Page 11 of Coloring a Silent Earl’s Heart

“Fresh air,” Gregory declared, yanking open the heavy draperies with unseemly enthusiasm. Sunlight flooded Alexander’s study in a merciless invasion. “You’ve been entombed in this mausoleum for days.”

Alexander squinted against the sudden brightness, irritation tightening his jaw. The quarterly accounts had occupied him since dawn, and he’d finally begun making sense of his steward’s cramped figures.

“Don’t glower at me like that,” Gregory continued, undeterred. “Even your father, God rest him, allowed himself occasional respite from duty.”

The mention of his father stung as Gregory had surely known it would. Alexander reached reluctantly for his notebook, scrawling a brief protest: These tenant improvements cannot approve themselves.

“They’ve waited this long. Surely they can wait another afternoon.” Gregory plucked the quill from Alexander’s fingers and laid it decisively on the blotter. “The weather is uncommonly fine, and you are uncommonly pale. A gentleman requires sunlight occasionally, or he begins to resemble the mushrooms in Mrs. Potter’s cellar.”

Alexander sighed, recognizing the futility of resistance. Twenty years of friendship had taught him that Gregory in this mood was immovable—like trying to halt a cavalry charge with a dinner napkin.

One hour , he wrote, underlining the words twice.

“Two,” Gregory countered with the swift certainty of a man accustomed to negotiating surrender terms. “And we’ll take the path through the park. Mrs. Potter tells me the rhododendrons are spectacular this season.”

Fifteen minutes later, properly hatted and coated despite the mild temperature, Alexander found himself treading the gravel paths that wound through Balfour’s formal gardens toward the more natural landscape beyond. The sunshine struck him with unexpected force after days indoors—a physical sensation almost forgotten during his self-imposed confinement.

“There,” Gregory said with obvious satisfaction, noting Alexander’s grudging appreciation of the fine weather. “Was I not right? Fresh air improves even your dismal countenance.”

Alexander refused to grant him the victory of acknowledgment, though in truth the warmth against his face and the scent of new growth did provide unexpected pleasure. Spring had advanced considerably during his retreat into ledgers and correspondence—the formal hedges now softened with delicate new foliage, early roses unfurling tentative buds, songbirds busy about their domestic arrangements.

“Your mother rather reluctantly mentioned that your sessions with Lady Sinclair progress satisfactorily,” Gregory observed as they passed beneath a stone archway festooned with climbing ivy. “The portrait nears completion, she believes.”

Alexander nodded, unsurprised by his mother’s careful monitoring despite her apparent withdrawal from active interference. The dowager’s tactical retreat had fooled him not at all—she had merely adapted her strategy, waiting for a more opportune moment to reassert control.

They rounded a copse of copper beeches, the path opening suddenly onto a vista across the ornamental lake. Gregory halted so abruptly that Alexander nearly collided with him.

“Well!” Gregory exclaimed with transparent delight. “What a fortunate coincidence. It appears we are not alone in our appreciation of this fine day.”

Alexander followed his friend’s gaze across the expanse of lawn that bordered the lake’s eastern shore.

Even at this distance, Sophia Sinclair was unmistakable. She sat straight-backed yet relaxed, her attention wholly absorbed by the canvas before her.

“We should pay our respects,” Gregory suggested with the false casualness of a general who has just spotted an advantageous position. “Common courtesy demands acknowledgment, particularly to those in our employ.”

Alexander shot his friend a look of profound suspicion. The “chance” encounter carried all the hallmarks of Gregory’s particular brand of manipulation—too perfect in its timing and arrangement to be genuine coincidence. Whether Lady Sinclair was complicit remained unclear, though her complete absorption in her work suggested artistic single-mindedness rather than social calculation.

Before Alexander could formulate objection, Gregory had already set off across the lawn. With a resigned sigh, Alexander followed, adjusting his pace to preserve dignity without appearing reluctant.

As they drew nearer, he found himself watching Sophia with increasing fascination. The sunlight illuminated her in a way the studio never had, revealing subtle complexities in her coloring and expression. She wore a walking dress of faded blue cotton—simple in its lines yet somehow perfectly suited to her figure and the outdoor setting.

There was something in her composed concentration that reminded him of paintings he had seen in Florence during his Grand Tour years ago—not the conventional beauties with their simpering expressions and idealized features, but the more complex representations of the Muses, women of intelligence and capability rather than merely decorative appeal.

So complete was his distraction that he nearly stumbled on a tussock of grass, catching himself at the last moment. He slowed his steps, discomfited by the direction of his thoughts and the strange fluttering sensation beneath his ribs.

Gregory, meanwhile, approached the ladies with his customary confidence, calling out a greeting several paces before reaching them. “Lady Sinclair! Miss McLeod! What a pleasant surprise to encounter you enjoying Balfour’s modest attractions.”

Sophia looked up from her canvas, momentary startlement giving way to composed welcome. “Lord Camden, Lord Aldeburgh.” She inclined her head in graceful acknowledgment. “How fortunate to meet you on such a glorious morning.”

Abigail executed a deeper curtsy, her fair complexion pinkening noticeably as Gregory bowed with unnecessary flourish. Alexander caught the slight widening of her eyes, the reflexive smoothing of her apron—small betrayals of consciousness that mirrored his own unexpected reactions to Sophia’s presence.

“We hope we do not intrude upon artistic inspiration,” Gregory continued, his tone warming to the timbre he reserved for genuine rather than merely polite interest.

“Not at all,” Sophia assured them, setting aside her brush with careful movements. “I was merely taking advantage of the fine weather to capture the quality of light on water. A subject I’ve long wished to attempt.”

Alexander moved closer, his initial discomfort at the manufactured encounter giving way to genuine curiosity about her work. The canvas revealed a study of the lake’s surface where sunlight struck water, creating that peculiar iridescence that seemed to defy accurate reproduction through pigment alone.

“Would you care to see?” she asked, noticing his attention and shifting slightly to afford him better view.

He nodded, suddenly acutely aware of her proximity as he stepped beside her. The faint scent of lavender water mingled with the sharper notes of linseed oil and mineral pigments—an unexpectedly appealing combination that caught him off-guard.

“I’ve been attempting to capture that particular moment where light penetrates the surface,” she explained, gesturing toward the lake with her brush. “The point where clarity gives way to mystery, where what lies beneath becomes visible yet remains somehow transformed by the medium through which we perceive it.”

The observation struck Alexander with unexpected force. Was this not precisely what happened between people—the careful negotiation of surfaces and depths, the distortion inherent in any attempt to truly know another’s inner landscape? He found himself nodding with perhaps more enthusiasm than the comment strictly warranted.

Abigail, meanwhile, had lowered the parasol as Gregory engaged her in conversation, his animated gestures suggesting a topic of considerable interest to them both. The maid’s usual composure had given way to a becoming animation, her Scottish burr more pronounced in her evident pleasure at his attention.

“Oh!” Abigail exclaimed, as the wind lifted her shawl from her shoulders, in the direction of the lake.

Gregory reacted with swift decisiveness, sprinting toward the shore with long strides that spoke of years traversing playing fields and hunting grounds. The shawl settled upon the water’s surface just as he reached the bank, forcing him to lean precariously over murky shallows to retrieve the sodden garment.

“Rescued!” he proclaimed, straightening with the dripping prize held aloft like a tournament trophy. His triumph brought unexpected laughter from both ladies—bright, genuine sound untainted by drawing-room restraint.

Abigail hurried toward him, dismay at her shawl’s condition warring with gratitude for his gallant rescue. “Sir, you shouldn’t have troubled yourself! Now you’re all wet, and the shawl’s quite ruined.”

“Nonsense,” Gregory declared, presenting the dripping fabric with exaggerated ceremony. “A gentleman cannot stand idly by while a lady’s possessions are imperiled. As for this trifling dampness…” he gestured dismissively at his wet sleeves “an English spring day will dry it faster than you might imagine.”

Abigail accepted the sodden bundle with evident emotion, her fingers working automatically to wring excess water from the delicate weave. “It was my mother’s,” she explained softly. “One of the few things I have of hers.”

Something in Gregory’s expression shifted at this revelation—the playful gallantry giving way to genuine understanding. Without further comment, he removed his coat with fluid grace, draping it around Abigail’s shoulders with careful hands. “The breeze grows chill,” he said simply. “You mustn’t catch cold while your shawl dries.”

The gesture, performed with such unaffected courtesy it seemed devoid of conscious condescension, nevertheless represented a remarkable breach of social boundary—a gentleman’s coat placed around a servant’s shoulders, regardless of her status as lady’s maid rather than scullery worker.

Alexander, observing the scene from his position beside Sophia, found himself unexpectedly moved by his friend’s simple kindness. Though Gregory had always been the more sociable of the pair, there was something about this interaction that suggested something beyond mere courtesy—a specific interest in Abigail McLeod.

With Gregory and Abigail occupied in their own exchange, Alexander was achingly aware of his own role, now as Sophia’s sole companion. Noticing her discarded parasol, Alexander moved impulsively; picking it up and carefully handing it to her in an effort to protect her delicate visage from the scorching sun. The action felt strangely loaded despite its practical nature—an admission of concern for her comfort that went beyond mere politeness.

“Thank you,” Sophia said softly, glancing up with evident surprise at his solicitude. “The light can be treacherous for complexion and canvas alike.”

Alexander nodded, unable to respond more fully without his notebook, which remained in his coat pocket.

Sophia, meanwhile, had returned to her work with the same absorbed focus he had observed from across the lake. The slight furrow between her brows as she concentrated struck him as oddly endearing.

The strange fluttering sensation returned to Alexander’s chest as he observed her, a physical manifestation of emotion he had not experienced since those early days with Diana. The comparison unsettled him deeply. Diana’s betrayal had confirmed his darkest suspicions about love’s transience, the fundamental unreliability of affection when tested against adversity or inconvenience.

Yet there he stood, parasol in hand, experiencing that same quickening of pulse and breath at the mere proximity of Sophia Sinclair. The recognition brought not pleasure but apprehension—fear that this fragile reawakening might lead only to fresh disappointment.

Across the clearing, Gregory and Abigail had settled upon a fallen log, engaged in conversation that appeared to absorb them completely. Abigail cradled her damp shawl in her lap, working the fabric between gentle fingers to restore its shape, while Gregory gestured expressively, apparently describing some amusing anecdote bringing smiles to her face.

The sight of his friend’s evident attraction to Abigail provided momentary distraction from Alexander’s own uncomfortable self-examination. Gregory had always possessed a somewhat unconventional approach to social boundaries, valuing individual character above station or circumstance. Yet his current behavior suggested more than mere democratic principle—the quality of his attention indicated genuine admiration.

The complexity of their respective situations struck Alexander with sudden clarity. Just as his own position as Earl of Aldeburgh created nearly insurmountable barriers to any connection with Sophia beyond professional association, so too did Gregory’s rank present obstacles to whatever interest he might harbor for Abigail McLeod.

The social structures that defined their world, that provided order and meaning to daily existence, simultaneously constrained their most basic human impulses toward connection.

He was drawn from his philosophical meandering by Sophia, who’s upturned head signaled she had something to say. “I believe I’ve accomplished as much as light and time permit today,” she said, setting aside her brush with evident reluctance. “Though I shall need another session to properly capture the effect I seek.”

Alexander lowered the parasol as she rose, folding it with careful movements that disguised his uncertainty about proper protocol in this unusual situation. Should he offer his arm for a promenade about the lake? Return directly to the house? Wait for Gregory to notice their readiness to depart?

His dilemma resolved itself as Gregory looked up, apparently sensing the shift in activity. “Finished already, Lady Sinclair?” he called, rising from his seat with Abigail following suit. “I was just describing to Miss McLeod the remarkable rock formations along the northern shore. Perhaps we might all walk that way before returning to the Abbey?”

Sophia glanced at Alexander, clearly unwilling to agree without some indication of his preference.

He nodded quite impulsively, choosing not to dwell too much on his sudden desire to prolong their outing. The fresh air had indeed proven restorative, and the company, though initially unwelcome, had become unexpectedly agreeable.

As Abigail hurried to assist with packing Sophia’s supplies, Gregory approached Alexander with poorly disguised satisfaction. “A felicitous encounter, wouldn’t you say?” he murmured, pitching his voice too low for the ladies to overhear. “Lady Sinclair’s artistic skills extend well beyond portraiture.”

Alexander fixed his friend with a look that demanded honesty, unwilling to play Gregory’s games of social manipulation without at least acknowledging their existence.

Gregory had the grace to appear momentarily abashed. “Very well, I may have mentioned to Mrs. Potter that the lake presents particularly fine vistas on spring mornings,” he admitted. “And perhaps I suggested that Lady Sinclair might find inspiration there for landscape studies. But the wind that carried off Miss McLeod’s shawl was entirely natural, I assure you.”

The distinction between orchestrated meeting and genuine incident hardly seemed worth pursuing. Instead, Alexander turned his attention to Gregory’s evident interest in Abigail, raising a questioning eyebrow that required no written elaboration.

“Miss McLeod possesses a refreshing directness of character,” Gregory replied to the unspoken inquiry, his tone deliberately casual though his expression suggested greater significance. “I find her observations on human nature remarkably astute for one of her years.”

Before Alexander could pursue this intriguing assertion, the ladies rejoined them, Sophia’s supplies neatly packed and canvas secured against damage during transport. Gregory’s coat remained draped around Abigail’s shoulders, her damp shawl folded carefully over one arm.

“Shall we?” Gregory suggested, offering his arm to Sophia with punctilious correctness that nevertheless struck Alexander as deliberate strategy rather than mere courtesy.

This arrangement naturally paired Alexander with Abigail as they set off along the lakeside path, an outcome that might have seemed coincidental had Alexander not observed his friend’s machinations over twenty years of friendship. Gregory clearly intended to create opportunity for private conversation with Sophia while simultaneously providing Alexander similar access to Abigail—presumably as source of information about her mistress.

The manipulation might have irritated him had Alexander not harbored genuine curiosity about Abigail’s perspective. The maid’s devoted service to Sophia would have been unusual under ordinary employment, suggesting bonds of shared experience and mutual respect.

“Lord Camden’s coat becomes you,” he wrote in his notebook after they had walked some distance, the other pair having pulled several paces ahead along the narrowing path.

Abigail’s flush confirmed his suspicion, though her reply maintained admirable composure. “His lordship is most kind,” she said carefully. “Though such kindness may create misconceptions about his intentions.”

The observation, offered without self-pity or resentment, struck Alexander as remarkable for its clear-eyed assessment of social reality. This young woman harbored no illusions about the likely outcomes of Gregory’s attention, whatever its genuine nature.

You seem very loyal to Lady Sinclair, he wrote after a thoughtful pause, choosing not to impart his own opinions about Gregory’s attentions on the girl.

“She saved my life,” Abigail replied simply. “When I was in trouble, Lady Sinclair offered me employment, but most of all... she offered me protection.” Her voice softened. “Such debts cannot be measured in wages.”

This revelation provided another piece in the puzzle of Sophia Sinclair’s character and he felt a smile tugging at his lips. She was truly good of heart.

“And here,” Gregory proclaimed as Alexander and Abigail rejoined them, “is the so-called Lady’s Veil—named for the manner in which water cascades over these stones during the rainy season, creating an effect not unlike delicate lace.”

The formation, while pleasant enough, hardly warranted such enthusiastic description. Alexander caught Sophia’s eye, sharing a moment of silent amusement at Gregory’s determination to render ordinary scenery remarkable through sheer force of personality.

“Fascinating,” Abigail murmured with such perfect sincerity that only the slight twitch of her lips revealed her similar assessment of the underwhelming spectacle.

Gregory, either oblivious to their gentle mockery or choosing to ignore it, continued his impromptu tour with undiminished enthusiasm. “Local legend claims a lovelorn maiden threw herself from these very rocks after her shepherd lover proved unfaithful. Her tears, according to the more fanciful versions, feed the spring that emerges just there.” He pointed toward a small stream trickling into the lake.

“How dreadfully romantic,” Sophia observed, her tone suggesting skepticism rather than appreciation for such melodramatic folklore. “Though perhaps she might have found more constructive outlets for her disappointment. Learning a trade, perhaps, or devoting herself to charitable works.”

The practical suggestion, delivered with such perfect composure, startled a silent laugh from Alexander. How refreshing to encounter a woman who regarded romantic tragedy with healthy skepticism rather than sentimental reverence! Diana would have sighed over such legends, perhaps pressing a delicate handkerchief to suspiciously dry eyes while extolling the depth of feeling that could drive one to such desperate measures.

Gregory appeared momentarily nonplussed by this prosaic response to his dramatic narrative. “Well, yes, that would certainly have been the more sensible approach,” he conceded. “Though perhaps less likely to result in picturesque water features for future generations to admire.”

“One cannot argue with the aesthetic results,” Sophia agreed with admirable gravity, though Alexander detected suppressed mirth in the slight crinkle around her eyes. “The tragic maiden has contributed more to local scenery than most practical women manage in a lifetime of useful endeavor.”

This gentle mockery of conventional romantic sentiment created a curious bond between them—a shared perspective that required no written words to communicate. Alexander found himself studying Sophia’s profile as she turned back toward the lake, struck again by that peculiar clarity of character that distinguished her from the women of his previous acquaintance.

The afternoon light had begun its slow transition toward evening gold, casting long shadows across the park and reminding Alexander that their unplanned excursion had extended well beyond its intended duration. He gestured toward the descending western sun, raising a questioning eyebrow at Gregory.

“Yes, I suppose we should start back,” his friend agreed with evident reluctance. “Lady Aldeburgh will be wondering at our prolonged absence, and dinner awaits.” The mention of his mother cast a slight pall over Alexander’s improved spirits.

She would undoubtedly notice their coincidental encounter with Sophia and Abigail, drawing conclusions that would reignite her opposition to any connection beyond the strictly professional.

As they gathered themselves for the return journey, Gregory once again maneuvered to walk ahead with Abigail, leaving Alexander and Sophia to follow at a more measured pace. The deliberate orchestration might have frustrated Alexander had he not found himself genuinely pleased by the opportunity for Sophia’s uninterrupted company.

“Your friend is most attentive to Abigail,” Sophia observed as they fell into step along the graveled path. “I’ve rarely seen her so animated in conversation.”

Alexander nodded, considering how best to respond without his notebook immediately at hand. After a moment’s hesitation, he withdrew it from his pocket, writing while they walked: Gregory possesses a gift for drawing people out. Though his interest appears genuine rather than merely polite in this instance.

Sophia considered this assessment with thoughtful expression. “Abigail deserves such consideration,” she said finally. “She possesses intelligence and character far beyond what her station might suggest.”

As might you , he wrote after a moment’s consideration. Had something other than circumstances dictated.

She glanced at him with momentary surprise before her expression settled into rueful acknowledgment. “We all might have been otherwise,” she replied softly. “War and death reshape more lives than those directly touched by bullet or blade. Your own path diverted as surely as mine, though in different direction.”

The simple truth of this observation struck Alexander with unexpected force. They were both survivors of fortune’s capricious nature—he through physical injury and invisible wounds of spirit, she through widowhood and financial catastrophe. Perhaps this shared experience of life’s fundamental uncertainty created the foundation for their growing understanding, despite differences of gender and remaining privilege.

As they approached the east terrace where they would necessarily part—she to the guest wing, he to the family quarters—Alexander found himself reluctant to conclude their interaction. Something important had begun during their clifftop excursion, continued through their shared artistic sessions, and deepened in that afternoon’s casual encounter. Something that defied easy categorization yet felt increasingly significant with each passing day.

Gregory and Abigail had paused at the terrace steps, their conversation appearing to reach some natural conclusion as the younger woman carefully removed his coat and returned it with a curtsy that managed to convey genuine gratitude without servility. The exchange complete, Abigail moved to join her mistress, the two women preparing to take their leave.

“Thank you for the pleasure of your company,” Sophia said, addressing both men though her gaze lingered on Alexander. “The afternoon proved unexpectedly delightful.”

“The pleasure was entirely ours,” Gregory assured her with characteristic warmth. “Perhaps we might arrange another such excursion before the season changes? The western woods offer particularly fine vistas as spring advances.”

The suggestion, innocent on its surface yet laden with potential significance, hung in the air between them. Sophia glanced toward Alexander, something she’d become accustomed to doing.

He nodded, the gesture containing more enthusiasm than he had intended to reveal. The prospect of further informal encounters beyond the structured environment of the portrait sessions stirred an anticipation he had not experienced since before Spain.

“We would be delighted,” Sophia replied, her smile suggesting the plural included Abigail rather than implying royal prerogative. “Though of course our schedule remains at Lord Aldeburgh’s convenience, given the portrait’s priority.”

With this tactful reminder of their professional relationship—a necessary shield against potential impropriety—she curtsied once more before turning toward the east wing, Abigail falling into step beside her with the practiced coordination of long association.

Alexander watched their departure longer than strictly necessary, struck again by that curious mixture of strength and grace that characterized Sophia’s bearing. Even in retreat, she maintained a dignity that owed nothing to artificial posture or practiced movement, but seemed rather the natural expression of internal character.

“A most satisfactory afternoon,” Gregory remarked as the ladies disappeared from view. “The air has brought your color back, and Lady Sinclair’s artistic talents clearly extend beyond portraiture. Her study of the lake showed remarkable sensitivity to light and atmosphere.”

Alexander shot his friend a look that demanded honesty rather than social pleasantry. Gregory, recognizing the expression from long acquaintance, abandoned pretense with a rueful smile.

“Very well,” he conceded as they began ascending the terrace steps. “I may have contrived our meeting, but the outcome justified the manipulation, did it not? You’ve been too isolated here, Alexander. The portrait sessions are well enough, but human connection requires more varied interaction than formal sittings permit.”

The assessment, while uncomfortably accurate, irritated Alexander nonetheless. He disliked being managed, even when the results proved beneficial. Withdrawing his notebook, he wrote with particular emphasis: I am neither child nor invalid requiring arranged playdates, Gregory.

“Of course not,” his friend agreed with perhaps excessive readiness. “You are, however, a man whose circumstances have constrained normal social intercourse to a degree that threatens your spirits. As your oldest friend, I claim both right and responsibility to intervene when necessary.”

The presumption might have provoked genuine anger had Alexander not recognized the sincere concern beneath Gregory’s high-handed manner. Despite his tendency toward manipulation, Gregory’s fundamental motivation remained affection rather than control—a distinction that separated him from Lady Aldeburgh’s more calculated interventions.

And what of your own evident interest in Miss McLeod ? Alexander wrote after a moment’s consideration . Is that too merely therapeutic strategy?

The question struck home, bringing a rare flush to Gregory’s tanned face. “Abigail—that is, Miss McLeod possesses unusual qualities of mind and character,” he replied with uncharacteristic hesitation. “Her conversation provides welcome relief from the insipid chatter that characterizes most social interaction.”

Alexander raised an eyebrow at this carefully neutral assessment. She’s very pretty , he wrote with deliberate provocation. Particularly when discussing topics that engage her interest.

“Her appearance is certainly pleasant,” Gregory admitted, his composure somewhat restored. “Though I assure you my interest remains entirely appropriate to our respective stations.”

The declaration, clearly intended to forestall further questioning, succeeded primarily in confirming Alexander’s suspicion that Gregory’s attraction to Abigail extended beyond mere appreciation for stimulating conversation. His friend had always possessed a somewhat unconventional approach to social boundaries, valuing individual merit above accidents of birth or circumstance.

Yet, for Alexander, the afternoon’s encounter had only confirmed what he had been reluctant to acknowledge—that his interest in Lady Sinclair had progressed well beyond professional respect or even friendly acquaintance.

But he knew that his damaged self had little to offer any woman, particularly one who had already endured more than her share of hardship.