Page 34
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.
Chapter Eight
"There could have been no two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so in unison, no countenances so beloved."
Jane Austen
* * *
The clock announced the last few minutes of the midnight hour, its rhythmic ticking echoing through the stillness of the library. Jane’s quill hovered over the page of her journal, the nib poised above the parchment, but no words came. All she could think was that the midnight hour was ending. Their time.
Would he make an appearance?
She had barely caught a glimpse of him all day, a mere shadow passing in the hall or a flicker of movement in the distance. But now, the manor was sleeping, its grand corridors silent and shrouded in darkness. Last night, he had startled her when he appeared. Then, he had encouraged her to speak her thoughts freely, to share her ideas in a way no man had ever done before.
Barclay appreciated her mind, and it was invigorating. No one had ever heard her verses before—those secret lines of poetry she scribbled in her quiet moments. But she knew, instinctively, that he had been the right person to share them with. He did not laugh or dismiss her efforts; he listened. He saw her.
And he had been right. She needed to take bigger risks. Even if Barclay was not interested in her, and even if she had to pursue a courtship elsewhere, she would steal this interlude for herself. She would use it to build her confidence, to embrace the idea that she was a woman with a mind of her own—one who had something to contribute to the world beyond needlework and polite conversation.
