From the journal entries of Benedict Marlowe.
The Inn of the King’s Arms, Port Dominion.
Thursday, April the 6th.
This morning, I awoke again in the chamber of the King’s Arms Inn, the shutters partly ajar, letting in the warm light of an already stirring Port Dominion. The noise of the street below, merchants calling, carts rattling, and seamen laughing coarsely as they strode towards the harbor, roused me fully, coaxing me from sleep. The noise of Dominion Square below was already in full force: wheels upon the cobbles, hawkers shouting their wares, and the distant toll of a ship’s bell down at the harbor.
Having determined that I must secure a proper footing before beginning my service under Mr. Franklin Benjamin, I resolved upon two things today: first, to set my lodging upon a more permanent basis, and second, to furnish myself with those necessaries of attire and person without which a gentleman clerk cannot hope to be taken seriously.
After dressing, I descended to the common room, where Mrs. Dunstable greeted me with a kindly word and a smile before setting before me a breakfast of brown bread, a wedge of cheese, and a slice of cold ham, with a cup of weak ale to wash it down. She bustled about the room, ever watchful of her boarders, while Master Dunstable remained behind his counter, quietly tallying his accounts.
After I had eaten, I took up my business with Master Dunstable, asking if my present chamber might be rented on a longer term, by the month. He scratched his beard and considered, saying that whilst his inn did not always cater to long-term boarders, he found my manners agreeable and my payment in good order, and therefore he would accept me as a monthly lodger. I assented readily, glad to have the matter settled. The price agreed upon was 25 shillings the month, inclusive of meals in the common room, though should I desire extra comforts (such as fish newly brought from the harbor or wine finer than the house red), these would be at additional cost. I judged it fair, and am relieved to have now the stability of a roof and table.
With that settled, I ventured into Dominion Square and thence into the lanes branching therefrom. The shops were busy with the hum of trade. I purchased a pair of serviceable linen shirts from a tailor’s stall, the cloth light but strong, and he assured me it was better suited to the climate than the heavier garments from England. From a haberdasher I obtained a new cravat and stockings, and at a chandler’s I acquired soap, combs, and shaving necessities which included a fresh razor. At each place, the shopkeepers greeted me with polite reserve, yet their eyes weighed me as though measuring the purse at my belt. I could not help but notice how their eyes strayed towards my purse more than my face. Such is trade, I suppose.
The square itself is a theater of daily life. I saw a planter’s wife bargaining for spices, a sailor clattering past with a basket of salt fish, children darting between stalls as though they owned the place, and merchants loudly praising the superiority of their wares. Each man and woman seemed wrapped in their own business, yet all together contributed to the great hum of the colony’s heart. I could not but marvel that in such a place, profit and gossip are traded with equal vigor.
By the time I returned to the King’s Arms in time for my mid-day meal, my purse was lighter, but my spirits somewhat lifted, for the business of settling oneself in a new land is no small burden, and I now feel better prepared for my duties to commence. Yet I confess, such errands, however mundane, gave me cause to reflect upon the ceaseless activity of Port Dominion. It is a place where all is movement—coin, cargo, rumor, and ambition. Even in the simple purchase of a bar of soap, one senses the pulse of commerce and the unspoken schemes that bind this colony to its future.
For my mid-day meal, I returned to the inn, where Mrs. Dunstable provided a dish of stewed mutton with carrots and turnips, accompanied by a hunk of coarse bread. At table, two merchants discoursed upon the latest arrival of ships from England, bemoaning the delay of certain goods, while another fellow hinted that a cargo of rum from the islands had been quietly diverted to another port for private gain. I listened politely, though said little, and wondered at the undercurrent of schemes that seem ever-present in this colony.
In the evening, I took supper in the same common room. This time a salted fish pie was served, with beans and a mug of cider. The talk among those gathered was varied—some about trade, some about politics, and some little better than tavern gossip. I overheard two men at the far end muttering about the sermons past, one claiming that Reverend Task’s fervor might be a danger if left unchecked, while another whispered that Reverend Goodall’s gentleness was too soft for a place such as this. Mrs. Dunstable herself, when pressed by a guest, remarked only that she thought the one too stern and the other too kind, and that perhaps the town would fare best if they might trade a little of each other’s temper.
Master Dunstable joined us for a time, leaning upon the back of a chair and listening with half an ear, though his thoughts were plainly on his accounts. Yet when I asked after lodging houses in the town, he said mine was the better choice, for boarding houses oft pressed too many into too small a space, and their tables were not near so generous as his wife’s. I am glad of his words, and of my agreement with him earlier this day.
Now, returned to my chamber, I set all down by candlelight. My purse is lighter, my person better supplied, and my lodging secure. Tomorrow, I think, I shall walk abroad, perhaps towards Red Row, where they say the less reputable sort ply their trades, or even, if I can muster the nerve, towards The Hollow, of which much is whispered, and little said outright. It may be folly, yet I feel the tug of curiosity, and if I am to live here, ought I not acquaint myself with all corners of this colony, fair and foul alike?
At the same time, I must admit, such walks would serve to clear my head of thoughts best left unpursued: the words of the Reverends, which still echo in my ears, and—worse—the fanciful, dangerous notion of Lady Eleanor Whitehall casting her eye upon me. Were she to favor me, what could come of it but ruin? And yet… the mind betrays the heart in its fancies.
I find myself longing, too, for a place of ease—some spot in Port Dominion where I might relax, free from care, and perhaps in time find companions to call friends. For though I am content in my solitude now, man was not made to live without society. Perhaps, once my work is begun, I shall stumble upon such comforts.
But tonight, my candle burns low, and the day’s errands have left me weary. With a mind full of both practical cares and unquiet thoughts, I set down my quill and prepare to sleep.
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