to marry, and I am spending time with Mrs. Gordon so I can get to know her.”

Tatiana twisted slightly to look up at him, her expression fierce with determination. “Mrs. Gordon is the wrong woman. You must court Jane.”

Barclay raised his brows, suppressing a chuckle at her resolute tone. “You understand that I am the parent? I am the one who must decide what is best for us. For you.”

Her lips pressed together stubbornly. “But if Mama were here, she would tell you that Jane is the one who is to be my mother.”

Barclay froze, his heart clenching painfully in his chest. The room seemed to grow still, the air heavy with memories. “If your mother were here, we would not be discussing who should be your new mother.”

Tatiana fell silent, her little hands clasped tightly in her lap. After a moment, she pushed away from him, slipping off his knee and landing lightly on her feet. She walked to the window, her small hands reaching up to toy with the heavy drapes, her back turned to him. Her voice, when she finally spoke, was barely above a whisper. “I do not wish to have Mrs. Gordon as my mother.”

Barclay ran a hand over his face, steeling himself. “If matters progress with Mrs. Gordon, you will grow to like her.”

Tatiana turned back to him, her delicate face set with surprising resolve, her eyes sparking with indignation. “If Mama were here, she would say to look into my heart. I looked into my heart, and Mrs. Gordon is nowhere to be found!”

Barclay stared at her, astonished by the conviction in her words. “What are you saying? That Jane is?”

Tatiana stepped forward, her little fingers clutching his hand tightly, her eyes pleading with his. “Yes. Jane likes to spend time with me. She reads me Ladin! That is what Mama used to do. It is a sign, Papa!”

Barclay shook his head slowly, regarding his daughter with a mixture of exasperation and affection. “How old are you, Tatiana?”

“Nine.”

“And how old is Jane?”

Tatiana’s brow furrowed. “I do not know.”

“I believe she is eighteen or nineteen.”

“Why does that matter?”

Barclay suppressed a sigh. “How many years older is she than you?”

Tatiana began counting on her fingers, her tiny brows drawn in concentration. “Nine?”

“And how much older am I than Jane?”

Her little face screwed up even tighter as she began counting again, her lips moving silently with each number.

“Aaah! One, two, three, four …” He took her hand and smacked it rhythmically against his palm in time with the counting before throwing his hands up in mock frustration. “There is something like thirteen or fourteen years between us! She is closer in age to you than she is to me!”

Tatiana blinked up at him, her expression uncomprehending. Barclay exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair before standing up and taking her hand. He led her out of the room, his stride brisk and determined as they crossed the carpeted hallway. The faint light of dusk spilled through the tall windows, casting elongated shadows on the walls as they made their way back to her chamber.

Inside, he settled her into a chair beside the supper tray that had been brought up for her. The soft glow of candlelight flickered over the silverware, illuminating the steam rising from the covered dishes. He placed his hands on his hips, his expression firm. “So there you are. It is a sign! I must pursue Mrs. Gordon. She is the same age as your mother was.”

Tatiana scowled up at him, her arms crossing over her chest in clear defiance, but for once, she seemed to be at a loss for words.

Barclay’s gaze softened. He leaned down, pressing a gentle kiss to her mulish little face before brushing a stray curl back from her forehead. She glared up at him, her eyes bright with rebellion, but she did not flinch away. He could not remain in her company just now. Not with all the memories of Natalya storming his thoughts and this tangled mess with Jane complicating everything further. His mind was a whirl of conflicting emotions, and he needed air. Space.

“I love you, little one,” he said quietly, his voice rough with emotion. “Your grandmama will be here shortly.”

With that, he straightened and strode across the room. He grasped the door handle firmly and yanked it open—only to find Aurora on the other side, her hand still extended as if to knock. Her eyes widened slightly, and she swiftly withdrew her hand, recovering her composure in a heartbeat.

“Mother,” Barclay acknowledged politely, nodding his head. His tone was clipped, his need for escape evident. Without waiting for a reply, he swept past her, his boots striking the floorboards with purpose as he strode down the hall, his thoughts already half a world away.