Page 12 of Coloring a Silent Earl’s Heart

It was quite late in the evening when Sophia finally made her way to her bedchamber. The day’s painting session with Lord Aldeburgh had stretched longer than anticipated, with the afternoon light proving too perfect to abandon until the very last rays had disappeared behind the western hills.

“Your neck must truly be aching, milady,” Abigail observed, gently brushing Sophia’s hair with rhythmic strokes. “You’ve been hunched over that easel since breakfast.”

“Worth every twinge,” Sophia replied, unable to keep the satisfaction from her voice. “Lord Aldeburgh’s portrait progresses better than I dared hope. I think I am finally managing to get that… particular light in his eyes, after it has been evading me for quite some time.”

Abigail’s reflection smiled knowingly in the looking glass. “If you don’t mind my saying so, milady, you speak of his lordship with particular warmth these days.”

Heat rose unbidden to Sophia’s cheeks. “I speak of him as any artist would of a compelling subject, nothing more.”

“Of course,” Abigail replied, her tone suggesting precisely the opposite. “And I suppose that’s why you’ve sketched his hands no fewer than fifteen times in your private notebook?”

“His hands are remarkably expressive,” Sophia protested, suddenly finding great interest in arranging the bottles on her dressing table. “Given his inability to speak, they’ve become essential to his communication. As his portraitist, I must study them with particular attention.”

“Very professional,” Abigail agreed with exaggerated solemnity that dissolved into a genuine smile. “There, all finished. Shall I take your sketchbook to the drawing room? You mentioned wanting to review today’s progress before retiring.”

“You can leave it here,” Sophia said, grateful for the change of subject. “And then you should rest yourself. I’ve monopolized your evening long enough.”

Abigail retrieved the leather-bound sketchbook from Sophia’s painting supplies and placed it on the small table beside the bed. With a curtsy that managed to be both proper and affectionate, she withdrew, leaving Sophia alone with her thoughts.

Sophia sighed as she reached for the sketchbook, a strange nervousness fluttering beneath her ribs. Leafing through the day’s work would ground her, she thought, returning her mind to the practical considerations of composition and technique rather than the increasingly complicated feelings that threatened her professional detachment.

She opened the book to her most recent work and froze, her breath catching in her throat.

There, nestled between her own sketches, lay a drawing she had not created—a portrait of herself seated among the garden roses, head bent in concentration over her easel, a loose strand of hair falling across her cheek.

Beneath the portrait, written in a strong, elegant hand she had come to know well, were words that caused her heart to stumble in its steady rhythm:

Lady Sinclair—

Your presence brings light where there was darkness, purpose where there was emptiness, hope where there was resignation.

I cannot imagine returning to the silence that preceded you, nor would I wish to. You have given voice to the man I feared lost forever on Spanish soil.

With deepest gratitude and admiration, A.B.

Sophia traced the words with trembling fingers, reading them again and again as though their meaning might alter with repetition. But the sentiment remained unchanged—as clear and profound as it was unexpected.

“Oh,” she whispered to the empty room, the single syllable entirely inadequate to express the tumult of emotion rising within her breast.

It was not a declaration of romantic love, precisely—Lord Aldeburgh was too careful, too proper for such forwardness. Yet the depth of feeling conveyed in those carefully chosen words spoke of connection beyond mere artistic appreciation or social friendship. He had opened himself to her in a way she suspected he had done with no one else since his return from war.

The realization both thrilled and terrified her. What began as professional duty had become something far more perilous—something for which her reduced circumstances had left her entirely unprepared.

“This cannot be,” she told herself sternly, even as her fingers continued to caress the page that held his words. “I came to Balfour Abbey to secure my future through honest work, not to lose my heart to a man whose world exists leagues above my own.”

Yet even as practical considerations formed in her mind, her heart refused their logic. In Lord Aldeburgh—Alexander, as she had begun to think of him in her most private thoughts—she had discovered not merely a wounded nobleman in need of healing, but a man of profound sensitivity and intelligence whose silence concealed depths she longed to explore.

The knowledge settled over her with the weight of inevitability. Somewhere between sketch and portrait, between professional duty and personal connection, she had fallen in love with Alexander Balfour.

“Foolish, foolish woman,” she murmured, closing the sketchbook and pressing it to her chest as though the pressure might ease the ache beneath her ribs. “Of all the unwise paths available to you, you’ve chosen the most treacherous.”

Yet despite her self-admonishment, Sophia found herself unable to regret the feeling taking root within her heart. Whatever consequences might follow, whatever practicalities might intrude, she would cherish the connection formed with this remarkable man who had entrusted her with glimpses of his true self.

With the sketchbook still clutched against her heart, Sophia extinguished her candle and settled beneath the coverlet, her mind filled with images of blue eyes and strong hands, and words written in elegant script that promised more than they directly expressed.

Morning arrived with unseasonable warmth, sunlight streaming through the east-facing windows of Sophia’s chamber and rousing her from slumber filled with half-remembered dreams. She woke with a curious lightness in her chest, a sense of anticipation that momentarily overshadowed her usual practical concerns.

Then memory returned—Lord Aldeburgh’s drawing, his note, the feelings it had awakened—and with it, a flush of mingled pleasure and trepidation.

“You’re awake, milady,” Abigail observed, entering with a breakfast tray. “And looking rather flushed. I hope you haven’t taken a chill from yesterday’s long session in that drafty music room.”

“I am perfectly well,” Sophia assured her, accepting a cup of tea with a smile she could not suppress. “Merely anticipating another productive day.”

Abigail raised an eyebrow as she laid out Sophia’s morning dress—a gown of pale spring green that brought out the color of her eyes and had been carefully mended where the cuff had begun to fray.

“Would your anticipation have anything to do with this?” She held out the sketchbook that Sophia had left upon her bedside table, open to Lord Aldeburgh’s drawing and note.

Sophia felt heat rise to her cheeks. “You’ve been prying,” she accused without real anger.

“Not intentionally,” Abigail defended, placing the book beside Sophia’s tea. “I was moving it to make space for your breakfast and it fell open. Though I can’t say I regret seeing it.” Her expression softened. “It’s a beautiful drawing, milady. And his words...”

“Are private,” Sophia finished, though without sharpness. She could not find it in her heart to be cross with Abigail, whose loyalty had never wavered despite their reduced circumstances.

“Of course,” Abigail nodded, though a small smile played at the corners of her mouth. “Though if I might be permitted an observation—”

“When have my permissions ever prevented your observations?” Sophia interrupted, a reluctant smile belying her words.

Abigail laughed, the sound bright in the morning quiet. “True enough. I was merely going to say that his lordship has a remarkable eye for detail. The way he’s captured your expression—that little furrow between your brows when you’re concentrating—speaks of close observation indeed.”

“He is gifted,” Sophia admitted, running her fingers over the sketch with involuntary tenderness. “I had no idea he possessed such talent.”

“Talent, yes,” Abigail agreed as she helped Sophia into her morning dress. “Though I suspect his rendering of you owes as much to feeling as to artistic ability.”

Sophia did not reply, though her heart quickened at the suggestion. She had lain awake half the night contemplating the meaning behind Lord Aldeburgh’s words, alternately convincing herself they represented mere gratitude for her professional services and then allowing herself to hope they might signify deeper regard.

“There,” Abigail declared, securing the final pin in Sophia’s simply arranged hair. “Ready to capture hearts as well as likenesses, I’d say.”

“Abigail,” Sophia protested, though without conviction. “Remember our purpose here. Lady Aldeburgh already regards me with suspicion; I’ll not give her cause to believe I have designs beyond my commission.”

“As you say, milady,” Abigail replied, her tone suggesting she remained unconvinced. “Shall I bring your painting supplies to the music room, then?”

“Please,” Sophia nodded, grateful for the return to practical matters. “I’ll join you there after breakfast. Lord Aldeburgh mentioned he would be occupied with estate business early this morning, so we needn’t rush.”

After Abigail departed, Sophia finished her tea in thoughtful silence, her gaze repeatedly drawn to the sketch that had so thoroughly disrupted her composure. Whatever Lord Aldeburgh’s intentions in creating it, the gesture had irrevocably altered the nature of their association. The question that remained was how she should respond.

Professionalism dictated acknowledgment without excessive sentiment—a measured thank you that maintained appropriate distance. Yet her heart urged a more honest recognition of the connection forming between them, something that honored the courage it must have taken for this proud, wounded man to expose his feelings, however obliquely.

With a fortifying breath, she closed the sketchbook and rose from her bed. The matter would keep until their morning session. Perhaps in the familiar surroundings of their improvised studio, with brushes and canvas between them, the proper response would become clear.

The music room stood empty when Sophia arrived, though evidence of Abigail’s efficiency surrounded her—easels positioned to capture the morning light, paints arranged in meticulous order, fresh water in porcelain bowls for washing brushes. Sophia moved through the space with growing familiarity, adjusting a curtain here, repositioning a chair there, until all was precisely as she preferred for the day’s work.

As she waited for Lord Aldeburgh to join her, Sophia found herself drawn to the pianoforte that served as their makeshift supply table. The instrument had clearly been magnificent once. Its mahogany case gleamed with the patina of age and care, its brass fittings polished to a soft glow despite its current repurposing.

On impulse, she lifted the corner of the heavy cloth that concealed the keyboard. Ivory keys, slightly yellowed with age but unblemished by wear, greeted her curious gaze. She pressed one key gently, expecting no sound from an instrument so long neglected.

To her surprise, a perfect note rang out—clear and true in the quiet room. The pianoforte had been maintained despite its disuse, suggesting someone in the household could not bear to let it fall into disrepair even if its music was no longer welcomed.

“Of course,” she murmured to herself. “Lord Aldeburgh may not hear its music, but he would ensure its preservation nonetheless.”

Her fingers hovered over the keys, tempted to play despite her limited skill. She had received instruction as befit a gentlewoman of modest accomplishment, though she had never possessed the passion or talent that marked true musicians. Still, perhaps a simple melody...

A flash of color caught her eye as she prepared to lower the cloth—something small and bright resting atop the piano’s inner workings. Curiosity overcame propriety, and she carefully lifted the lid to investigate further.

There, nestled among the strings like a bright bird in a metal forest, lay a miniature portrait in an ornate gold frame. The subject was a young woman of extraordinary beauty—golden curls arranged in fashionable ringlets around a heart-shaped face, wide blue eyes gazing from the portrait with practiced innocence, rosebud lips curved in a smile that managed to be both demure and inviting.

Sophia lifted the portrait with careful fingers, a strange hollowness opening beneath her ribs as she studied the exquisite features. The artist had captured not merely beauty but a particular quality of feminine allure—the look of a woman well aware of her power to enchant.

“Who are you?” she whispered to the painted face that seemed to mock her with its perfection.

The door opened behind her, and Sophia started guiltily, nearly dropping the portrait as she turned to find Lord Aldeburgh himself standing in the doorway. His expression shifted from pleasant anticipation to frozen stillness as his gaze fixed upon the miniature in her hands.

“Lord Aldeburgh,” she said, the words barely audible even to her own ears. “Forgive me. I—I had no right—”

He remained motionless, his blue eyes troubled as they moved from the portrait to Sophia’s face and back again. The silence between them stretched painfully, fraught with unspoken questions and sudden uncertainty.

Sophia carefully replaced the miniature where she had found it, closing the pianoforte lid with gentle precision. When she turned back to Lord Aldeburgh, she had schooled her features into a mask of professional composure that belied the turmoil in her heart.

“Shall we begin?” she asked, gesturing toward the prepared easel with a steadiness she did not feel.

Lord Aldeburgh hesitated, his gaze lingering on the closed pianoforte before he nodded and moved to his accustomed position. Gone was the ease they had established over days of shared work; in its place stood formality rigid as armor.

They commenced the session in strained silence, Sophia focusing on technical matters with deliberate concentration while Lord Aldeburgh maintained the posed position with military precision. The warming connection that had grown between them seemed suddenly tenuous, threatened by the beautiful ghost whose image lay hidden beneath polished mahogany.

As the morning progressed, the tension became increasingly unbearable. Sophia found herself making small errors she would normally never commit—smudging a line here, blending colors imperfectly there—her thoughts too chaotic for the precision her work demanded.

Lord Aldeburgh, too, appeared distracted, his gaze repeatedly drifting toward the pianoforte with an expression Sophia could not interpret. Was it longing? Regret? Anger at the discovery of what was clearly a private memento?

When Abigail entered with refreshments, both painter and subject seized upon the interruption with evident relief.

“Would you care for tea, my lord?” Sophia asked, the words sounding overly formal to her ears after the easy companionship they had established.

He nodded, rising from his pose with barely concealed eagerness. As Abigail poured the tea, her shrewd gaze moved between them, clearly detecting the altered atmosphere.

“Is all well, milady?” she inquired, handing Sophia a cup with particular care. “You look rather pale.”

“Merely concentrating too intensely,” Sophia replied with a smile that felt brittle upon her lips. “The morning light is challenging today.”

Abigail’s expression suggested she remained unconvinced, but she nodded and discreetly withdrew, leaving them alone once more with their unspoken tensions.

Lord Aldeburgh moved to the window, tea untouched in his hand as he gazed out at the gardens below. The rigid set of his shoulders spoke of inner turmoil that matched Sophia’s own, though she could not determine whether it arose from annoyance at her prying or discomfort at having his past so unexpectedly revealed.

She found herself suddenly, irrationally angry—at herself for discovering the portrait, at him for his silence regarding the beautiful woman, at the circumstances that placed her in this position of humiliating uncertainty. The emotion propelled her across the room to stand beside him, her tea abandoned alongside her caution.

“My lord,” she began, the words emerging more sharply than intended, “I must apologize for my unpardonable curiosity regarding the portrait. It was not my place to examine your personal possessions.”

He turned toward her, surprise evident in his expression at her direct approach. After a moment’s hesitation, he retrieved his notebook from his pocket and wrote swiftly:

There is no need for apology. The discovery was accidental, I’m sure.

The response, polite but distant, only fueled Sophia’s frustration. She had glimpsed the man beneath the Earl’s formal exterior, had begun to believe that they understood each other on a deeper level, only to discover this glaring omission—this beautiful ghost whose existence he had never mentioned despite their growing intimacy.

“Who is she?” The question escaped before wisdom could prevent it, hanging in the air between them like a challenge.

For a moment, Sophia thought he might refuse to answer. His jaw tightened, eyes darkening with what might have been anger or pain. Then, with visible effort, he wrote:

Miss Diana Anderton. My betrothed before the war.

“Your betrothed,” Sophia repeated, the words tasting like ashes on her tongue. How foolish she had been, how utterly na?ve to imagine that a man of Lord Aldeburgh’s standing and evident attractions would have reached five-and-twenty without forming a serious attachment. “I... I had no idea you were engaged to be married.”

He shook his head sharply, then wrote with quick, forceful strokes:

Not anymore. She became engaged to another while I lay wounded in Spain.

Understanding dawned with painful clarity. The beautiful woman had abandoned him when his injuries rendered him less than perfect in society’s estimation—had traded the wounded hero for an intact replacement while he fought for his life in a field hospital.

“I’m so sorry,” Sophia said softly, genuine compassion overwhelming her earlier jealousy. “What a terrible betrayal to face upon your return.”

Something shifted in his expression—surprise, perhaps, that she focused on his pain rather than Miss Anderton’s decision. After a moment’s contemplation, he added:

Gregory brought news of her engagement the night of my first dinner in London. I had carried her portrait through the Peninsula campaign, believing...

He stopped writing abruptly, the memory evidently too painful to commit to paper. Sophia resisted the urge to touch his arm in comfort, knowing such familiarity would be unwelcome in his current state.

“You need not explain further,” she assured him. “Some wounds are too personal to share, even with... with those who wish to understand.”

Lord Aldeburgh studied her face with an intensity that made her heart quicken despite the circumstances. Slowly, he raised his hand to touch his chest, then his heart, before extending his hand toward her in a gesture she had come to recognize—their private sign for trust.

The simple movement conveyed more than pages of explanation could have achieved. He trusted her with this painful piece of his past, was willing to share the wound rather than conceal it behind proud silence.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “For trusting me with the truth.”

He nodded once, a brief acknowledgment, before returning to his notebook:

I do not understand how the portrait came to be on the pianoforte. I keep it locked in my study desk.

Sophia frowned, considering the implication. “Someone deliberately placed it where I would find it?”

His expression darkened, and he looked toward the door with evident suspicion:

My mother never approved of our artistic sessions. She considers them beneath my dignity.

“You believe Lady Aldeburgh placed it there to cause discord between us?” The suggestion should have seemed far-fetched, yet Sophia had witnessed enough of her iciness to find it disturbingly plausible. “But why would she—”

She stopped abruptly, the question answering itself before it could be fully formed. Lady Aldeburgh would intervene if she believed her son was forming an inappropriate attachment to a portraitist of reduced circumstances—a woman who worked for her living despite her genteel origins.

The realization brought a flush of mortification to Sophia’s cheeks. Had their interactions been so transparent that even the dowager had perceived feelings neither had openly acknowledged? Had her professional demeanor slipped so dramatically that she now appeared a fortune-hunter setting her cap at the Earl?

Lord Aldeburgh seemed to follow her thoughts with remarkable accuracy. He stepped closer, his expression softening as he wrote:

Whatever my mother’s motivations, they change nothing between us. The past is the past. Diana made her choice, as did I in commissioning your work.

He hesitated, then added:

Your presence here means more to me than memories of what was lost .

On impulse, she reached for her own communication device—not pen and paper, but the language of gesture they had developed over days of shared work. She touched her fingertips to her temple, then opened her hand toward him—their sign for understanding.

His response came without hesitation—fingers pressed briefly to his lips, then to his heart, before extending toward her. Gratitude. Their private vocabulary had become a sanctuary where words, written or spoken, could not intrude.

Sophia smiled, her earlier distress fading beneath the certainty of their connection. Whatever had existed between Lord Aldeburgh and the beautiful Diana belonged to the past. The present—this fragile, growing understanding between artist and subject, between woman and man—belonged to them alone.

“Shall we continue?” she asked, gesturing toward the abandoned easel with newfound confidence.

He nodded, a smile touching the corners of his mouth for the first time that morning. As he resumed his position, Sophia noted a subtle change in his posture—a relaxation of the rigid formality that had characterized the session’s beginning, a return to the natural grace she had come to admire.

Taking up her brush, she studied his features with fresh perspective. The knowledge of his past pain added depth to her understanding of the man before her, transforming what might have been merely a handsome subject into a complete person whose experiences—joyful and painful alike—had shaped his present self.

“Turn your face slightly toward the light,” she directed, her professional eye reasserting itself. “Yes, just so. The morning sun catches the blue of your eyes perfectly from this angle.”

As she worked, Sophia found herself infusing the portrait with this new understanding; not merely capturing his physical appearance, but suggesting through subtle technique the resilience that had brought him through betrayal and injury to this moment of renewal. With each brushstroke, she committed to canvas not just the Earl of Aldeburgh, but Alexander Balfour himself—the man beneath the title, the soul behind the silence.

When Abigail returned later to announce luncheon, she found them working in harmonious concentration, the earlier tension replaced by comfortable understanding. If she noticed the change, her only acknowledgment was a knowing smile as she helped gather Sophia’s supplies.

“Shall we resume after luncheon, my lord?” Sophia asked as Lord Aldeburgh rose from his pose.

Instead of reaching for his notebook, he responded with gesture—touching his fingers to his heart, then extending his hand toward her with a questioning tilt of his head. It was their sign for willing agreement, yet posed as a question rather than a statement.

“Yes,” Sophia replied, answering both his explicit query and the unspoken one that lay beneath it. “I would like that very much.”

His smile—rare and therefore precious—warmed her more thoroughly than the spring sunshine streaming through the music room windows. Whatever complications lay ahead, whatever obstacles Lady Aldeburgh or society might place in their path, this moment of perfect understanding was theirs to treasure.

As they departed the music room side by side, Sophia cast one final glance at the pianoforte where Diana’s portrait lay hidden.