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“If you had given me up, you would have been able to lead a full life,” he replied, his voice thick with regret. “Free of scorn and derision. No one would ever have been the wiser that I even existed.” His words trembled on the edge of bitterness, a blade of truth he had never spoken aloud.
“Never, Barclay!” Her hands flew to clasp his, gripping them tightly. Her voice, though weary, was resolute. “That was never an option. I would receive a thousand cruel rejection letters and never, for a single moment, regret that you are in my life.” Her gaze softened, and she reached up to brush his cheek with trembling fingers. “This is just a silly dream that has been dashed for the last time. I am disappointed, yes, but I shall dry my eyes, and life will continue.”
Barclay’s heart clenched painfully at her words, the strength in her gaze momentarily stealing his breath. But the injustice of the letter burned hot and unyielding in his chest.
His voice was softer when he finally spoke. “I have never understood why this particular society was so important to you.”
Aurora sighed, the sound heavy with the weight of years. Her gaze dropped to her hands, which she still wrung together, the pale knuckles standing stark against the delicate skin. She did not answer right away, and Barclay waited in silence, his hand resting atop hers as if willing her to draw strength from his touch.
Chapter Eleven
"To wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect."
Jane Austen
* * *
When Jane opened her eyes to the morning light, the elation of the afternoon before had not worn off. She lay still for a moment, savoring the warmth of the sunlight streaming through the curtains, her heart brimming with the memory of their magical outing. Barclay was considering a courtship. The thought made her smile as she stretched luxuriously beneath the covers, recalling how his eyes had lingered on hers, how his hand had clasped hers in that fleeting, secretive touch.
She wished she could have shared more kisses with him last night, but she had promised him patience, and she would honor that promise—no matter how her heart ached to feel his lips on hers again.
Optimism swelled within her, stubborn and bright. She could not shake the feeling that it would all work out. Jane had known from the very first that her sister Emma and Perry belonged together, that Perry was destined to be Emma’s Darcy. Despite a few setbacks, it had proven true, which meant that her intuition in such matters was, if nothing else, rather reliable. Which meant Barclay could very well be her Darcy …
No, that did not seem quite right. Barclay was not a Fitzwilliam Darcy in character—he lacked the brooding reserve, the icy pride that had hidden Darcy’s better nature. But he could be her … Colonel Brandon? Perhaps … but not entirely. Mr. Knightley? No, that was not right either.
He was her … her … Jane gave up with a huff of amusement. There was no one to compare him to. He was simply Barclay. And after the promising events of yesterday, she felt sure that soon he would be her Barclay if she just gave him the time he needed.
Weary from the persistent insomnia that plagued her, but alight with excitement to see the gentleman, she threw back the covers and rose swiftly, the chill of the morning air forgotten in her haste. Outside her door, she found the breakfast tray waiting, as it did each morning, and she carried it inside with a smile.
Her breakfast was eaten in record time, and she immediately set to work with her mortar and pestle, crushing the strawberries to make her beauty water. She had been prepared to forego the new ritual this morning in her eagerness to begin the day, but the memory of Barclay’s breath, warm against her neck as he murmured his delight that she tasted of strawberries and almonds, made her pause. If there were the possibility of stolen kisses this evening, she wished to be prepared—to bewitch him if she could.
His own scent had imprinted itself on her senses. It had intoxicated her, drawing her back to memories of their walk to the grotto, the way his hands had clasped hers. It made her heart sing and her mind awaken to new possibilities.
As she mashed the strawberries, she recalled Tatiana’s sweet voice as the child had spoken of her life when her mother had still been with them. How they had traveled with Barclay to various building sites, learning about architecture and playing in the gardens of grand estates. Jane’s heart quickened at the idea of such a life. She could almost see it: penning poetry beneath the shade of ancient trees, Tatiana by her side, while Barclay worked nearby with his plans and measurements. A life of travel, of discovery, of sharing each moment with family she loved.
It sounded idyllic—like the words Emma had spoken to her the day she departed Saunton Park. Her sister had reminded her of her longing to travel, her desire to write, and the way she had always dreamed of having children. With Barclay, it seemed that all those dreams could converge in the most beautiful way. She would gain a sweet daughter—a young girl whose company she already adored.
But was she truly mature enough to assume such a role? To be a mother to a nine-year-old?
Jane bit her lip as she poured the crushed strawberries into a basin, assuring herself that she could muddle her way through. Tatiana herself had announced her willingness for such a relationship, and Aurora had given no indication that her granddaughter’s affections were fleeting.
Barclay might be at a different stage in the journey of life, but Jane was determined to catch up. Whatever it took, she would do it. For the first time in her life, she could imagine her future with one specific man, and she knew with every fiber of her being that he would be worth any troubles they might encounter. What relationship did not have its obstacles to overcome?
Her heart light with anticipation, Jane finished her preparations, smoothing her hair and donning a day dress of pale blue muslin. She hurriedly gathered her things, casting one final glance at her reflection before nodding in satisfaction.
She needed to find her morning coffee in the library. And then—she needed to find Barclay.
* * *
Aurora continued to twist her fingers in her lap while Barclay waited for his mother to speak. Eventually, she sighed as if accepting a dark fate and spoke.
“I told you that Grandmama—my mother—was a member of the committee, which is why I so desperately wanted to be accepted?”
“You did.”
“I did not tell you about the day Grandmama was expelled from the society.”
Barclay frowned. Indeed, that fact had never been mentioned. He had always assumed that she had remained part of the group. By the time he was old enough to be aware of his mother and grandmother as individuals with their own hopes and dreams, the topic of the committee had faded into the past.
