Page 5 of Coloring a Silent Earl’s Heart
The wheels of the hired carriage rattled over the final stretch of coastal road leading to Balfour Abbey, each rotation bringing Sophia closer to what might well be her salvation or her ruin. As the imposing structure came into view around a final bend, all her careful preparations scattered like autumn leaves in a gale. Lord Camden sat quietly across from her, while Abigail sat beside her–eyes darting about eagerly.
“Good heavens,” she breathed, half-rising from her seat. “It is magnificent.”
Magnificent seemed a paltry word for the vision before them. Balfour Abbey rose from the verdant landscape like some fantastic creation of a painter’s imagination—ancient stone mellowed by centuries of salt winds, elegant Georgian additions lending civility to medieval foundations, and gardens that stretched toward the sea in geometric splendor before surrendering to the wild beauty of the coastal cliffs beyond.
Abigail leaned forward beside her, mouth agape. “Ach, look at this ,” she murmured, her Scottish brogue more pronounced in her astonishment. “One could fit our entire cottage in its entrance hall alone, I’d wager.”
Sophia nodded wordlessly. The contrast between this magnificent estate and the humble dwelling they had so recently departed could scarcely be more profound. The modest cottage with its leaking roof and stubborn damp now seemed like a child’s plaything compared to the sprawling grandeur of Balfour Abbey.
A pang of memory—sharp and unwelcome—pierced through her professional assessment. Sinclair Manor had once impressed her similarly, though on a more modest scale.
She recalled her first arrival as Gilbert’s bride, how she had gazed upon its ordered gardens and well-proportioned facade with the pride of a woman elevated by marriage to a position of security and respect. How swiftly that security had crumbled, like a sandcastle before an advancing tide.
“Remember why we are here,” she murmured. “This is business, not pleasure. The Earl requires a portrait, and I require the fee. We are not visitors in a social sense.”
Yet as their carriage approached the sweeping drive, Sophia found herself straightening her bonnet and smoothing creases from her traveling dress—a serviceable garment of forest-green wool that had seen better days, the deep dark green of the wool providing an accompaniment to the mourning band on her arm. She would not shame herself before the Dowager Countess, however reduced her circumstances might be.
“I know it looks rather imposing,” Lord Camden spoke suddenly, and Sophia felt heat rush to her cheeks at the realization that he had noticed her discomfort. “But I promise you, they are… well… human. I am certain that they will be grateful for your talent.”
Sophia looked up at the kind man who had come all the way to accompany them to Balfour Abbey. He grinned brightly and leaned forward. “Though I must confess, Lady Sinclair, that having sung your praises so enthusiastically to both Lord Aldeburgh and his mother, I find myself somewhat anxious that the reality of your talent matches my description of it.”
The frank admission startled a laugh from Sophia. “Then we share the same apprehension, sir, for I have promised work worthy of your recommendation. Let us hope neither of us proves a disappointment to the other.”
The carriage came to a halt and Lord Camden jumped from it, holding the door open for the women and helping them out before he spoke again.
“I very much doubt that is possible,” he replied with a warmth that bordered on impropriety, though his gaze had shifted to Abigail , who supervised the unloading of their modest luggage with the efficiency of long practice.
Sophia noted the direction of his attention with interest. Abigail , though merely a lady’s maid, possessed both intelligence and natural prettiness that her station in life could not diminish. That Lord Camden might notice these qualities spoke well of his character.
“Before we proceed inside,” Lord Camden said, lowering his voice slightly, “I should perhaps warn you that the dowager countess views her son’s condition with... limited sympathy. She is a woman of traditional sensibilities who considers his impairment an unfortunate embarrassment rather than the battle wound it truly represents.”
Sophia nodded, grateful for the insight. “I understand. There are those who prefer to conceal difficult truths beneath layers of propriety, particularly when they prove inconvenient to one’s social standing.”
“Precisely so.” Lord Camden’s expression brightened with evident approval of her understanding. “Lord Aldeburgh himself is... not as he once was, certainly, but neither is he the invalid his mother would have others believe. If you approach him as a man first and a hurt gentleman second, I believe you will find him a willing subject for your work.”
With these final words of guidance, Lord Camden offered his arm to escort her up the steps toward the imposing entrance. Sophia accepted it with outward composure, though her heart quickened as they approached the arched doorway into what might well prove either her salvation or her undoing.
The entrance hall of Balfour Abbey stretched upward in soaring proportions that momentarily stole Sophia’s breath. Marble floors gleamed beneath her modest half-boots, intricate patterns inlaid with such precision that they appeared woven rather than cut from stone.
At the foot of this impressive staircase waited two figures whose contrasting presence immediately drew Sophia’s attention. The woman—tall, silver-haired, and formidably elegant in mourning black despite the presumed passage of sufficient time for lighter colors—could only be The Dowager Countess of Aldeburgh.
Beside her stood a man whose physical presence commanded attention, despite his evident discomfort at being the focus of it. Lord Aldeburgh was not at all what Sophia had expected based on Lord Camden’s descriptions of a wounded warrior. Tall and broad-shouldered, with the natural grace of an athlete rather than the awkward posture of one accustomed to infirmity, he possessed a face that might have been sculpted by a Greek master with a preference for austere beauty over soft sentiment.
Fair hair, a shade caught between gold and silver, fell across a forehead that suggested both intelligence and stubbornness in equal measure. His jaw, cleanly shaven but bearing the shadow of a beard that would return before day’s end, conveyed determination bordering on obstinacy.
But it was his eyes that arrested Sophia most completely—a blue so intense it rivalled the sea itself, cool and deep and watching her with an assessment that contained neither pity nor condescension, merely careful observation.
Lord Camden performed the introductions with careful attention to proper form, his words directed primarily to Lady Aldeburgh while his body remained positioned so that Lord Aldeburgh might read his lips. The small consideration spoke volumes about his understanding of his friend’s needs without calling undue attention to them—a kindness Sophia immediately resolved to emulate.
She curtsied deeply, first to the Dowager and then to the Earl, keeping her expression pleasant but not overly warm. Sympathy, she suspected, would be the quickest way to alienate Lord Aldeburgh, while excessive deference might trigger Lady Aldeburgh’s evident disdain for those she considered beneath her son’s notice.
“Lady Sinclair comes highly recommended by Lady Harrington,” Lord Camden explained, “whose daughter’s portrait demonstrates remarkable sensitivity and skill.”
“Indeed?” Lady Aldeburgh’s voice matched her appearance—cold, and faintly dismissive. “How... fortunate that your talents have found employment, Lady Sinclair. One hears such distressing accounts of gentlewomen forced into genuinely degrading occupations when circumstances turn against them.”
“One must adapt to changing circumstances, Your Ladyship,” Sophia replied with perfect composure. “I consider myself blessed that my modest artistic abilities might serve both my needs and the desires of those who commission my work.”
Lord Aldeburgh’s gaze sharpened at this exchange, his attention moving between Sophia and his mother with interest. The slight narrowing of his eyes suggested appreciation for her measured response, though his expression remained otherwise unreadable.
Acting on instinct rather than calculation, Sophia withdrew the small leather-bound notebook she had prepared specifically for this purpose. Writing swiftly but legibly, she composed a brief message before offering it directly to the Earl with a smile that acknowledged their unusual circumstances without dwelling upon them:
Lord Aldeburgh, I am honored by your hospitality and the opportunity to capture your likeness. I look forward to our collaboration with sincere anticipation.
He accepted the notebook, momentary surprise flickering across his features before he composed them once more into careful neutrality.
When he raised his gaze to meet hers once more, Sophia found herself caught in an assessment more thorough than any she had experienced since her debut Season. This was not the practiced appraisal of a society gentleman evaluating a potential conquest, nor the dismissive glance of a superior noting a subordinate’s existence.
Rather, Lord Aldeburgh seemed to look beyond her carefully maintained facade of professional confidence, searching for the woman beneath the artist’s demeanor.
“I’m sure Lady Sinclair must wish to refresh herself after her journey,” the dowager pronounced with the intonation that rendered suggestions into commands. “Mary will show you to your chambers in the east wing. I believe you’ll find the accommodations sufficient for your needs during your... engagement here.”
The dismissal was gracious in its phrasing but unmistakable in its intent. Sophia curtsied once more, accepting the inevitable separation with good grace while noting Lord Aldeburgh’s slight frown at his mother’s peremptory manner.
As she and Abigail followed the housemaid toward the east wing, Sophia glanced back once to find Lord Aldeburgh still watching her, his expression suggesting thoughts far more complex than the simple evaluation of a commissioned artist. She offered a small smile—not the practiced social curve she had perfected during her Season, but something more genuine and direct.
He did not return it, yet neither did he look away.
It was, Sophia decided as she climbed toward her temporary chambers, a beginning of sorts. What precisely had begun, however, remained as enigmatic as The Earl of Aldeburgh himself.
The chamber door shut behind the departing maid with a quiet click, leaving Sophia and Abigail to their first moment of privacy since entering Balfour Abbey. Abigail‘s reaction was immediate and unrestrained.
“This is something,” she breathed, turning in a slow circle, her eyes wide with undisguised awe. “Would you look at this room! Why, the bed curtains alone must have cost—” She broke off, momentarily speechless before the opulence that surrounded them.
“Oh milady! Look at the view!” Abigail had crossed to the window, pulling back heavy curtains to reveal a prospect that momentarily stilled even her exclamations.
Sophia joined her, accepting the momentary surrender to appreciation despite her professional determination to maintain perspective. Below them stretched formal gardens laid out with geometric precision, their patterns so elaborate they resembled Persian carpets rendered in box hedges and spring blooms.
“How beautiful,” she murmured. “No wonder they call it Balfour Abbey rather than merely Balfour House or Park. There’s something almost sacred in such perfection.”
“And us to live in it for weeks!” Abigail replied, the excitement evident in her voice. “Even if we’re not proper guests, it’s a far cry from our cottage with its leaking roof and that dreadful damp in the north corner.”
Sophia smiled, though a twinge of melancholy accompanied the expression. There had been a time, not so very long ago, when such surroundings would have struck her as merely appropriate rather than extraordinary.
The daughter of Baron Talbot and subsequent wife of Lord Sinclair, the Baron of Bath, had moved through the great houses of England with the easy familiarity of one born to privilege, if not quite to such exalted level as Balfour Abbey represented.
“We must remember our purpose here,” she said gently, drawing back from the window. “This isn’t a social visit but a professional engagement. Lord Aldeburgh—”
“Is certainly the most handsome gentleman I’ve seen in an age,” Abigail interrupted with the frank assessment that was at once her greatest charm and most problematic attribute. “Even with that forbidding expression, there’s no denying his fine looks. Though upon meeting him, I find myself wondering what Lord Camden meant by describing him as so terribly afflicted. Beyond his hearing, there seems little enough wrong with his lordship.”
“The most grievous wounds are not always visible,” Sophia replied, recalling the flash of bleak assessment she had glimpsed in Lord Aldeburgh’s remarkable eyes. “Whatever physical injuries he sustained in Spain, I suspect they pale in comparison to the damage wrought upon his spirit.”
“Aye, there’s truth in that,” Abigail agreed, sobering. She moved to unpack their single trunk—a battered leather affair that had seen better days, much like its contents. “Still, there’s life in him yet, for all the Dowager’s talk of him being an invalid. Did you see how he looked at you?”
Sophia, amid arranging her painting supplies on a delicate escritoire designed for more genteel feminine correspondence, paused. “Looked at me? He scarcely acknowledged my presence beyond basic courtesy.”
“If that’s what you choose to believe,” Abigail replied with a knowing smile that bordered on impertinence. She shook out a gown, expertly smoothing out the creases acquired during their journey.
“Do enlighten me as to what I missed,” Sophia said dryly, though a flicker of curiosity stirred within despite her determination to maintain a strictly professional detachment from her subject.
“He watched you.” Abigail ‘s voice lowered as if imparting a secret, though no one remained to overhear. “Not with that vacant stare gentlemen sometimes adopt when they think they ought to be paying attention, but their minds are elsewhere. Nor with that assessing look that makes a woman feel like a mare at Tattersall’s. He watched you as if...” She hesitated, searching for the right words.
“As if?” Sophia prompted, her hands stilling over the arrangement of brushes.
“As if you were a puzzle he wished to solve.” Abigail shrugged, returning to her unpacking. “I’ve a knack for noticing such things. Comes of being overlooked so often myself—it gives a person time to observe what others miss.”
Sophia considered this assessment with the same thoughtful attention she might apply to evaluating a fellow artist’s technique. Abigail possessed remarkable perception, often discerning emotional undercurrents that Sophia, for all her education and refinement, sometimes missed. Yet in this instance, her companion’s observation seemed colored more by romantic inclination than objective assessment.
“I suspect his lordship regards any stranger in his household with similar wariness,” she said at last. “Particularly one commissioned to scrutinize his features for hours at a time.”
“Perhaps.” Abigail didn’t press the point, though her expression suggested she remained unconvinced. “Will you begin the formal portrait tomorrow, then?”
“No,” Sophia replied, grateful for the return to professional considerations. “I believe a more gradual approach will serve better. Lord Camden mentioned Lord Aldeburgh has developed an interest in sketching since his return from the Peninsula. I thought we might begin with shared artistic endeavors rather than immediately positioning him as a subject.”
“Clever,” Abigail nodded approvingly. “Get him comfortable with you as a fellow artist before you start examining him like an anatomical specimen.”
“Your phrasing lacks delicacy, but the principle is sound,” Sophia laughed despite herself. “A portrait requires more than technical accuracy. One must capture something of the subject’s essential nature, which requires understanding beyond mere observation.”
“And that understanding comes easier in conversation than in formal posing,” Abigail concluded with her usual practicality. “Well, I wish you luck with it. His lordship doesn’t strike me as a man who reveals himself easily, even to those who’ve earned his trust.”
Before Sophia could respond, a soft knock at the door heralded the arrival of a housemaid bearing an invitation—or rather, summons—to take tea with Lady Aldeburgh in the small drawing room at half past four. Though the prospect held limited appeal after the journey’s fatigue, and the dowager’s evident chill during their introduction, social protocol permitted no graceful refusal.
“Rest while I’m gone,” Sophia instructed as she checked her appearance in the looking glass. “The journey has tired us both, and tomorrow promises to be demanding in its own way.”
“I’ll finish unpacking,” Abigail countered, ever practical, “though I might step into the gardens later if the weather holds. Seems a shame to be surrounded by such splendor and not explore a bit of it.”
Sophia detected the underlying motivation in her maid’s seemingly innocent suggestion—the gardens might well offer opportunity for another encounter with Lord Camden—but merely nodded her agreement before departing to face Lady Aldeburgh’s inevitable interrogation.
The small drawing room proved anything but small by ordinary standards, though Sophia supposed it earned its designation in comparison to the grand salon glimpsed during their arrival. Lady Aldeburgh awaited her, enthroned in a wingback chair upholstered in deep purple that complemented her severe beauty and emphasized her perpetual mourning attire.
“Lady Sinclair,” she acknowledged Sophia with the barest inclination of her silver head. “Pray be seated. I trust you find your accommodations satisfactory?”
“More than satisfactory, milady,” Sophia replied, taking the indicated chair opposite. “Your hospitality is most generous.”
“Balfour Abbey has housed many a guest, most of them quite noble,” Lady Aldeburgh observed with the inflection that transformed even factual statements into subtle insults. “Though I understand from Lord Camden that you are not without gentle connections yourself. Your father is Baron Talbot, he mentioned?”
“Was, Your Grace,” Sophia corrected, keeping her voice carefully neutral. “He passed three years ago. The title went to my cousin, as my father had no sons.”
“I see.” Lady Aldeburgh sipped her tea with regal precision. “A pity. Titles so often languish in the hands of distant relations who lack the proper appreciation for family legacy.”
“I believe my cousin manages the estate capably,” Sophia replied, accepting a cup of tea from the dowager’s own hands—a courtesy that surprised her given Lady Aldeburgh’s evident disdain. “Though I confess we have had little contact since my father’s passing.”
“Family connections require cultivation,” Lady Aldeburgh pronounced now. Her voice carried the certainty of one whose opinions were rarely contradicted. “Even distant relations may prove useful in times of difficulty. Your present circumstances might have been quite different had you maintained such ties.”
“Perhaps,” she conceded with a serenity she did not feel. “Though I find there is unexpected satisfaction in supporting oneself through honest labor, particularly when that labor derives from abilities one previously cultivated merely for accomplishment.”
“An admirable sentiment,” Lady Aldeburgh replied, her tone suggesting she found it anything but. Sophia looked down at her hands, growing quite uncomfortable under the woman’s gaze.
“My son’s condition presents certain challenges,” she said abruptly, setting aside her cup with a carefulness that suggested carefully controlled agitation. “He cannot hear your instructions, and while he retains the capacity for speech, he has chosen silence since his return. You should prepare yourself for potentially frustrating limitations.”
“Lord Camden explained the situation,” Sophia assured her. “I’ve brought a notebook specifically for written communication, and I understand his lordship has become quite proficient at reading lips.”
“Indeed.” Lady Aldeburgh’s tone suggested this accomplishment deserved minimal acknowledgment. “Though you should not overtax him with excessive demands for interaction. His physicians have advised against undue stimulation or excitement, which inevitably lead to episodes of... distress.”
The hesitation before that final word spoke volumes, suggesting incidents more serious than she cared to articulate. Sophia found herself wondering precisely what form Lord Aldeburgh’s “distress” might take, and what had triggered such episodes in the past.
“I shall proceed with appropriate caution,” she promised, her concern now extending beyond professional considerations to genuine compassion for a man clearly still haunted by wartime memories . “Perhaps we might begin with simple sketching in the gardens tomorrow? A shared activity in pleasant surroundings might establish comfort before we commence the formal portrait.”
Lady Aldeburgh considered this proposal with narrow-eyed assessment, as though searching for hidden impropriety in the suggestion. Finding none substantial enough to reject outright, she nodded with reluctant approval.
“The gardens were once a particular source of pleasure for my son,” she admitted, her tone suggesting such pleasure belonged firmly to the past. “Perhaps they might still provide some measure of... solace.” She rose deliberately, almost in a regal manner, signaling the conclusion of their interview. “You will join us for breakfast at nine. I bid you good evening, Lady Sinclair.”
Dismissed like a servant granted temporary audience with the queen, Sophia curtsied and departed, her mind already turning to practical considerations for the morrow’s session.
Lady Aldeburgh’s resistance was palpable, her disapproval of Sophia’s presence thinly veiled beneath aristocratic courtesy. Yet it was not Lady Aldeburgh’s opinion that ultimately mattered for the success of this commission, but that of her silent son, whose blue gaze had revealed intelligence and wariness in equal measure.
As she retraced her steps toward the east wing, Sophia paused before a portrait that captured her attention amid the gallery of stern-faced Balfour ancestors.
A young officer in the scarlet regimentals of His Majesty’s infantry gazed from the canvas with familiar blue eyes, his expression alight with confidence and barely contained energy. The brass plate beneath the frame identified the subject as “Captain Lord Alexander Balfour, Earl of Aldeburgh, 1810.”
Painted scarcely two years past, the portrait depicted a man seemingly worlds removed from the silent figure Sophia had met in the entrance hall. The contrast caught at her heart with unexpected force. What horrors had this vibrant young officer witnessed to transform him into the wary, wounded nobleman who now haunted Balfour Abbey’s silent corridors?
And more pertinently to her professional concerns, how might she capture both aspects of Lord Aldeburgh in her commissioned portrait—the man he had been alongside the man he had become?
Sophia woke before dawn, that uncertain hour when night still clung to the corners of her chamber despite the first tentative lightening of the eastern sky. Such early rising had become habitual since Gilbert’s death—sleep abandoning her with the first birdsong, leaving her to confront each day’s necessities before the sun properly illuminated them. Today, at least, offered purpose beyond mere survival.
She crossed to the window, drawing back heavy draperies to reveal Balfour Abbey’s grounds beneath a pearlescent sky. Mist clung to the formal gardens, transforming geometric hedgerows into spectral labyrinths and rendering familiar shapes mysterious. The scene possessed a haunting beauty, yet Sophia could not suppress a shiver that owed nothing to the morning’s chill.
“What am I about?” she murmured to the silent room. “To imagine I might penetrate the defenses of a man who has repelled the efforts of physicians and family alike?”