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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.
