"The Days and Conversations at The Governor's Residence...."

From the journal entries of Benedict Marlowe.

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

Friday, April the 21st

The hour grows late. The lamps are dimmed, and the steady hum of the sea carries up through my open window. I should be asleep, yet the weight of the day refuses to let my thoughts rest. There is a peculiar stillness tonight—an expectant hush that seems to linger in the air, as though the island itself is listening.

These last few days at the Governor’s House have been quietly restless. The arrival of the Contessa has set the household abuzz, and now with this new presence—Monsieur Gaspard François LeCroissant—every tongue in the clerks’ office seems to wag twice as fast. One would think the pair had brought with them the very stuff of intrigue, for Port Dominion has not stopped whispering since their ships made harbor.

My morning began as they often do: a breakfast of toasted bread, a thin slice of salted pork, and a small cup of strong black tea. The air was still heavy from the night’s rain, the palms along the road to the mansion beaded with dew that caught the first light of dawn. From the hilltop, the Governor’s residence gleamed pale and proud, its white walls taking on a faint golden hue.

Inside, the clerks’ office was already alive with quiet talk. Thomas Hargood, the senior clerk, was at his usual post before any of us, spectacles perched low, his pen scratching wearily across ledgers. He is a man who bears the weight of routine like an old coat—comfortable, if somewhat frayed. Hargood has seen too many ambitious young men come and go to be much moved by the gossip of the day, yet even he lifted an eyebrow when William Pratchett began his spirited retelling of the latest rumors surrounding the Contessa.

Pratchett, ever eager to fill silence, leaned across the desk to share what he’d heard: that the lady’s wealth was not inherited but acquired—through clever charm, scandalous liaisons, and perhaps a touch of deceit. He even claimed she had once been courted by a Spanish duke and rejected him so publicly that the man fled to a monastery. Hargood snorted, muttered something about “romantic drivel,” and returned to his ink.

Edwin Clarke, as usual, said little. He works like a ghost—quiet, steady, and tireless. If he ever entertains gossip, it remains locked behind those watchful eyes. Yet I caught him glancing up once during Pratchett’s tale, a faint, almost amused smile passing over his lips before he turned back to his figures.

At midday, we shared a simple meal—boiled yam, salted fish, and watered ale—taken together in the lower hall. Mr. Greene, naturally, dined apart, in what he calls his “private interval.” He cannot bear to share a table with those he deems beneath him. When he passed us later, glass of wine already in hand and smirk set firmly in place, I caught Hargood muttering under his breath, “The man mistakes hauteur for refinement.”

Later in the afternoon, I crossed paths with Mr. Franklin Benjamin in the hallway outside the Governor’s study. He is a man of few words and sharper wit, and though he rarely speaks of others, I heard him say—perhaps to himself, perhaps to me—“There are those who believe superiority is a virtue, when in truth it is merely vanity in better tailoring.” He glanced toward Greene’s empty office when he said it, and I could not help but think he’d struck the mark precisely. His ability to put thoughts into careful words and use the exact sentences one needs (no more or no less), has impressed me greatly. I have much to learn from this gentleman, if he would teach me.

As for the Governor, he has been scarce these past days, moving briskly between chambers, giving short instructions in that low, measured tone of his. The staff sense his unease but dare not name it. Something, or someone, troubles him.

Lady Eleanor, too, moves through the halls with an air of quiet command. I saw her twice today—once in the courtyard, directing servants in the arrangement of flowers, and once later, gliding down the staircase in pale silk, the candlelight catching at the edges of her gown. Conversation stopped as she passed. There is a stillness that follows her, not born of reverence, but of caution—an unspoken recognition that she is more than she appears.

A part of me is ashamed to admit that the two brief moments I was given a glance of her, I could feel as if a part of me rushed to her, or perhaps she reached out in some invisible form, and touched my inner being. It took all of my strength in body and mind to keep from gasping aloud when I gazed upon her for those very brief moments in time.

Young Clarke, breaking his usual silence, whispered to me after she had gone, “She carries herself like one who plays a game the rest of us haven’t been told the rules to.” I found that observation rather astute.

The gossip of LeCroissant, the Frenchman, grows more ridiculous with every telling. Pratchett claims he has offended the cook already, demanding that his meals be “of European delicacy” and that his bathwater be scented with rose oil. Others say he has already paid a visit to the Contessa’s villa, though none can prove it. There is laughter at his expense, of course—but I sense beneath it a thread of wariness. For all his vanity, there is something unsettling about a man who arrives on this island with such confidence, as though he already knows its secrets.

This evening, I took supper at The Inn of The King's Arms—roast duck, yam purée, and a generous mug of dark rum. Mr. Dunstable, ever the cheerful innkeeper, could not resist weighing in. “Mark my words,” he said, polishing a glass, “that French popinjay will stir up trouble before the season’s out. A man who perfumes himself before breakfast is not to be trusted.” His wife gave him a reproachful look and murmured, “It’s always the proud who see danger in the beautiful.”

Now, the hour nears midnight. The lamps burn low. From my window, I can see the faint lights of the Governor’s mansion flickering through the palms, its windows glowing like watchful eyes. Somewhere within, Lady Eleanor and the Governor are no doubt perhaps discussing the Contessa or Monsieur LeCroissant—or both. The thought stirs a strange unease in me, though I cannot say why.

I am merely a clerk, a recorder of ledgers and minutes, yet I cannot help but feel that something moves beneath the calm surface of this place. The arrivals of these strangers have set the air quivering. Even the sea tonight seems to murmur of it.

I shall take another sip of rum before I sleep. It dulls the sense that something is coming.

"Mr. Alastair Greene, who is much, much, better than you..."

Mr. Alastair Greene — A Character Study

Mr. Alastair Greene is, without question, a man of uncommon self-assurance—though many in Port Dominion would argue that his confidence has long since slipped its tether and strayed into the territory of arrogance. A tall, fastidious gentleman of perhaps forty years, Greene dresses with impeccable precision: his coats are always brushed to a sheen, the lace at his cuffs crisp and spotless, and his powdered wig sits just so, as if daring the coastal wind to try its mischief upon him. He carries himself with the deliberate air of one who believes the very ground is privileged to receive his footfall.

In both appearance and manner, Mr. Greene is the embodiment of self-importance. He moves through the halls of the Governor’s offices with the measured gait of a man convinced that the administrative machinery of Port Dominion would grind to a halt were he to take ill. Indeed, he has told more than one clerk—half in jest, half in warning—that were it not for his steady hand upon the ledgers and correspondences, “the colony might as well return itself to the wilderness.”

Professionally, Greene is competent, even formidable. His mind is as sharp as the nib of his quill, and his ability to navigate the labyrinthine channels of trade, taxation, and maritime law has made him an invaluable asset to Lord Whitehall’s administration.   Greene is utterly convinced that he is indispensable to Lord Whitehall. In truth, the Governor tolerates Greene’s arrogance because his efficiency is unmatched. When papers need arranging, orders need transcribing, or a message must be delivered without delay — Greene ensures it happens before the Governor can even ask.

Behind closed doors, he is capable of subtle manipulation. He plants seeds of suggestion — recommendations disguised as flattery — steering decisions ever so slightly toward his preferred outcomes.

“My Lord Governor, if I may — it might appear more prudent to delay that audience with the Contessa. One must not seem too eager to indulge foreign intrigues…”

He is always careful, always deferential — and always in control.

He has a gift for precision — every document, every report, every ledger under his care is immaculate. His penmanship is elegant, his phrasing polished, and his understanding of bureaucratic order unmatched in Port Dominion. 

In short: Greene is excellent at what he does — and he never lets anyone forget it.

Yet where others might temper skill with humility, Greene gilds his with condescension. He treats subordinates and household servants alike with a cool disdain, believing deference to be his due. To be of “lesser station,” in Greene’s estimation, is not merely to be unfortunate—it is to be irrelevant.

He begins his mornings with a ritual that would scandalize most English sensibilities: a glass of claret before noon, sipped as he reviews correspondence or revises official reports. He claims it steadies the nerves and “sharpens the mind.” His breakfast—usually poached eggs, buttered bread, and slices of ham—is taken at leisure, for Mr. Greene is never one to hurry himself for the convenience of others. His midday meal, too, reflects a man of indulgent tastes: cold beef, oysters when available, and always a fresh loaf and wine enough to last him through his post-luncheon work.

Dinner is his true delight. He favors rich fare—duck in orange glaze, stewed hare, and puddings flavored with nutmeg and rum. He despises simplicity in food as much as in company. To dine with Greene is to endure a monologue disguised as conversation; he will discourse at length upon the decline of manners in the colonies, the mediocrity of most men’s minds, and the “quiet tragedy” of being surrounded by those who cannot appreciate one’s genius.

In his private quarters, Greene surrounds himself with imported comforts: thick velvet curtains, a Turkish carpet, an ivory-handled cane, and an absurdly large globe he rarely consults. He keeps an oil portrait of himself—commissioned, naturally, at his own expense—hanging above his writing desk, as if to remind visitors that they stand before a man of consequence.

Yet for all his airs, Mr. Greene’s self-possession is not unshakeable. The calm façade strains when faced with Mr. Franklin Benjamin—a man whose unflappable composure and measured wit have proven infuriatingly resistant to Greene’s attempts at provocation. Every failed effort to unnerve Benjamin deepens Greene’s resentment, though he hides it behind a veneer of chilly civility.

Toward Lady Eleanor, his thoughts are more tangled. There is admiration, yes—her intelligence, her grace, and the quiet command she exerts even in silence all appeal to his sense of discernment. But intertwined with admiration is something darker: resentment at her poise, fear of her perception, and a begrudging acknowledgment that she is one of the few souls he cannot so easily impress. He suspects she sees through him entirely, and that thought unsettles him more than he would ever confess.

As for the Contessa—ah, there the matter grows more complicated still. Monsieur LeCroissant may irritate him, but the Contessa fascinates him in a manner both thrilling and disquieting. Her arrival has set all of Port Dominion whispering, and Greene is no exception to that chorus of intrigue. He finds her manner intoxicating—her composure artful, her beauty commanding, her confidence almost dangerous. She carries with her an air of mystery that pricks at his pride. He tells himself she is merely another foreign distraction, a figure of fleeting interest. Yet privately, he finds her presence unnerving. She reminds him of a finely cut diamond—brilliant, cold, and sharp enough to draw blood if held too tightly.

He cannot decide whether he wishes to impress her or outmatch her, to intrigue her or to expose her as a fraud. Her knowing smiles make him feel, for the briefest moments, like one of the lesser men he so often disdains. And that, to Alastair Greene, is intolerable.

Of late, with the arrival of both the Contessa and Monsieur LeCroissant, Greene’s arrogance has taken on a sharper edge. He senses in the Frenchman a rival—not only in wit and refinement but in the subtle contest for influence that plays out beneath the civility of Port Dominion’s social veneer. What began as mild irritation will soon ferment into rivalry; Greene cannot abide another man so boldly strutting through the Governor’s orbit, particularly one whose charm so easily wins the admiration Greene demands as his right. The Contessa’s apparent favor toward LeCroissant—whether real or imagined—only deepens his agitation.

Still, he perseveres, secure in the belief that his intellect and station will prevail. For Mr. Alastair Greene’s greatest talent—aside from his professional acumen—is the unshakable ability to convince himself that the world, despite its many faults, is arranged exactly as it ought to be: with him near its center.

 

"Late night within my chambers...."

 

Private Journal of Lady Eleanor Whitehall

Late night, Wednesday, April the 19th, Port Dominion.

The harbor bell rang again. I believe they will never cease their ringing in this place — so like a heartbeat beneath the skin of the colony, too loud, too alive. The sound carries even here, through the open shutters of my chamber. I can still taste the salt of the sea on the air and the faint perfume of the gardenias that the servants left upon my dressing table.

Another ship. Another foreign shadow upon our shore.

This one French — of course. Bourbon lilies, they said, bright against the fading light. And stepping forth from its decks, a vision in yellow satin and powdered arrogance — Monsieur Gaspard François LeCroissant. I heard the name before supper; by the time we sat to dine, it was already half the conversation.

Henry’s face when he heard it — ah, I wish I had captured it in paint. His brows drew together as though the very thought offended him, his mouth pressing thin in that way that betrays both irritation and a flicker of worry. “First the Spanish Contessa,” he muttered, low enough that only I might hear, “and now this—this French fop!”

I touched his hand then, just lightly, just enough for him to still the storm that brews so easily behind those proud eyes of his. And he did. He always does, though it costs him something each time — a kind of surrender I both adore and fear.

He thinks me his solace, but I am his undoing.

Even now, as I sit by the window, I can see him below through the glass — pacing the lantern-lit veranda, hands clasped behind his back, every inch the soldier and the statesman. But I know the tension that hides beneath that polished surface. The arrival of the Contessa unsettled him in ways he would never speak aloud. And now this preening French creature, with his silks and scents and sneers, has pushed him further still toward the edge of something he cannot name.

He tries to keep his voice measured when he speaks of her — of the Contessa. But I hear it. That mixture of fascination and distrust that all men wear around women like her. And perhaps, if I am honest, around me as well.

For she and I are not so different. Both of us foreign to this island, both of us masters of the unspoken game — the glance, the pause, the small smile that conceals more than words ever could. The difference, perhaps, is that she wears her mystery like a crown, while I wear mine like perfume: invisible, intoxicating, and perilous to breathe too deeply.

The servants whisper that strange things move about her house at night. That candles gutter when she enters a room. That the Governor dreams more often now, and wakes without remembering what he has seen.

If such things are true, I almost envy her.

Port Dominion has begun to change. There is a heaviness in the air — not just from the heat or the salt, but from expectation. Every new arrival brings with it another thread in a web none of us can yet see. The Contessa — her charm and her secrets. The Frenchman — his vanity and his disdain. And Henry, caught between duty and desire, strength and surrender.

Sometimes I wonder if this island draws souls such as ours to it — restless, proud, uncertain of our own reflection. The sea around us is beautiful, yes, but it is a prison too, and perhaps it keeps us here until the last mask falls away.

I can hear Henry coming up the stairs now — that familiar, deliberate rhythm of his boots. I should close this book. He will come to the door and stand there for a moment, as he always does, watching me before speaking. I will turn my head just so, and the candlelight will fall across my hair, and I will smile — not too much, only enough to remind him that for all his power, I can still make him forget his own name.

And he will.

He always does.

But later, when the fire has burned low and he lies sleeping in his bed chambers, I will think of the Contessa, and of Monsieur LeCroissant in his ridiculous yellow silks, and of the way this island hums like a secret waiting to be told.

Something is coming. I can feel it in the stillness before dawn.

And when it comes — I will be ready.

"Late night thoughts and writings..."

From the Private Journal of Governor Lord Henry Whitehall

Port Dominion, the same night — April 19th...

Sleep will not come tonight.

The sea is restless, as though it too senses the shifting weight of fortune pressing upon these shores. From my balcony the harbor glimmers like a dark mirror, its calm broken only by the silhouettes of ships at anchor. Among them, the newest arrival —a French ship— her masts faintly visible beneath the waning moon.

And from her decks, or perhaps within the finest cabin, emerged that insufferable creature — Gaspard François LeCroissant — who strutted down the gangway this afternoon in a blinding flare of yellow satin and self-admiration, trailing the scent of some Parisian flower whose name I neither know nor care to and made me feel as if my stomach had turned as a result of this morning's breakfast.

The man had barely opened his mouth before I despised him. His voice dripped with condescension, his bow was too low, his smirk too knowing. Even his apologies seemed rehearsed, as though each syllable had been polished before a looking-glass.

Upon my return to the Manor, I let my contempt come forth, with Eleanor there - watching and listening as usual, in that uncanny manner that she has.

“First the Spanish Contessa,” I muttered under my breath, “and now this—this French fop.”

I thought the words low enough, but Eleanor heard. She always does.

Her hand brushed mine — only for a heartbeat, but the gesture disarmed me more completely than any act of diplomacy ever could. There is something in her touch — soft, deliberate, dangerous — that pulls the air from my lungs and the thoughts from my head. I turned to look at her, and she met my eyes with that half-smile of hers: the one that forgives nothing yet asks everything.

It is damnable, the power she has. She need only tilt her head, let her hair fall just so, and all my resolve weakens. It is not love — not in the tame, domestic sense the poets speak of. It is something darker. She is at once my solace and my torment, my saint and my succubus.

There are whispers about her — of course there are. There are always whispers about women who know how to command a man’s gaze. That she smiles too freely. That she lingers too long in the company of others. That she keeps secrets even from her husband.

Let them whisper.

If they knew the truth — that she can unmake me with a single glance, that I would sooner fall upon my sword than see that smile turned against me — they might pity me more than they mock her.

But enough of that.

This business with the French and the Spaniards unsettles me. First, the arrival of the Contessa — all charm and mystery, her eyes too deep, her manners too precise. There is a kind of spell about her, though I cannot name it. The men, even those of rank and discipline, speak her name in the same breath as one might a prayer or a curse.

And now LeCroissant.

A man such as he does not cross an ocean without purpose. His presence here — in the wake of the Contessa’s — feels deliberate. A move on the board, though I do not yet see whose hand guides the pieces. France and Spain are playing a game, and England is the table upon which they play it.

The colony feels different already — charged, expectant, as though something unseen coils beneath its tranquil surface. Reverend Task speaks of temptation and divine testing; Colonel White speaks of readiness and muskets. I speak of patience, though I feel none.

Eleanor says I am too quick to anger, too slow to listen. Perhaps she is right. She often is. And yet, when she says my name in that low, lilting tone — “Henry…” — I would forgive her anything, even the lies she does not tell.

She has gone to her chamber now, or perhaps she waits by the fire, her hair undone. I can almost see her as I write — the candlelight tracing her shoulders, the glint of her glass half-raised. I should join her. I always do, though part of me wonders if each night spent in her orbit pulls me further from the man I once was.

But there are worse fates than being lost to her.

As I close this book, I find my thoughts circling back to the same uneasy notion: Port Dominion is becoming crowded with secrets.

Spanish secrets, French secrets… and perhaps even those of my own house.

If the Contessa and that painted French peacock are the heralds of something greater, may God grant that I see it coming before it swallows us all.

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)

The time: Early evening, (dinner time)

The location: The Lord Governor's Residence, (also known as "Whitehall Manor"), and specifically The Dining Room.

A Supper at Whitehall Manor

The dining room of Whitehall Manor glowed softly under the light of two tall candelabra, their flames reflected in the silverware and the rim of the decanters set upon the table. Outside, the sea wind whispered through the shutters, carrying with it the faint scent of brine and the distant rhythm of Port Dominion’s harbor bells.

Lord Whitehall sat at the head of the long mahogany table, a figure of quiet authority wrapped in a deep blue evening coat. Across from him sat Lady Whitehall, composed as ever, her eyes steady and serene beneath the gentle light. Between them, his daughter Lucy sat, cheeks rosy from laughter and the warmth of the fire, delicately twirling a bit of roasted carrot on her fork.

Tonight’s meal was a fine one — roasted pheasant in a rich wine reduction, buttered peas, and a dish of potatoes gratin that had browned beautifully at the edges. A basket of freshly baked rolls rested between Lady Whitehall and Lucy, the crusts glistening with a sheen of butter. The servants moved silently, pouring a deep claret for the lord and lady, and a small glass of watered wine for young Lucy, who felt quite grown up for being allowed even that.

“So it would seem, ” Lord Whitehall began, breaking the companionable quiet with a gruff sort of amusement, “that Monsieur LeCroissant has arrived at last. Docked just this morning, or so Captain Darnell, the Harbormaster claimed before I arrived there to greet...our new guest.”

Lady Whitehall looked up from her plate with an even expression. “I imagine the harbor has been abuzz all afternoon. It is not often that a Frenchman of his... distinction... finds his way to Port Dominion. Imagine the discussions and talk. First a Spanish Contessa, and now a Frenchman all the way from Paris, here on our fair island."

Lucy brightened. “Is he truly a monsieur, Papa? A real one? From Paris?”

Lord Whitehall chuckled, though there was no real warmth in it. “Aye, my dear, from Paris indeed. A fine gentleman by all accounts—perfumed, powdered, and preening, no doubt. The French fop has probably spent more time arranging his cuffs than attending to his affairs.”

Lady Whitehall shot him a soft glance—half reproach, half amusement—and turned to Lucy. “Your father enjoys exaggeration. I’m sure Monsieur LeCroissant is quite respectable, and perhaps even charming.”

Lucy giggled. “Then perhaps you’ll invite him to dinner?”

At this, Lord Whitehall paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. His gray eyes flickered toward his wife, and there was the briefest tightening at the corner of his mouth before he resumed eating. “Perhaps,” he said at last, dryly. “When I’ve seen whether he’s a man worth breaking bread with.”

Lady Whitehall’s tone was smooth as cream. “I imagine we shall learn soon enough.  I've heard a rumor that the Contessa has already extended him an invitation to her estate, has she not?”

“Aye, I've heard that rumor also, but I am not to the extent to know if it is true or not,” Lord Whitehall grunted, setting down his knife with a faint clatter. “And if half of what’s whispered about that woman holds true, we’ll soon see the pair of them parading about the colony as though they were its crowned monarchs.” He gave a short laugh that carried more irritation than humor. “The Contessa and her moonlit airs, and now this LeCroissant—Heaven help us, the island will never be short on spectacle.”

Lucy tilted her head. “Do you not like the Contessa, Papa?”

He looked at her for a moment, then softened slightly. “She’s... entertaining, my dear. Though perhaps a bit too fond of attention for my taste.”

Lady Whitehall reached across to adjust Lucy’s napkin, her tone placid. “She is a woman of the world, Lucy. Not all the ladies of Port Dominion have had such... cosmopolitan experiences.”

There was a faint smile on her lips, but Lord Whitehall noticed the way her eyes held his for a heartbeat longer than usual—an unspoken reminder. Careful.

Lucy chattered on about the dresses she imagined French ladies might wear and whether Monsieur LeCroissant might bring sweets from the continent. Her innocent enthusiasm filled the room with a warmth that kept the deeper shadows of the conversation at bay. Lord Whitehall felt pleased at his young daughters conduct and of her youthful innocence and excitement. It was a refreshing change of pace from yet another day of unpleasant surprises and encounters.

When the servants cleared the plates and brought out a small dish of stewed pears and cream, Lord Whitehall leaned back in his chair, swirling his wine. His gaze drifted to the fire, though his thoughts were elsewhere.

Rumors had been swirling like smoke these past weeks—ugly things whispered in corners about Eleanor’s flirtations and her husband’s obliviousness. A husband’s shame was the sort of contagion that could infect reputations by proximity, and the last thing he needed was to find his family entangled in the web of her indiscretions. If LeCroissant had any designs—business or otherwise—entwined with that woman’s intrigues, it would make him a liability. And Lord Whitehall dealt with liabilities swiftly.

But not tonight. Not before Lucy.

He turned back to his daughter, smiling faintly. “Perhaps, my dear, we shall attend the Contessa’s rumored gathering next week. You’ll have your chance to see this Frenchman yourself.”

Lucy clapped her hands softly. “Oh, may we, Mama?”

Lord Whitehall smiled to himself. He was pleased to see how easy and warm Lucy had become to her stepmother. He remembered with a fleeting thought his first wife, and Lucy's actual mother Elsbeth, who died only a couple of years ago from sickness in London and how Lucy was really too young to realize what was really happening. It's a good thing... he thought to himself, that Lucy and Eleanor have become close.

Lady Whitehall’s gaze lingered on her husband, the faintest curve at the corner of her lips at Lucy's mentioning of her as "Mama". “We shall see, my love. It depends if your father behaves himself.”

Lord Whitehall chuckled, raising his glass to her in mock salute. “Touché, my dear.”

But beneath the polite laughter and the gentle flicker of candlelight, something quieter pulsed between husband and wife—a shared understanding that the real conversation, the one laced with suspicion, strategy, and calculation, would not begin until much later.

When Lucy had been kissed goodnight and the house fell silent, the wine decanter would be set between them once more.

And only then would the talk of LeCroissant, the Contessa, and the fragile balance of Port Dominion truly begin.

Narrative: "The Governor's Residence, early evening, before supper..."

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

(Lord Governor Henry Archibald Whitehall)

(Lady Eleanor Whitehall)

The Governor’s Mansion, Port Dominion — Earlier That Evening

The Governor’s carriage rattled up the cobbled drive, its lanterns swaying, throwing long gold streaks across the palms. The harbor behind still glimmered with the dying fires of sunset; torches on the wharf burned like tiny, defiant stars.

Lord Henry Whitehall stepped down, his face a mixture of exhaustion and vexation. He tugged off his gloves as he entered the cool marble hall, his boots clicking sharply against the floor. The scent of candlewax and sea-salted air mingled faintly in the corridor as he strode toward the sitting room — the room he always found her in. The servants and staff within the Governor's House, were familiar with this look and air about him, and gave him a wide berth. He turned into the doorway and entered the sitting room.

And there she was.

Lady Eleanor Whitehall, in the amber glow of the fire.

Her dark hair reflected the firelight as did her even darker eyes. She wore a silk gown of pale ivory, the bodice trimmed with delicate lace, the folds pooling softly around her on the chaise as though she had been poured there by the light itself. A glass of wine shimmered red in her hand, and a small book lay upon the cushion next to her on the couch.

She looked up at him through the screen of her lashes — calm, expectant, the faintest curl of a smile at the edge of her lips.

The fire caught the reflection in her eyes and made them seem to flicker, golden and unreadable.

Henry stopped short, staring at her for a moment too long. Then he exhaled sharply and tossed his gloves onto the table.

“First the Spanish Contessa,” he muttered, his voice low and bitter, “and now… this — this French fop!”

He crossed to the sideboard and poured himself a measure of claret, the movement rough, impatient.

“Damn the whole affair,” he went on. “If it isn’t the Spaniards and their silks and secrets, it’s the French with their perfume and powdered faces. The man looked like a canary in mourning, Eleanor — and the worst of it, I’m expected to treat him as if he were a royal envoy!”

Eleanor tilted her head, regarding him over the rim of her glass.

“A canary in mourning,” she echoed softly, amusement glinting in her voice. “My dear Henry, you have the soul of a poet — even when angry.”

He shot her a look, but her tone disarmed him. She set her glass aside and rose, her movements smooth, unhurried. The silk of her gown whispered as she crossed the rug, the faint scent of rosewater trailing after her.

“Tell me,” she said, coming close enough that he could feel the warmth of her. “What did he do to offend you so dreadfully? Surely even the French can’t be that intolerable.”

Henry gave a short, mirthless laugh. “He preened. He posed. He insulted the humidity, the colony, our manners — and still managed to look as though he were about to faint from the sight of honest work. Paris must be laughing itself to sleep sending him here.” He shook his head slightly. "I am honestly surprised that he didn't have his own violin quartet following him as he walked, playing a musical air dedicated to him announcing his presence to all the living creatures on this entire island."

Eleanor smiled — slow, knowing. “Then perhaps he was sent for that very reason,” she murmured. “To rattle your nerves.”

Her hand brushed his arm as she passed him — a ghost of contact, deliberate.

He stiffened slightly, throat tightening as she poured more wine into his glass, her sleeve gliding over his wrist.

“You mustn’t let him see you angry,” she said. “Men like that thrive on reaction. Let him play the fool. You, my love, have the better stage.”

Henry stared at her — the calm of her face, the glint of her eyes.

For a moment, his anger softened, replaced by that familiar unease she always stirred in him — the kind that sat somewhere between desire and surrender.

“You make it sound so simple,” he said quietly.

Eleanor turned toward him, her hair catching the firelight, molten gold against the darkness. “It is,” she whispered. “But then, men rarely see what’s simple when their pride is pricked.”

The corner of her mouth lifted — that half-smile that always disarmed him, the one that felt like mockery and invitation at once.

He tried to speak but found his words lost. His hand tightened on the glass instead.

He hated that she could do this — turn the storm inside him to silence, leave him caught between fury and fascination.

Eleanor stepped closer still, until her voice was almost a breath against his ear.

“Tell me about her,” she murmured. “The Contessa.”

He hesitated. “She is… unsettling,” he admitted at last. “Beautiful, yes — but there’s something behind her eyes. Cold. Calculating. The soldiers whisper of witchcraft already.”

Eleanor’s smile deepened, soft and dangerous. “Ah,” she said. “So another woman of power unsettles the mighty Lord Whitehall.”

Henry looked at her sharply, but her tone was playful — or seemed so.

She moved back to her chair, the fire painting her silhouette in gold.

“You forget yourself, Eleanor,” he said, but without conviction.

“Do I?” she asked, her gaze holding his. “Or do you forget how easily you are swayed?”

The air between them hummed — not with argument, but with that electric tension that had always lived in their marriage.

He wanted to speak — to scold, to claim, to confess how her mere nearness made him forget reason — but the words would not come.

Outside, the waves broke faintly against the shore.

Inside, the fire crackled, low and intimate.

Eleanor sipped her wine again, eyes never leaving his. “You worry about the Frenchman,” she said at last, “but I think he is the least of your troubles. The Contessa… she will stir things. She always does. Perhaps it’s time you learned how to stir back.”

Henry’s pulse quickened. “And you would teach me?”

Her smile curved — dangerous, exquisite.

“I already have,” she said. “You’ve simply never noticed.”

The clock struck midnight. The fire hissed.

And though neither spoke again, the silence between them burned hotter than the coals.

"Evening thoughts and plans...with a Spanish Flair...."

From the Private Journal of the Contessa Maria Theresa Isabella Emilia Lucia Gabriella Rosalina Liliana Paloma

Evening, Port Dominion —Wednesday, April the 19th

They say the sea brings many things to these shores — spice, blood, gold, and rumor. Today, it has brought me laughter.

This afternoon, as I sat by the long veranda that overlooks the square, the bells of the harbor clanged in the damp wind, and I knew before any servant whispered it to me — a new ship had arrived. The air trembled differently. It always does when a change steps ashore.

By sunset, word came fluttering through my house like gossiping birds — a French ship, flying the lilies of Bourbon, had come to dock. And from it, a single man of note: Monsieur Gaspard François LeCroissant. I nearly smiled when I heard the name — it sounded like a confection, delicate, sugared, and full of air. All pomp and procession, and no substance.

They say he stepped onto the wharf in a blaze of yellow silk, bright as a canary trapped among crows, his every movement perfumed and powdered, as though the world itself were unworthy of his scent. How very French. How very deliciously absurd.

I imagine the English faces — Governor Whitehall pursing his lips until they nearly disappear, that vein at his temple beginning to beat; his Lady Eleanor back at the manor, hearing of his arrival, hiding her smile behind a fan, eyes glimmering with that feline amusement of hers; General Winthrop pretending not to care but already calculating what mischief a man such as this might bring. The soldiers would whisper, the servants would giggle, and the wives… ah, the wives would pretend not to stare.

And I?

I sit above them all in this candlelit house, the sea’s breath curling through the shutters, my wine deep and red as sin. I think of Monsieur LeCroissant — a little peacock fluttering into the serpent’s garden. He does not yet know where he has come. Paris may have tired of him, but I do not tire of curiosities.

Men such as he are useful. They create noise, movement, distraction — they pull the gaze of others away from where the true game is played. Perhaps the heavens sent him to amuse me; perhaps the devils below wish to see whether his silks can withstand the salt and sweat of the tropics.

The English will despise him. He will despise them in turn. And I will watch. I will learn. Every arrival is a ripple upon the water — and I am most at home when the waters are not still.

As I write, the night presses close against the glass, heavy and warm. The candles have burned low, their light soft and trembling. My reflection in the window is not quite my own — the eyes that meet mine are older, wiser, crueler. I think, sometimes, she looks out at me from the other side of the glass, that other me, the one who whispers when the winds change, who remembers older seas and older lives.

Perhaps she, too, waits to see what this Frenchman will bring.

I have already dreamed once of him — though I had never seen his face. A golden figure, surrounded by mirrors, lost in his own reflection while the room burned around him. When I woke, I tasted smoke and perfume both.

Coincidence? Or a small reminder that the world still dances to the rhythm I once knew how to play?

Let the Frenchman preen. Let the English gossip. Let the Governor’s wife laugh behind her fan and the soldiers look to their muskets.

I shall remain here, in the cool dark, where the sea hums against the shore, and wait for the next move.

After all — what is one more piece upon the board?

— M.T.I.E.L.G.R.L.P.

The Contessa of St. Albion

The Words of LeCroissant: "Mon Dieu! What must I put up with?"

From the thoughts and observations of Monsieur Gaspard Francois LeCroissant, as written for those of elegant taste and refinement to read and to wonder.

Wednesday Evening, on the 19th of April, in the pitiful English colony of Port Dominion, upon a largely ignored island which the English call "St. Albion"....

At last, I am ashore—though I hesitate to use so noble a word for what, in truth, was more akin to stepping onto a plank nailed to a heap of rotting wood that these islanders dare to call a “wharf.” Mon Dieu! The humidity alone could wilt silk, and my shoes—my newest yellow calfskin, Paris-made by Monsieur Delorme himself—were nearly ruined the moment I touched that wretched timber.

I could feel the eyes of every sweating, soot-faced dockhand upon me as I descended the gangway. Of course they stared; when one is accustomed only to the crude simplicity of English cloth, true elegance must seem like a vision from another world. My coat—bright as the sun and twice as refined—was the only civilized thing in sight.

The first breath of this colonial air nearly made me faint. It smells of salt, rum, and the unwashed hopes of those who have fled civilization. Even the sea seems uncultured here—too loud, too free.

And as for Captain Jacques Le Escargot—ah, yes. That rustic creature. A man of the sea, but not of the salons. He carries himself with a certain blunt efficiency that the bourgeois often mistake for dignity. I endured his company for weeks, listening to his endless talk of wind and tide as though these were subjects fit for conversation. He is not from Paris, you know, and one can tell. The Captain, though nominally French, hailed from Marseilles — Marseilles! — a place, which I often remind myself, “barely French at all… a little too sun, a little too garlic, a little too… Italian.”  His manners are provincial; his laughter too broad, too honest. The man had the audacity to speak loudly, laugh heartily, and worst of all — to sweat. On a vessel of such close quarters, this was nothing short of barbarism.  Still, I confess, there was a certain pleasure in watching him grow visibly relieved as I disembarked. He wished me adieu with an enthusiasm that bordered on vulgarity.

Inwardly, I returned the sentiment.

Now, to the English.

Les Anglais! How does one describe a people so determined to live without grace? The Governor, Lord Whitehall, met me with a look that might have curdled milk. His coat was well-cut, I grant him that, but the color—drab brown!—the hue of mediocrity itself. He spoke with the heavy certainty of a man who believes he commands the world, yet one could see the doubt flicker in his eyes. Power, I have learned, rarely feels as firm as it pretends. I could see from my first gaze upon him that this was a man damned to this island prison of his own Queen's making. Les Anglais have a way of breeding useless clerks, bureaucrats, and statesman of service that are middling in their ways and efficiency, and thus are doomed to a limbo and perdition in backwards waters and primitive locations such as this.

Yet even a prisoner may have his graces. I have heard of his wife from what my spies in France had informed to me before I was required to undertake such a brutal journey to this island; Lady Eleanor Whitehall. Ah, now she is another matter entirely. The only creature on this island who appears to understand what beauty is meant to do. Her hair is said to gleam like darkened, polished brown wood under the tropical sun, her movements languid yet precise, each word she speaks a thread of honey and steel. When she smiles—oh, that smile!—I am sure that the Governor forgets his English stiffness altogether. I do believe she knows her effect upon men, and wields it as a weapon more artful than any blade.

If I were not already exhausted from my rigorous journey, I might have indulged to arrive at the Governors residence in official presentation and see for myself this lovely and enchanting woman, and I would enjoy our exchange more. I know that she would curtsy with a subtle curve of mockery, and I would bow with exaggerated grace. Between us would pass a moment of mutual recognition—a silent accord between connoisseurs of performance.

And then there is the Contessa Maria Theresa Isabella Emilia Lucia Gabriella Rosalina Liliana Paloma.

I had heard whispers of her even in France, though few dare speak them too loudly. She is… how does one say? A mystery wrapped in perfume. Her gaze has the unsettling calm of one who knows too much, and her presence unsettles even the air. If what I am told is even a shred true, then she will draw my attention as surely as the moon draws the tide.

If rumor is to be believed, she possesses certain… talents that extend beyond charm or intellect. Whether these are of divine or darker origin, I cannot say. But one does not look upon her without feeling something ancient stir beneath the ribs.

The English men grow uneasy around her. Their wives pretend to despise her, but in truth, they envy her. As for me—moi—I am not easily unsettled. Still, I find myself watching the windows at night, wondering which of the island’s shadows hides her thoughts.

Port Dominion itself is a contradiction. “Mon Dieu. So this is the island where civilization goes to die.”

It pretends to be a fortress of empire, yet its walls crumble, its soldiers sweat and shuffle like schoolboys, and its people live as though the world has forgotten them. The fort guns are rusting, the flag frayed, and their “General Winthrop” seems a good enough man but weary—like an actor repeating the same tired line before an indifferent crowd.

There is wealth here, yes—but it smells of desperation.

I shall endure it, of course. A man of my refinement can endure anything, though not without comment. Perhaps my presence will serve as a gentle reminder of civilization to these forlorn colonials. After all, it is not every day that Paris graces the edges of the map.

And who knows? Perhaps my sojourn here will prove… diverting. There are worse places to be than among fools who do not recognize their betters. I could have had the misfortune of being sent to The Americas.

Besides, it amuses me to imagine Lord Whitehall’s expression when he realizes that I, Gaspard François LeCroissant, am here to observe, to report, and, when necessary, to charm.

Though if the Contessa and Lady Eleanor continue their dangerous waltz of glances and secrets, I suspect my time here will be less a mission—and more a play.

And mon Dieu, what a performance it shall be.

"From the General's Journal: And now, a Frenchman..."

 

From the private journal of Lord General Augustus Winthrop, Commanding General of Port Dominion and St. Albion, in service to Her Royal Highness Queen Anne.

Port Dominion, Wednesday Evening, April the 19th.

This afternoon found me once more within the Governor’s great house—its broad verandas and louvered shutters straining to keep at bay the heavy air and heat that forever cling to this island like a fever. The Governor, Colonel White, Major Hawthorne, and I had gathered in the study to resume our discourse upon the state of affairs—trade, militia readiness, and, as ever, the curious presence of the Spanish Contessa whose arrival has already stirred more whispers than a full-blown scandal in London.

The conversation had turned to the Contessa’s influence—White, ever the soldier, suspects her of espionage, while Hawthorne, whose temper is slower to light, maintains that she may be but a wealthy exile playing at diplomacy. The Governor himself, for his part, counseled caution, his powdered wig gleaming faintly beneath the lamplight as he dabbed at his brow and murmured something about “political sensitivities.”

We had reached no consensus when, quite without ceremony, there came a hurried knock and the door burst open to admit Corporal O’Tully—hat clutched in his hands, red coat unbuttoned at the throat, and his face a picture of agitation. The man was near breathless, and for a moment all he could manage was, “Another ship, sir—another ship’s come into the harbor!”

The Governor frowned. “Another Spanish vessel?”

“No, sir,” O’Tully stammered in his thick Irish brogue. “Not Spanish this time… French, sir. Flyin’ the white and gold flag o’ Bourbon France!”

A silence fell upon the room like a dropped curtain. France. The very word was enough to set the air taut.

At once the alarm bell began to toll from the fort. I rose, drawing my coat about me. White’s expression darkened, and the Governor muttered an oath not fit for polite company. Within minutes we were outside, the late afternoon sun flaring upon the sea like molten brass, the air thick with the scent of salt and smoke from the fort’s signal guns.

When we reached the harbor, the sight was as strange as it was unsettling. Out upon the water, moving with an air of practiced leisure, was a French brig-of-war—her sails trimmed neat, her hull black and gleaming like lacquer, the white and gold ensign of the Bourbons snapping proud in the Caribbean wind.

Upon the wharf, the garrison stood uneasy, muskets in hand, while townsfolk gathered at a cautious distance. Colonel White barked orders to the soldiers manning the wall batteries to hold their fire, but once again I could see the ever competent Captain Morris and Lieutenant Hamilton has seen that the situation and preparation for a volley was wall in hand and ready to command. Turning my gaze towards the ship, I could see the French crew lining the rails, their blue coats crisp and their faces composed.

When the ship came to berth, a figure descended the gangplank—Captain Jacques Le Escargot, as he introduced himself with a bow so theatrical that it seemed he practiced before a mirror. He was a broad man, ruddy of cheek and smelling faintly of salt and brandy, with a grin that bespoke either insolence or relief—or both.

“Messieurs,” he said in English thickened by his accent, “I bring to you a most important passenger from Paris itself. From His Majesty’s own court, no less!” 

How odd that when he said this, a round of laughter erupted from the crew of the ship, as if we had suddenly found ourselves the unknowing and unwitting subjects of some great and unknown French joke being played upon us. After a brief moment, the captain raised his hand in silent command and the laughter died away.

At this, he stepped aside, and from the gangway emerged a sight so absurd that even the Governor, for once, was struck speechless.

The passenger—Monsieur Gaspard François LeCroissant—descended like a peacock alighting among pigeons. His suit was of the brightest yellow silk, trimmed in pink along the seams, and beneath it an almost turquoise blue waistcoat shimmered like the sea. Lace spilled in reckless abundance from his cuffs and throat, and upon his head sat a yellow tricorn adorned with white feathers that bobbed with every affected tilt of his chin. He held a perfumed handkerchief to his nose and regarded the assembled English with an expression that managed to combine disdain, exhaustion, and superiority in equal measure.

"Well pock me for a tavern wench..." I heard one of the soldiers mutter as he stared at this French peacock standing on our wharf. I glanced over and Sergeant Major Sherborne, seeing my expression, quickly turned his head and gave the soldier the look which silently told him to "Shut his gob."

The fancy, French peacock spoke before any of us could gather our wits.

“Ah, so… this is Port Dominion, yes? How… quaint. I should have worn simpler shoes.”

The Governor blinked, perhaps unsure if insult had just been given. White’s mouth twitched visibly, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. Hawthorne, ever the diplomat, murmured something about the weather.

LeCroissant gave a theatrical sigh and waved his scented kerchief toward Captain Le Escargot. “You may go, mon capitaine. Your ship smells of tar and sweat and sailors. I am quite done with it.”

The Captain, to his credit, bowed once more—but I heard him mutter under his breath as he turned away: “Bonne chance, messieurs… et bon débarras.”

Good luck—and good riddance.

As the French ship crewmen worked to loose its moorings and prepared to sail away, I could not help but think the man spoke for all of France.

Now, as I pen these lines by lamplight, I find myself plagued by the uneasy thought that our small island—once merely a forgotten British outpost—is becoming the stage for something larger and far more dangerous.

First the Spanish Contessa, with her veiled glances and whispered secrets.

And now this fancy fop of a Frenchman, come from Paris under some pretext we are not yet privy to.

It cannot be coincidence.

No—something is stirring beneath the surface of all this civility, and I fear before long we shall find ourselves caught in its undertow.