Page 49 of Miss Davis and the Architect

He needed to set this right, and this was the only way he knew how. Tatiana would be upset at first, but he was certain it would all work out in the end—because it had to. He could not be the cause of any more disappointment for their little family, not when it was breaking him in two. Tatiana would be disappointed for a little while, but she would eventually forget the young woman. They would forget her … in time.

He should never have encouraged Jane or Tatiana with foolish hopes.

* * *

Jane spent the afternoon searching for Tatiana and Barclay, but they were nowhere to be found. She had wandered through the gardens, peeked into the nursery, and even made discreet inquiries with the household staff, but no one had seen them. Eventually, she surrendered to the inevitable and played chess with her cousin Ethan before returning to her bedroom to prepare for dinner.

Later, she ventured eagerly to the drawing room where the guests were gathering, her eyes scanning the room with anticipation. But Barclay was not there.

At last, he walked in, dressed in immaculate black trousers, a black coat, and snowy white linen that gleamed against the richness of his attire. The sight of him fairly took Jane’s breath away, as it did each evening. Barclay was especially fine in evening finery—his tall form graceful and confident, his broad shoulders cut to perfection by the tailored lines of his coat.

Caught in conversation with Mr. Dunsford, she could not help but watch as Barclay made his way over to his brother, his strides long and assured. Before she could make her excuses to leave Mr. Dunsford’s side, dinner was called, and Jane’s heart clenched when she saw Barclay hold out his arm to the widow, Mrs. Gordon, to escort her to the dining room.

Once they entered the lavish dining area, where crystal, silver, and fine china glinted in the soft candlelight and the austere Balfour ancestors observed them from ornate gilt frames, Barclay took his seat with the widow while Jane found herself seated next to Mr. Dunsford. The gentleman was solicitous and charming in his self-deprecating manner, his smile easy and his conversation smooth, but Jane’s attention drifted. Her eyes flickered down the table, catching glimpses of Barclay in conversation with Mrs. Gordon, his head inclined toward her as she laughed softly, her golden hair shimmering beneath the candlelight.

Who had made these seating arrangements? Jane wondered, her fingers gripping the edge of her napkin. She was customarily seated with the family at the far end of the table, near Barclay and Aurora—but not tonight. Tonight, Mrs. Gordon had somehow claimed her usual seat.

Forcing herself to focus, Jane dipped her spoon into her soup, engaging in conversation with Mr. Dunsford as propriety demanded. But she could hardly remember what was being discussed. Her mouth spoke the appropriate pleasantries, but her mind raced, swirling with thoughts of the widow sitting where Jane was meant to be.

I will ask Barclay about it when he comes to visit me in the library!

The thought restored her spirits, and Jane felt her tension ease. Her fingers relaxed on the napkin, and she even managed a genuine smile when Mr. Dunsford recounted an amusing anecdote from his last hunt.

Still, she could not help but notice that Mr. Dunsford’s gaze lingered on her face with a soft sort of admiration. It stirred a small flicker of worry in her belly. She had not intended to encourage him, and she hoped he would not make an attempt at courtship. Her hopes regarding the young man had been before. Before the visit to the grotto. Before the kiss in the library. Just … before.

She could not possibly consider accepting his courtship now. Her affections were engaged with the darkly handsome man sitting near the earl. Even now, Barclay was leaning over to say something to Mrs. Gordon, who laughed in response, her face radiant and her golden curls glimmering in the warm candlelight.

He would never pursue the widow. You promised him time to reconcile his grief with the idea of courting you, she reminded herself.

Assuring herself of this helped somewhat, but she still longed for dinner to end and the midnight hour to arrive, when Barclay would visit her once more.

After dinner, she laughed and chatted with the countess and Aurora in the drawing room over tea, the warm glow of candlelight flickering off the polished surfaces of the room. But her eyes kept wandering to the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece, its gilded hands inching forward with agonizing slowness. Time seemed to tick by at a crawl, each chime of the pendulum stretching longer than the last.

A short while later, she joined in the parlor games, Mr. Dunsford at her side with his usual good humor. His cheerful chatter made the minutes pass more swiftly, and she managed a few genuine laughs, but her gaze still drifted to the clock at regular intervals. Where was Barclay? He had remained conspicuously absent since dinner, and the thought tugged uncomfortably at her heart.

When the evening drew to a close, she excused herself with as much grace as she could muster and ascended to her room. She undressed with uncharacteristic haste, her fingers fumbling slightly with the buttons and ties. Tossing her gown over the back of a chair, she slipped into her night rail and tied on her wrap, the silk whispering against her skin. She picked up her journal and quill, then quietly opened her door and slipped into the corridor. The house was silent at this late hour, and the only sound was the soft rustle of her skirts as she strode down the family hall to the main manor.

The library was dark and still when she entered, save for the soft glow of oil lamps. Jane took up her usual seat and found the inkstand where it was stored, the glass bottle cool and smooth beneath her fingertips.

A quick glance at the clock on the wall told her the midnight hour had begun. Lowering her head, she dipped her quill into the ink and began to write the verses she had been composing in her mind throughout the evening.

Thirty minutes later, she checked the time again. He always comes near the end of the hour, she reassured herself, so there is time to finish the verses that he inspired.

Sharpening her quill and dipping it back into the ink, she bent once more over the page, her brow furrowed in concentration. She imagined reading the lines to Barclay, her heart lifting at the thought of his reaction. It had been mortifying to reveal her inner thoughts when she had recited her poetry before, but Barclay had listened with such aplomb. His steady gaze and quiet encouragement had bolstered her confidence, making her believe her words held weight and meaning. Ever since that night, her faith in her poetry had grown.

The lengthy poem she had composed stretched across several pages, and when she finally reached the last line, she sprinkled pounce over the ink to dry it, blowing gently across the surface. Satisfied, she raised her head to glance at the clock once more. Her heart sank. It was ten minutes past one o’clock. Barclay should have been there by now.

Pushing her chair back, she stood and walked out into the hall, her slippered feet making barely a whisper on the polished floors. The corridor was empty, stretching long and dark, illuminated only by the occasional sconce flickering with candlelight. She ventured farther, peering around the corner that linked the family wing to the main house. Nothing.

Confused, she walked back into the library, her hands clasped tightly together as she began to pace up and down the length of the room. Surely he would come to explain his absence? He must have been delayed. Or perhaps he was attending to something urgent and would arrive any moment.

Another ten minutes passed, and Jane’s heart began to beat like a drum in her chest, her stomach twisting itself into anxious knots. Her fingers traced the edge of the mantel as she wandered restlessly, her eyes darting to the clock with every lap she made.

After another twenty minutes of assuring herself that he was merely running late, or had been delayed by correspondence, or perhaps had not yet noticed the time, she finally slowed her steps. Her feet carried her to the armchair by the fireplace, where she slumped into its cushions, the opposite armchair the only companion for her disappointment.

Her eyes drifted to the empty doorway, and the truth she had been dreading since dinner settled heavily in her heart, squeezing it tight.

He is not coming.