Narrative: "Meanwhile, somewhere in the Atlantic...."

 

Aboard HMS Elysium
Captain’s Quarters – Sixth Night at Sea

The ship’s lanterns swayed faintly, casting amber light across polished oak, brass sextants, and neatly rolled charts. The scent of salt air drifted in every time a gust pressed its way through the seams of the stern windows. Dinner was simple but respectable — Elysium still had supplies to spare. Before each man sat a tin plate of salted cod baked with shipboard herbs, boiled potatoes, onions sautéed in pork drippings, and a heel of dark bread softened with watered wine. A pewter decanter sat between them, trembling slightly with every swell.

Captain Noah Doyle, broad-shouldered, graying at the temples, rested both hands calmly beside his plate, though his eyes were sharp and unsettled — the eyes of a man whose mind never quite left the deck.

To his right sat Lieutenant Roger Harburne, commander of the Marine detachment: straight-backed, sun-darkened, disciplined to the sinew. His uniform coat was immaculate despite the sea air, though his brow showed the thought he did not outwardly voice.

Across from Harburne, Lieutenant Solomon Culver lounged with the seriousness of a man who pretended to be less bothered than he was. A clever navigator and gentleman, he tapped lightly on the table whenever thought overtook him.

At the far end, silent until addressed, Midshipman Ezra Frood, youthful, earnest, hungry for approval and knowledge in equal measure, kept his fork poised, unsure whether to eat or absorb every word.

---

The Conversation

“Six days down,” Culver murmured between slow bites, “and if the winds keep their temper, perhaps eighteen more. If not—” He lifted his brows. “We shall see St. Albion when God remembers us.”

Captain Doyle allowed a faint, humorless smile.

“We have had worse starts, Lieutenant. And better.”
“Sir, will the winds truly force us another three weeks? I had hoped—”

“Hope is welcome, Mr. Frood. It just doesn’t fill a sail.”

Midshipman Frood straightened as Doyle cut gently across him.

A soft chuckle circled the table — even Harburne’s mouth twitched before turning grave again.

At length, Doyle shifted his gaze to Harburne.

“And your Marines, Lieutenant — how fare they?”

Harburne’s jaw clenched before he spoke.

“They fare as well as any men can, Captain. They are competent, loyal, and determined. But competent determination is not a substitute for numbers.”

“How many are there of them? From what I have heard tell, Marines usually come in groups of 20 or more."

Culver set down his fork.

“Eighteen marines, not including myself, two artillery crews of battery-men, and five regular army soldiers for the garrison.” Harburne said quietly.

A heavy silence followed.

“God’s wounds…” Culver whispered.

“Official orders permitted no more,” Harburne continued. “Governor Whitehall’s request, Admiralty approval. Peaceful relations, he claims, require soft edges, not the appearance of an invading battalion. Plus the two field pieces have been there at the fort for some time in the storehouse under cover since there was no crews for them, and the additional regulars to fill out the fort garrison."

Captain Doyle exhaled slowly.

“Yes. Whitehall’s truce.”

No one spoke for a moment — only the gentle groan of the ship’s timbers against the Atlantic.

Frood ventured, hesitantly, “Sir… is St. Albion truly so precarious?”

Culver looked to Doyle, who answered with controlled candor.

“Port Dominion stands because every man there understands he cannot afford otherwise. Governor Whitehall’s diplomacy has held back the teeth of Spanish, French, and Dutch alike — but teeth do not vanish because they have agreed, temporarily, not to bite.”

Harburne added, voice quiet but edged, “And a wolf does not become a lapdog because it has eaten.”

Culver raised his cup.

“To polite wolves.”

Doyle did not drink. “We are sailing into a colony where powder is scarce, tempers are currency, and rumor is ammunition. We are not reinforcements — we are reassurance.”

He paused — his voice lowered.

“And reassurance must sometimes pretend to be strength.”

Frood swallowed, staring at his plate.

After several moments, Doyle leaned back, expression calmer, almost philosophical.  “We shall arrive with dignity, discipline, and clarity. And God willing, before anyone decides to test the fragility of Governor Whitehall’s diplomacy.”

“And should they test it…” Harburne said, eyes steady, “Eighteen Marines will answer, Captain.”

Doyle nodded, resolute — and troubled.

“Then, Lieutenant… let us pray eighteen shall be enough.”

"Reflections and thoughts before bed..."

From the journal entries of Benedict Marlowe.

The Inn of the King’s Arms, Port Dominion.

Saturday, April the 22nd.

Evening — My Chambers at The King’s Arms

Tonight my hand trembles not from fear, nor from labor, nor from wine, but from the strange and unnameable agitation that has settled deep within my breast since sunrise. I have lived modestly, quietly, almost invisibly upon the island of St. Albion since my arrival scarcely less than one month past — and yet today I found myself at the very heart of an affair of utmost consequence, entrusted by persons of stature, rank, and elegance beyond my merit. I must record all, lest time or sleep should dull the edges of memory, for I doubt that this day shall ever fade from me.

I was summoned in the morning by Mr. Franklin Benjamin, Clerk of Port Dominion and a man whose intellect is as formidable as his manner is courteous and his attention to duty is commendable. His request was simple in words though heavy in implication: Lady Eleanor Whitehall, wife of His Lordship the Governor, had penned a personal invitation to a visiting noblewoman — the Contessa Maria Theresa Isabella Emilia Lucia Gabriella Rosalina Liliana Paloma;  the La Condesa de Valencia del Mar — and required a trustworthy messenger to ensure it reached her hand without delay, interruption, or indiscretion. No official courier was available, and thus I was entrusted with the task.

I bowed and accepted before my reason could interfere.

From Mr. Benjamin I proceeded to the office of Mr. Alastair Greene, Governor’s Secretary, a man whose ambition is only barely masked by polished civility. He reviewed the letter with a severity I found unnecessary, and though neither of them stated it aloud, I sensed that this invitation was no mere social courtesy, but a gesture heavy with political curiosity, perhaps even diplomatic testing of waters. Still, neither man gave hint of the Governor’s opinion on it. Perhaps in a sense, there was a small amount of envy trickling forth from him towards me in knowing of the important task that I was to undertake and that he would not have any guiding hand towards.

By late morning I set out toward the Contessa’s residence on horseback, the sealed envelope tucked safely inside my breast pocket, close enough that with each breath I felt it tap against my ribs like a small insistent drum. The journey, though not long, allowed ample time for my mind to torment itself — Why me? Would my performance reflect upon my future prospects? Upon the esteem of Mr. Greene? Of Mr. Benjamin? Of Lady Eleanor herself?

But all these anxious inquiries were soon erased when I reached her home, and was admitted into the presence of the Contessa herself.

I know not how to express the effect she had upon me without being mistaken for a fool or a poet, yet I must write: she is unlike any woman I have ever seen — foreign grace, dark eyes full of midnight flame, and a manner both commanding and intoxicating. Her words, accented with the music of Spain, seemed to glide rather than fall. When she accepted the letter from my hand, her fingertips brushed mine — so lightly that it could have been dismissed as accident, but my entire body felt it as though thunder rolled beneath my skin. She thanked me with a smile that revealed nothing and everything. A knowing smile — as though she could see straight through my heart and my inexperience.

When I left her presence, I found myself breathing as though I had escaped drowning.

Upon my return to the Governor’s House, I first reported to Mr. Greene. His eyes narrowed with an eagerness he tried to bury beneath administrative neutrality. He questioned me as though I were a witness on trial — what she said, how she looked, what impression she gave, whether she seemed pleased or offended or amused. I answered truthfully, though he seemed to hear hidden meanings where I placed none. At times, as he listened to my answers to his seemingly endless dissecting questions, it seemed he gripped the glass of wine in his hand so tightly that I feared it would shatter

Next, I reported to Mr. Benjamin, who proved far more concerned with efficiency than interpretation. He nodded, smiled, noted, dismissed — though I could see behind his spectacles that he was calculating outcomes two and three steps ahead. In his manner, he would probably speak a word of two to me in private about this in the days forthcoming. He is an accomplished fellow, and mentors me well.

Then, unexpectedly, I was escorted to Lady Eleanor herself.

I have never been so aware of my posture, my tongue, my very breathing as when standing before her. She possesses a beauty that is light where the Contessa’s is shadow — English poise, pale refinement, calm intelligence behind delicate eyes. I told her all that was required, though her gaze seemed to search for more than my spoken account allowed. When she asked what the Contessa was like, I feared my voice might betray my impression, so I answered with respectful reserve. She received my reply with grace, though I fancied I detected a spark — whether of curiosity, concern, or calculation, I cannot say.

I believed the matter concluded, yet scarcely an hour passed before a Spanish messenger arrived at Government House requesting my presence — me, a mere clerk, not an officer nor aide — to retrieve the Contessa’s formal written acceptance. The astonishment of Mr. Greene and Mr. Benjamin was near comical, though neither allowed it full expression.

Thus I returned again to the Contessa, and again stood in her presence. She handed me her sealed letter herself — and once more her fingertips grazed mine, so faintly it might not have occurred, yet my pulse hammered as if she had taken my hand entirely. She thanked me again — not as a servant, nor as a clerk — but as though I were a worthy envoy. Her voice, low and warm, has lodged itself within my memory.

And then — it was over.

The sun was low in the afternoon by the time I returned to Government House to complete my final round of reporting. Mr. Benjamin expressed terse approval, a slight nod, and even slighter, but noticeable, smile. Mr. Greene appeared almost frustrated that I had become the necessary link in the chain rather than himself; he cloaked it, but poorly.

Finally, Lady Eleanor again — she seemed genuinely pleased, though thoughtful, as if contemplating the turning of unseen cogs. I bowed, handed over the Contessa’s reply, and was released with gentle words of thanks which, absurdly, I shall treasure.

Tonight, at last, I sit within my rented chamber at The King’s Arms. For supper I ate a modest plate of salted fish, brown bread, and onion broth, washed down with mild ale. The common room swirled with rumor — pirates sighted westward, whispers of Spanish dignitaries, and speculation that Government House is preparing something unusual. No one yet knows of the invitation — but they soon will. News is a forest fire in this colony.

And what do I feel?

Exalted.

Confused.

Hopeful.

Troubled.

Determined.

Two women of high rank now exist in my thoughts like opposing constellations — one of English daylight and propriety, one of Spanish midnight and dazzling secrets. I have spoken more today to persons of influence than I have in my entire life.

If my fate is ever altered — it began today.

May Heaven guide my steps.

For I do not trust my own heart.

Narrative: "A Quiet Conversation at Whitehall Manor..."

 (The Players for this evening's narrative at the Lord Governor's residence....)

(Lord Governor Henry Whitehall)

(Lady Eleanor Whitehall)

The Governor’s Study, Government House, Port Dominion

The Night of April the 22nd.

The hour was late, and the house lay in the kind of stillness that only the tropics knew — heavy, fragrant, and full of hidden life. All was still and quiet save for the distant sigh of the sea and the faint ticking of the longcase clock in the hall. A lamp burned low in the Governor’s study, its glow confined to a small circle of warmth amid the dark-paneled room. Outside, the wind stirred in the palms, carrying the salt scent of the harbor.  The study glowed with lamplight, warm against the darkness pressing at the shutters. The faint sea breeze slipped through the open window, stirring the curtains like the breath of a ghost.

Lord Henry Whitehall stood near the mantel, one hand braced against it, the other hovering indecisively between a glass of brandy and a carafe of red wine. He was a man divided — between his soldier’s discipline and his private unease. The dispatches on his desk, the map of St. Albion pinned to the wall, the faint scratch of the tide against the rocks below — all pressed upon him with the familiar weight of duty. And yet, tonight, duty had a new and more perplexing face: that of La Contessa Maria Theresa Isabella Emilia Lucia Gabriella Rosalina Liliana Paloma. But for now, his immediate division was set upon "what to drink".

On the desk beside him lay the Contessa’s letter, opened and read, its seal broken with the same care one gives to something both fragile and dangerous.  He looked at the two bottles before him — one of brandy, one of red wine — as if they were two possible remedies for the same affliction. “Brandy or wine,” he murmured to himself. “Strength or surrender.”

Lady Eleanor entered quietly, as she always did — not with ceremony, but presence. Her silk robe of deep blue shimmered faintly in the lamplight; her hair was unbound, though neatly so, giving her the look of a woman who understood even the art of informality.

“Lucy is asleep,” she said softly, closing the door behind her. “Dreaming, no doubt, of Spanish ladies, jewels, and grand dinners.”

Henry’s mouth curved faintly. “Then she dreams the dreams of half the island tonight.” He sighed as he eyes the brandy. “At least one of us will sleep soundly tonight.”

Eleanor crossed the room, the sound of her steps softened by the carpet. “You’ve read the Contessa’s reply?”

He gestured toward it with his glass — he had chosen the brandy after all. “Twice. Perhaps three times.And still I’m not sure whether to admire the woman or to suspect her of a dozen motives. With each reading, it leaves me no more certain whether I should thank her or be wary.”

“That,” said Eleanor, taking a seat on the velvet settee by the fire, “is precisely the correct response.”

Henry turned to study her, one brow lifting. “You seem to admire her, my dear.”  

“That uncertainty,” Eleanor said, seating herself gracefully by the fire, “is the first sign she has written well. A clever woman never allows her meaning to rest entirely upon the page.”

He gave a dry laugh, then poured himself the brandy at last. “You find her words clever.”

“I find them careful,” she replied. “She knows exactly what she says, and more importantly, what she does not. It is an art I can appreciate.”

Henry turned toward her, glass in hand. The light caught his face — handsome still, but drawn by the burdens of command. “You do sound as if you admire her.”

“I respect her,” Eleanor replied. “Respect born of recognition. She knows her influence, and she wields it as one might a fan — lightly, but with intent. I do not envy her beauty, but I do admire her nerve.”

Henry stood silently for a moment, listening and watching Eleanor as she spoke, his mind taking in her words, both spoken and unspoken; the meaning and the intent. 

"Go on." He said to her with a slight nod.

Eleanor spoke quietly but with a determination in her tone. "Admire her? I do. And I do not,” she said. “I admire her poise, her intellect, her understanding of power. But admiration is not affection. She means to play a game, and I intend to ensure she plays it on my board, not hers.”

He sipped the brandy, letting its heat steady him. “A game, yes… though it feels as though there are too many being played at once.” He set the glass down, his voice lowering. “There are reports of pirates again — Benjamin brought me three this morning. Merchant ships sighting sails off the southern shoals. Could be nothing, but… the last time we said that, a schooner vanished.”

Eleanor tilted her head, studying him. “And what do you believe?”

“I believe this island has grown complacent. The fort is short on powder and shot. Winthrop has reported to me that has sent two letters this week begging for resupply. We have no ships fit for defense, and London sends us nothing but words.”  He glanced towards the fire, as he swirled the brandy in his glass and his thoughts in his head before speaking again. "It is by God's grace alone that we have not been attacked, overrun, plundered, and destroyed. It seems to be common knowledge that powder and shot are in short supply here...."

“You will find no powder in a Contessa’s wine cellar,” she murmured.

He looked at her sharply — not in anger, but with weary amusement. “No. But I may find information. Spain’s trade routes, their privateers, even their intentions. A woman like her moves in circles that speak freely when flattered.”

“Then we shall flatter her,” Eleanor said smoothly.

The words hung between them — simple, decisive, quietly dangerous.  He took a slow sip of the brandy, before breaking the silence. “And do you think she comes to dine with us out of courtesy or calculation?”

Eleanor’s eyes flicked to the letter. “Both, I should think. Courtesy in public, calculation in private. There’s a reason she accepted so swiftly.”

Henry grunted in agreement, then exhaled through his nose — a tired sound. “And while the courtly women play their games, I must manage the less charming realities — pirates off the coast, merchant captains in panic, supplies at Fort Hemmerly so low they might as well be prayers. Benjamin's reports of the three sightings this week alone. And if that weren’t enough, London sends word via dispatch that war may soon reach even this far corner of Her Majesty’s dominions. We are not "officially" at war on the continent yet, but we are there already, and shot is being exchanged." He sighed again and pinched between his eyes with his finger and thumb. "This truce can end at any moment, and the last thing we may see is our English flag being hauled down like so much laundry by Spanish or French soldiers, or even pirates." 

“Then we must see that the island appears as strong as it sounds,” Eleanor said. “Appearances, as ever, are our first line of defense.”

Henry gave a low chuckle. “You sound like Benjamin now.”

“Mr. Benjamin,” she replied coolly, “is a man who mistakes ambition for wisdom. But I do agree with him on one point — perception can rule where powder and shot cannot.”

He studied her, thoughtful. “And what of Greene?”

Eleanor’s mouth curved slightly. “Ah, Mr. Greene. He plays his games closer to home. I think he means to use this dinner to curry favor — with you, with me, perhaps even with the Contessa. He’s a spider, Henry, and he’s weaving.”

Henry made a noise between amusement and disdain. “If he weaves too close to me, I shall burn his web.”

Henry regarded his wife for a long moment. “Eleanor,” he said at last, “do you ever tire of it? This endless diplomacy — the smiles, the subtlety, the watching and being watched?”

Her lips curved slightly. “Do you?”

He sighed. “Every day. But without it, this island would fall apart. Between pirates, politics, and whispers of war in Europe, we stand on a powder keg, and I—” He stopped himself, looking away toward the window, where the moonlight glimmered faintly on the sea. “Sometimes I wonder how long the powder will keep from being lit.”

Eleanor rose from her seat and crossed to him. “You will keep it safe,” she said quietly. “You always do.”

Henry nodded silently, and just muttered "Greene..." before Eleanor responded.

“You’ll have the opportunity,” she said lightly. “But speaking of opportunities — you might consider inviting Monsieur LeCroissant. His counsel could—”

Henry turned sharply toward her, his expression one of exaggerated pain. “Eleanor, please. I could not bear having her and that French fop sitting at our table at the same time. It would become a ludicrous carnival!”

She laughed softly — a rare, genuine sound. “I had thought as much. Your sense of decorum would not survive the spectacle.”

“Decorum?” he scoffed. “My sanity, Eleanor! The woman would speak of art and God’s mysteries in the same breath, and LeCroissant would interrupt with a toast to his own reflection.”

Eleanor’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Then we are in agreement. Let us spare ourselves the farce. I shall ensure Monsieur LeCroissant learns of the dinner after it occurs — through whispers, not invitation.”

Henry nodded, visibly relieved. “You always did know how to manage the delicate and the insufferable.”

She inclined her head slightly. “It is a talent born of necessity.”

They stood in quiet a moment — two figures bound by love, by ambition, and by the peculiar isolation of power.

At last, Eleanor spoke again. “I will begin the guest list tomorrow. Eight, perhaps nine at most. The Contessa will expect intimacy, not spectacle. You shall handle the men; I shall manage the ladies. Between us, we’ll hold the whole colony in the palm of our hands for one evening.”

Henry nodded, his weariness giving way to resolve. “Then let it be so.” He looked again toward the letter, lying like a crimson secret upon the desk. “Strange, isn’t it — how a few lines of ink can stir half a world of consequence.”

Eleanor followed his gaze. “Stranger still,” she murmured, “how a woman’s hand can write in such a way that no man is certain whether he has been flattered or warned.”

Henry smiled, faintly. “Then may we be both — and neither.”

“Precisely,” she said.

He raised his glass. “To the dinner, then.”

Eleanor lifted hers in reply, the candlelight catching the gold rim as she smiled — calm, cunning, and utterly untroubled. “To the game that has already begun.”

And as they drank in the quiet, the waves below struck softly against the rocks — the slow heartbeat of a world that was shifting, quietly, under the weight of their choices.

Narrative: "A Supper at Whitehall Manor..."

  (The Players for this evening's narrative at the Lord Governor's residence....)

(Lord Governor Henry Whitehall)

(Lady Eleanor Whitehall)

(Miss Lucy Whitehall)

Supper at Government House

Port Dominion, St. Albion — Saturday, April the 22nd.

The evening settled softly over the Governor’s mansion, the last of the sunlight slipping behind the western hills and leaving the harbor below scattered with glimmering lights. The great house, that proud relic of English order perched above the restless Caribbean, glowed warmly within — the light of civility against the humid dark.

In the dining room, the Whitehall's table had been laid with care: polished mahogany gleamed beneath the shimmer of candlelight; silver utensils reflected the flames like small, steady stars. The scent of roasted fowl mingled with that of stewed plantain and nutmeg — a colonial feast dressed in English restraint. Servants moved quietly in the background, their steps soft as breath upon the tiled floor.

Lord Henry Whitehall sat at the head of the table, posture erect, his uniform coat unbuttoned just enough to betray the day’s fatigue. To his right, Lady Eleanor — composed, luminous as always — presided with graceful command. Between them sat their young Lucy, her eyes bright with curiosity and delight.

The first course was being served — a delicate turtle soup, rich but clear — when Lucy, unable to contain herself any longer, looked up from her spoon and said eagerly,

“Is it true, Mama? Has the Contessa written back? Has she accepted?”

Lady Eleanor smiled faintly, folding her napkin with deliberate care before answering her stepdaughter. “She has indeed, my love. Her letter arrived this afternoon by Mr. Marlowe’s hand. The Contessa was most gracious in her reply — she will join us for dinner on the twenty-ninth.”

Lucy clapped her hands softly in delight, earning a gentle ahem from her father. “Oh, Papa! How splendid! I have never met a real Spanish lady before. Do you think she will wear jewels — like the ones in the stories?”

Lord Whitehall chuckled at his young daughters excitement over seeing a Spanish "lady" before setting down his spoon. “Perhaps she will, though I imagine the Contessa’s greatest jewel is her manner. The Spanish have a way of turning conversation into ornament, and silence into a sword.”

Eleanor looked toward him, her expression calm but knowing. “A poet’s answer, my dear Henry. You’ve been reading dispatches all day — I had not thought poetry among them.”

He gave her a wry smile. “One learns to read between the lines, my dear — especially when those lines are written by those who flatter and conceal in equal measure.”

Lucy blinked between them, sensing the current of something unspoken though not understanding it. “What does that mean, Papa?”

Eleanor reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind Lucy’s ear. “It means, darling, that grown-ups sometimes say one thing while thinking another. It is the way of the world — especially among those who dine by candlelight and write with perfume upon their paper.”

Henry’s brow arched slightly. “A delicate jab, Eleanor?”

“An observation,” she replied, her tone light as air. “And one you will appreciate when you read her letter yourself.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgment, eyes glinting with restrained amusement. “After supper, then. Or better — tomorrow morning, before the day’s duties steal my thoughts away. I would rather sleep on a full stomach and an empty mind tonight.”

“As you wish,” she said, and something subtle passed between them — a private understanding that their real conversation would begin only after the house was quiet, when Lucy slept and the masks of civility could be set aside.

The next course arrived: roasted pheasant glazed with Madeira and island spice, its aroma rich and warm. Lady Eleanor poured a modest measure of wine for herself and her husband, allowing Lucy only a sip watered with water and fruit.

Lucy continued to chatter happily between mouthfuls. “Will she bring her servants with her, Mama? Oh! And her Spanish wines — you said she has vineyards!”

Eleanor smiled, amused by her step-daughter’s earnestness. “Indeed she will, my love. She has promised a case of her finest. You shall not taste it, of course, but perhaps you may be allowed to see it — from a distance.”

Henry laughed quietly. “I think our daughter imagines this dinner will be a grand ball.”

Lucy’s cheeks flushed. “It sounds ever so grand already. Everyone will be watching, won’t they? The Contessa, and you and Mama, and all the fine guests!”

Eleanor exchanged a look with her husband — one part amusement, one part calculation. “Yes, dearest,” she said softly. “Everyone will be watching.”

Henry’s smile faded slightly as he set down his fork. “Then we must be certain they see what we wish them to see.”

A beat of silence followed — the kind of pause filled with meaning for adults and none for children. Eleanor reached for her glass, her expression smooth. “Always, my dear Henry. That is the art of it, is it not?”

Lucy, oblivious to the undercurrent, resumed her chatter, recounting a tale one of the servants had told her of a Spanish princess who could calm the sea with her singing. Her parents listened, each wearing the indulgent half-smiles of those thinking of other things.

As dessert was served — sugared fruits, cream, and sponge cake scented with orange — the conversation softened to the familiar rhythms of family comfort. The candlelight flickered on Henry’s face, showing lines of thought that had little to do with ships or soldiers now. Eleanor, poised and serene, watched him from across the table, her mind already preparing for the conversation that would follow later, when Lucy was tucked into bed and the house was quiet once more.

For now, she let the illusion of calm prevail.

When supper concluded, Henry rose and offered Eleanor his arm as they led Lucy from the table. The servants began to clear the dishes, their movements echoing softly in the great room as the household drifted toward its evening routines.

Lucy lingered for a moment at the doorway, her eyes bright. “Mama?” she asked. “Do you think the Contessa will like me?”

Eleanor bent to kiss her forehead. “I think, my darling, the Contessa will find you utterly charming — as we all do.”

Satisfied, Lucy skipped away toward her nurse and the upper chambers.

Henry watched her go, then turned to Eleanor, lowering his voice. “When she’s asleep,” he murmured, “you’ll show me the letter.”

Eleanor met his gaze evenly, her lips curving in that quiet, knowing smile of hers. “Of course. But not before. I want you to read it with a clear mind — and a steady heart, if that is what you wish. You did say at the table you wanted to sleep on a full stomach and an empty head, but if you wish to read it tonight, then I shall have it for your eyes."

He studied her for a moment, perhaps wondering at her tone, then nodded. “Very well. After she’s asleep.”

The evening air drifted in from the veranda, scented with salt and frangipani. Somewhere below, the waves broke faintly against the rocks, steady as breath.

For now, the house was peaceful — yet beneath its calm, the tide of intrigue had already begun to rise. And as the candles guttered and flared, the unspoken promise hung between husband and wife:
Tonight, the true conversation would begin.

"Afternoon thoughts...."

 

Private Journal of Lady Eleanor Whitehall

Afternoon of Friday, April the 22th, — Port Dominion, St. Albion

The light this afternoon is thin and golden, falling through the tall windows of my sitting room and catching the dust like motes of drifting thought. The household hums faintly with that gentle rhythm of the hours before supper — servants moving quietly, the Governor’s clerks departing, the scent of sea air mingling with polish and linen. I have taken refuge here, with my papers spread before me and the Contessa’s letter resting beside my teacup like a secret that cannot quite be ignored.

Benedict Marlowe returned today, at last, from her residence upon the heights. The boy looked wind-touched and flushed, as though the climb itself had carried him through some private storm. He bore her letter carefully, as if it were something sacred. The seal — a sea-star entwined with a rose, pressed deep into crimson wax — caught the afternoon light and seemed almost to breathe.

Her words were, as I expected, impeccable. The Contessa writes with grace and calculation woven so tightly together that one cannot tell where sincerity ends and intent begins. She accepts the invitation warmly, even poetically, but beneath her phrases there runs an undercurrent — not hostility, no, but design. She writes as one who measures not only her hosts, but the stage upon which she is to appear.

I have read her letter twice now, and with each reading I find more layers. She thanks me for my courtesy, yet it reads as though she also congratulates herself for expecting it. Her tone is gracious but never deferential; she offers friendship with the air of one conferring a favor rather than receiving one. I cannot fault her for it — in truth, I rather admire it. It is a delicate art, to cloak power in gratitude.

Mr. Greene, of course, is nearly vibrating with curiosity. I can imagine him at his desk, twirling his quill and dreaming of how this correspondence might elevate his own importance. He forgets that his place is to serve, not to weave intrigue. He will try to read more into this than there is, and in doing so, he may create the very gossip he claims to interpret. I must watch him closely — his ambition is not dangerous, but it is tiresome, and such men sometimes believe themselves cleverer than they are.

Mr. Franklin Benjamin, ever the steady hand, has already ordered the clerks to record the delivery in the official correspondence ledger. I can trust him to keep order where Greene cannot. It is comforting to know that between them, one can be relied upon to act properly — even if the other must be kept at arm’s length.

As for my husband, Henry… he will hear of this soon enough. I think it best to speak to him after supper, once Lucy is asleep and the house is quiet. There is a kind of peace in those late hours, when the shutters are drawn and the candles burn low, and he can listen without the distraction of duty pressing on him. He will wish to see the letter himself — and I shall let him, though I may choose my commentary with care. He sees strategy in lines of soldiers and fleets of ships, but not in ink and parchment. Yet he is wise enough to trust my instinct where women are concerned, even if he does not always admit it.

Lucy, dear child, is already fluttering with excitement at the idea of “the Spanish lady.” She has overheard enough of the servants’ gossip to fashion a romance out of it — jewels, silks, ships, and secrets. I shall allow her to dream a little longer. Childhood is the one season of life that thrives upon illusions. But when she is in bed tonight, perhaps dreaming of Spanish carriages and candlelit halls, Henry and I will speak plainly of the real matter — of the Contessa herself, her purpose, and what this dinner may bring.

Rumor will begin to spread soon, if it has not already. The colony is far too small, and its people far too idle, to let such a novelty rest. They will whisper that the Contessa seeks influence, or protection, or even the Governor’s favor. Some may say she has already ensnared him, for men here love their fictions as much as their politics. It will not trouble me. I know what we are about, and I intend to keep the narrative in my hands, not theirs.

As for the dinner — yes, it must be planned now in earnest. The affair must appear natural, as though it were an inevitable expression of civility rather than a carefully constructed tableau. I shall limit the guest list to eight, no more. Henry and I, of course, and the Contessa. General Winthrop and Colonel White for balance, but not, Monsieur LeCroissant for Henry would not stand for both the Contessa, and whom he calls "The French Fop" to be at our table at the same time. Perhaps, Lord and Lady Mitchell, if his temperament is pleasant for the evening, and Lord Cartwright to lend the evening an air of official decorum. If I must, I might invite the Reverend Goodall for gossip disguised as piety is the surest way to control the story that leaves one’s table. Reverend Task would be too much of a powder keg with a fuse and a lit match to be there. His feelings about "Papists, Witches, and myself" would pitch the evening into ruined turmoil.

The menu shall be colonial in abundance but English in soul: turtle soup to begin, followed by roast pheasant with Madeira, salt fish with lemon and spice, sugared puddings, and local fruits served on silver trays. The Contessa’s Spanish wine shall be the centerpiece — accepted publicly with warmth, praised generously, and poured liberally. Nothing builds alliances like shared praise for a gift offered in good faith.

The veranda will need garlands and lanterns, and I must see that the string quartet rehearses every evening until the dinner. The table linens must be aired, the silver polished, the china without flaw. I shall wear the sapphire silk, though not for vanity’s sake — it steadies me, and Henry adores me even more when I wear it. Confidence is its own armor, and I will need it.

It is strange, but as I think of her now, I do not feel dread — only anticipation. I know she is dangerous, though in a refined and measured way. But perhaps that is what draws me to this: a curiosity born of recognition. She is not merely another visitor to our shores. She is a woman who plays her own game, as I do mine.

Tonight, after Lucy is asleep and Henry and I sit by the fire with his brandy, and my wine, I shall let him read her letter. I shall watch his expression as he takes in her phrasing — the delicate balance of flattery and provocation. And then, together, we shall decide how best to meet her — not just at dinner, but in the quiet war that will surely follow.

For now, I will close this journal. The bells from the harbor are beginning to sound the hour, and I hear the clatter of dishes in the hall below. Supper will be soon, and I must play the gracious wife once more. But my thoughts remain on the Contessa, and the subtle scent of challenge that lingers still upon her words.

Narrative: "The Return of Benedict Marlowe..."

(The Players for this afternoon's performance...) 

The Return of Benedict Marlowe

Port Dominion, April the 22nd.

The afternoon sun hung low over Port Dominion, filtering through a gauze of humid air that gave every color a faint golden haze. The clop of Benedict Marlowe’s horse loaned to him from the governor's stables, echoed along the Governor’s drive against the cobbled courtyard, sharp and rhythmic — the sound of haste masked as composure. Dust clung to his coat and boots, but he paid it little mind. His heart still beat with a strange insistence that had not lessened since leaving the Contessa’s residence.

He had the letter — sealed with crimson wax, its sigil pressed in the likeness of a sea-star entwined with a rose — and though the parchment was neatly tucked into his breast pocket, he felt the weight of it as though it were something far heavier.

When he dismounted before the Governor’s House, two sentries straightened immediately. Marlowe nodded curtly and strode inside, his mind whirring. He had delivered messages before — reports, memoranda, drafts for the Lord Governor — but never had a single errand so thoroughly unsettled him. The Contessa’s voice still lingered in his thoughts, that smooth Spanish inflection carrying the faintest trace of irony, or perhaps amusement, when she had said, “Tell Lady Whitehall that her courtesy is a jewel I shall treasure — and return in kind.”

He could still feel, too, the ghost of her touch — the delicate brush of her fingers as she handed him the sealed letter. It had been nothing, a mere motion of etiquette, but it had burned through him all the same.

He paused in the vestibule, composed himself, and made his way to the west wing, where Mr. Alastair Greene maintained his office. The room smelled faintly of ink, pipe smoke, and wax — the scent of endless paperwork and private ambition.

Mr. Greene looked up from his desk as Marlowe entered. The older man’s expression was one of habitual skepticism, though his eyes gleamed with interest when he saw the letter in Marlowe’s hand.

“Well, Mr. Marlowe,” Greene said, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve returned sooner than expected. I take it the Contessa did not keep you waiting.”

“No, sir,” Marlowe replied, offering the faintest bow. “She was most gracious. Her messenger, Señor Valdés, escorted me to her residence. She received me personally.”

Greene’s brow rose slightly. “Personally, you say?”

“Yes, sir. She had prepared her letter of acceptance as promised. She… she expressed her compliments to Lady Whitehall and spoke kindly of the honor.”

Greene extended his hand for the letter, turning it over once, studying the seal as though it were a relic. “A sea-star and a rose,” he murmured. “Exotic, but deliberate. Even her wax speaks in riddles.”

He looked back up at Marlowe, eyes narrowing in assessment. “And how did you find her, Mr. Marlowe? You’ve seen her now, spoken to her — what impression does she make?”

Marlowe hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “She is… unlike anyone I’ve met in this colony, sir. There’s an ease about her, but also something measured — as if every smile, every gesture were part of some greater design. She has presence. One feels it immediately.”

Mr. Greene smiled thinly. “Presence, yes. The sort that bends a room around it. A dangerous quality in a woman, or in anyone.”

He rose from his chair, holding the letter between two fingers, and nodded toward the adjoining door. “You’d best report to Mr. Benjamin as well. He will see that the Governor’s household is informed of its safe arrival. I’ll keep no delay between this letter and Lady Whitehall’s hands — she’s not one for patience when curiosity takes her.”

Marlowe crossed into the outer office, where Mr. Franklin Benjamin stood by a high window, spectacles perched on his nose as he reviewed a stack of documents. His manner was brisk, always faintly irritated by the inefficiency of the world around him.

“Ah, Marlowe,” Benjamin said without looking up. “You’ve been to the Spanish lady, then?”

“Yes, sir. I have the letter.”

Benjamin turned, holding out his hand. Marlowe presented the sealed parchment.

“Hmm. Fine wax,” Benjamin remarked, inspecting it. “They say she writes her own correspondence in three languages. A woman of refinement — or conceit. We shall see which.”

He glanced toward the door of the corridor that led deeper into the Governor’s quarters. “Her Ladyship awaits this, no doubt. You’re to take it to her personally. I shall have word sent that you’ve returned and carried out your charge.”

“Yes, sir,” Marlowe said, inclining his head.

Benjamin lowered his voice. “A word of advice, Marlowe. When you’re in Lady Eleanor’s presence, speak plainly, answer her questions fully, but don’t attempt flattery. She has no patience for artifice — she reads through it as easily as glass. And whatever you do, do not let her see you flustered. She dislikes weakness in her subordinates.”

Marlowe swallowed. “Understood, sir.”

Benjamin handed the letter back. “Then go on. She’s in her morning room.”

The corridors of Government House were cool and quiet, the thick shutters drawn against the late afternoon glare. Marlowe’s boots struck softly against the flagstones as he approached Lady Eleanor’s private chamber. A servant admitted him with a bow.

She was seated by the tall windows, the sea visible beyond them through shifting curtains of white muslin. The light softened her features but could not lessen the commanding composure in her eyes. Lady Eleanor Whitehall was not a woman one addressed lightly.

“Mister Marlowe,” she said, setting aside her quill. “Mr. Greene tells me you have returned from the Contessa’s residence.”

“Yes, my lady.” He stepped forward, bowing slightly as he presented the sealed letter upon his palm. “Her ladyship bade me deliver this into your hands personally.”

Lady Eleanor took the letter delicately, turning it as she examined the seal. “A rose and a sea-star,” she murmured. “Fitting.” She glanced up at him then, her expression unreadable. “Tell me, Mr. Marlowe — how did she receive you?”

Marlowe hesitated, aware of her eyes studying him as though to read truth from the smallest tremor in his voice. “With great civility, my lady. She seemed… expectant of the invitation. Calm, confident. She spoke warmly of your courtesy and expressed delight in accepting it.”

“And what was your impression of her?” Lady Eleanor asked, leaning slightly forward.

He shifted, aware that his heart beat faster under her gaze. “She is… remarkable, my lady. Poised. A woman of refinement, certainly, but also of… presence. One feels her command of a room even when she does not speak.”

Lady Eleanor smiled faintly, the corners of her lips just curling. “So she made an impression upon you, then?”

Marlowe flushed. “Only in the manner of one accustomed to rank and intelligence, my lady. Nothing more.”

Her smile deepened — not mocking, but knowing. “Quite so, Mr. Marlowe. You did well. I shall read her reply later this evening, when my husband has returned. You may tell Mr. Greene and Mr. Benjamin that the letter has been received.”

He bowed again, but as he turned to leave, she spoke once more.

“One more question, Mr. Marlowe.”

He paused. “My lady?”

“When you were in her presence,” she said, her voice softer now, “did you feel she was a woman who hides what she knows — or one who reveals it in her own time?”

Marlowe thought for a long moment. “The latter, my lady. She gives the impression of someone who knows far more than she ever says.”

Lady Eleanor regarded him steadily, then inclined her head. “Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. That will be all.”

As he stepped from the room, closing the door gently behind him, Marlowe exhaled the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His pulse was still quick, not from fear, but from the quiet thrill of having stood between two women of such formidable intelligence — each commanding in her own way, each aware of the other’s significance.

By the time he reached the courtyard again, the sky was turning amber with the coming of evening. He looked once more toward the hills beyond the harbor, where the Contessa’s residence stood faintly outlined against the light.

He could not say what the future held — but somehow he knew that the dinner to come would not be merely a social occasion. It would be a reckoning of sorts, a meeting of forces beneath the guise of civility.

And though he told himself he was but a clerk, a messenger, a man of minor station — he could not escape the feeling that, somehow, he had just carried a spark between two minds that would soon set the air of Port Dominion alight.

Narrative: "The Invitation... Part III..."

 (The Players for this afternoon's narrative....)

The afternoon sun stood hot and high above Port Dominion when Benedict Marlowe set out once more for the Heights, where the Contessa’s residence lay poised above the harbor like a pale jewel upon the crown of St. Albion. The heat shimmered along the cobbled streets, and the scent of salt and sugar-cane mingled with that of horses and tar. Yet Benedict scarcely noticed the heat — his thoughts were a storm unto themselves.

He had not expected the Spanish lady to summon him again so swiftly. When the messenger came — a small, dark-eyed man in the Contessa’s livery — it had startled Mr. Benjamin and Mr. Greene both. But when they told him that the Contessa herself had requested him to receive her written response, Benedict could not deny the faint thrill that ran through him.

The road up to the Heights was lined with bougainvillea, its scarlet petals blazing against the stone walls. The Governor’s young clerk rode slowly, the rhythmic clop of hooves keeping time with his racing heart. He wondered why she had chosen him — of all the men in the Governor’s service — to act as her courier. Was it gratitude? Amusement? Or something deeper, something that unsettled him even to imagine?

When at last the gates opened and the cool shadow of the Contessa’s villa fell over him, he dismounted and smoothed his coat with trembling hands. The place smelled of jasmine and the faintest hint of orange blossom. A servant led him through a colonnade of white marble, where sunlight spilled like honey through high arched windows.

And there she stood — the Contessa Maria Theresa Isabella Emilia Lucia Gabriella Rosalina Liliana Paloma, radiant and composed, a vision of crimson silk and poise.

“Señor Marlowe,” she greeted him, her voice a low melody that lingered in the air. “You have returned, as I hoped you would.”

He bowed, fumbling slightly with his hat. “Your ladyship honors me,” he managed, his English crisp but uncertain. “I was instructed to receive your reply.”

“Ah, yes,” she said, turning toward her writing desk, where the parchment already lay, folded and sealed in crimson wax. “But first — tell me, Señor, how did they receive my answer of the other day? Did the Lady Whitehall approve of my words?”

“I... I believe she was most pleased, my lady,” he said. “Indeed, she seemed... intrigued.”

“Intrigued,” the Contessa repeated, her lips curving slightly. “A dangerous word in the mouths of English ladies. They are rarely intrigued without intent.”

He swallowed. “I... would not know, my lady.”

She smiled then — a small, knowing smile that seemed to see past his uniform, past his position, and directly into the hidden places of him. “No,” she said softly. “But perhaps you will learn. You have honest eyes, Señor Marlowe. Such eyes should not lie too often; they will grow weary.”

She held out the letter. As he reached for it, their fingers brushed. It was the faintest touch — yet it sent a jolt through him, like a spark from a flint. Her skin was cool, perfumed faintly with rosewater and something darker, richer — a scent that spoke of long nights and older secrets. He dared not look up, but she watched him, amused.

“Tell your Lady Whitehall,” she said at last, her voice like velvet drawn over steel, “that I await our meeting with... anticipation. And tell her husband —” she paused, a glint in her eyes “— that diplomacy is never so delicate as when it sits beside beauty.”

He bowed again, words failing him, and she inclined her head slightly in dismissal.

The sun was beginning its descent when Benedict rode back toward Government House.  The streets of Port Dominion bustled with the usual evening life — sailors shouting, merchants closing their shutters, and the scent of rum and frying plantain rising from Red Row. Yet he saw none of it clearly; the Contessa’s voice still lingered in his mind, as though her words had taken root there.

Her face — the gleam of her dark eyes, the arch of her brow, the faint curl of amusement on her lips — all haunted him. When her fingers had touched his, it had been as though she had taken hold of something invisible within him and would not let go. He had felt both elated and undone, as though he had glimpsed a world beyond his own — one of power wrapped in silk and mystery.

He wondered what Lady Eleanor would think of this Spanish enchantress when they met face to face. Would they recognize the game between them, these two women of poise and purpose? Or would they smile across the table, each seeing her reflection in the other — polished, proud, and dangerous?

As he neared the Governor’s gates, Benedict pressed a hand to the inner pocket of his coat, feeling the weight of the sealed letter there.

He could not yet guess how much power such a small thing might hold — nor how, before long, the simple act of carrying messages between two women might draw him into currents far deeper than he could swim.

But as the lamps of Government House flickered into view, one thought refused to leave him:

When her hand touched mine, I stopped being a messenger and became a man.