Page 19 of Coloring a Silent Earl’s Heart
Alexander sat behind his small writing desk, his fingers drumming an agitated rhythm upon the wood. The Abbey gardens stretched before him, bathed in moonlight that transformed familiar paths into ghostly ribbons between shadowed hedgerows. Another night when sleep proved elusive, his mind filled with one face, one voice he would never hear, one absence that would soon become permanent, to his utter woe.
“Curse it all,” he muttered soundlessly, the oath forming on his lips without voice to carry it. Even this small rebellion—thinking like the soldier he had been rather than the nobleman he was expected to be—provided scant satisfaction against the hollow ache in his chest.
The pendulum clock in the corridor struck one, its mechanical precision marking another sleepless hour. Alexander turned from the window, pacing the length of his chamber with restless energy that found no outlet in productive action. His nightshirt hung loose upon a frame grown leaner these past months, evidence of an appetite diminished by circumstances rather than illness.
He had managed perhaps an hour’s fitful sleep earlier that evening, only to be startled awake by dreams so vivid they lingered still in his consciousness: Sophia dragged forcibly from Balfour Abbey while he remained paralyzed, his limbs refusing commands to move, his voice locked within a throat that produced no sound; her carriage disappearing into mist while his mother looked on with satisfied smile; Shropshire’s mocking laughter as he claimed her hand.
The images remained so vivid that Alexander paused in his pacing, pressing the heels of his hands against his eyes as though physical pressure might dispel their lingering power. Something beyond mere attachment drove his growing disquiet—a bone-deep certainty that danger threatened Sophia beyond his ability to prevent it.
Unable to bear the chamber’s confines any longer, he threw on his banyan over his nightshirt and quit the room, moving through darkened corridors by instinct rather than sight. The household slept, or at least maintained the fiction of slumber, though Alexander harbored suspicions that his mother’s surveillance extended even into these midnight hours.
The night air struck his face with unexpected chill when he stepped onto the terrace, May having brought capricious weather to Devon this year. He paused, drawing deep breaths that steadied his racing pulse if not his troubled thoughts. The gardens spread before him, silver-washed in moonlight that picked out individual blossoms among shadow-draped foliage.
Movement near the stone balustrade caught his eye—a solitary figure, shawl draped over slender shoulders, gazing toward the distant sea. His heart leapt with recognition before his mind could process the improbability of her presence at this hour. Sophia stood alone in the gardens, her profile turned toward the moon, entirely unaware of his presence.
Alexander hesitated only briefly before approaching, deliberately making his footfalls audible against stone to avoid startling her in the darkness. At the sound, she turned swiftly, alarm transforming to recognition as she identified him in the moon-silvered night.
“My lord,” she said, dropping into a curtsy that seemed absurdly formal given the circumstance of their meeting. “I had not expected to encounter anyone at this hour.”
Moonlight revealed what daylight might have concealed—the unmistakable tracks of recent tears upon her cheeks, the slight redness around eyes that appeared overlarge in her pale face. The evidence of her distress struck him with physical force, his hand rising of its own accord to form their private gesture—fingers touching his heart before extending toward her, their sign for concern.
“It is nothing,” she insisted, though her expression was void of conviction. “Merely the sleeplessness that sometimes afflicts one in strange houses.”
Alexander frowned, recognizing prevarication when presented with it. He repeated the gesture with more deliberate emphasis, adding a questioning tilt of his head that demanded an honest response.
Sophia’s composure wavered briefly before she squared her shoulders with visible determination. “Truly, my lord, it is nothing worth troubling yourself over. Merely... considerations regarding my imminent departure.”
The words struck like an unexpected blow, robbing him momentarily of breath. Departure? No notice had been given of the portrait’s completion or any decision regarding her leave-taking. His confusion must have shown plainly, for Sophia’s expression softened with something uncomfortably like pity.
“Your mother did not inform you?” she asked quietly. “Lady Aldeburgh has terminated my commission. I am to depart Balfour Abbey by tomorrow at noon.”
Shock rendered Alexander momentarily immobile, his mind working to comprehend this betrayal. His mother had dismissed Sophia without consultation, without permission, without even allowing proper farewells between them. The realization burned like brandy, its potency increasing rather than diminishing as it spread through his consciousness.
Before he could respond, Sophia continued with forced brightness entirely belied by the shadows in her eyes. “It signifies little. The portrait has progressed sufficiently for another artist to complete the remaining details. Lord Camden shall have his commission fulfilled, regardless of who applies the final brushstrokes.”
Her brave pretense at indifference affected Alexander more deeply than outright distress might have done. That she would attempt cheerfulness for his benefit while clearly suffering herself spoke to a character society routinely undervalued in women of reduced circumstances.
He quickly scribbled a note and held the notebook towards her with a trembling hand, and she looked at the words, tears filling her eyes.
You are leaving.
She looked up at him regretfully.
“I have no choice. Lady Aldeburgh… she is not wrong.”
Alexander’s jaw tightened at this reference to his mother’s interference. He reached for Sophia’s hand, covering it briefly with his own—a silent promise of support she appeared to understand immediately, though her expression remained troubled.
“Please,” she whispered, though she made no move to withdraw her hand. “Do not challenge your mother, on my account. My situation grows complicated enough without creating further difficulties.”
Before Alexander could insist through gesture on explanation of precisely what difficulties threatened beyond his mother’s disapproval, footsteps interrupted their exchange.
“Milady?” Abigail’s voice called softly, approaching from the side garden. “I’ve brought the chamomile you requested. Oh!” The lady’s maid stopped abruptly upon spotting Alexander, curtsying hastily. “Forgive me, my lord. I did not realize—”
“It is quite all right, Abigail,” Sophia assured her, withdrawing her hand from Alexander’s with obvious reluctance. “His lordship and I merely encountered each other by chance during our respective night wanderings.”
The excuse seemed hollow to Alexander, though Abigail’s expression suggested understanding rather than censure. She approached, offering a steaming cup with careful hands.
“Your chamomile, milady,” she said, eyes flicking nervously between them. “Perhaps we should return indoors? The hour grows late, and tomorrow brings... many obligations.”
The hesitation spoke volumes regarding whatever awaited beyond this moonlit interlude. Alexander stepped forward, unwilling to surrender their brief connection without gaining a better understanding of Sophia’s situation. He gestured toward her, then pointed questioningly at the Abbey’s east wing where her chambers lay.
“Yes,” she confirmed, understanding his unspoken inquiry. “I must complete packing before morning. Your mother has arranged transportation immediately following breakfast.”
Such haste seemed unnecessary for mere conclusion of portraiture, confirming Alexander’s growing suspicion that his mother’s interference extended beyond simple disapproval of potential attachment. Before he could press further, Sophia curtsied with formal grace entirely at odds with their previous intimacy.
“Goodnight, Lord Aldeburgh,” she said, lips steady despite the emotion evident in her eyes. “And... farewell, should we not have the opportunity to speak again before my departure…”
The finality in her tone struck Alexander with peculiar force—as though she anticipated more permanent separation than mere physical distance would suggest. He watched helplessly as she turned away, following Abigail toward the east wing entrance with dignified steps that betrayed none of her earlier distress.
Alexander remained on the terrace long after Sophia had disappeared, his thoughts churning with implications of her imminent departure and the mysterious troubles she refused to share. One certainty emerged from confusion: he would not—could not—allow his mother’s machinations to succeed without challenge.
He would not make her life more difficult, he would wait, like she asked. But he would not allow her to stay away. He would not allow his mother to keep her from him indefinitely.