From the journal entries of Benedict Marlowe.
The Inn of the King’s Arms, Port Dominion.
This evening I sit in my chamber at the King’s Arms, the candle stub sputtering low in its pewter stick, and I find my mind still restless from the day’s many impressions. When I returned from the Mansion and the Square, the inn was already beginning to stir with its evening custom.
For my supper, the landlord served a portion of stewed salt beef with onions, alongside a dish of plantains fried crisp, and a small tart of mango and spice that proved surprisingly agreeable. A jug of ale was brought as well, though I allowed myself but one cup, lest my head grow heavy before my quill could finish this account.
The common room was lively, for it seems that no matter the hardships or uncertainties of this colony, its folk find occasion to speak, jest, and sometimes quarrel over their cups. At one table, two merchants debated whether the Governor’s decision to permit the Spaniards and French their places of worship would weaken the Protestant cause, or else ensure peace and trade. At another, a group of sailors loudly disputed whose vessel had made the faster passage from Bristol, their laughter punctuated with oaths and boasts.
Most notable, however, were the conversations that circled yet again around yesterday’s sermons. The innkeeper’s wife, a brisk woman with a ready tongue, observed that Reverend Goodall has “a kindly air, but perhaps too much grandfather in him and not enough wrath.” She hinted that many of the town’s respectable ladies find comfort in his gentler manner. Her husband, pouring ale for a pair of middling tradesmen, muttered that Reverend Task’s eyes “burn like coals too hot for the hearth,” and that one day his zeal may light fires in Port Dominion none will wish to see. Several heads nodded grimly at this.
From another corner I overheard gossip concerning Lady Whitehall herself—that she was seen walking in the garden of the Mansion with a smile too bright for a Sabbath morn, and that some gentlemen pay her glances which Lord Whitehall pretends not to notice. Such talk is whispered low, but whispered often.
I resolved that tomorrow I must set myself in order—new clothes to replace the wear of travel, fresh linen, stockings, and the several toiletry items which a man of letters must maintain if he is to hold himself respectable in the Governor’s employ. I shall also speak with the landlord regarding my lodging. If he will not agree to let the chamber by the month, then I must seek a rooming house more permanent. Yet I suspect the steady custom of a clerk in service to the Governor’s staff will suit his purse well enough.
As for my new employment, the weight of it presses upon me, though I confess there is pride in being entrusted with the quill and ledger under Mr. Benjamin’s direction. Still, I cannot help but wonder at the Governor himself, whom I have yet to see with my own eyes. And again—though I chastise myself for the indulgence—my thoughts stray to Lady Eleanor, of whom all whisper. What manner of woman is she truly? Coquette, libertine, or merely victim of slanderous tongues? Should she turn her gaze upon me, I scarce know how I might respond. A shiver of fancy runs through me at the thought of her charms, though I quickly dismiss it as folly.
The voices of the Reverends linger too. Goodall, the steady hand and careful guide. Task, the thunderer, whose fiery tones left women pale and uneasy, and men nodding grimly as though to approve his harsh judgments. Could it be, as he proclaims, that witches and sorcerers truly walk these streets? Or will his zeal mistake blushes and whispers for Satan’s work? The question troubles me more than I care to admit.
Thus my mind is a whirl—of sermons, of faces, of duties yet to begin, and of temptations both imagined and real. I set down my quill, and with a last draught of the candle’s light, I blow it out. May sleep grant me the peace that the day has not.
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