Page 7 of Coloring a Silent Earl’s Heart
The spring breeze carried the scent of salt from the distant sea as Sophia and Abigail made their way along Sidmouth’s winding High Street. It was market day, and the small seaside town hummed with activity that seemed to Sophia both refreshingly ordinary and jarringly unfamiliar after the hushed grandeur of Balfour Abbey.
“I believe this is the establishment Lord Camden recommended,” Sophia said, gesturing toward a modest storefront bearing the faded sign Pearson’s Fine Art Supplies . “He assured me Mr. Pearson stocks pigments superior to anything available in the next three counties.”
“If his lordship says so, then it must be true,” Abigail replied with such a wide-eyed deference that Sophia could not suppress a smile.
“Your admiration for his judgment grows more pronounced by the day,” she observed mildly, adjusting her bonnet against the persistent breeze. “One might almost suspect a particular interest.”
Abigail’s freckled complexion betrayed her with a swift flush. “I merely respect his lordship’s evident good taste and discernment, milady.”
“Indeed? And I suppose his handsome countenance and charming manner play no role whatsoever in this respect?”
“My lady!” Abigail protested, though the upward curve of her mouth belied her scandalized tone. “Such teasing is most unfair when we are supposed to be attending to your supplies.”
Sophia conceded with a graceful incline of her head. “You’re quite right. Let us save the discussion of Lord Camden’s numerous virtues for our return journey, when we shall have ample time to catalog them in exhaustive detail.”
The tinkling bell above the shop door prevented Sophia from further teasing, as they stepped into the cool dimness of the art supply shop. The establishment’s interior presented a pleasing chaos of creative possibility—shelves lined with jars of pigment powders in jewel-like hues, rolls of canvas and paper stacked in orderly pyramids, brushes of every conceivable size displayed in gleaming brass holders.
Mr. Pearson himself proved to be a stooped gentleman of advancing years, with spectacles perched upon a prominent nose and fingers permanently stained with the evidence of his trade. His initial reserve melted into enthusiastic camaraderie when Sophia revealed herself to be not merely a dabbler but a working artist with specific requirements and discerning taste.
“Lady Sinclair requires the finest ultramarine you can provide, Mr. Pearson,” Abigail announced with the fierce protectiveness that so endeared her to Sophia. “And none of that synthetic substitute that fades before the season’s end.”
The shopkeeper’s bushy eyebrows rose appreciatively. “A lady who knows the difference! How refreshing.” He shuffled behind his counter to retrieve a small jar sealed with red wax. “Genuine lapis lazuli, milady, ground to exacting specifications. Expensive, I fear, but irreplaceable for capturing certain... qualities.”
Sophia accepted the jar with reverent fingers, knowing its contents cost more than their weekly food allowance. The expense was justified, she told herself firmly. Lord Aldeburgh’s portrait demanded nothing less than excellence, particularly for the remarkable blue of his eyes.
“I shall take it,” she decided, setting it aside with the growing collection of supplies. “And perhaps some of that burnt sienna as well. The light at Balfour Abbey has a particular golden quality in the afternoon that I wish to capture accurately.”
As Mr. Pearson busied himself wrapping their purchases, Abigail leaned closer to speak in hushed tones. “That blue will empty half your purse, milady. Are you certain it’s necessary?”
“For this commission? Absolutely.” Sophia sighed, watching the shopkeeper measure out cadmium yellow with meticulous care. “Though I confess, Abigail, there are moments when I question whether any pigment, however fine, can truly capture what I see in Lord Aldeburgh’s countenance.”
“His expression does change remarkably when he looks at you,” Abigail observed with casual innocence that fooled Sophia not at all.
“That is not what I meant,” she replied, though the observation sent an unwelcome flutter through her midsection. “I speak merely of artistic challenges—the complexity of rendering silent dignity, of suggesting sound in a medium without voice.”
“Of course, milady.”
“You needn’t sound so knowing. My interest is purely professional.”
“I never suggested otherwise.” Abigail’s expression remained neutral. “Though you did sigh his name in your sleep this morning before I woke you.”
“I did no such thing!” Sophia’s protest emerged louder than intended, drawing Mr. Pearson’s curious glance. She continued in a fierce whisper, “You are inventing things, Abigail, and it is most improper.”
“Perhaps,” Abigail conceded, though her eyes sparkled with mischief. “But you cannot deny your spirits lift remarkably when his lordship enters a room, nor that your hands tremble slightly when he passes you his notebook.”
“My hands tremble from artistic concentration,” Sophia insisted, busying herself with her reticule to conceal the telltale warmth rising in her cheeks. “And my spirits rise simply because Lord Aldeburgh’s cooperation makes my work proceed more smoothly.”
“Is that why you spent three hours selecting your gown this morning for a simple trip to town?”
“That will be quite enough, Abigail.” Sophia infused her tone with the gentle authority that reminded her companion of the boundaries between friendship and impertinence. “Whatever fanciful romance you imagine exists solely in your imagination.”
Abigail accepted the rebuke with a respectful nod, though Sophia noted the skepticism remained firmly etched in her expression. The girl was too perceptive by half, a quality simultaneously valuable and vexing in a lady’s maid.
Mr. Pearson completed their transaction with professional efficiency, arranging their purchases in a sturdy wooden box that Abigail insisted on carrying despite its weight. As they emerged once more into the bright spring sunshine, Sophia found herself relieved to escape the shop’s intimate confines and her maid’s uncomfortable observations.
They walked in silence for several minutes, the weight of unspoken thoughts hanging between them until Sophia could bear it no longer.
“I fear I am failing him,” she confessed abruptly, her voice soft enough that Abigail had to lean closer to hear. “As both artist and instructor.”
“Lord Aldeburgh?” Abigail’s doubt was palpable. “The gentleman who has begun smiling occasionally in your presence? Who arrives early to each session and lingers afterward? That Lord Aldeburgh?”
“You exaggerate his enthusiasm,” Sophia protested, though the description sent another uncomfortable flutter through her chest. “And in any case, politeness is not the same as satisfaction. Lord Camden has invested considerable hope in my ability to... to draw his friend out of himself, I suppose. I am not certain I possess such skill.”
They paused at the corner where High Street intersected with the narrow lane leading toward the marketplace. Abigail shifted the heavy box to her other arm, her expression softening from teasing to genuine concern.
“You’re too hard on yourself, milady. Anyone with eyes can see his lordship is improving. He engages more with each passing day. Why, last session he actually laughed. Silently, to be sure, but a laugh nonetheless, when you knocked over that cup of water.”
“At my expense, hardly a triumph.”
“But an emotional response! Lady Aldeburgh told the housekeeper she hasn’t seen him show amusement of any kind since before his injuries.” Abigail’s conviction was unwavering. “You must remember, milady, that his lordship has suffered terribly. His recovery cannot be measured in days or even weeks.”
Sophia sighed, recognizing the truth in Abigail’s assessment. “You are wiser than your years would suggest, dearest Abigail.”
“Not wise, milady. Just observant.” Abigail shrugged; the movement awkward with her burden. “And what I observe is a gentleman slowly turning back toward the light after a long darkness. That’s no small accomplishment, even if he’s not yet where either of you might wish him to be.”
The simple truth of this observation settled over Sophia like a warm shawl against the spring breeze, comforting despite its insufficient protection against deeper chills. She had indeed witnessed subtle changes in Lord Aldeburgh over their sessions together—moments of genuine engagement, flashes of the man Gregory insisted still existed beneath the wounded exterior.
“Perhaps you’re right,” she conceded. “Though I still question whether we might make faster progress with a different approach. His drawing improves daily, yet he remains reluctant to attempt speech, though Dr. Morrison insists the capacity remains intact.”
“Some hurts go deeper than flesh,” Abigail replied with unexpected solemnity. “My grandmother used to say that souls can break same as bones, but unlike bones, they don’t always know how to mend themselves back together.”
“Your grandmother sounds remarkably wise.”
“Aye, she was that.” Abigail’s Scottish lilt deepened with affection. “She also said that healing sometimes needs a proper guide—someone patient enough to show the way without pushing too hard.”
Sophia contemplated this as they turned toward the marketplace, its colorful stalls offering temporary distraction from weightier matters. The conversation lulled as they navigated between vendors hawking everything from fresh fish to lace handkerchiefs, eventually finding themselves before a fruit seller’s abundant display.
“Perhaps some strawberries?” Sophia suggested, eyeing the first offerings of the season. “A small indulgence before returning to the Abbey.”
“A splendid idea,” Abigail agreed, her expression brightening. “Though I daresay they’ll not compare to those grown in the Abbey’s kitchen gardens. Mrs. Potter speaks of them as though they were crown jewels rather than mere fruit.”
“Mrs. Potter speaks of everything at Balfour Abbey with similar reverence,” Sophia observed, selecting a small basket of the berries. “Including its formidable mistress.”
Abigail glanced around quickly before leaning closer. “Have you noticed how her ladyship always sits so perfectly upright? I swear the woman has never allowed her spine to touch the back of a chair in her life.”
The accurate observation startled a laugh from Sophia. “Abigail! Such comments are most improper.”
“But it is true,” Abigail insisted, warming to her subject. “And the way she stirs her tea each morning—precisely three rotations clockwise, never counterclockwise, as though the very order of the universe might collapse should she stir in the wrong direction.”
Sophia bit her lip to suppress further laughter, even as she recognized the dangerous territory they approached. “We should not mock her ladyship. Her circumstances are... difficult.”
“Difficult, perhaps, but self-inflicted,” Abigail countered with unexpected sharpness. “Her coldness toward his lordship does him no favors. Anyone can see he hungers for his mother’s approval, yet she offers only criticism.”
The observation struck uncomfortably close to certain private thoughts Sophia had harbored about the relationship between mother and son. “It’s not our place to judge, Abigail.”
“No, but it is our eyes’ place to see, and what I see is a woman who would rather her son had died a hero than lived to face difficulties.” Abigail’s indignation colored her cheeks. “And then she has the nerve to arch her eyebrow like this…” She demonstrated with comical exaggeration, “whenever his lordship makes the slightest deviation from her notion of proper behavior.”
Despite herself, Sophia laughed at the eerily accurate impersonation. “Your powers of observation are truly formidable. Though perhaps save such performances for private moments.”
“I would never!” Abigail protested with mock innocence, before continuing in a perfect imitation of Lady Aldeburgh’s aristocratic drawl: “Such vulgar displays are entirely beneath the dignity expected of residents at Balfour Abbey, however temporary their situation.”
Sophia nearly choked on a strawberry, torn between propriety and genuine amusement. “You are incorrigible! What would Lord Camden say if he heard you mocking the dowager so?”
The mention of the gentleman’s name produced the desired effect, Abigail’s impertinence immediately replaced by flustered embarrassment. “Lord Camden would never condescend to notice such behavior from someone of my station.”
Sophia recognized the opening and seized it without mercy. “Indeed? The same Lord Camden who is unable to keep his eyes from turning to you whenever you are in the same vicinity? The same Lord Camden who jumps up to offer you a seat whenever you enter a chamber?”
“He was merely being courteous,” Abigail insisted, though her heightened color suggested she recognized the quality of his attention. “A gentleman of his standing would never seriously consider... that is to say, it would be foolish to imagine...”
“That he might admire a young woman of intelligence, loyalty, and considerable charm, regardless of her circumstances?” Sophia completed the thought. “I see nothing foolish in the possibility.”
Abigail shook her head, genuine vulnerability replacing her usual confidence. “You know as well as I do, milady, that gentlemen of the ton do not marry ladies’ maids, however much they might... admire them.”
The stark truth of this observation sobered Sophia. For all her progressive notions about individual worth transcending social position, she could not honestly deny the rigid hierarchies that governed their world. Lord Camden, for all his amiable nature and apparent interest, remained an aristocrat bound by the expectations of his class.
“The world is changing, Abigail,” she offered, though even to her own ears the words sounded hollow. “Old certainties crumble with each passing year.”
“Not quickly enough to matter for people like me,” Abigail replied without self-pity, simply stating fact. “Though I thank you for the kind thought, milady.”
Sophia squeezed her companion’s arm gently. “You have nothing to envy of society ladies, Abigail McLeod. Your worth exceeds that of many women who claim superior rank solely through accident of birth or advantageous marriage.”
Abigail’s grateful smile suggested she understood the heartfelt sentiment behind Sophia’s words, even if they both recognized the world’s indifference to such enlightened views. The moment of somber reflection dissolved as they continued through the marketplace, their spirits gradually lifting amidst the cheerful bustle of commerce.
They had just purchased a small bag of candied almonds—another modest indulgence to sweeten their journey home—when Abigail’s grip on Sophia’s arm suddenly tightened to a painful degree.
“Milady,” she whispered urgently, her face draining of color. “Don’t look now, but isn’t that…?”
Sophia’s gaze followed her maid’s subtle gesture toward the opposite side of the marketplace, where a broad-shouldered figure in a scarlet military coat was emerging from the entrance of the White Lion Gentlemen’s Club. Even at this distance, Silas Fletcher’s distinctive bearing was unmistakable—the aggressive set of his shoulders, the slightly unsteady gait suggesting early indulgence in spirits despite the respectable hour.
“Silas Fletcher,” she breathed, her heart seizing with sudden dread. “What on earth is he doing in Sidmouth?”
“Nothing good, I’ll wager,” Abigail muttered, her Scottish accent thickening with anxiety. “We should leave at once, milady.”
Sophia nodded, already turning to retrace their steps toward the relative safety of High Street. They had managed only a few paces when Lord Shropshire’s voice cut through the marketplace chatter with the precision of a newly sharpened blade.
“Lady Sinclair! What an extraordinary coincidence!”
Years of social training prevented Sophia from breaking into an undignified run, though every instinct urged exactly that course. Instead, she drew a steadying breath and turned to face her late husband’s creditor with as much composure as she could muster.
“Lord Shropshire,” she acknowledged with the barest inclination of her head. “I had not expected to encounter you so far from London.”
“Nor I you,” he replied, closing the distance between them with alarming swiftness. His smile revealed teeth too white and even to be natural, like a predator’s display. “Yet here we both are. Providence, perhaps?”
“Mere coincidence, I’m sure.” Sophia maintained her position, refusing to retreat despite the overwhelming urge to put distance between them. “Abigail and I are simply completing errands before returning to Balfour Abbey.”
“Ah, Balfour Abbey.” His gaze sharpened with keen interest. “So, the rumors are true. You’ve secured the patronage of the reclusive Earl of Aldeburgh. Most... resourceful of you, my dear Lady Sinclair.”
The insinuation underlying his words sent a wave of indignation through Sophia, but she forced herself to remain outwardly calm. Displaying emotion before Silas Fletcher was akin to bleeding in shark-infested waters.
“I have been engaged to paint his lordship’s portrait,” she replied with careful precision. “A professional commission arranged through Lord Camden.”
“Of course,” he agreed with exaggerated understanding. “A purely professional arrangement. Though one cannot help but wonder if the earl might be persuaded to settle certain outstanding debts as part of his... patronage.”
The threat, thinly veiled as suggestion, hung in the air between them. Before Sophia could formulate a response that balanced dignity with prudence, Abigail stepped forward, practical concerns overcoming deference to rank.
“Begging your pardon, my lord, but we’re expected back at the Abbey directly. Lady Aldeburgh is most particular about punctuality.”
Silas’s attention shifted to Abigail, his expression cooling to something far more dangerous than his previous false warmth. “I don’t recall addressing you, girl. Perhaps you require instruction in proper behavior toward your betters.”
“Abigail spoke only the truth,” Sophia interjected swiftly, positioning herself subtly between her maid and the increasingly agitated lord. “We are indeed expected back shortly.”
“Then allow me to escort you,” he offered with a mockery of gallantry. “My curricle is just—”
“That won’t be necessary,” Sophia interrupted, searching desperately for escape without confrontation. “We’ve arranged alternative transportation.”
Silas stepped closer, close enough that she could detect the sour-sweet smell of brandy on his breath despite the early hour. “I insist, Lady Sinclair. We have much to discuss regarding Lieutenant Sinclair’s outstanding obligations.”
“I believe the lady declined your offer, Shropshire.”
The new voice—Lord Camden’s, approaching from behind them—sent a wave of relief through Sophia so profound she nearly swayed with it. Gregory Camden stood several paces away, his customary pleasant expression replaced by cool assessment. Beside him stood Lord Aldeburgh himself, his countenance bearing the intensity that Sophia had come to recognize as masked anger.
Silas straightened, his demeanor shifting from predatory to cautiously alert.
“Camden. Lord Aldeburgh.” His acknowledgment of the earl came with the slightest delay, as though reluctant to concede superior rank. “I was just offering Lady Sinclair transportation back to Balfour Abbey.”
“How fortunate, then, that we’ve already made such arrangements,” Lord Camden replied smoothly, though his usual warmth was notably absent. “Lady Sinclair and Miss McLeod will return with us.”
A flash of something ugly crossed Silas’s features before settling into artificial amiability. “Another time, perhaps.” He executed a shallow bow toward Sophia that contained more mockery than respect.
“We will continue our discussion regarding your husband’s affairs at a more convenient moment, Lady Sinclair. I assure you, I am most... eager to reach a satisfactory resolution.”
With that parting threat delivered, he turned abruptly, disappearing into the narrow alleyway beside the gentlemen’s club with a speed that suggested retreat disguised as dignity.
The tension in Sophia’s shoulders released slightly, though the encounter had left her nerves raw and exposed. “Thank you, Lord Camden. Your timing was most providential.”
“Not providence but purpose,” he corrected with returning warmth. “We spotted you earlier near the art supply shop and thought to offer you conveyance home. Fortuitous indeed that we did.”
Lord Aldeburgh moved forward, his blue gaze searching Sophia’s face with evident concern. He withdrew his ever-present notebook and wrote swiftly: Are you well? I do not know this man, but I can see that you are uncomfortable. Is he threatening to harm you?
The genuine concern in his expression touched Sophia more deeply than she cared to acknowledge. “I am quite well, thank you, my lord. His lordship was merely... overzealous in his greetings.”
Lord Aldeburgh’s doubtful expression suggested he doubted the encounter had been so innocuous, but he merely nodded his acceptance of her explanation.
“Our carriage awaits just around the corner,” Lord Camden announced, gesturing toward the end of the alleyway. “If you ladies would care to accompany us?”
Abigail, Sophia noticed with fond exasperation, had undergone a remarkable transformation at Lord Camden’s appearance—her earlier distress replaced by heightened color and careful attention to her posture. The heavy box of art supplies, previously such a burden, now appeared mysteriously weightless in her arms.
“Allow me,” Lord Camden offered, reaching for the container with easy confidence. “This seems an unnecessarily heavy burden for a lady.”
“Oh! I couldn’t possibly… that is… it’s not so very…” Abigail’s usual composure fractured entirely as their hands briefly met in the exchange.
“Nonsense,” he insisted, already taking possession of the box. “I assure you, Miss McLeod, my masculine pride requires at least occasional demonstrations of utility.”
Their procession through the narrow alleyway proceeded in pairs—Lord Camden and Abigail leading the way, their heads inclined toward each other in what appeared to be increasingly comfortable conversation, while Sophia and Lord Aldeburgh followed at a more measured pace.
“I must thank you both for your timely intervention,” Sophia said, maintaining a clear view of her lips for his benefit. “Lord Shropshire can be... persistent in his attentions.”
Lord Aldeburgh wrote quickly: You are acquainted with him?
“Unfortunately, yes.” Sophia hesitated, uncertain how much to reveal of her circumstances. Discretion had become habitual, yet something in Lord Aldeburgh’s steady gaze invited confidence. “He holds certain financial claims against my late husband’s estate. His methods of collection are somewhat... unorthodox.”
Understanding dawned in Lord Aldeburgh’s expression, followed swiftly by controlled anger. He wrote again: Has he threatened you?
“No… I wouldn’t go that far,” Sophia prevaricated, unwilling to burden him with concerns he could not reasonably be expected to address. “He merely presses more firmly than propriety would dictate.”
Lord Aldeburgh studied her face with an intensity that suggested he detected the evasion in her answer. Rather than pursuing the matter, however, he simply offered his arm with formal courtesy as they emerged from the alleyway into the brightness of the adjacent street.
The unexpected gallantry—the first such gesture he had extended toward her—sent a flutter of warmth through Sophia’s chest that had nothing to do with relief from their encounter with Silas. She accepted the offered support with a grateful smile, finding unexpected comfort in the solid strength of his arm beneath her fingertips.
Ahead of them, Lord Camden was already assisting Abigail into a handsome town carriage bearing the Balfour crest. The ease with which he performed this courtesy—as though helping a lady’s maid were the most natural action imaginable for a gentleman of his station—spoke volumes about his character.
As Lord Aldeburgh similarly handed Sophia into the carriage, their eyes met briefly. It was a moment of silent communication that required neither speech nor written word. In that unguarded instant, Sophia glimpsed something in his gaze that stirred an answering recognition within her own heart… a possibility she dared not name, even to herself.
The door closed behind them with soft finality, and as the carriage began its journey back to Balfour Abbey, Sophia found herself contemplating how swiftly one’s circumstances could change—from ordinary errands to threatening confrontation to this curious combination of lingering anxiety and inexplicable hope, all in the span of a single spring afternoon.
Beside her, close enough that she could detect the subtle scent of sandalwood that clung to his clothing, Lord Aldeburgh sat in characteristic silence. Yet there was something different in his stillness now—a quality of protective vigilance rather than isolated withdrawal. His gaze moved regularly between the passing scenery and Sophia’s profile, as though reassuring himself of her continued well-being.
The gesture, small yet significant, suggested that perhaps Abigail had been right after all. Perhaps Lord Aldeburgh was indeed turning slowly back toward the light. And perhaps, Sophia reflected as countryside replaced town beyond the carriage windows, she might dare to hope that in some small way, her presence helped illuminate that journey.