"Bedtime Reflections at The Inn of The Kings Arms..."

From the journal entries of Benedict Marlowe.

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

Sunday, April the 9th

 It is late now, and the candle sputters beside me, but I feel compelled to set down some thoughts of these last days, lest they slip away unrecorded and my mind, left to its own wandering, turn too restive in the night.

The past few days in Port Dominion have been curiously quiet for me, though I gather not so for the town at large.  Life here has settled into a curious rhythm, quiet for me in outward appearance, though one senses the colony stirs restlessly beneath the surface. I have kept to modest walks, a visit to the harbor most afternoons, and meals taken with an air of solitary observance, watching and listening, for one learns much when one holds his tongue.

This morning marked my second Sunday service since arriving. I must say, I have grown attentive to the contrast between the two reverends. Reverend Task, though still intense in his delivery, was more measured this week. Gone were the rolling thunders of wrath that shook the rafters on my first Sunday; instead, he spoke in a lower register, but no less severe, his words sharp as a blade pressed close. The weight of his conviction carried its own kind of thunder, quieter yet heavy. Reverend Goodall, by comparison, remains gentler, though I sense firmness beneath his civility. His sermon was measured, reasoned, and carried a sense of consolation where Task’s carried warning. I find myself wondering how long such balance between them can endure, for they seem to represent two poles of faith—fire and balm.

  

(The Reverends and The Church....)

My meals these last days have been plain but sufficient. Yesterday at midday I ate slices of roasted fowl with mustard, brown bread still warm, and a wedge of cheese. Supper was a stew of fish, laced with an unexpected spice—cloves, perhaps—and washed down with ale that was hearty if somewhat flat. This morning, before the bells called us to worship, I took porridge sweetened with honey and a small cup of tea, weak but enough to clear the mind. Tonight’s supper was mutton with boiled carrots, the meat tender, the vegetables far too soft, a failing I am beginning to accept as common here. Still, the table is a blessing after the weary sea.

Tomorrow, my employment begins in earnest, and I confess a measure of nervous anticipation. The work itself I know, but the men, the manners, and the expectations of this island are still unfamiliar. Lord Whitehall and his circle will prize discretion as much as diligence, and I must guard against misstep. My pen may be steady, but my tongue must remain steadier still.

And yet, amidst these mundane concerns, my thoughts stray continually—troublingly—to Lady Eleanor Whitehall. I have yet to meet her, yet her name alone seems to cast a spell upon me. The townsfolk speak of her in admiration tinged with unease, fascination laced with gossip. It unsettles me that I, who know her not, should already feel her presence as if it presses at the edges of my mind. What will I find when at last I stand in her company? I half dread the moment, and half long for it, as if it were some appointed turning in my path that cannot be avoided.

There is talk also of the sea—whispers that the HMS Elysium will soon anchor in our bay, bringing fresh troops for the garrison. Many here seem relieved, for they believe it will mean greater security against pirates and foreign threats. The governor himself is said to welcome the reinforcement warmly. Yet I wonder if with the soldiers will come not only safety, but new burdens—more mouths to feed, stricter order imposed, and perhaps sharper divisions among the people. Still, the sight of the King’s ensign snapping in the wind above a man-of-war would surely settle many an anxious spirit.

And so, as I close this entry, I ready myself for the days ahead. Honest labor awaits, and with it, the stern eyes of reverends, the murmurs of taverns, the distant thunder of the sea, and perhaps, soon, an introduction to the lady whose shadow already haunts my thoughts. May Providence grant me strength and a steadier heart than I possess this night—and the wisdom to remain master of myself