Page 4 of Sleepless in Saunton
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.
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 tiltedhis 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 which was perfectly cut, symmetrical planes soaring up into the deep blue vaults of the Somerset sky. The many windowpanes reflected the bucolic lawns and oak trees spreading out 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. 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 facade. 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.”
Barclay narrowed his eyes. “Nursery?”
The ginger-haired servant straightened up, looking down his hawkish nose with the utmost dignity. “Indeed, sir. The nursery.”
Barclay’s lips thinned as he thought. The Thompson family was inseparable, and Tatiana had never been sequestered on a different floor, with only servants to interact with. Not only that, but his nine-year-old child had struggled with night terrors since her mother died and he frequently attended her at night. When he was traveling, his mother took his place in comforting her.
Barclay shot a perturbed look at Aurora, who held up her hands in question. They had failed to think about what the arrangements for his young daughter would be at such a country house, but Barclay should have predicted these circumstances as a man who drew plans of these homes for the wealthy. However, he personally had never subscribed to the notion that children should be kept separate from the family.
He frowned. Agreeing to attend the house party was a mistake. He should have insisted he remain in London. Now Tsar was handling his work for him, which was more than the old man should deal with, and his daughter was peering up in fright at the servant.
“Papa?” Her voice quavered.
