Page 14 of Coloring a Silent Earl’s Heart

Alexander stood at his study window, watching the morning mist rise from the gardens. The empty easel in the music room, visible from his vantage point, served as a constant reminder of Lady Sinclair’s absence. Her maid had delivered a note an hour earlier, explaining that her mistress found herself indisposed and would not attend their scheduled portrait session.

Indisposed. The polite society term that revealed nothing while suggesting everything. Was she truly ill, or had she reconsidered their association following the discovery of Diana’s portrait? He had thought the matter settled between them, her grace in accepting his explanation matched by his relief at sharing that painful chapter of his past. Yet doubts crept in, persistent as the mist clinging to the yew hedges.

He only became aware of Jenkins’s entrance when the man put a gentle hand on his shoulder, and Alexander turned to face him. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”

Alexander shook his head, returning his attention to the grounds below. The portrait sessions had become the fixed point around which his days revolved—a purpose beyond mere existence, a connection to a world he had believed lost forever. Without them, the hours stretched before him like an empty road with no destination.

His peace was soon disturbed again, this time by the appearance of Gregory next to him—a smile on his friend’s face.

“Good morning!” Gregory exclaimed, crossing the study with his characteristic energy. “Jenkins informs me Lady Sinclair has cancelled today’s sitting. Nothing serious, I trust?”

Alexander retrieved his notebook, writing swiftly:

Her maid provided no explanation beyond ‘indisposition.’ I fear yesterday’s discussion of Diana’s portrait may have caused offense.

Gregory settled into the leather chair opposite Alexander’s desk, his brow furrowing slightly. “Unlikely. The lady struck me as remarkably understanding regarding the matter. More probably simple fatigue—she works with remarkable diligence.”

Alexander’s doubt must have shown in his expression, for Gregory leaned forward, his manner becoming more earnest.

“In truth, her absence provides the perfect opportunity for an expedition I’ve been contemplating. The Hound and Hare has reopened under new management—Whitcombe, from the old regiment. He’s transformed it into quite the gentlemen’s establishment.”

Immediate wariness settled over Alexander’s features. His few ventures into society since his return had proved disastrous—awkward silences, exaggerated enunciation, conversations deliberately conducted beyond his ability to follow.

You know my feelings on such outings, he wrote, his pencil pressing harder than necessary against the paper. The effort exceeds any possible enjoyment.

“That was before Lady Sinclair’s arrival,” Gregory countered promptly. “Your ability to read lips has improved tremendously through daily practice with her.”

Alexander pursed his lips at this. “Indeed,” he said simply. Alexander’s frown deepened. It plagued him to no end that he would never hear the sound of Sophia Sinclair’s voice, though he chose not to meditate upon that too much.

I have no desire to provide entertainment for curious onlookers.

“No one would dare,” Gregory replied with genuine indignation. “Whitcombe runs a proper establishment—gentlemen only, most of whom already know your circumstances. They respect you, Alexander.”

Seeing his friend’s continued resistance, Gregory withdrew his own notebook—a habit adopted from Alexander—and began writing with swift, determined strokes. After a moment, he passed the result across the desk:

Reasons to accompany me to the Hound and Hare:

1. Whitcombe specifically asked after you. 2. Fresh perspective beyond these walls 3. Excellent brandy from Whitcombe’s private stock 4. My unimpeachable company 5. Practice in wider social settings will improve your communication 6. If truly unpleasant, we depart immediately 7. You cannot hide forever, my friend. The world awaits your return.

The last point struck with force. You cannot hide forever. How many times had Alexander told himself the same in dark hours when sleep proved elusive? His retreat to Balfour Abbey had begun as recovery, transformed to avoidance, and now teetered dangerously close to permanent surrender.

Lady Sinclair’s absence today had demonstrated with painful clarity the precariousness of his emerging contentment. He had allowed his world to contract until it revolved almost entirely around their daily sessions. With those suddenly removed, what remained but emptiness?

After lengthy consideration, Alexander reached for his notebook:

Two hours. No introductions beyond necessity. We depart the moment I indicate, regardless of social niceties.

Gregory’s face brightened with genuine pleasure. “Excellent! I’ll have Jenkins order the carriage while you change.”

As his friend departed to make arrangements, Alexander remained at his desk, questioning his decision. Social interaction represented a minefield of potential humiliations for a man with his impairment. Yet Gregory was right—he could not hide forever, constructing a life dependent on a temporary visitor’s presence.

Perhaps it was time to test the waters of that world once more, however tentatively.

***

The Hound and Hare occupied a handsome stone building on Sidmouth’s high street, carriages lined before its freshly painted entrance. Alexander regarded the establishment with growing apprehension as their conveyance halted at the front door.

“More crowded than anticipated,” Gregory admitted, noting Alexander’s expression. “Remember, we depart the moment you wish to.”

The interior presented a study in masculine comfort. From the dark paneling and leather chairs grouped for conversation, to a mahogany bar stretching the length of one wall. Perhaps twenty gentlemen occupied the main room, creating the atmosphere unique to establishments where women were excluded and social barriers temporarily lowered.

Alexander felt the familiar pressure in his chest—the tightening that accompanied crowds, the instinctive strain to hear voices he so desperately wanted to hear. No matter how often he faced such settings, the visceral reaction remained unchanged.

Gregory’s hand settled briefly on his shoulder, steadying without drawing undue attention, and Alexander turned to face him. “Whitcombe approaches.”

A tall gentleman with military bearing strode toward them, his weathered face breaking into a genuine smile. Whitcombe had served as quartermaster in Alexander’s regiment, his integrity universally respected among the officers.

“Lord Aldeburgh!” he exclaimed as he executed a bow that balanced deference to rank with the camaraderie of shared service. “An honor I scarcely hoped for. Welcome to my humble establishment.”

Alexander inclined his head in acknowledgment, grateful for Whitcombe’s clear enunciation that made lip-reading relatively effortless.

“I’ve reserved the small alcove near the fire,” Whitcombe continued, gesturing toward a comfortable nook with excellent sightlines. “Privacy with a view of the room—perfect for observing without constant interruption.”

The consideration touched Alexander unexpectedly. Whitcombe had clearly given thought to accommodating his requirements without drawing attention to them—a rare sensitivity that spoke well of the man’s character.

They followed their host through the crowded room, Alexander acutely aware of the eyes tracking their progress. Before his injuries, he had moved through such gatherings with practiced ease, exchanging pleasantries and political observations with the confidence of a man secure in his position. Now, each interaction represented potential embarrassment.

The alcove proved exactly as described; a comfortable refuge with excellent views of the main room, yet removed enough to provide a measure of privacy. Alexander settled into a leather chair with poorly concealed relief.

“Brandy, gentlemen?” Whitcombe inquired, signaling to a waiting server. “From my private stock. It’s a particularly fine vintage from before Bonaparte began his mischief with French exports.”

Gregory accepted enthusiastically for them both, engaging Whitcombe in conversation while Alexander observed the familiar rituals unfolding before him—greetings exchanged, opinions offered and contested, friendly wagers proposed. A world he had once navigated with unconscious ease now observed as though through thick glass—visible but untouchable.

Whitcombe soon departed to attend other patrons, leaving them to their brandies. The quality proved exceptional, the amber liquid warming Alexander’s throat with complex notes of dried fruit and oak. He found himself relaxing incrementally, the initial tension easing as he realized his presence had caused less disruption than feared.

“Not so terrible after all?” Gregory inquired, his expression hopeful.

Alexander considered before responding in his notebook:

Tolerable. Though Whitcombe’s excellent brandy contributes significantly to that assessment.

Gregory laughed; the sound visible in the movement of his chest. “The universal balm for social discomfort!”

His response was interrupted by a commotion from an adjacent room—double doors opening to disgorge several gentlemen whose flushed faces and animated gestures suggested recent gambling activity. Their boisterous energy contrasted with the measured atmosphere of the main room, drawing attention from nearby tables.

Among them strutted a man whose bearing immediately captured Alexander’s attention. He was tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a military coat adorned with medals that caught the light. His dark hair swept back from a high forehead, his features marred by an expression of smug satisfaction that bordered on contemptuous.

The newcomer made a show of jingling a pouch suspended from his watch chain, the gesture unmistakably meant to display recent winnings. Though Alexander could not hear the metallic sound, he recognized the universal language of a gambler flaunting success—a vulgar display considered poor form in refined establishments.

Gregory frowned, following Alexander’s gaze to the newcomer. Alexander quickly turned his head to face Gregory once more.

“Unpleasant fellow,” Gregory remarked. “Turned up about a fortnight ago and immediately established himself at the gaming tables.”

The stranger settled at a table not far from their alcove, his back partially turned as he signaled imperiously for service. Something in his profile teased at Alexander’s memory—a vague familiarity he could not immediately place.

As a server delivered his drink, the man turned slightly, his gaze sweeping the room with proprietary arrogance. When his eyes fell upon Alexander, recognition flickered across his features, quickly replaced by something harder to define—assessment, perhaps, or calculation.

For a long moment, their gazes held, mutual recognition without context creating a curious tension. Then the stranger’s mouth curved in what might charitably be called a smile, though it contained no warmth—merely acknowledgment tinged with an inexplicable edge of mockery.

Alexander found himself leaning forward slightly, an instinctive response to perceived challenge. The stranger maintained his stare for another moment before smirking derisively, dismissing Alexander with casual disregard.

The implied insult was subtle but unmistakable. Alexander felt heat rise to his face—not embarrassment but a swift, unexpected anger he had thought buried beneath layers of resignation. He opened his mouth to speak, the instinctive response of a gentleman confronted with rudeness, only to be reminded cruelly of his condition when no sound emerged.

The stranger noticed this aborted attempt, his head turning just enough to reveal a smirk of satisfaction, as though Alexander’s impairment confirmed some private assessment. He drained his glass with deliberate slowness before rising to depart, his bearing suggesting he considered further acknowledgment beneath his dignity.

Gregory, observing this silent exchange with growing concern, leaned closer. “Pay him no mind,” he advised, though his own expression had hardened. “Men of his sort measure worth by the wrong standards entirely.”

Alexander nodded vaguely, though his mind was still stuck on the retreating figure whose casual dismissal had awakened something dormant within him—pride, perhaps, or the natural indignation of a man unaccustomed to such treatment before his injury.

When the stranger had disappeared through the front entrance, Alexander turned to Gregory, reaching for his notebook with unusual urgency:

Who was that man? I feel I should know him, yet I cannot place the connection.

Gregory’s expression grew thoughtful. “That was Lord Shropshire—the man we encountered forcing his attentions on Lady Sinclair in the village. Silas Fletcher. He’s new to these parts—arrived from London recently with little explanation. Frequents the gaming rooms more than respectable society, from what I gather.”

What do you know of his character? Alexander wrote, realizing this was the same man Lady Sinclair had told him of.

Gregory hesitated, evidently debating proper discretion. After a moment, he replied carefully: “Not much is known about him, but there are... whispers. Gambling debts. Behavior toward certain women that borders on impropriety. Nothing concrete enough for society to condemn outright, but sufficient to raise questions about his fundamental honor.”

Concern coursed through him at this. Persistent, Sophia had called him, though she had never mentioned inappropriate behavior. Was there something she felt too afraid to share with him?

I dislike him instinctively, Alexander admitted, the confession unusually direct for his typically guarded communications. There is something predatory in his manner. I felt it that day in the village.

“Your instincts seldom err,” Gregory agreed, his expression suggesting a similar assessment. “I shall make discreet inquiries about his business here. Such men rarely appear in provincial settings without a specific purpose.”

The encounter had cast a pall over their outing, Alexander’s brief engagement with the social world tainted by unpleasant reality. Yet curiously, he found himself more alert, more present than he had been in months. The confrontation, however silent, had awakened something beyond anger—a sense of involvement in the world beyond Balfour Abbey.

“Shall we depart?” Gregory inquired, clearly reading Alexander’s shift in mood. “We’ve fulfilled the terms of our expedition.”

Alexander considered briefly before shaking his head. He reached for his notebook:

Not yet. Another brandy, I think. And perhaps you might point out some of the local gentlemen. If I am to rejoin society, however tentatively, I should at least know my neighbors.

Gregory’s surprise gave way to evident pleasure at this unexpected determination. For the next hour, they remained in the comfortable alcove, Gregory providing discreet information about various patrons while Alexander observed with newfound attention.

When they finally departed, Alexander carried with him not only new knowledge of his neighbors but also a curious sense of anticipation. Fletcher’s appearance, Lady Sinclair’s sudden indisposition, his own reemergence into society—separate events that nevertheless felt connected by invisible threads he could not yet identify but increasingly sensed.

As their carriage turned toward Balfour Abbey, Alexander found himself wondering, for the first time in months, what the coming day might bring.