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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.”
