From the journal entries of Benedict Marlowe.
The Inn of the King’s Arms, Port Dominion.
Tuesday, April the 10th
This day I must record with care, for it brought about a moment that has left my thoughts restless and stirred in a way I scarce know how to name.
This day has weighed upon me most curiously, for though I performed only the small and humble duties befitting a clerk so new to his station, yet I feel as though my spirit has been turned upon its head. For today, I first set eyes upon Lady Eleanor Whitehall, and the moment has not left me since.
The morning began without incident. I rose before the sun had fully cleared the palms and rooftops of Port Dominion, washed, and took my breakfast of porridge with stewed apple and a small cup of tea. It was plain fare, yet filling enough to gird me for my labors. I made my way to the Governor’s offices by the square, where Mr. Franklin Benedict, my superior, greeted me with his usual brisk courtesy.
My morning was occupied with the sorting of incoming letters — mercantile petitions for trade licenses, reports from minor officials on crop yields and harbor dues, and a stack of grievances from colonists who write as though His Lordship himself has nothing better to do than soothe their quarrels. Mr. Benjamin showed me the manner in which to arrange each item: what is to be sent upward to his desk, what can be answered in a standard form, and what must be filed for reference. He is not a harsh master, yet his tone carries weight, and I see that he expects no dawdling or slackness in the smallest of tasks.
It was in the afternoon that he entrusted me with carrying a sheaf of ordered documents to the Governor’s aide, Mr. Alastair Greene. This gentleman, it seems, sees himself as gatekeeper to His Lordship’s time and mind, and my role, humble as it is, must first pass through his hands. When I entered the study antechamber, Mr. Greene was standing at the tall window, a glass of wine in his hand though the hour was yet young.
“Ah, the new scribe,” he said with a smile that was at once gracious and cutting. “And so prompt. Let us hope this is a habit and not a novelty.”
I bowed and handed him the folio. He leafed through the pages with languid motions, nodding, then glanced up at me in a way that suggested both approval and dismissal. “Very good,” he said, in tones that made me feel like a child praised for tidying his desk. “Perhaps you may be of some use after all.” His courtesy was touched with condescension, yet I bit my tongue, bowed again, and turned to leave.
And then, it happened.
As I passed back through the corridor, I saw her. Lady Eleanor stood by one of the tall windows, speaking softly to a maid. Her hair, dark as polished ebony, was styled with art but not excess, framing a face both fair and arresting. Her gown was of pale silk, a color that made the richness of her complexion and the depth of her dark eyes all the more striking. She turned slightly, not toward me but toward the maid, yet in that moment the air seemed to thicken, as though her very presence altered the hum of the world around her.
I froze for half a heartbeat, willing myself not to stare. She did not acknowledge me, nor should she, for I am but a lowly clerk hardly worth the glance of a Governor’s lady. And yet — I felt her nearness as if it were a touch. The sound of her voice reached me, low, composed, with a cadence of calm authority. It was music tinged with steel. I bowed as I passed, though my eyes barely dared to meet hers, and went on quickly.
Upon returning to our chamber of work, my hands trembled slightly as I set the ink bottles aright. Mr. Benjamin looked up at me from his desk with his shrewd, owlish eyes. “Well,” he said, with the faintest twitch of annoyance. “Mr. Greene has seen fit to grace you with one of his little performances, no doubt?”
I confessed that he had been both complimentary and cutting. Mr. Benjamin’s mouth quirked into a wry smile. “Do not let him trouble you. He believes himself the sun about which we all revolve, but I tell you true — without us clerks and scribes, his proud post would founder in a day. He knows it too, though he would never admit as much.”
Then, after a pause, he regarded me with an expression I could not at first decipher. “Tell me, Marlowe… have you yet seen Lady Eleanor?”
My breath caught. I nodded.
“And how,” he asked softly, almost conspiratorially, “did you respond to her?”
His question seemed less idle curiosity and more a subtle weighing of my heart. I answered carefully, saying only that I had glimpsed her in passing, and that her beauty and bearing were such as rumors had not exaggerated. At this, he gave a small smile — not mocking, but knowing — and returned to his papers. Yet I could not shake the sense that he was quietly measuring my loyalty, perhaps even my discretion, in that single exchange.
Now, as I write these lines by candlelight, after a simple supper of stewed fowl, turnips, and a cup of small beer, I cannot rest my mind. I feel a kind of shame in this, for I am but a humble clerk, and she the wife of my master. And yet — I cannot deny the truth of what stirs within me. Her name has been but rumor and tale these past weeks, and already I feel as though some spell has been laid upon me merely by a single glance, a glimpse across a crowded hall. I replay that moment in the corridor again and again — the turn of her dark hair in the sunlight, the glimmer of her gaze not upon me, but near enough to burn into my memory. What spell has she woven, that even without word or glance toward me, I feel myself marked?
I am troubled by my own heart, for it seems to yearn toward danger. I tell myself this is foolishness, that I must attend only to my duty, and that I am a clerk in His Lordship’s service, sworn to duty, to letters and ink and the Crown’s order. And yet, tonight, all I can think of is Lady Eleanor Whitehall — the shadow she casts, and how that shadow has already fallen upon me.
And now, even as my candle sputters and I know I must soon be in bed and asleep to be ready for the oncoming day, I know that in some quiet, unguarded corner of my mind, I fear that Lady Eleanor will haunt me still, whether I wish it or not.
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