Page 6 of Coloring a Silent Earl’s Heart

Art required understanding; portraiture demanded intimacy of a peculiar sort—the ability to see beyond surface to essence, to perceive character in the set of a jaw or the shadow beneath an eye. Yet Lord Aldeburgh had made an art of concealment, retreating behind silence and carefully composed features as effectively as a general withdrawing to fortified heights.

She was yanked from her thoughts when Abigail entered, a tray of tea in carefully balanced in her grip.

“You’re up early, milady,” Abigail observed, setting down her burdens with an assessing glance at Sophia’s already-dressed figure. “Shall I fetch your brushes from the valise, or have you commandeered the poor Abbey’s entire collection already?”

“Impertinent creature,” Sophia replied without heat, grateful for her maid’s uncanny ability to lighten oppressive atmospheres. “I’ve merely prepared what materials we might require for a preliminary session. The proper portrait must wait until I’ve gained Lord Aldeburgh’s preferences in composition, his patience for posing. There are many practical considerations to look at.”

“Of course, milady,” Abigail agreed as she shook out Sophia’s walking dress of pale green muslin. The gown had been cleverly altered to current fashion—sleeves narrowed, waist raised, ribbon trim disguising worn edges—but no amount of ingenuity could entirely mask its age. Still, the color complemented Sophia’s eyes, and vanity had not entirely abandoned her despite circumstance’s best efforts.

“Will this suffice?” she asked, surveying her reflection with deliberate objectivity once Abigail had arranged her light brown hair in a simple coiffure suited to outdoor work. At four-and-twenty, she had long since accepted being “handsome” rather than beautiful—her features regular and pleasing but lacking the fragile perfection so prized by society.

“You look lovely,” Abigail replied with steady conviction. “The green brings out the remarkable color of your eyes. Even his lordship must notice, deaf though he may be.”

“His ears are damaged, not his eyes—though I sincerely doubt he will concern himself with my appearance either way,” Sophia replied, gathering her shawl and communication notebook. “I am merely the instrument of Lord Camden’s determined campaign to draw his friend back into society’s embrace.”

“If you say so, milady,” Abigail murmured, her tone suggesting such protestations convinced neither of them.

The passage to the morning room required navigation through corridors hung with ancestral portraits whose patrician features regarded Sophia with painted suspicion, as though sensing an interloper among their aristocratic ranks.

Lady Aldeburgh presided over breakfast with glacial coolness that owed nothing to current fashion and everything to personal dignity. She inclined her head in minimal acknowledgment of Sophia’s curtsy, then resumed her contemplation of a plate bearing toast arranged with geometric exactitude but apparently untouched.

The Earl of Aldeburgh occupied the table’s opposite end, his posture maintaining military correctness despite the domestic setting. He glanced up at Sophia’s entrance with brief intensity, then returned his attention to the gardens visible through tall windows, his own plate displaying similar evidence of food arranged rather than consumed.

Only Gregory Camden, positioned midway between mother and son like a diplomat at contentious negotiations, showed genuine enthusiasm for either breakfast or company. He rose at Sophia’s appearance, executing a bow more suited to a formal drawing room than the morning table.

“Lady Sinclair! I was just observing that the day promises perfection for your artistic endeavors. The quality of light is extraordinary—that crystalline clarity that follows rain, outlining every leaf and blossom with remarkable definition.”

“Indeed, Lord Camden,” Sophia replied, accepting tea from a footman with murmured thanks. “Though naturally I would defer to Lord Aldeburgh regarding timing and location, as I have no wish to disrupt his customary routine.”

Lord Aldeburgh’s gaze had shifted from the window to her face with unsettling suddenness, as though her words had penetrated some profound abstraction. After a moment’s consideration, he withdrew a slim leather notebook from his coat pocket and wrote briefly before extending the page toward her with economical grace.

The gardens are at your disposal, Lady Sinclair. I have no pressing engagements to prevent our commencement.

“Excellent,” she replied, maintaining direct eye contact to facilitate his lip-reading. “Perhaps we might begin at ten? I’ve prepared some preliminary exercises—nothing taxing, merely an opportunity to establish comfortable working relations before commencing the formal portrait.”

Lord Aldeburgh inclined his head in assent, his expression betraying nothing of his thoughts regarding her proposal. Lady Aldeburgh, however, made her opinion abundantly clear with a delicate yet distinctly skeptical exhalation.

“My son is not a schoolboy requiring gentle introduction to difficult subjects, Lady Sinclair,” she observed, her tone suggesting Sophia had proposed something vaguely obscene. “I must admit, I am still quite certain he would prefer direct commencement of the portrait rather than... exercises.”

Before Sophia could formulate a response balancing professional conviction with appropriate deference, Lord Aldeburgh himself intervened. He wrote swiftly, the movement of his pencil more forceful than before, and passed the result not to Sophia but to his mother.

Lady Aldeburgh’s reaction was immediate—her lips thinned as she read, a faint flush rising in her otherwise pale cheeks. “As you wish,” she said finally, her gaze returning to Sophia with renewed frost. “It seems my son finds merit in your approach. You will find easels and other necessary equipment in the conservatory. One of the servants will direct you.”

The remainder of the meal passed in strained silence broken only by Lord Camden’s valiant conversational efforts. He described local landmarks that might interest Sophia during her stay, inquired after her previous commissions with genuine curiosity, and generally behaved as though he were unaware of the palpable tension between mother and son.

When at last Lady Aldeburgh rose, signaling the meal’s conclusion, Sophia felt as though she had survived a military engagement rather than merely breakfast. Lord Aldeburgh similarly abandoned the table with evident relief, exchanging only the briefest of communications with Lord Camden before quitting the room without a backward glance.

“Forgive the somewhat frigid atmosphere,” Lord Camden said when they were alone, his voice lowered though no servants remained within earshot. “The Dowager’s notion of maternal care often manifests as suffocation. Alexander—forgive me, Lord Aldeburgh—finds it rather difficult, though he’s too much the gentleman to say so directly.”

“There is no need for apology,” Sophia assured him, touched by his obvious concern. “Family dynamics grow complex even in the best circumstances, and these are scarcely those.”

“You’re most understanding,” he replied, his expression brightening. “Precisely why I believed you the perfect choice for this commission. Alexander requires someone who sees beyond his impairment to the man beneath, yet possesses sufficient sensitivity not to press where wounds remain raw.”

The vote of confidence warmed Sophia even as it increased her awareness of the delicate negotiation before her. To create a worthy portrait of Lord Aldeburgh, she must indeed perceive the man behind his silent facade—yet to breach those defenses might well cause pain to a gentleman already sorely tried by fate.

When ten o’clock found her established in the gardens, such philosophical concerns had yielded to practical matters. Abigail had selected their location with admirable judgment: a secluded corner of the formal gardens where ancient stone bench overlooked early roses just beginning their spring display.

The position offered both aesthetic appeal and strategic advantage, being visible from the main terrace yet sufficiently removed to forestall casual interruption.

“Will this suit, milady?” Abigail inquired, adjusting the portable easels with anxious precision. “The light falls beautifully here, with the roses catching morning sun just so.”

“It’s perfect,” Sophia assured her, surveying the supplies arranged with characteristic efficiency: paper secured against morning breeze, charcoals and pencils of varying hardness, a modest selection of watercolors with accompanying brushes. All lay in readiness for a session whose success depended less on materials than on the unpredictable human element.

“Shall I remain?” Abigail asked, her gaze straying toward the main house.

“For now, yes,” Sophia decided after brief consideration. “Though you might position yourself a bit removed. Your presence may reassure his lordship while still allowing our conversation some privacy.”

Abigail nodded, arranging herself on a bench several yards distant with mending to occupy her hands.

Lord Aldeburgh arrived precisely at the appointed hour, his tall figure appearing around a neatly trimmed hedge with startling suddenness. He had exchanged his formal morning coat for a less structured jacket of deep blue that complemented his eyes, and Sophia noted with professional approval how sunlight caught in his fair hair, creating an effect that would prove challenging but rewarding to capture in paint.

She rose to greet him, gesturing toward the arranged easels with what she hoped appeared as genuine welcome rather than nervous flutter. “Good morning, my lord. I thought we might begin with some simple sketching—nothing formal, merely an opportunity to become accustomed to working alongside one another before commencing the commissioned portrait.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgment, his gaze taking in the prepared materials with evident understanding of their purpose. As he moved to the vacant easel, Sophia observed the fluid grace of his movements—a physical harmony undiminished by whatever injuries had claimed his hearing. Here was a man whose body remembered confidence even as his spirit struggled to reclaim it.

“I thought perhaps those roses might make a pleasing subject,” she suggested, indicating the nearby flowerbed. “Simple enough for preliminary work yet offering interesting challenges of texture and light.”

Lord Aldeburgh studied the indicated blooms, his expression thoughtful rather than enthusiastic. After a moment’s consideration, he took up a pencil and began to sketch with swift, assured strokes that immediately captured Sophia’s attention. His technique revealed no hesitation, no amateur uncertainty—rather, his hand moved with the decisiveness of one accustomed to translating vision to paper with confident ease.

Sophia found herself watching his work with genuine fascination, momentarily forgetting her own easel as the roses took shape beneath his pencil. There was raw talent in his execution, untutored perhaps but undeniably present in the confident lines and intuitive understanding of perspective.

Becoming aware of her observation, Lord Aldeburgh paused, a questioning eyebrow raised as he met her gaze.

“Forgive me,” Sophia said, conscious of having been caught staring. “I’m simply impressed by your natural facility. Lord Camden mentioned you had taken up drawing recently, but your technique suggests considerable innate talent.”

He appeared to consider this assessment before reaching for his notebook.

I sketched as a boy but abandoned the pursuit for more suitable gentlemanly activities. Recent circumstances have provided ample time to reclaim old habits, if not skill.

The self-deprecation seemed at odds with the evidence before her, yet Sophia recognized in it the same reflexive modesty expected of gentlewomen regarding their accomplishments—an interesting parallel between their situations that suggested Lord Aldeburgh, for all his privileges of rank and sex, understood something of society’s constraining expectations.

“Sometimes interrupted activities come back to us with unexpected vitality when revisited,” she said. “As though the talent has been silently developing in our absence.”

They worked in companionable silence for the next half-hour; the only sounds were distant calls of seagulls wheeling over the cliffs and faint pencil scratch-against-paper. Sophia split her focus between her own sketch and covert view of her subject’s development.

Working with great attention, Lord Aldeburgh’s brow wrinkled slightly as he concentrated on catching some specific characteristic of light or texture. The phrase changed his features and gave what had been cautious blankness movement.

Here, Sophia realized, was a glimpse of the man behind the mask—absorbed, engaged, momentarily free from the self-consciousness that seemed to characterize his interactions with others.

From her position on the distant bench, Abigail caught Sophia’s eye and mouthed something that appeared to be “He looks rather bored.”

Sophia stopped upon her the observation. She had, thus far, mostly relied on written correspondence, a method that, although useful, set a certain formality between them that would hinder the free flow required for a good portrait.

Setting aside her brush, Sophia went from behind her easel and positioned herself exactly across from Lord Aldeburgh, calling his attention with a smile she hoped would convey professional interest rather than the odd fluttering that had taken residence under her breastbone since their first meeting.

“May I?” she asked, gesturing toward his sketch.

After brief hesitation that suggested unaccustomed vulnerability rather than reluctance, he nodded, turning the paper toward her with a gesture that managed to be both proud and self-deprecating—the universal ambivalence of an artist revealing their work to another’s judgment.

The sketch exceeded even her initial assessment of his talent. Though technically imperfect in places, it captured the essence of the roses with remarkable sensitivity, suggesting their fragility and ephemeral beauty through economical lines that conveyed more feeling than precision. Here was not merely skill but genuine artistic temperament—the ability to perceive and translate emotion through image.

“This… it is beautiful,” she said. He merely nodded, then gestured to her to start sketching.

Rather than reaching for her notebook, Sophia acted on impulse. Taking a fresh sheet of paper, she swiftly sketched Lord Aldeburgh himself—a few deft strokes capturing his concentrated expression, the strong line of his jaw, the way sunlight illuminated his fair hair. She turned the paper toward him, watching carefully for his reaction.

For a moment, something like alarm flickered across his features—perhaps concern at having become the subject of her scrutiny when he had expected only roses to fall under her artistic gaze. But then, remarkably, the rigid set of his shoulders eased, and his lips curved in what might almost have been termed a smile.

He shook his head with a rueful expression that spoke volumes—acknowledgment of her playful challenge combined with reluctance to accept it. The silent exchange contained more genuine communication than all their previous written words.

Sophia smiled in return, encouraged by this small breach in his formidable reserve. She took back the sketch, studying his features with the frank assessment of an artist rather than the demure glances society prescribed for young women in the presence of handsome men.

“You have the most expressive eyes,” she said, knowing he would read the words from her lips. “They remind me of Cesare Gennari’s Jesus —intense, soulful—containing depths beyond immediate perception.”

His expression registered surprise at the comparison—whether from the artistic reference or the implied compliment, Sophia could not determine. She quickly moved to shift her paints, then added a small touch of watercolor to her sketch, a wash of blue that captured the remarkable shade of his eyes, then held it up for his approval.

The moment stretched between them, charged with something Sophia dared not name. Lord Aldeburgh studied the sketch, then her face, with an intensity that might have discomfited her in another context. Here, sheltered by the professional nature of their interaction, she met his gaze steadily.

“May I draw your portrait properly sometime?” she asked. “Not the formal commission—something simpler, to help me understand how best to approach the larger work.”

He nodded and Sophia smiled, genuine pleasure warming her expression. “Thank you. I believe it will help us both become more comfortable with the process.”

She reached for her water cup to rinse her brush, finding it precariously perched on a small table next to the easel. As her fingers closed around it, the cup tilted, water threatening to spill across her sketch. Lord Aldeburgh moved with surprising swiftness, his hand darting forward to steady the vessel before disaster could strike.

Their fingers met around the small porcelain cup, his larger hand enveloping hers with unexpected warmth. The contact lasted only moments, yet Sophia felt the brief touch like a physical shock, awareness spreading from the point of contact through her entire being.

From her position several yards away, Abigail cleared her throat discreetly, breaking the spell. Sophia withdrew her hand with careful composure, though she could not prevent the color that rose to her cheeks. Lord Aldeburgh likewise retreated, his own expression returning to careful neutrality as he focused once more on his sketch.

The interruption proved more significant than Abigail ‘s gentle reminder of propriety. Footsteps on the gravel path heralded Gregory Camden’s approach, his tall figure rounding the hedge with the confident stride of a man accustomed to moving through the world unimpeded by doubt or limitation.

“Ah! I see the artistic endeavors are well underway,” he called cheerfully, apparently oblivious to the charged atmosphere he had disrupted. “Splendid morning for it, wouldn’t you agree?”

Sophia turned to greet him with a smile that revealed none of her mild vexation at his timing. “Indeed, Lord Camden. Lord Aldeburgh has been demonstrating considerable natural talent.”

“Has he, indeed?” Camden moved to examine the Earl’s work, his expression brightening with evident pleasure at his friend’s participation. “Magnificent! I knew you had the touch, Alexander. Even at school, your battleship sketches were the envy of our form.”

Abigail, Sophia noticed, had straightened her posture and smoothed her apron upon Lord Camden’s arrival, her expression betraying a youthful eagerness that would have been comical had it not been so transparently genuine. The maid’s gaze followed the gentleman’s movements with undisguised admiration that, thankfully, he seemed too preoccupied to observe.

“And your work, Lady Sinclair,” Camden continued, turning his attention to Sophia’s easel. “Ah! Is that... why, it’s Alexander himself!” His delight was palpable as he studied her swift sketch of Lord Aldeburgh. “You’ve captured him perfectly—that furrow of concentration between his brows, the set of his mouth when he’s focused. Remarkable!”

Lord Aldeburgh himself appeared somewhat disconcerted by his friend’s enthusiasm, his posture stiffening slightly as he became the subject of discussion. Sophia, sensing his discomfort, moved to redirect the conversation.

“The light begins to shift,” she observed, glancing toward the sun’s position. “Perhaps we should conclude for the morning? I wouldn’t wish to overtax Lord Aldeburgh’s patience on our first session.”

Lord Camden nodded, accepting her tactful suggestion with good grace. “Capital idea. Luncheon will be served shortly in any case. Lady Aldeburgh maintains military precision in the household schedule, particularly where meals are concerned.”

As they gathered their supplies, Sophia found herself reflecting on the curious morning—the tentative connection established through art rather than words, the brief physical contact that had affected her with unexpected intensity, and most intriguingly, the glimpses of the man behind Lord Aldeburgh’s carefully maintained reserve.

She had come to Balfour Abbey with the professional goal of capturing a nobleman’s likeness on canvas. Yet she found herself increasingly drawn to the more challenging task of understanding the person beneath the title—the wounded soul behind the handsome visage, the man of sensitivity and intelligence hidden behind silence and wary eyes.