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In all her years on this earth, Jane had never felt so despondent. Barclay was rejecting her. He had reached a decision and had not even bothered to visit to explain himself.

For the first time, true loneliness descended like a fog rolling in from the coast—cold, damp, and heavy, settling over her shoulders and pressing down on her heart. The weight of it made it hard to breathe, as though the very air had thickened with sorrow.

She did not want to pursue another gentleman. Barclay made her feel special. Not merely for her appearance, as so many others did, but for her mind and character. He listened to her with sincerity, as though her thoughts mattered, as though her words were worth something. Perhaps when the house party was over, she would lift her spirits by visiting Emma at her new home. Her sister’s cheerful disposition and steadfast companionship might be just the balm she needed.

This adventure—joining the earl in his home for a Season, attending this grand house party to be introduced to prospective suitors—had seemed so exciting just a few weeks ago. She had imagined herself swept into the whirl of society, admired, and courted, perhaps even falling in love. Now, Jane simply felt homesick. It was not turning out to be how she had hoped.

To make matters worse, it seemed even Tatiana was avoiding her now. She had yet to see the girl since she had run off before their game earlier that day. Jane had searched the grounds, hoping to catch sight of her silver-blonde curls flashing in the sunlight, but the girl was nowhere to be found.

Jane recalled the trouble she had gone to with the strawberry water that morning—the careful crushing of the berries, the sweet aroma that lingered on her hands. There was no denying it: she was a fool. A hopeless fool. Fortunately, no one was aware of her attraction to Barclay, so her foolish hopes were private to her … and the gentleman.

Her teeth worried her lower lip as she tried to think of something to settle her despair. It would be even more foolish to grieve over a passion that had never truly begun. Stop being maudlin, Jane. It was a whispered command she could not quite obey.

Perhaps she should give Mr. Dunsford another try? Discover if he could accept the fact that she favored coffee? Learn what he thought of her poetry, even?

No. Sharing her lines with another was too much to bear. It was a reminder of her magical evenings with Barclay, of the way he had listened with such rapt attention, his dark eyes fixed on hers as though her words held the power to transport him. Even now, the memory was enough to make her chest tighten with longing, the tears she had been holding back threatening to escape once more.

If only Emma were here to talk to. Emma, who always knew what to say to lift her spirits, who would listen and understand, and never judge her for falling in love with the wrong man.

I will have to begin with revealing my coffee habit, she resolved, thinking of Mr. Dunsford’s surprised expression the last time she had poured a cup. Then learn if he and I share anything in common. Perhaps she had been too quick to dismiss him. Perhaps if she tried …

Raising her hand, she wiped the tears from her lashes and took a long, steadying breath. Rising from her chair, she smoothed her skirts and forced her shoulders back. There was nothing more to be done tonight. Tomorrow would be another day, and she would meet it with as much grace as she could muster.

Chapter Twelve

"We live at home, quiet, confined, and our feelings prey upon us."

Jane Austen

* * *

The following morning, Jane sat alone in the library with her cup in hand, gazing out the tall windows to where clouds were banked heavily in the sky. They sprawled across the horizon like billowing waves of smoke, casting a gray pall over the grounds below. It was a perfect reflection of her current mood. Dark. Melancholy. Silent.

She had never needed her coffee as much as she did this morning. Its warmth seeped through the delicate porcelain into her palms, offering the only comfort she had found since Barclay had failed to appear the night before. Fortunately, the tray beside her held a full pot, its silver lid gleaming softly in the morning light, ready to keep her company until she could rouse herself to leave the library.

After tossing and turning all night, sleep had remained stubbornly out of reach, leaving her mind tangled with restless thoughts and her body aching from fatigue. She had not yet eaten; her appetite had failed her entirely, shriveled by disappointment and a heavy sense of longing she could not quite shake.

No book had brought any solace. She had tried to read—to lose herself in stories of adventure or romance—but the words had swum before her eyes, refusing to arrange themselves into anything meaningful. Even the dawn had failed to bring the drowsiness she usually felt after a sleepless night. She was restless, heartsick, and thoroughly exhausted.

Perhaps I should return to Rose Ash? she wondered, her gaze still fixed on the dreary landscape beyond the window. I slept fine there.

The thought was a bitter one. She had come to Saunton Park full of dreams and ambitions, determined to begin the next chapter of her life. Now she contemplated returning to the comfort of home, retreating with her tail between her legs. Perhaps she was too young to know her own mind. Perhaps she had rushed into the idea of a Season, believing herself prepared for the rigors of society when, in truth, she was still just a girl with romantic ideals.

Perhaps I should speak to the earl about returning for a Season next year and take some time to mature a little more, she mused, brushing her fingertips over the rim of her cup. Emma had returned home, and things had worked out beautifully for her.

But even as she entertained the notion, she knew it was different. Emma had gone home to Rose Ash, and Perry had followed her there. Would Barclay follow me if I left? But no. He would not. Barclay was not Perry, and she was not Emma.

Returning home would simply be a temporary retreat so she might lick her wounds, think about what she wanted from her future, and then return to the Balfour household for another attempt.

Lud, it all sounds like such an effort, she thought, stifling a weary sigh as she took another sip of her coffee, the bitterness a welcome distraction from the ache in her chest.

She sipped her coffee again. If she could just get a full night’s sleep, perhaps she could reach a decision about how she wanted to proceed. Trying to make a life decision when she had not slept a wink was probably ill-advised, she mused, pressing her lips together in thought.

Perhaps it is time to visit a herbalist and tackle this insomnia. She had been convinced it was merely the excitement of the unexpected Season that had ruined her sleep, but last night had been the worst yet—and she certainly could not blame that on excitement. She had never felt less enthusiasm than she had in the past twelve hours.

Jane finished her coffee, the last drop pooling in the bottom of her cup. She reached for the pot to pour another, her hand pausing mid-air as she flinched in surprise. Tatiana had taken a seat in the chair across the table without her noticing. How long had the little girl been sitting there, so silent and still? Seeing her was a comfort despite the ache in Jane’s heart. At least one Thompson was not avoiding her.

The child was staring down at her slippers, her shoulders slumped, and the usual bright light in her eyes dimmed.