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Barclay could regret none of their time together—made all the more sweet because his beloved had fulfilled her dream of motherhood, and had been there to witness their daughter bloom into a small, radiant version of herself. Then Natalya’s heart had taken its last beat, and she had slipped away from them for the final time.

Even as her health declined, she had continued to dress with quiet elegance—her beloved shawl always around her shoulders, her silver hair still pinned with the comb he had given her on their wedding night.

Tatiana tilted her head just like her mother once had, her laughter on certain days so like Natalya’s that it startled him.

His wife would have been so pleased for him this evening. So happy that Aurora and Tatiana would gain a new level of social status with this recent development. She had believed in family, in honor, and would have admired the earl for searching him out and elevating their name.

He wished she were here to view this beautiful moonlit night with him. To discuss the events of the day and their arrival at this magnificent country home. “Barclay, you did well, bringing our family here.”

As he had so often done since her death, Barclay had summoned Natalya from his memories to stand at his side. She appeared just as she had in life—wrapped in her amethyst shawl, the ivory comb catching the moonlight in her pale hair, her expression serene and steady.

“I knew it was what you would want.”

She smiled, resting her delicate head against his shoulder. “You were right.”

Barclay’s heart squeezed tight. He knew this phantasy could only survive so much—he could not attempt to touch her, or his imagination would fail and his grief would return. He missed his wife so much, it was a physical pain.

“Anything for you.”

“But, my love, you promised me you would find a new wife. A new mother for Tatiana.”

Barclay grimaced. Recently, every time he called Natalya from the recesses of his mind, she admonished him for not fulfilling his last promise to her.

“I am not ready, Talie.”

“It is … vremya …” She searched for the English word, as she often had in the past. “Time. It is time, Barclay. I have been gone two years now, and Tatiana needs a mother.”

“I cannot, my love. I still hear your voice. I still turn to find you when I wake. I cannot … replace you.”

She smiled, tears dampening her silver lashes. “Not replace. Someone new. Someone different to provide you comfort. An English girl, perhaps, who does not care about your lack of a father. Who cares for you.”

Her voice was a balm and a blade—soft as silk, but it cut him all the same.

“Please, Natalya. I cannot.”

Natalya frowned lightly, turning to place a hand on his chest as she always had when imparting advice. He could almost feel the remembered warmth of her palm, though he dared not look directly at her hand.

“You must let me go, Barclay. My child needs a mother. And you need a new partner.”

“Talie—”

A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. He blinked. The moon slipped behind a cloud as she faded, the silver light dimming, as if taking her with it. Shaking his head, he returned to the moment, crossing the room as the memory of Natalya departed as quietly as it had arrived.

* * *

Jane sat in a wingback chair in the far corner of the library, reading the book of poetry she had found on the shelves. Since arriving in the Balfour household, she had been struggling with insomnia, but had grown to enjoy the late hours when the household had retired to bed. It allowed her to read in peace.

A single candelabrum flickered on the table beside her, casting long, wavering shadows across the book-lined walls. She turned the page to her favorite sonnet, tracing a finger over the familiar lines from the Bard as she mouthed the words to herself.

In the distance, she heard footsteps approaching.

Not sure who might be entering the library so late at night, she drew her long legs up onto the seat, adjusting her wrap to conceal herself until she knew who had interrupted her solitude.

“Why is it we need to converse in the library at this hour, Mother?”

Jane shivered at the husky quality of the man’s voice, her skin tingling in response to the warm, textured sound. It wrapped around her like the velvet lining of a winter cloak.

Leaning around the wing of her chair, she stole a peek.