Page 4 of Miss Davis and the Architect

“Nonsense! You have a handsome husband and a new estate to manage. You will barely think of me while I am left bereft to meet all these strangers.”

They both turned to the window once more. Another carriage had arrived, and Jane watched as an intriguing man descended from its depths.

He was tall, the same height as the earl, who hurried over to greet him, but he appeared taller because he was so slim. There was not an ounce of extra flesh anywhere on his form. A very fine form at that, with shining black Hessians covering his lower legs, buckskins stretched over long, muscular thighs, and a black coat draped over wide shoulders and a lean torso. The coat was in an unusual choice of color but suited his black waves of hair, which he wore a little too long. He had a close-cropped beard and a strong, narrow face.

Jane found her attention riveted by the sense of energy and purpose he exuded, wondering who he was as he thrust out a large hand to greet the earl. Was this one of the gents whom Richard intended for her to meet?

Beyond them, the clipped yews and broad lawn glistened in the soft morning light, a curving gravel lane sweeping away toward a hedge-framed garden path. The house party was truly underway.

A pang of disappointment followed when the man turned to assist an elegant woman from the carriage. Her jet-black hair and olive skin suggested an Italian or Spanish heritage. This must be his wife. As if to confirm her assumption, he reached into the carriage and turned back with a little girl in his arms. The only oddity was that the child had thick, silver-blonde hair. Perhaps this was a child from an earlier marriage?

Jane yawned again and turned away from the window. Walking across the room, she leaned over and breathed deeply of the coffee aroma wafting from the tray. Taking a seat, she poured a cup, adding cream and sugar before settling back to drink, her fingers brushing the worn brocade arm of the chair where she had curled many a night with a book.

Emma came over and joined her, pouring a cup of tea. “I cannot believe that you have taken up drinking that foul beverage, Jane. I do not know why Perry agreed to let you try it.”

“It awakens me, especially when I have not slept until the early hours.”

Emma rolled her eyes. “I still think it is a mistake. Not least because it is noxious.”

Jane did not comment. Draining her cup, she put it down and crossed the room to pick up the gift she had made for her sister. “I wanted to give you this … for your new life at Shepton Abbey.”

“What is it?”

“Some needlework to celebrate your nuptials.”

Emma came over, and Jane handed her the embroidered cloth. Her sister stretched it out, gasping in surprise. “Jane! It is beautiful. I swear you are a veritable artiste with the floss! When did you find time to do it?”

Jane smiled. “I am not sleeping, Emma. I have plenty of time on my hands.”

They both gazed at the embroidered scene. It depicted a towering oak tree surrounded by a field of colorful wildflowers—wildflower was a private sobriquet she had overheard Perry calling her sister since their wedding ceremony. “May your marriage grow strong while allowing you the freedom to follow your own way, sister.”

Emma reached over to embrace her sister once more. “Thank you.”

* * *

Barclay tilted his head back to view the grand Palladian manor that Tsar had completed building in early 1787, glimpsing two women standing at a window in what would be the family block to the left of the main house.

The house had been completed the year Barclay was conceived, when a seventeen-year-old Aurora Thompson had been seduced by the then-owner, the late Earl of Saunton.

Or Satan, as the current earl had referred to our sire.

A rusticated lower level was crowned by a towering upper level, perfectly cut, symmetrical planes soaring into the deep blue vaults of the Somerset sky. The many windowpanes shimmered in the light, reflecting the bucolic lawns and the great oaks that rolled outward across the parkland to where the earth and firmament met—a marriage of the solid and the ethereal.

High above them, classically inspired statues stood as silent sentinels, while twin majestic staircases converged on a landing in front of the Corinthian columns beneath their feet. Sunlight played across the pale stone, casting sharp shadows that emphasized the grandeur of the facade. It was one of Tsar’s finest works, a testament to his talent, but until this day Barclay had only seen it in his grandfather’s architectural plans.

His newly discovered brother, Richard, had walked away to fetch someone for Barclay to meet, while he gazed up with fascination at the monumental house. This building was the legacy Tsar would leave behind, and his grandfather’s creation impressed Barclay.

Tatiana gazed up with him. “Grandpapa built this?”

“He did. Or rather he designed it, and then supervised the master builder who built it over the next fifteen years.”

“It is beautiful,” she said reverently.

Barclay smiled down at his daughter, her small hand clasped in his. “As are you.”

At that moment, a servant approached them. Barclay assumed it was the butler, based on his rigid decorum and immaculate attire.

“Mr. Thompson, one of the maids will escort your daughter to the nursery.”