Page 20 of Coloring a Silent Earl’s Heart
To say that Sophia was hesitant to leave was a wild understatement. Not only was she heartbroken, but the fact that she’d had to keep facing Alexander while knowing that their goodbye was unavoidable had begun to wear on her. A frown lay between her brows as she watched Abigail packing the last trunk.
“We are ready, milady,” Abigail murmured, fastening worn leather straps with hands that betrayed her distress. “I’ve wrapped your drawing things in extra flannel against the damp.”
“You think of everything,” Sophia replied, forcing steadiness into her voice. “I cannot imagine how I should have managed these past months without your constancy.”
She had not told him how she felt; that she had fallen irrevocably in love with him. But what purpose could such a confession serve? Alexander’s obligations to his name and title existed as immutable facts against which her wishes counted for naught.
A strangled sob pierced her melancholy musings. Sophia turned to find Abigail pressing her apron to her lips, tears streaming unchecked down her cheeks.
“Abigail?” she asked softly, reaching for the girl’s hand. Abigail shook her head.
“Forgive me, milady. I do not want to burden you with my troubles.”
“There can be no talk of burdens between friends who have weathered so many storms together,” Sophia replied, guiding her to sit upon the bed’s edge. “Tell me what distresses you beyond our general circumstances.”
Abigail’s hands twisted her apron into creases that would require ironing. Her Scottish brogue thickening with emotion, she replied, “It’s Lord Camden, milady. I dinnae think—never imagined such a gentleman would look twice at a lass like me. Yet during yer sessions with his lordship, when Lord Camden would visit...”
Understanding dawned with painful clarity. “You’ve formed an attachment to Lord Camden.”
“Aye,” Abigail confessed, the single syllable carrying impossible longing. “He spoke to me as though my thoughts held worth. Asked about my grandmother’s remedies as if they represented wisdom rather than peasant superstition. He even brought books from the library when he discovered I could read.”
Fresh tears overwhelmed her. “Pure foolishness, I know it well. What could a viscount’s son possibly want with a Scottish lady’s maid, except momentary diversion? Ach! I canna master my heart, though I know full well it leads only to heartbreak.”
The raw anguish in her voice found an answering chord within Sophia’s breast. How keenly she understood that torment—the knowledge that society’s barriers stood immovable between oneself and happiness, however genuine the feeling that beat against them.
“I do not believe your assessment is entirely accurate,” Sophia said carefully. “Lord Camden has ever struck me as a man who values substance over station. His friendship with Lord Aldeburgh demonstrates loyalty beyond conventional considerations.”
“Friendship between gentlemen bears little resemblance to connection between a man and woman of different stations,” Abigail replied gently.
“Perhaps. But Lord Camden does not strike me as one who will care much for society,” she said gently.
Hope flickered briefly across Abigail’s tear-stained face before practicality reasserted itself. “Even were that true—which I dinae believe it could ever be… what future could exist for a lady’s maid and a nobleman? His family would never allow it.”
The question echoed Sophia’s own midnight thoughts regarding Alexander with uncomfortable precision. What future indeed for any attachment that violated society’s carefully ordered hierarchies?
“I cannot offer certainty regarding Lord Camden’s intentions,” Sophia said finally. “But this I promise without reservation: whatever influence I might possess, whatever assistance I might provide to ease your way toward happiness, I shall give freely. You deserve joy, Abigail, regardless of the station circumstances have assigned you.”
Abigail looked up, raw hope warring with ingrained doubt. “Ye truly believe such a thing possible? That barriers of birth and fortune might be overcome?”
“I believe genuine feeling creates possibility where none existed before,” Sophia answered, thinking of Alexander’s hands forming their private language of gesture, the sincerity in his gaze, the warmth of his touch.
The two women shared a loaded look before Abigail glanced through the window, down at Jenkins, who stood ready next to the carriage and looked up with a deep frown.
“Jenkins says the carriage awaits below. Shall I tell him we’re ready to depart?”
Sophia nodded, though the thought of leaving Balfour Abbey—of leaving him—sent fresh agony through her breast. “Yes. Best have done with it quickly.”
The entrance hall stood empty save for a single footman positioned by the great oak doors. Lady Aldeburgh had not deigned to offer a farewell, which surprised Sophia not at all. The dowager had made her position abundantly clear; formal leave-taking would simply provide additional opportunity for uncomfortable confrontation.
“Your trunks have been loaded, Lady Sinclair,” the footman informed her. Sophia nodded and moved toward the carriage, when a slight movement caught her eye. Her heart jumped when she recognized Alexander. He moved swiftly towards her, his eyes searching hers.
“You cannot—” he began, the words emerging hoarse and halting from lips unused to forming speech. “You cannot leave.”
The sound of his voice struck Sophia with physical force. That he would break his silence, would push beyond limitation to speak aloud, conveyed urgency beyond mere reluctance to see her depart.
“My lord,” she said carefully, acutely aware of Abigail’s presence and the coachman’s poorly concealed curiosity. “Your mother has made arrangements. Everything is ready...”
“I love you.”
“Alexander,” she whispered, his given name slipping unbidden from her lips. “I—”
He seized her hand, pressing folded paper into her palm with an urgent gesture. She glanced down, unfolding it with trembling fingers to reveal the hastily written message: Tell no one I can speak. Not yet. I will come for you. Wait for me. Trust me.
Tears blurred her vision as she read, understanding dawning with bittersweet clarity. He had broken the bonds of silence specifically for her, had pushed beyond limitation to declare himself plainly rather than through written word or gesture.
Yet practical obstacles remained insurmountable—Lady Aldeburgh’s opposition, Alexander’s responsibilities as Earl, her own precarious circumstances with Silas Fletcher’s threat hanging over her like an executioner’s blade.
With shaking hands, she withdrew a pencil from her reticule, writing beneath his message with swift, decisive strokes:
We were not meant to be. Your mother speaks the truth regarding my unsuitability. Find happiness with someone worthy of the Balfour name. Forget me.
The words, so contrary to her heart’s deepest desire, felt like betrayal even as she wrote them. Yet they represented kindness rather than cruelty—freeing him from the obligation his honor would demand once aware of her true circumstances with Shropshire.
She pressed the note into his hand, forcing composure she did not feel as she stepped toward the carriage. “Goodbye, Lord Aldeburgh,” she said quietly, formal address reinstated as a shield against emotion. “I shall always remember your kindness with deepest gratitude.”
His expression—confusion giving way to dawning comprehension, then hardening to determination—haunted her as the carriage pulled away from Balfour Abbey. She did not allow herself a final glance back, though the temptation clawed at her resolve with talons of regret.
“He loves you,” Abigail said softly when the Abbey had disappeared around a bend in the road. “Truly loves you, milady. I have never heard him speak aloud before this day.” “His feelings honor me beyond deserving,” Sophia replied, staring resolutely forward as countryside rolled past the carriage windows. “Yet they change nothing regarding our respective positions. He remains Earl of Aldeburgh; bound by obligations I would not ask him to forsake. I remain an impoverished widow with a creditor whose threats grow increasingly dangerous.”
“But surely his lordship could—”
“Could what?” Sophia interrupted with uncharacteristic sharpness. “Defy his mother? Disregard his family’s centuries of careful connection? Risk scandal that might forever damage the Balfour name? And all for what? For a woman without fortune, without connection, without means to contribute anything beyond affection to such a union?”
Abigail fell silent, recognizing the futility of argument against such determined opposition. They travelled in uncomfortable quietude, each lost in private thoughts of men whose stations placed them beyond reach despite evident affection.
The carriage rounded a sharp bend some ten miles from Balfour Abbey, wheels striking a pothole with jolting force that momentarily lifted them from their seats. Before either could comment on the rough road, a thunderous crash shook the entire conveyance, followed by a sickening lurch as the carriage tilted sharply leftward.
“Oh, good heavens!” Abigail cried, clutching at the strap beside her seat. “What’s happened?”
The carriage came to a juddering halt, tilted at such a precarious angle that both women slid toward the door. From above came the coachman’s voice, cursing fluently before calling down: “Wheel’s broken, ladies! You’ll need to step down while I examine the damage.”
“Quickly,” Sophia urged, helping Abigail toward the door on the higher side. “Before it shifts further.”
They managed to clamber out, finding themselves upon a deserted country lane bordered by thick woods.
“Axle’s snapped clean through,” he announced. “No mending this without proper tools and spare parts. You’ll need to wait while I walk back to that village we passed some miles back.”
“Walk back?” Sophia repeated, apprehension prickling along her spine. “Surely that would require several hours.”
“Can’t be helped, milady,” the coachman replied with a shrug that struck her as oddly unconcerned given their predicament. “Unless you fancy spending the night in the broken carriage, I’ll need to fetch help.”
Before Sophia could respond, rustling from nearby woods drew her attention. Three men emerged from dense undergrowth.
“No need for such a journey, Peterson,” called the foremost of these newcomers, addressing the coachman with a familiar ease that confirmed Sophia’s growing suspicion. “We’ve come to offer assistance to the ladies.”
“Right on time,” the coachman replied, abandoning all pretense of genuine mishap. “Though breaking the wheel for real seems excessive. Could’ve just claimed mechanical trouble.”
“His lordship insisted on authenticity,” the man replied with an unpleasant laugh. “Now then, ladies, if you’ll just come quietly—”
“Abigail, run!” Sophia commanded, shoving her maid toward the open field opposite the woods. “Get help! Go!”
The girl hesitated only momentarily before gathering her skirts and sprinting with unexpected speed. Two of the ruffians moved to pursue but halted at a sharp command from a new voice… one that sent ice through Sophia’s veins.
“Let her go. She’s of no consequence.”
Silas Fletcher emerged from the woods; his tall figure immaculate in riding clothes that contrasted sharply with his companions’ rough attire. He approached slowly, stopping before Sophia with a mocking bow.
“Lady Sinclair,” he greeted snidely. “How fortunate we should encounter each other on this lonely road. Almost as though Providence herself arranged our meeting.”
“There is nothing providential about deliberate ambush, Lord Shropshire,” Sophia replied, fear transmuting to anger that lent steadiness to her voice. “Nor anything honorable in attacking defenseless women on a public highway.”
“Always the proud little widow, aren’t you?” he sneered, grasping her arm with painful force. “Even now, when circumstances have rendered such pride absurd.” His fingers dug into her flesh through her traveling dress. “Your journey continues with me, madam. The banns have been posted at St. Michael’s, and the vicar awaits our arrival with suitable witnesses.”
Horror bloomed as his meaning became clear. “You cannot possibly imagine I would marry you!”
“I imagine you have little choice,” Shropshire replied with chilling calm. “Two thousand pounds of debt against your name, no protector since abandoning Balfour Abbey, and reputation already compromised beyond repair. The alternative to accepting my generous offer involves debtors’ prison, where I assure you, conditions prove considerably less pleasant than life as Countess of Shropshire.”
“I would prefer prison a thousand times over to marriage with a man who would force such a choice,” Sophia hissed, struggling against his grip without success.
Shropshire’s expression darkened, pretense of civility falling away to reveal uglier truth beneath. “Your preference matters not at all, Lady Sinclair. The choice was merely courtesy extended beyond requirement. You will marry me today.”
He nodded to his men, who moved forward with practiced coordination that suggested this was not their first such enterprise. Two seized Sophia’s arms while the third produced rope from his jacket.
“Bind her hands,” Shropshire instructed carelessly. “And gag her if necessary. I’ll not have hysterics disturbing our journey to the church.”
As rough hands forced her wrists together, Sophia caught a glimpse of movement from the corner of her eye—Abigail had not fled as far as it appeared but crouched behind a hedgerow with a knitting needle clutched in a white-knuckled grip.
Before Sophia could make sense of anything happening, Abigail lunged forward with surprising quickness, driving her needle into the thigh of the man binding Sophia’s wrists. He released her with a howl of pain, giving Abigail the opportunity to grab Sophia’s arm.
“Run, milady!” she cried, pulling Sophia toward the open field. Silas Fletcher’s enraged shout followed them: “After her, you fools! A hundred guineas to whoever brings her back!”
“We must separate,” Sophia gasped as the women crested a small rise. “You toward the village—I’ll draw them after me.”
“I’ll not leave you!” Abigail protested fiercely.
“You must get help!” Sophia insisted. “Find Lord Camden—tell him what’s happened. Now go!”
With the final squeeze of Sophia’s hand, Abigail veered sharply leftward while Sophia continued straight ahead. The strategy worked—most of the pursuers followed Sophia, only one breaking off toward Abigail. The maid’s agility, honed from years of domestic service, gave her an advantage over her pursuer that Sophia prayed would prove sufficient.
As for her own chances—those diminished with each passing moment as Shropshire’s men gained ground behind her. Yet even as hope dwindled, Sophia ran. If Alexander came for her as promised, he had to find something worth saving.