Page 21 of Coloring a Silent Earl’s Heart

Alexander sat silently, his eyes fixed to the spot where he had arranged dozens of sketches and paintings—a chronicle of the past weeks with Sophia. Each piece represented a moment of connection, of understanding beyond words. Art had become their language when speech failed him, and now these creations must speak for him once more.

His mother was due any moment. Alexander straightened his cravat and adjusted his jacket, though his appearance mattered little compared to the task before him. His heart hammered against his ribs as he heard the click of his mother’s heels upon the marble floor of the corridor.

Lady Aldeburgh entered with the rigid posture that had become her hallmark since his father’s death—back straight as a cavalry officer’s.

“You wished to see me, Alexander?” Her gaze swept the room, taking in the unusual arrangement of artwork with a narrowing of her eyes. “What is the meaning of this... display?”

Alexander gestured toward the nearest chair, inviting her to sit. When she had arranged herself with characteristic precision, he handed her a carefully prepared note:

I wish to show you something of importance. Please observe with an open mind. I owe you nothing, I know that. But as you are my mother, and despite hardships, I care for you. I do not need you to understand, though I want you to.

Lady Aldeburgh’s mouth tightened at the implied command, but she inclined her head in reluctant acquiescence. “Very well.”

Alexander began his silent presentation, moving methodically from one image to the next. He had arranged them chronologically, beginning with Sophia’s early sketches of him, formal and technically accomplished, progressing through their garden sessions to the more intimate, emotionally resonant pieces they had created together.

His mother’s expression remained impassive as he pointed out specific details—the gradual relaxation in his posture from one portrait to the next, the increasing confidence in his own artistic attempts, the subtle transformation from rigid formality to genuine connection captured in lines and shadows.

When he reached the coastal landscapes they had painted side by side, Lady Aldeburgh leaned forward slightly, something in the paired works catching her attention. Alexander had placed his rendering beside Sophia’s—the same view captured from slightly different perspectives, yet harmonizing in a way that spoke of deep understanding between the artists.

“You created this?” she asked, surprising him with the genuine curiosity in her tone.

Alexander nodded, pointing to his signature in the corner.

“You possess more talent than I realized,” she admitted, studying the work with greater attention than she had shown to anything of his in months. “The technique is unpolished, certainly, but there is something... affecting in your interpretation.”

He turned to the table where he had saved the most revealing works for last—Sophia’s sketches of him smiling, laughing silently, his eyes alight with an animation that had been absent since Spain. Besides these, he had placed his own drawings of Sophia—her concentration as she worked, her gentle smile when something pleased her, the particular tilt of her head when she listened with genuine interest.

Lady Aldeburgh’s breath caught as she recognized what lay before her—evidence of attachment that suggested far more than mere artistic collaboration.

“This is why you summoned me?” Her eyes were once again cold. “To make a case for your inappropriate fascination with Lady Sinclair?”

Alexander seized his notebook, writing with swift, forceful strokes:

She has brought me back to life. Before her arrival, I existed merely as the shadow of my former self. Through her understanding and patience, I have rediscovered purpose, courage, even joy. This is not mere fascination, Mother. This is transformation.

Lady Aldeburgh read his words; her lips pressed into a thin white line. “You speak of transformation as though it could alter the fundamental realities of your position. You are Earl of Aldeburgh, heir to eight centuries of noble lineage. She is a widow of compromised circumstances, forced into employment by her husband’s reckless behavior.”

Alexander’s jaw tightened at this dismissal. He wrote again, underlining key phrases with such force that the pencil nearly tore through the paper:

My position grants privilege and responsibility, not immunity from human feeling. If the Balfour name has meaning beyond mere title, surely it includes the capacity for recognizing genuine worth regardless of circumstance. Sophia possesses more true nobility in her character than many born to a higher rank.

“Pretty sentiments,” Lady Aldeburgh replied, though her eyes had softened almost imperceptibly. “But they do not address practical considerations. What of children, Alexander? What of the bloodline that has endured since William’s time? The Balfour name must continue.”

The implied insult—that Sophia’s blood was somehow insufficient to carry forward their lineage—drove Alexander to his feet. He paced the length of the library, struggling to master the anger that threatened to overwhelm his carefully planned approach.

When he returned to his mother, he chose a different tactic. Rather than continuing their written debate, he selected a particular sketch from among the collection—one showing Sophia seated in the music room, her fingers hovering above the covered keyboard of the pianoforte, her expression caught between longing and hesitation.

Lady Aldeburgh stared at the image for a long moment. “She plays?” she asked finally.

Alexander shook his head, then pointed to the covered keyboard before gesturing toward his own ears. Understanding dawned in his mother’s face.

“She refrained out of consideration for your condition,” she said slowly. “Even though she might have enjoyed the instrument herself.”

He nodded, then selected another drawing—this one showing Sophia explaining something to him, her hands forming the particular gestures they had developed between them, her expression patient and engaged rather than pitying or frustrated.

“She created a language with you,” Lady Aldeburgh observed, genuine surprise coloring her voice. “A means of communication beyond these constant notes and written exchanges.”

Alexander wrote again, his script more measured now that he sensed a crack in his mother’s resistance:

She did not see a broken man requiring repair, but a whole person needing only understanding and patience. While others spoke around me or about me, she spoke to me—directly, honestly, without condescension. Through her, I have begun to find the voice I thought forever lost.

His mother’s gaze lingered on his final sentence. “Your voice,” she repeated thoughtfully. “You speak metaphorically, of course.”

Alexander considered her for a long moment, weighing his decision carefully. The time for half-measures had passed. Drawing a deep breath, he squared his shoulders and formed words that had remained largely unspoken since Spain.

“Not... metaphor,” he said, each syllable emerging with deliberate effort, his voice raspy from disuse yet audible in the library’s stillness. “I can... speak... Mother.”

Lady Aldeburgh’s composure—maintained through war, widowhood, and her son’s devastating injuries—shattered completely. She stared at him as though witnessing resurrection itself, one trembling hand rising to cover her mouth. She dropped her hand and looked her son in the eye.

“Alexander,” she whispered, using his given name rather than his title for the first time in months. “How long have you been able...?”

“Words... come with... difficulty,” he replied, forming each sound with careful precision. “Began practicing... after Sophia arrived. She gave me... courage to try. For… her.”

Tears gathered in Lady Aldeburgh’s eyes—a sight so unprecedented that Alexander momentarily forgot the argument that had precipitated this revelation. He had not seen his mother weep since the news of his father’s death had arrived from Spain.

“And I sent her away,” she said, tears forming in her eyes “The woman who accomplished what physicians and family could not.”

Alexander knelt beside his mother’s chair, taking her hands in his—another breach in the formal distance that had grown between them. “Not... too late,” he said with quiet determination. “She returns... to a cottage near... village. We can find her.”

Lady Aldeburgh drew a shuddering breath, visibly struggling to reassemble her customary composure. “You truly love her,” she said, a statement rather than a question.

“With all... my heart,” Alexander confirmed, the declaration emerging stronger and clearer than his previous speech.

His mother’s hands tightened around his, her eyes searching his face with an intensity that reminded him of the woman she had been before grief and disappointment had hardened her into the Dowager’s rigid facade.

“I believed I was protecting you,” she said finally. “From those who might take advantage of your condition, from potential heartbreak, from decisions you might later regret.” She hesitated, then added with evident difficulty: “I see now my protection became its own form of imprisonment.”

Alexander nodded, acknowledging the truth in her assessment without harboring resentment. Her methods had been misguided, but her intentions had stemmed from genuine, if misapplied, concern.

“Forgive me... Mother,” he said softly.

Lady Aldeburgh shook her head, a single tear escaping to trace a silvery path down her cheek. “It is I who should seek your forgiveness, Alexander. I have allowed my fear for you to overshadow my faith in you.” She straightened, something of her former strength returning to her bearing. “What would you have me do now?”

Before Alexander could respond, urgent knocking interrupted their reconciliation. The library door burst open to reveal Gregory Camden, his usually immaculate appearance in disarray, his expression grave with concern.

“Alexander,” he began, then stopped abruptly, registering Lady Aldeburgh’s presence with visible surprise. “Your pardon, Lady Aldeburgh, but a matter of extreme urgency has arisen.”

“Speak plainly, Lord Camden,” she replied with unexpected warmth. “It seems this is a day for breaking with convention.”

Gregory hesitated only briefly before continuing: “Miss McLeod has arrived in a state of considerable distress. I believe her news concerns Lady Sinclair’s safety.”

Cold dread seized Alexander’s heart. “Bring her,” he ordered, the imperative emerging with startling clarity despite his impairment.

Lady Aldeburgh’s eyebrows rose at her son’s speech, but she offered no comment as Gregory departed to fetch Abigail.

The lady’s maid who entered moments later bore little resemblance to the composed young woman who had attended Sophia throughout her stay at Balfour Abbey. Her dress was torn at the hem and sleeve, her face streaked with dirt and tears, her breathing ragged as though she had run a considerable distance.

“My lord,” she gasped, dropping a hasty curtsy. “Forgive my appearance, but Lady Sinclair—” She broke off, her shoulders shaking with a sob.

“Slowly, Miss McLeod,” Lady Aldeburgh said with unexpected gentleness, guiding the distraught girl to a chair. “Gather your thoughts and tell us what has happened.”

Abigail drew a breath, her hands twisting in her muddied apron. “We were traveling toward the village when our carriage wheel broke—deliberately sabotaged, we later realized. Men emerged from the woods, led by Lord Shropshire himself.” Her eyes darkened with anger. “He claimed Lady Sinclair’s debt gave him the right to force her into marriage. The banns have already been posted at St. Michael’s Church.

“Forced marriage,” Lady Aldeburgh repeated, the color draining from her face. “Such practices belong to another century entirely.”

“How did you escape?” Gregory asked, his hand resting protectively on Abigail’s shoulder.

“Lady Sinclair told me to run for help while she led them in another direction,” Abigail replied, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. “I managed to evade the man they sent after me, but she—my poor lady—”

For Alexander, this was enough. He strode to the bellpull, yanking it with such force that the cord nearly separated from its mounting.

“Horses,” he commanded when Jenkins appeared with unusual swiftness. “Four… immediately.” Words were coming out faster now. “And send word… Constable Hayward… meet at St. Michael’s… whatever men he can gather.”

“At once, my lord,” Jenkins replied, his usual impassivity giving way to evident concern.

“I’m coming with you,” Lady Aldeburgh announced, rising with newfound energy that belied her years. Alexander stared at his mother in surprise as she continued. “Shropshire may disregard the protests of a woman alone, but he will think twice before defying the Dowager Countess of Aldeburgh in defense of her future daughter-in-law.”

Alexander’s reaction to his mother’s declaration must have shown plainly on his face, for she added with the ghost of a smile: “You have made your feelings abundantly clear, Alexander. If Lady Sinclair has indeed captured your heart, then the Balfour name and influence stand ready to protect her.”

Gregory had already helped Abigail to her feet. “The church lies some ten miles south,” he reported. “If we ride hard, we might reach it within the hour.”

“Then we waste precious minutes in discussion,” Lady Aldeburgh declared, already moving toward the door with purpose that transformed her usual rigid posture into something formidable. “Shropshire shall soon discover the consequence of threatening those under Balfour protection.”

As servants scrambled to prepare horses and Lady Aldeburgh issued rapid instructions regarding matters Alexander had not even considered, he found himself watching his mother with newfound appreciation. The steel that had made her such a formidable opponent now aligned with his own purposes, converting a former adversary into a powerful ally with breathtaking swiftness.

“Your mother... impressive,” Gregory as they strode toward the stables.

“Always was,” Alexander replied, surprised by how easily speech came when urgency overrode self-consciousness. “Merely aimed... in the wrong direction.”

They mounted swiftly, Lady Aldeburgh installed in the light carriage Jenkins had somehow produced and readied within minutes, with Abigail beside her to guide them to the location of Sophia’s capture.

As they thundered down the drive, Balfour Abbey’s ancient stones gleaming gold in afternoon sunlight, Alexander found himself praying as he had not since the battlefield—desperate, wordless pleas for Sophia’s safety and the strength to rescue her from Shropshire’s clutches.