Page 8 of Coloring a Silent Earl’s Heart

The morning sun was casting its golden rays when Alexander stood motionless before the glass, watching the early morning light transform Balfour Abbey’s grounds into a landscape worthy of Claude Lorrain’s brush—all amber glow and velvet shadow, the formal gardens softened into dreaming beauty.

He had slept poorly, troubled not by the battlefield nightmares that so often haunted his rest, but by his mother’s increasingly transparent attempts to keep Lady Sinclair at arm’s length. Last evening at dinner, Lady Aldeburgh had positioned herself between them with such determined efficiency that one might have thought the artist carried some infectious disease requiring strict quarantine.

The sharp rap at his door announced Jenkins, bearing freshly pressed linen and the morning’s correspondence upon a silver tray. The valet moved about the chamber with the quiet efficiency born of long service, laying out shaving implements while maintaining the discreet silence that characterized their daily interactions.

“Lord Camden inquired whether you would join him for breakfast, my lord,” Jenkins ventured after completing his preparations. “He mentioned something about an early ride along the coastal path.”

Alexander shook his head, gesturing toward the small morning room where he occasionally took solitary meals when the prospect of social engagement—even with Gregory—exceeded his capacity for forbearance. Jenkins bowed with perfect understanding, withdrawing with the unobtrusive competence that had made him indispensable in Alexander’s altered circumstances.

Alone once more, Alexander contemplated the day stretching before him with its familiar pattern—breakfast, correspondence, portrait session with Lady Sinclair at ten o’clock, luncheon, perhaps a walk if weather permitted. The routine that had once seemed stifling now offered curious comfort, particularly the hours spent in Lady Sinclair’s company amid the peaceful surroundings of the converted music room.

Two weeks of portrait sessions had established a comfortable rhythm between them; her quiet instruction drawing forth artistic abilities he had scarcely known he possessed, her perceptive observations encouraging him to engage rather than withdraw. Though he would never admit as much aloud—even had he possessed the voice to do so—he had come to anticipate their encounters with something approaching eagerness.

The knowledge of their encounter with Shropshire in Sidmouth still kindled a protective anger within his chest. Lady Sinclair had dismissed the incident with admirable composure, yet Alexander had recognized genuine fear beneath her social mask. The man had threatened her somehow—of that much he felt certain. What remained unclear was the precise nature of her obligation to such an evidently unsavory character.

He turned from the window, struck by sudden inspiration. The day was too magnificent to waste within four walls, the sea too splendid to appreciate only through glass. Perhaps Lady Sinclair might welcome a change from their established routine—a walk along the cliffs rather than the usual formal session.

The idea took firmer hold with each passing moment. They might bring sketching materials, make studies of the coast rather than continue the formal portrait. It would provide respite for them both, and perhaps in less structured surroundings, away from his mother’s watchful presence, Lady Sinclair might speak more freely of her circumstances.

Decision made, Alexander completed his morning ablutions with uncharacteristic haste, selecting walking attire rather than his usual formal jacket. Jenkins raised an eloquent eyebrow at this departure from routine but made no comment as he assisted with the final adjustments to his master’s appearance.

Breakfast proved a solitary affair, Gregory having apparently tired of waiting and departed for his ride. Alexander was halfway through a piece of toast, which was the most his unsettled stomach would accept, when the door opened to admit a footman delivering a folded note in Lady Sinclair’s elegant hand.

Lord Aldeburgh, I find myself wondering if you might consider a departure from our usual arrangement today. The quality of light is particularly exceptional, and it seems a shame to remain indoors when nature offers such magnificent inspiration. Perhaps, if it would not displease you, we might attempt some landscape sketches along the coastal path? Abigail would accompany us, of course, to maintain all propriety.

I shall await your reply in the morning room to learn your preference.

Your obedient servant,

Lady Sinclair

The synchronicity of their thoughts startled a silent laugh from Alexander. That she should propose the very excursion he had been contemplating seemed a confirmation of that curious connection developing between them; an ability to anticipate each other’s thoughts that required neither speech nor hearing.

He scrawled a quick affirmative response, adding that he would meet her at the east terrace in half an hour with provisions arranged for a day’s expedition. The footman departed with the message, leaving Alexander to complete the necessary arrangements with an efficiency born of military training.

By the appointed time, he had organized a light repast to be transported by one of the stable lads to a sheltered cove along their route—a location he remembered fondly from childhood explorations. He had also selected a small, rectangular package from his personal possessions, wrapping it carefully in tissue paper before securing it within his coat pocket.

Lady Sinclair and her maid awaited him on the terrace, both attired for walking in sensible boots that complemented their morning dresses. Abigail carried a substantial satchel that presumably contained artistic supplies, while her mistress held only a small sketchbook and pencil case.

“Good morning, Lord Aldeburgh,” Lady Sinclair greeted him, her clear green eyes reflecting the day’s brilliance. “I hope my suggestion wasn’t too presumptuous. The morning seemed to demand something more adventurous than our usual session.”

Alexander shook his head, withdrawing his notebook to write: I had formed the same intention. Great minds, it seems, think alike.

Her answering smile sent an unexpected warmth through his chest. He found himself studying the curve of her upper lip, the precise shade of pink that colored her cheeks in the fresh morning air, committing these details to memory with an artist’s attention to specificity.

“Shall we proceed, then?” she suggested after a moment’s pause that stretched just beyond conventional propriety. “I understand the path can be challenging in places, but Abigail and I are both accomplished walkers.”

Alexander offered a slight bow of acknowledgment before gesturing toward the garden gate that opened onto the coastal path. He deliberately slowed his naturally long stride to accommodate the ladies, though he soon discovered Lady Sinclair moved with a lithe grace that required no such consideration.

Their route took them along the cliff tops, where thorny gorse thickets bloomed in brilliant yellow patches against emerald turf and the sea stretched below in a vast expanse of shifting blue. Gulls soared overhead, their cries inaudible to Alexander, yet somehow present in their fluid movements against the cloudless sky.

Lady Sinclair paused frequently to make swift sketches—a weathered tree clinging to the cliff edge, the angle of light on distant headlands, the textural contrast between smooth water and jagged rock. Each time she stopped, Alexander found himself watching her rather than the view, captivated by the intensity of her concentration and the delicate precision of her movements.

Abigail maintained a discreet distance, near enough to satisfy propriety yet far enough to allow conversation a measure of privacy. The arrangement struck Alexander as evidence of the understanding between mistress and maid—a relationship that transcended conventional boundaries of class and position.

They had been walking perhaps an hour when they reached the promontory Alexander had selected for their respite. A natural hollow in the cliff face created a sheltered alcove, protected from the wind while providing a spectacular panorama of the coast. He gestured toward it with subtle pride, pleased when Lady Sinclair’s eyes widened in appreciation.

“How magnificent!” she exclaimed, moving immediately to the edge to better appreciate the vista. “The perspective is extraordinary—almost as though one were suspended between sea and sky.”

Alexander nodded, pleased by her enthusiasm. He looked at her for a while before turning to his notebook and scribbling in it.

I discovered this place as a boy. My father called it ‘Eagle’s Rest,’ though I’ve never seen eagles here—only gulls and occasional falcons.

“A romantic appellation, nonetheless,” she replied, settling herself upon a flat boulder that nature had positioned like a perfect viewing bench. “Though perhaps your father possessed the imagination to see beyond literal observation.”

The assessment of his father’s character, remarkably perceptive from someone who had never met him, gave Alexander pause. He found himself wondering, not for the first time, what sort of woman lay beneath the composed exterior Lady Sinclair presented to the world. What experiences had shaped her, what dreams and disappointments had formed her pragmatism, her sensitivity?

As though reading his thoughts, she opened her sketchbook to a fresh page and began drawing with swift, confident strokes. “Perhaps,” she suggested, looking up, “this might be an appropriate occasion for me to satisfy your curiosity about my circumstances. I’ve noticed your questioning glances, though you’ve been too gentlemanly to voice them directly.”

Startled by this direct address of the unspoken current between them, Alexander could only incline his head in acknowledgment. He seated himself on an adjacent rock, positioned to observe both her expression and the emerging drawing, which appeared to be taking the form of a modest country house half-hidden among trees.

“This was my childhood home,” she explained, adding details to the sketch with economical precision. “Talbot House in Northumbria. Not grand by any means, but comfortable and filled with books, which compensated for many deficiencies.”

She continued drawing intermittently, as she spoke, allowing him to see the words he could not hear. She added a small figure on the garden path—a young girl with a book under her arm.

“My father valued education, even for daughters. An unusual perspective, but one for which I remain grateful.” A fleeting shadow crossed her features. “After my mother’s death when I was twelve, books became my primary companions. Father retreated into his library, emerging only for meals and occasional lectures on history or natural philosophy.”

The image shifted as she turned to a new page, this time depicting a formal townhouse with imposing columns. “My London debut, arranged by my aunt when I was eighteen. A necessary evil, according to my father, though he refused to accompany me. Too many shallow conversations for his scholarly temperament.”

Alexander found himself leaning closer, drawn by both the skill of her execution and the narrative unfolding through image and word. Her life emerged in these sketches like a novel revealed chapter by chapter, each turn of the page disclosing new dimensions of the woman herself.

“I met Gilbert Sinclair during my second Season,” she continued, the new sketch showing a young officer in regimental dress. “He was kind, if not particularly intellectual, and offered security when my father’s health began to fail. Our understanding was mutual. Companionship rather than grand passion.” Her pencil hesitated briefly. “We hadn’t been married long when he became gravely ill. I tried taking care of him as best I could, but there was not much I could do except watch… and wait…”

She paused, her gaze distant as though seeing beyond the present moment to memories both tender and painful. “I never expected him to be gone so soon. Though he had his flaws, he was a good man.”

The sketch that followed depicted Sinclair Manor—first in its apparent prosperity, then in a second image showing the same house with subtle signs of neglect: overgrown gardens, missing roof tiles, an empty stable yard.

“After his death, I discovered Gilbert had left affairs in considerable disarray. His fondness for cards had created debts I knew nothing about.” Her voice remained steady despite the evident pain behind the words. “Most creditors were reasonable, willing to accept payment arrangements or partial settlements. Lord Shropshire, however, proved... problematic.”

Alexander’s jaw tightened at the mention of the man they had encountered in Sidmouth. He wrote a single word: How?

Lady Sinclair hesitated, propriety warring visibly with honesty. “His demands were not limited to financial compensation,” she finally said, the careful phrasing more revealing than explicit detail. “When I made it clear such arrangements were unacceptable, his methods became increasingly aggressive.”

Anger flared in Alexander’s chest—a protective rage he had not experienced since before Spain. That a man of Shropshire’s standing should so abuse his position, should threaten a widowed gentlewoman with such dishonorable proposals, violated every principle of conduct Alexander had been raised to uphold.

Sensing his indignation, Lady Sinclair touched his sleeve lightly—the briefest contact, yet it sent a jolt of awareness through him like a lightning strike. “Please don’t concern yourself,” she said softly. “I’ve managed thus far, and Lord Camden’s commission provides means to satisfy at least the most pressing financial obligations.”

Alexander shook his head, unwilling to dismiss the matter so easily. He wrote: Shropshire’s behavior is unacceptable. No gentleman would press such advantage against a lady.

“The world contains fewer gentlemen than one might hope,” she replied with a sad smile that suggested experience beyond her years. “But I’ve discovered unexpected kindness in places society taught me not to look.” Her gaze shifted toward Abigail, who had settled some distance away with her sewing. “Loyalty that transcends station or circumstance.”

She turned to a fresh page in her sketchbook, this time drawing the distinctive outline of Balfour Abbey with swift, confident strokes. “And now I find myself here, by fortunate chance or providence, employed in work I genuinely love among people of...” she hesitated, a faint color rising in her cheeks, “...of unexpected understanding.”

The compliment, delivered with such unaffected sincerity, touched something long dormant in Alexander’s chest. How strange that this woman—herself wounded by life’s tragedies, struggling against circumstances not of her making—should see in him not the broken remnant of a man but someone capable of understanding.

Acting on impulse rather than calculation, he reached into his coat pocket for the small package he had brought. The moment seemed right for the gesture he had contemplated since observing her careful preservation of her brushes, noting how she cleaned and stored them with particular attention to their delicate tips.

He extended the parcel toward her, suddenly self-conscious as she accepted it with evident surprise. Her fingers brushed his in the exchange, the contact brief yet charged with significance beyond its physical dimension.

“For me?” she asked, her expression betraying genuine astonishment. When he nodded, she carefully unwrapped the tissue paper to reveal a brush of exceptional quality—its handle enameled in deep blue with silver inlay, its sable tip perfectly formed for the detailed work she preferred.

“Oh!” The soft exclamation conveyed more feeling than elaborate speech could have managed. Her fingers traced the delicate pattern of silver leaves winding around the handle, her expression suffused with pleasure. “Lord Aldeburgh, this is exquisite. I’ve never owned such a fine instrument.”

Alexander felt an unexpected warmth spread through his chest at her evident delight. He had acquired the brush in Florence during his Grand Tour, part of a set purchased on artistic impulse though he had never developed sufficient skill to justify their quality. For years the case had remained in his chambers, unused but not forgotten—like so many abandoned possibilities from his former life.

He took his notebook once more: A small token of appreciation for your patience with a difficult subject. The blue reminded me of the sea as you’ve captured it in your sketches.

“Thank you,” she said simply, holding the brush as though it were crafted from spun glass rather than mere wood and animal hair. “I shall treasure it both for its beauty and for the thoughtfulness behind the gift.”

Something in her gaze—a warmth beyond professional gratitude, a connection transcending their formal association—sent an unfamiliar flutter through Alexander’s chest. Before he could examine the sensation more closely, Abigail approached with a discreet cough that signaled the arrival of the stable lad with their picnic provisions.

The moment dissolved, replaced by practical considerations of arranging their simple meal in the sheltered hollow. Yet as they dined on cold chicken and fresh bread, Alexander found his gaze returning repeatedly to Lady Sinclair’s animated countenance as she described her artistic training and ambitions.

They lingered in the sheltered cove until late afternoon, Lady Sinclair filling her sketchbook with studies of sea and sky while Alexander attempted his own more modest efforts. The hours passed with remarkable swiftness, comfortable silence alternating with her occasional observations about light or composition, delivered without expectation of response yet inclusive, nonetheless.

The journey back to Balfour Abbey held a different quality than their outward path—a sense of shared experience that transcended the mere fact of having occupied the same physical space. Something had shifted between them during those hours on the cliff, Alexander realized. A barrier had been removed, revealing aspects of each other usually kept carefully concealed behind social masks.

As they approached the Abbey’s east gate, Alexander found himself reluctant to re-enter the formal world awaiting them—the structured routine of dinner, his mother’s critical presence, the careful distance maintained between earl and artist. Here on the coastal path, rank and circumstance had briefly receded, allowing connection unmediated by social expectation.

The illusion shattered as they entered the gardens to find Jenkins awaiting them with carefully neutral expression. “My lord,” he said, addressing Alexander with punctilious correctness. “Her Ladyship requests your presence in her study immediately upon your return.”

Alexander’s shoulders tensed at the message, recognizing the summons for what it was—his mother’s disapproval of the day’s expedition manifesting in formal reprimand. He nodded acknowledgment before turning to Lady Sinclair with genuine regret.

Thank you for today, he wrote hastily. Your company was most refreshing. Tomorrow’s session as usual?

“Of course,” she replied, though something in her expression suggested she too recognized the significance of the dowager’s summons. “Until tomorrow, then.”

Alexander watched her retreat toward the east wing with Abigail before turning toward the main house, steeling himself for the confrontation ahead. His mother’s displeasure was a familiar adversary, yet one he found increasingly difficult to tolerate as his own strength gradually returned.

Lady Aldeburgh awaited him in the small study she had claimed as her personal domain following his father’s death.

“You have been walking with Lady Sinclair,” she stated without preamble as he entered. Not a question but an accusation, delivered with the inflection that had intimidated servants and society hostesses alike throughout Alexander’s childhood.

He inclined his head, neither confirming nor denying the self-evident fact of their excursion. His mother’s lips thinned at this display of what she clearly considered insolence. “I have observed with increasing concern the developing familiarity between yourself and this... woman,” she continued, arranging herself more formally in her chair as though preparing to deliver a prepared address. “While allowances must be made for the unusual circumstances of her employment, certain boundaries of propriety cannot be breached without consequence.”

Alexander remained standing, unwilling to settle into what would inevitably become a lengthy lecture. His notebook remained closed in his hand—a silent indication of his reluctance to engage in the conversation his mother clearly anticipated.

Lady Aldeburgh’s gaze flicked to the notebook before returning to his face. “I have received a letter,” she said, lifting a folded sheet from her desk with deliberate care. “From a Lord Shropshire, with whom I am not personally acquainted. He writes expressing concern about Lady Sinclair’s presence in our household.”

The mention of Shropshire’s name sent a jolt of alarm through Alexander. He opened his notebook with swift urgency, writing: What possible business could Shropshire have concerning our household arrangements?

“None directly,” Lady Aldeburgh conceded after reading his note. “However, as a concerned member of society, he felt obligated to inform me of certain... irregularities... regarding Lady Sinclair’s circumstances.”

Alexander’s jaw tightened as he wrote: Irregularities? “It seems your artist,” Lady Aldeburgh pronounced the word with delicate distaste, “has developed a reputation for securing patronage through means beyond her professional talents.” She held up a hand to forestall his immediate protest. “I do not suggest impropriety has occurred within this household. However, the mere appearance of such a possibility demands immediate correction.”

Rage built in Alexander’s chest—not the hot, explosive anger of youth but something colder and more controlled, forged in the crucible of battlefield discipline. He wrote with such force that the pencil nearly tore through the paper: Shropshire’s insinuations are beneath contempt. Lady Sinclair is a gentlewoman of impeccable character whose current circumstances result from her husband’s death, not her own faults.

Lady Aldeburgh read his words with narrowed eyes, her expression hardening as she reached the implied comparison to her own widowhood. “Circumstances alter cases,” she replied with glacial precision. “Her husband may have died tragically, but he left his widow in disgrace through gambling debts and financial impropriety. A true gentleman provides for his dependents even in death.”

The hypocrisy of this statement—coming from a woman who had repeatedly emphasized Alexander’s obligation to secure the Balfour line regardless of his personal desires—struck him with force. He wrote again, underlining key phrases for emphasis: Lady Sinclair has responded to adversity with dignity and resourcefulness. Her willingness to employ her talents rather than rely on charity speaks to her character, not her disgrace.

“A lady does not work,” his mother countered, her voice rising slightly in the first display of genuine emotion. “A lady does not travel unaccompanied save for a maid barely out of the schoolroom. A lady does not form connections with gentlemen outside the sanctioned boundaries of proper society!”

The last accusation hung between them, its real meaning unmistakable despite Lady Aldeburgh’s characteristic avoidance of direct statement. She believed—or chose to believe—that something improper had developed between Alexander and Lady Sinclair, something that threatened the dignity of the Balfour name and her own carefully maintained position as arbiter of its social standing.

Alexander tore the page from his notebook, starting afresh with careful control of his mounting anger: What precisely are you suggesting, Mother? That I have compromised Lady Sinclair? Or perhaps that she has somehow ensnared me through feminine wiles? Either assumption is offensive to us both.

Her lips thinned as she read his response, but she said nothing, merely lifting one silver eyebrow in an expression he had long ago learned to interpret as disbelief mingled with disappointment.

Unable to bear her silent condemnation, Alexander wrote once more: Lady Sinclair has brought more life and purpose to this house in a few weeks than all your careful management has achieved in a year. She sees me, Mother—not as the invalid you’ve already buried in your mind, but as a man still capable of thought and feeling and worthwhile existence.

Taking the page from his hand, she tore it deliberately in half, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “I have had quite enough of this particular form of communication,” she announced.

“It grows tiresome, and in any case, Dr. Morrison has repeatedly stated that you retain the physical capability for speech. Your continued silence is a choice, Alexander, not a necessity—a choice that dishonors your father’s memory and your own responsibilities.”

The accusation struck deeper than she could know, piercing the armor of indifference Alexander had cultivated since Spain. His hands clenched at his sides, the physical manifestation of emotions too complex and painful to express even had he possessed the voice to do so.

Lady Aldeburgh pressed her advantage, producing a fresh sheet of paper from her desk. “I will not give my blessing to any connection between yourself and Lady Sinclair beyond the professional arrangement already established,” she wrote in her elegant hand. “The portrait may proceed, but I expect all interaction to occur within proper boundaries and under appropriate supervision.”

She extended the note toward him with the imperial confidence of one accustomed to unquestioned obedience. “You must know that your position requests sacrifices, Alexander. I would hope that recent events have taught you the importance of duty over personal inclination.”

The reference to his wartime service—deployed as a tool to enforce her will rather than acknowledge his sacrifice—tore through him like a storm of bullets from a rifle. A storm of memory threatened at the edges of his consciousness; screams he could no longer hear still echoed in his mind. The flames he could still feel against his skin, the desperate reaching for lives he had failed to save...

He turned abruptly, unwilling to permit his mother this glimpse into the abyss that still yawned beneath his carefully maintained composure. He kept his head down as he rushed from the study, trying his level best to swallow the rage building within him.

To his mild surprise, his feet led him to the music room and Alexander moved to the easel where his own modest attempts at drawing awaited, staring at the carefully balanced composition with sudden dissatisfaction.

With deliberate movement, he selected a fresh sheet of paper and new materials—charcoal rather than pencil, red and black chalk rather than the muted tones he typically employed. The paintbrush worked almost mechanically in his hand, the world appearing on his canvas as his fingers deftly moved across it. The village aflame.

The mother clutching her child as timbers crashed around them. His own desperate lunge toward them, knowing even as he moved that he would be too late, that the distance was too great, that his reaching hands would close on emptiness...

Pain lanced behind his eyes, sharp and sudden as a bayonet thrust. He barely registered the sound of the door opening, the soft gasp as Lady Sinclair entered and observed his state.

“My lord?”

Sophia’s voice seemed to impossibly reach him across a vast distance, and he turned toward her, aware that his expression must betray the internal battle but unable to reassemble his usual mask of composure.

“Are you unwell?” she asked, crossing the room with swift concern. “You’re terribly pale—and your drawing...”

She hesitated, her gaze moving to the paper where his anguish had taken visible form.

“May I?” she asked and gestured toward the drawing.

He nodded, suddenly exhausted. Lady Sinclair studied the drawing with the focused attention she brought to all artistic matters, her expression reflecting neither revulsion nor false sympathy, but thoughtful assessment of the raw emotion captured in those violent strokes.

“This is Spain,” she said quietly, not a question but a statement of recognition. “What you’ve kept locked within yourself since your return.”

The simple acknowledgment affected Alexander more powerfully than he could have anticipated. A tremor passed through him, vision blurring as pain lanced from temple to temple with increasing intensity.

She reached out, laying a hand upon his arm. “You’re in pain,” she observed. “Let me help you to your chambers before it worsens.”

He nodded once, the movement sending fresh agony through his skull. Lady Sinclair’s arm slipped around his waist, providing support with surprising strength for one of her slender build. “Lean on me,” she instructed, her voice pitched low but clear enough for him to read her lips through the encroaching fog of pain. “Abigail is near—I’ll send her for Dr. Morrison.”

The journey from atelier to bedchamber passed in fragmented impressions: the cool touch of Lady Sinclair’s hand against his fevered brow, the momentary glimpse of his mother’s startled face as they passed through the main hall, Abigail’s swift departure to summon the physician, the blessed dimness of his chambers as Jenkins closed the heavy curtains against the late afternoon sun.