Page 3 of Coloring a Silent Earl’s Heart

The sea stretched before Alexander Balfour in a vast expanse of restless gray-blue, its waves crashing against Sidmouth’s rocky shore in a spectacle of nature’s raw power. He could see the spray as it leapt skyward, could feel the faint tremor of impact through the soles of his boots, but the roar—that magnificent, primal sound that had once filled him with exhilaration—existed now only in memory.

Another pleasure surrendered to the war , he thought bitterly, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon where sky met water in a hazy line. Like so many others.

Three months had passed since their removal from London to this seaside retreat—His mother’s ancestral property, closed these past five years since her own father’s death. The Georgian manor stood atop a gentle rise overlooking the English Channel, its pale stone facade and columned entrance presenting a dignified countenance to the world while its occupants retreated into isolation behind its elegant walls.

A tactical withdrawal, the military might call it. Alexander ‘s lips twisted in a humorless smile at the thought. But there was no dignity in this retreat, no strategic advantage to be gained. They had fled London’s whispers and pitying glances like deserters abandoning their posts.

Not “they,” he corrected himself. My own mother fled embarrassment. I merely followed, like the dutiful son she no longer believes me to be.

The wind whipped his fair hair across his forehead, and he made no move to brush it back. Such small traces of untidiness had come to characterize his appearance of late, much to Lady Aldeburgh’s perpetual disapproval.

The immaculately groomed heir to the Balfour legacy, who had once been the darling of London’s ballrooms, now often neglected to shave for days at a time. His valet had long since learned not to press the issue, having received one too many cold stares for his well-intentioned efforts.

Alexander turned from the sea, his expression guarded as he surveyed the grounds of Balfour Abbey. The name was a misnomer—the house had never been a religious establishment, merely constructed upon the ruins of one—but generations of Balfours had embraced the pretension with enthusiasm.

The expansive gardens, once renowned throughout Devon for their beauty, now suffered from the same neglect as their master, tended by a skeleton staff of local villagers who lacked the skill to maintain their former glory.

A movement at the terrace doors caught his attention. Gregory Camden emerged onto the stone balustrade; his tall figure unmistakable even at this distance. Alexander ‘s spirits lifted marginally at the sight of his friend, though he made no outward show of it as Gregory approached along the weathered garden path.

“Magnificent view,” Gregory observed when he drew near, his lips forming the words with deliberate clarity for Alexander ‘s benefit. He gestured toward the sea with an appreciative sweep of his arm. “Though perhaps not the ideal day for standing about in the open air.”

Alexander shrugged, the gesture eloquent in its indifference. The concept of discomfort had become largely academic to him since Spain—what was a bit of wind compared to lying half-conscious in a field hospital, delirious with fever as surgeons argued over the merits of amputation?

Gregory studied him with barely concealed concern, his expression reminiscent of a physician assessing a particularly troubling case. “Your mother mentioned you missed breakfast again.”

Lady Aldeburgh is not my mother , Alexander thought acidly. She is the Dowager Countess of Aldeburgh, administrator of my affairs, and my most consistent critic, but she forfeited the title of mother the moment she declared she would have preferred a heroic corpse to a damaged son.

He withdrew a small notebook from his coat pocket—the constant companion that had replaced his voice—and wrote with swift, economical strokes: Not hungry.

“Nonsense,” Gregory countered, undeterred by Alexander ‘s brevity. “You’ve grown thin as a rail. Mrs. Peabody complains that her finest efforts return to the kitchen untouched.”

Alexander ‘s jaw tightened. He had no wish to discuss his diminished appetite, nor to engage with Gregory’s well-meaning but increasingly tiresome concern. He turned back toward the sea, hoping his friend would take the hint.

Gregory, predictably, did not. Instead, he stepped closer, positioning himself within Alexander ‘s line of sight with the practiced ease of months spent navigating his friend’s new limitations.

“I’ve brought something that might interest you,” he announced, producing a slim leather case from inside his coat. “From London.”

Despite himself, Alexander ‘s curiosity stirred. His world had contracted significantly since their removal to Devon, with news from the capital arriving sporadically through Gregory’s visits and the occasional letter from acquaintances who had not yet abandoned correspondence.

He accepted the proffered case, opening it to reveal a set of fine sable brushes nestled in velvet alongside small pots of pigment. Artist’s supplies, of superior quality to the mediocre materials available in the local village.

Alexander raised a questioning eyebrow at his friend.

“I recalled your particular fondness for sketching during our school days,” Gregory explained. “Thought it might provide some diversion.”

Diversion . The word itself was an insult, suggesting his existence had been reduced to a series of meaningless activities designed to fill empty hours. Yet Alexander could not deny the small spark of interest that flickered to life at the sight of the brushes. How long had it been since he’d attempted to create rather than merely exist?

He traced a finger along one of the brushes, its softness a tactile pleasure in a world where sensation had become increasingly muted. During their schoolboy summers, he had indeed shown aptitude for landscape studies, though his efforts had been abandoned in favor of more gentlemanly pursuits as he grew older. Perhaps there was some comfort to be found in returning to the pastime.

“There’s more,” Gregory continued, encouraged by Alexander ‘s evident interest. “I’ve taken the liberty of talking to a few people about finding an instructor for you. Someone… to help you.”

Alexander ‘s nascent appreciation curdled instantly. He snapped the case shut with more force than necessary, thrusting it back toward Gregory with a scowl that required no translation.

An instructor? As though I were a child in need of occupation? His shoulders stiffened with familiar pride—the one aspect of his former self that remained intact despite all other losses. Or worse, an invalid requiring therapeutic activities to prevent complete deterioration.

Gregory’s expression fell, his enthusiasm dampened by Alexander ‘s evident displeasure. “It’s not what you’re thinking,” he protested, correctly interpreting his friend’s reaction. “The man is an artist of some repute. I thought perhaps—”

Alexander yanked out his notebook, writing with such vehemence that the pencil nearly tore through the paper: I am neither a child nor a charity case in need of your pity projects.

“That’s not—” Gregory began, then stopped himself, visibly gathering his patience. “Very well. If the idea offends you so greatly, I shall write to cancel the arrangement.”

The swift capitulation deflated Alexander ‘s anger somewhat, leaving him with the uncomfortable awareness that he had behaved ungraciously toward the one person who consistently treated him as something other than a burden or embarrassment. He sighed, running a hand through his wind-tousled hair.

After a moment’s consideration, he reopened the notebook: The supplies are appreciated. The instructor is unnecessary.

Gregory nodded, accepting the olive branch for what it was. “The supplies are yours regardless. Do with them what you will.”

They stood in companionable silence for a time, watching the restless sea. Despite his irritation at Gregory’s presumption, Alexander found himself grateful for his friend’s steadfast presence. In a world where communication had become an exhausting exercise in writing and lip-reading, Gregory’s willingness to persist where others had abandoned the effort represented a loyalty that transcended mere friendship.

Perhaps that’s why his meddling rankles so deeply , Alexander reflected, studying his friend’s profile against the grey sky. He remains the living embodiment of all I have lost—health, purpose, connection. A constant reminder of the man I used to be.

Despite his initial resistance, Alexander found himself unable to completely reject Gregory’s gift. The following morning, he carried the leather case to the small sunroom overlooking the eastern gardens, where light flooded through tall windows in a wash of pale gold.

The chamber had been his grandfather’s favorite retreat, and something of the old gentleman’s contemplative spirit seemed to linger among the faded upholstery and well-worn writing desk.

He arranged the supplies with methodical precision: brushes aligned by size, pigments organized by color, a small porcelain dish for water. From a cabinet, he retrieved several sheets of thick paper, slightly yellowed with age but still serviceable for his purpose.

What to paint? The question lingered as he stared at the blank page before him. The gardens presented an obvious subject, their spring blooms providing ample material for study. Yet his gaze drifted instead to the small oval portrait he had carried from London—now repaired, the glass replaced, though faint cracks remained visible across Diana’s face like prophetic spider webs.

He positioned the miniature against a small vase, studying the familiar features with an artist’s detachment that momentarily superseded the lover’s pain. The golden curls arranged in fashionable ringlets. The delicate arch of brow over eyes whose color the artist had rendered a shade too green. The rosebud mouth curved in a smile that now struck him as perhaps too practiced to be genuine.

His brush moved across the paper with hesitant strokes at first, gaining confidence as the familiar motions awakened muscle memory long dormant. He lost himself in the process, the world narrowing to the interplay of pigment and water, the subtle gradations of light and shadow required to capture Diana’s likeness.

Hours slipped past unnoticed until a shadow fell across his work, startling him from his absorption. His mother stood in the doorway, her silver-streaked hair arranged in its usual severe style, her mourning dress—still worn in honor of his father though the prescribed period had ended—lending additional austerity to her angular frame.

“So,” she observed, her lips forming the words with exacting precision, “Gregory’s little scheme has borne fruit after all.”

Alexander tensed at the intrusion. Of course she would find me here. She possesses an unerring instinct for interruption, particularly when I have found a moment’s peace.

He set down his brush carefully, capping the water dish to prevent spillage—a pointless courtesy given that the room, like much of Balfour Abbey, had grown cold under the dowager’s indifferent stewardship.

“You’ve some talent,” she continued, approaching to examine his work with critical eyes. “Your father sketched as well, though he had little time to indulge the pastime after assuming his responsibilities to the estate.”

The comparison was deliberate, of course. Every reference to his father contained an implicit rebuke—a reminder that the previous Earl had fulfilled his duties with exemplary dedication while his son and heir occupied himself with watercolors like a schoolgirl.

As though I have abandoned my responsibilities by choice, Alexander thought bitterly. As though I would not give everything I possess to reclaim the life that was taken from me.

He made no move to respond, knowing from experience that she required no actual participation from him to continue her monologues. She preferred it this way—to speak without interruption, to pronounce judgment without challenge.

“I had thought to inform you that luncheon is served,” she said, her gaze lingering on Diana’s portrait with unmistakable distaste. “Though I see you remain preoccupied with the past.”

She ran a finger along the edge of the table, examining it for dust with the critical eye of a housekeeper rather than the lady of the manor. Finding none—Mrs. Potter, the housekeeper, being one of the few servants who maintained pre-war standards despite reduced staff—she redirected her attention to Alexander ‘s painting.

“A credible likeness,” she allowed, the faint praise more damning than criticism. “Though one wonders at the wisdom of immortalizing a woman who proved herself unworthy of such devotion.”

Alexander ‘s hand tightened around the brush, knuckles whitening with the effort of restraint. Diana’s betrayal was a wound still raw to the touch, and his mother’s habit of probing it with surgical precision tested the limits of his forbearance.

She would not dare speak so if I could answer in kind, he thought, resentment burning in his chest. My silence has rendered me defenseless against her small cruelties.

As if sensing his thoughts, Lady Aldeburgh’s mouth curved in a thin smile devoid of warmth. “I shall inform Mrs. Peabody you will not be joining me. Again.” She turned to leave, then paused, delivering a final barb with practiced skill. “Though I wonder if Miss Anderton—forgive me, Lady Radcliffe now—spares even a passing thought for the man who pines so devotedly in her absence.”

The door closed behind her with quiet finality, leaving Alexander alone with the ruins of his concentration. He stared at the half-completed portrait, seeing now only the flaws in his technique, the imperfections in his rendering of Diana’s features. With a sudden, violent movement, he swept the painting from the table, watching with grim satisfaction as it fluttered to the floor.

Why did I survive?

Refusing to allow himself to ponder on these thoughts, he rose to his feet. He stalked from the sunroom, leaving his supplies in disarray—a small rebellion against order that would undoubtedly prompt another of the Dowager Countess’s pointed observations about his lack of discipline. Let her criticize. Let her believe him overcome by childish pique. Better that, than allow her to glimpse the depth of his despair.

The days that followed established a pattern: mornings spent in solitary painting, afternoons walking the coastal path that skirted the boundaries of the estate, evenings sequestered in the library with a book he often stared at without comprehending.

Instead, he began sketching another. And another. Each rendering an attempt to exorcise her memory through repetition.

Gregory visited twice during this period, his presence a welcome disruption to the stifling routine. On his second visit, over a game of chess in the library, he broached the subject of the painting instructor once more.

“I know that you did not approve of the idea of an instructor originally,” Gregory continued, his tone deliberately casual as he studied the chessboard, “But perhaps we could discuss it again.”

Alexander ‘s eyes narrowed in suspicion, his hand hovering over a knight as he awaited elaboration.

“I attended Lady Harrington’s soirée in Exeter last week,” Gregory explained. “Quite by chance, I overheard a most interesting conversation regarding a lady artist of considerable talent.”

Not this again, Alexander thought, his jaw tightening as he anticipated another well-intentioned but unwelcome scheme for his improvement. He shook his head curtly, hoping to forestall further discussion of the matter.

Gregory, predictably, ignored the warning. “Lady Sophia Sinclair,” he continued, countering Alexander ‘s move with an aggressive advance of his Queen. “Widowed recently. Apparently, she is quite the talent.”

The name meant nothing to Alexander, who regarded his friend with growing impatience. He withdrew his notebook, writing a terse message: I have no need of instruction. The subject is closed.

“Ah, but you misunderstand,” Gregory replied, his expression brightening with the enthusiasm that had characterized his boyhood schemes—not all of which, Alexander recalled, had ended well for either of them. “I haven’t engaged her to instruct you. Rather, I’ve invited her to paint your portrait.”

Alexander stared at his friend in blank astonishment that rapidly transformed into indignation. He snatched up his pencil, scrawling across the page with enough force that the lead snapped halfway through: You did what?!

“Now, before you fly into a passion,” Gregory said, raising his hands in a placating gesture, “consider the benefits. A new face at Balfour Abbey. A project with purpose rather than these endless studies of—” he gestured vaguely toward the stack of Diana portraits Alexander had attempted to conceal behind a settee. “And I assure you, the lady’s circumstances make her unlikely to treat you with the condescension you so despise.”

Alexander glared at his friend, his thoughts racing. A portrait? As though I wish to preserve this hollow shell of myself for posterity? As though I desire to sit immobile for hours while a stranger scrutinizes my every feature?

He picked up a new pencil and wrote again, more carefully this time: You had no right. Cancel the arrangement immediately.

“I cannot,” Gregory replied with a hint of defiance. “The lady has already accepted the commission and expects to arrive next week. She has, in fact, relocated to this very county in reduced circumstances following her husband’s death. The fee I’ve offered represents a significant opportunity for her.”

Then double the fee and release her from the obligation, Alexander wrote, shoving the notebook toward Gregory with enough force to scatter chess pieces across the board.

Gregory sighed, his patience evidently wearing thin. “You cannot hide from the world forever, Alexander. Sooner or later, you must accustom yourself to the company of someone other than your mother and myself.”

Alexander merely stared at his friend, his eyes hard.

“Besides,” Gregory continued, gathering the fallen chess pieces with methodical precision, “Lady Sinclair comes highly recommended. Lady Harrington herself described her work as ‘possessing a rare sensitivity to character.‘ Perhaps such insight is precisely what you require.”

What I require is to be left in peace, Alexander thought bitterly, though he did not bother to write the sentiment down. Gregory, for all his virtues, possessed the stubborn determination of a terrier with a prized bone when he believed himself to be acting in Alexander‘s best interests.

Instead, he rose abruptly from the chess table, stalking to the window that overlooked the western gardens. Rain had begun to fall, silver sheets sweeping across the landscape in undulating waves.

Even without turning, Alexander could picture Gregory’s expression: brows drawn together, mouth set in a determined line, eyes reflecting equal measures of concern and resolve.

“Lady Sinclair arrives Tuesday next,” Gregory said after a lengthy silence. “I’ve arranged accommodations for her and her companion—a lady’s maid, I believe—in the east wing. The blue suite should serve admirably, being somewhat removed from the family quarters.”

Alexander did not turn from his contemplation of the rain, his rigid posture communicating—more eloquently than words—his continued objection to the plan.

“Think of it as a favor to me, if nothing else,” Gregory pressed, a note of pleading entering his voice. “I’ve given my word to the lady, and to retract the invitation now would reflect poorly on both our characters.”

A masterful manipulation, Alexander acknowledged silently, recognizing the appeal to his sense of honor—one of the few aspects of his former self that remained intact. Gregory knows precisely which strings to pull.

He continued to stare out the window, his thoughts churning like the storm-tossed sea visible in the distance. The prospect of a stranger’s presence in his sanctuary—a woman, no less, with all the social expectations such an arrangement entailed—filled him with profound unease. Yet beneath the resistance lurked a flicker of something else. Curiosity, perhaps. Or the faintest stirring of interest in something beyond his own misery.

At length, he turned back to Gregory, who watched him with the wary expression of a man uncertain whether his companion intends to shake his hand or strike him. Alexander retrieved his notebook, considering his words carefully before writing: One week. If the arrangement proves intolerable, she leaves. No negotiations.

Relief washed across Gregory’s features, his shoulders relaxing visibly as he read the conditional surrender. “Agreed,” he said quickly, before Alexander could reconsider. “One week’s trial. Though I’m confident you’ll find Lady Sinclair’s company more agreeable than you anticipate.”

Alexander‘s skeptical expression conveyed his doubt on that score, but he did not pursue the argument further. Let Gregory have his small victory. The mysterious Lady Sinclair, confronted with Alexander ‘s silence and his mother’s frost, would likely flee of her own accord before the week’s end.

***

The morning of Lady Sinclair’s expected arrival dawned clear and bright, a rarity in a season characterized by persistent drizzle. Alexander woke earlier than usual, sleep having proved elusive as his mind conjured increasingly dire scenarios regarding the impending visit. He dressed with unusual care, instructing his valet to select his finest morning coat—a concession to vanity that annoyed him even as he submitted to it.

I may be rendered mute and deaf, but I shall not appear an object of pity to this woman, he thought as Jenkins deftly arranged his cravat in the Mathematical style. Let her see that the Earl of Aldeburgh maintains certain standards, regardless of his afflictions.

His mother, encountering him in the breakfast room, raised a silver eyebrow at his uncharacteristic attention to appearance. “How gratifying to see you’ve emerged from your chrysalis for the occasion,” she remarked, the disdain evident on her face. “Though I remain unconvinced that this portrait scheme represents anything more than another of Gregory’s well-intentioned but misguided attempts at philanthropy.”

Alexander ignored her, focusing instead on the letter that had arrived with the morning post—a lengthy missive from Gregory that he now unfolded beside his untouched plate.

My dear Alexander,

By the time you read this, I shall be en route to Balfour Abbey with our guest. I thought it prudent to provide some additional context regarding Lady Sinclair before introductions are made, as verbal explanations in your presence remain somewhat challenging.

Lady Sophia Sinclair (née Talbot) is the daughter of Baron Talbot of Northumbria, a family of respectable lineage if modest fortune. Her marriage to Lord Gilbert Sinclair three years past was, by all accounts, a sensible match rather than a love connection.

The lady now finds herself in circumstances greatly reduced from her former situation. Her late husband, while honorable in most respects, apparently harbored a fondness for games of chance that left his estate encumbered with considerable debt. Lady Sinclair has, with admirable pragmatism, turned to her artistic talents as a means of supporting herself.

The samples of her work that I was permitted to view confirm this assessment—her rendering of Miss Harrington—captured not merely the young lady’s features but something of her essential nature as well.

I believe you will find Lady Sinclair refreshingly direct in her manner and mercifully free of the simpering sympathy that so irritates you in most social interactions. She has known hardship of her own and seems unlikely to regard yours with either excessive pity or morbid fascination.

In conclusion, I entreat you to approach this arrangement with an open mind, if not outright enthusiasm.

Your devoted friend, Gregory

P.S. The lady is quite handsome, with a countenance that suggests intelligence rather than mere prettiness. I mention this not from any matchmaking impulse—I am not yet so desperate for your restoration to society—but merely to prepare you for the possibility that you might find her presence less onerous than anticipated.

Alexander refolded the letter with a mixture of irritation and reluctant interest. Gregory’s postscript, despite his disclaimers, reeked of matchmaking—a prospect so absurd that it might have provoked laughter in a man who remembered how to laugh. As if any woman would willingly tie herself to a man who could neither hear her voice nor respond in kind. As if he himself had not had his fill of feminine faithlessness.

Yet despite his cynicism, he found his thoughts returning to Gregory’s description throughout the morning as he paced restlessly through the house, awaiting the arrival of their guests. A countenance that suggests intelligence rather than mere prettiness. What did that signify?

He was standing at the library window, watching the drive with feigned indifference, when the carriage finally appeared between the ancient oaks that lined the approach to Balfour Abbey. From this distance, he could make out little beyond the vehicle itself—a hired conveyance of respectable if not luxurious appointment.

Despite his determination to remain aloof, curiosity drew him to the entrance hall, where his mother already stood issuing instructions to the butler regarding the accommodation of their guests. She glanced at Alexander with undisguised skepticism as he positioned himself near the foot of the grand staircase, her lips forming words he chose not to read.

The great oak doors swung open to admit Gregory, his expression brightening at the sight of Alexander in the hall. Behind him followed a slender figure in a traveling dress of forest green, her face partially obscured by a modest bonnet trimmed with ribbon of the same hue.

As she stepped into the light of the entrance hall and raised her gaze to meet his, Alexander found himself momentarily arrested by eyes the color of spring leaves—not the pale blue of Diana’s, nor the calculating grey of Judith Aldeburgh’s, but a clear, vivid green that seemed to look not at him but into him with unsettling directness.

Sophia Sinclair, he thought, studying her with the careful observation of an artist assessing a new subject. What will you bring to the darkness that my life has become?