Page 9 of Coloring a Silent Earl’s Heart

It was strange, Sophia thought where she sat before her canvas, brush suspended between palette and painting, how fast things could change. Though she was physically present, still doing the job she was to be paid for, there was no denying that her mind was a thousand miles from the portrait taking reluctant shape beneath her hand.

Three days had passed since Lord Aldeburgh’s collapse—three days during which his chamber door had remained firmly closed to all save Dr. Morrison and Jenkins, who emerged with identical expressions of professional inscrutability when questioned about their master’s condition.

When Lord Aldeburgh had finally appeared at breakfast yesterday, pale but composed, something essential had vanished from his countenance. The tentative openness they had shared during their clifftop excursion had disappeared, replaced by a reserve so complete it bordered on coldness.

“Shall I adjust the draperies, milady?” Abigail inquired softly, breaking into Sophia’s troubled reverie. “The light shifts so quickly this time of morning.”

“The light is perfectly adequate,” Sophia replied, wincing at the sharpness in her tone. “Forgive me, Abigail. I fear I make poor company today.”

“Not at all,” her maid assured her with the quiet loyalty that had sustained Sophia through far worse trials than a gentleman’s changeable mood. “You’ve had little sleep these past nights. Anyone would find their spirits affected.”

Sophia sighed, setting aside her palette with uncharacteristic carelessness. The dark circles beneath her eyes bore silent testimony to nights spent staring at the bedchamber ceiling, replaying every moment of their excursion in search of some misstep that might explain Lord Aldeburgh’s sudden withdrawal.

“I simply cannot fathom it,” she murmured, more to herself than to Abigail. “We were making such progress. Then suddenly—” She gestured vaguely, unwilling to complete the thought.

“Men are creatures of mysterious tempers,” Abigail observed, arranging brushes with practiced efficiency. “Even the best of them can turn about like weathervanes in April. Me ma used to say that.”

“This is different,” Sophia insisted, rising to pace the length of the carpet. “This isn’t mere mood but deliberate distance. He scarcely looks at me, Abigail, and when he does, there’s something like... regret, perhaps? Or resignation?”

The memory of his note yesterday morning still stung: I shall attend our session at the usual hour, assuming you wish to continue the portrait. Such formal phrasing, and delivered by Jenkins, rather than presented in person. As though he expected—perhaps even hoped—she might abandon the commission altogether.

“I begin to think Lady Aldeburgh has succeeded where Napoleon’s armies failed,” Sophia murmured, then immediately pressed her fingers to her lips as if to push the words back inside. “That was inexcusably harsh. Please forget I spoke so, Abigail.”

“I’ve already forgotten, milady,” Abigail replied with perfect loyalty, though her expression suggested the observation had confirmed rather than surprised her own assessment. “Though perhaps—”

The remainder of Abigail’s sentence was lost beneath the soft chime of the mantel clock announcing the hour. Both women glanced toward the door, knowing Lord Aldeburgh’s punctuality remained unaffected by whatever change had occurred in his disposition.

True to expectation, quick footsteps in the corridor heralded his arrival moments later. He entered the atelier like a man approaching an unpleasant obligation, his posture rigid, his expression composed into the carefully neutral mask Sophia had thought permanently discarded.

“Good morning, Lord Aldeburgh,” she greeted him with deliberate warmth, determined not to surrender to the chill he radiated. “I trust you are fully recovered from your indisposition?”

He inclined his head in minimal acknowledgment before taking his customary position by the easel, his movements possessing the careful precision of one navigating unfamiliar territory rather than a space that had become comfortable through daily habitation.

Sophia exchanged a glance with Abigail, who responded with an almost imperceptible shrug before quietly withdrawing to her usual position near the window, sewing basket in hand. The maid’s silent support bolstered Sophia’s determination to penetrate the wall Lord Aldeburgh had erected between them.

“I thought we might begin with some preliminary color studies today,” she suggested, moving to arrange her palette with a composure she did not feel. “The portrait requires certain decisions regarding background and lighting that would benefit from your input.”

Lord Aldeburgh produced his notebook and wrote a brief response: I defer to your professional judgment in all artistic matters.

The polite deflection was perfectly calculated to frustrate further engagement. Sophia bit her lip, struggling to maintain her professional demeanor despite the hollowness spreading beneath her ribs. After weeks of careful progress, they had somehow returned to the stiff formality of their first encounter.

“As you wish,” she conceded, selecting a brush with careful deliberation. “Though I had come to value our collaborative approach.”

His expression flickered briefly—a momentary crack in the facade revealing something raw beneath the surface—before resuming its careful neutrality. He made no move to respond, focusing instead on the blank paper before him with the concentrated attention of one determined to exclude all external distractions.

Sophia began mixing colors on her palette, the familiar routine providing insufficient distraction from the leaden weight of disappointment in her chest. How quickly she had grown accustomed to their easy communication, the rhythm they had established that required neither speech nor hearing to convey understanding. Now the silence between them felt oppressive rather than companionable, laden with unspoken tensions.

The minutes stretched, marked only by the soft sounds of brush against canvas and the occasional rustle of Abigail’s sewing. Sophia found herself watching Lord Aldeburgh covertly as she worked, noting the tight set of his shoulders, the furrow between his brows that suggested internal struggle rather than mere concentration.

Something had happened—something beyond his collapse, beyond the physician’s ministrations. Something that had driven him back behind walls she had thought at least partially dismantled. The realization that she might never know precisely what had precipitated this retreat pierced her with unexpected acuteness.

“You needn’t protect me from whatever troubles you,” she said quietly, knowing he would read the words from her lips even if he chose not to acknowledge them. “I had thought—hoped—we had progressed beyond such careful distance.”

His pencil paused momentarily, the slight tension in his hand betraying that her words had found their mark. Yet he did not look up, did not reach for his notebook to respond, his gaze remaining fixed on the drawing emerging beneath his fingers with deliberate focus.

The rebuff, silent but unmistakable, stung more sharply than Sophia could have anticipated. She returned to her work with renewed concentration, determined not to reveal how deeply his withdrawal affected her. Pride, that familiar companion of the vulnerable, stiffened her spine and steadied her hand as she applied pigment to canvas with meticulous care.

They continued thus for perhaps half an hour, the gulf between them widening with each passing minute until Sophia began to wonder whether the portrait could be completed at all under such strained circumstances. The thought of abandoning the commission—of returning to the uncertain existence that awaited her beyond Balfour Abbey’s protective walls—sent a chill through her that had nothing to do with the morning’s temperature.

A discreet knock at the door provided welcome interruption to the uncomfortable silence. Jenkins entered with his usual dignified efficiency, delivering a folded newspaper. His expression betrayed unusual discomfort as he approached.

“Begging your pardon for the interruption, milady, my lord,” he said, executing a small bow that managed to acknowledge both occupants while suggesting his errand concerned primarily the latter. “Lord Camden sent this from town with instructions it be delivered immediately to his lordship.”

He extended the tray bearing the newspaper toward Lord Aldeburgh with a series of subtle gestures that seemed to convey meaning beyond the simple delivery—a raising of eyebrows, a slight inclination of the head that suggested concern rather than mere courtesy.

Lord Aldeburgh accepted the newspaper with a questioning glance, clearly as puzzled by the urgency as Sophia herself. Jenkins hesitated uncharacteristically before withdrawing with another bow, his departure so swift it bordered on unseemly haste for one of his impeccable standards.

Perplexed by the servant’s unusual behavior, Sophia watched as Lord Aldeburgh unfolded the newspaper with casual curiosity that transformed into something altogether different as his gaze fell upon a particular column. The color drained from his face with such alarming swiftness that she half-rose from her seat, concerned he might suffer another collapse.

“Lord Aldeburgh? Are you unwell?” she inquired, alarmed by the stark pallor that had overtaken his features.

He made no sign of having heard her—an omission that reflected genuine distress rather than deliberate discourtesy. The newspaper slipped from his suddenly nerveless fingers, falling to the carpet between them with the soft rustle of high-quality newsprint.

Before Sophia could move to retrieve it, Lord Aldeburgh turned abruptly to a fresh sheet of paper on his easel. The transformation in his demeanor was as sudden as it was profound—the careful composure shattered, replaced by an almost feverish intensity as he began to draw with swift, urgent strokes that bore no resemblance to his usual measured technique.

Bewildered by this dramatic shift, Sophia glanced toward Abigail, who returned her confusion with equal measure. The maid gestured subtly toward the fallen newspaper, suggesting Sophia might find explanation within its pages.

Moving with careful deliberation, unwilling to disturb whatever process Lord Aldeburgh was engaged in, Sophia bent to retrieve the paper. The broadsheet had fallen open to the announcements section, where black-bordered notices of births, marriages, and deaths occupied neat columns beneath the day’s date.

Her gaze scanned the entries quickly, seeking whatever had provoked such a visceral reaction. Near the bottom of the second column, a particular announcement stood out—not for its size or positioning, but for the military insignia that preceded the text:

It is with profound regret that we report the death of Colonel James Forsythe, late of His Majesty’s 43rd Regiment of Foot, who succumbed on Tuesday last to wounds sustained during honorable service in the Peninsula.

Colonel Forsythe, having survived initial battlefield injuries at Badajoz, endured prolonged suffering with characteristic fortitude before finding final peace in the presence of his devoted family. Funeral services shall be conducted at St. Mary’s Church, Kensington, on Saturday next. Military honors to be rendered.

Sophia felt a chill spread through her chest as understanding dawned. This Colonel Forsythe had meant something significant to Lord Aldeburgh—not merely a fellow officer but someone whose fate had somehow intertwined with his own wartime experience.

She looked up from the paper to find Lord Aldeburgh still drawing with fierce concentration, his hand moving across the page with almost alarming speed and force.

From her position, Sophia could see the emerging image—not the carefully composed landscapes or architectural studies he typically produced, but rough, immediate sketches of military encampments, uniformed figures gathered around fires, the distinctive silhouette of artillery against a horizon.

War. He was drawing war as he had lived it—not the sanitized, heroic version presented in official paintings and stirring accounts, but the immediate, visceral reality of his experience. Each stroke conveyed urgency, as though the memories long suppressed now demanded expression with a force that could no longer be contained.

“Abigail,” Sophia said quietly, “would you be so kind as to bring fresh water? I believe we may be working longer than anticipated today.”

The maid nodded, understanding the request for what it was—a tactful dismissal allowing greater privacy for whatever might unfold. She withdrew with characteristic discretion, closing the door softly behind her.

Alone with Lord Aldeburgh, Sophia hesitated, uncertain how best to navigate this unexpected development. His withdrawal had been painful, yes, but this vulnerable exposure of long-buried memories seemed altogether more intimate than even their previous connection had been. To intrude carelessly might shatter whatever fragile process of reconciliation or release had begun.

Yet to withdraw completely, to maintain the careful distance he had imposed between them, felt equally wrong—a betrayal of the understanding they had begun to forge before his collapse and subsequent retreat.

After a moment’s consideration, Sophia set down her brushes and moved quietly to stand beside him. Not hovering, not demanding attention, but simply present—offering silent companionship in what was clearly a moment of profound emotional significance.

For several minutes, Lord Aldeburgh seemed entirely unaware of her presence, lost in whatever memories the newspaper announcement had unleashed. His drawings continued to emerge with feverish intensity—a progression of scenes that told a fragmented story of military life: soldiers gathering in camaraderie, the organized chaos of camp, moments of surprising beauty amid harsh circumstances.

Then, with a transition so abrupt it was almost jarring, the images darkened. Smoke and flame appeared in jagged strokes, figures running or fallen, the ordered lines of military formation dissolving into confusion. These were no longer general impressions of war but specific memories, rendered with the clarity of direct experience.

Sophia remained silent, bearing witness to this outpouring with steady presence. When at last his hand slowed, the initial surge of emotion apparently spent, she reached gently to touch his arm—the briefest contact, meant only to remind him of her presence.