"A wonderful mystery!..."

From the Diary of Amelia  Ludlington.

This day has been one of marvels, for Port Dominion has received a new star, fallen from the heavens and come to rest upon our humble shore. The Spanish Contessa has arrived! And oh, how she dazzled, even with the clouds still heavy from the morning’s storm.

I watched from a little distance, behind the others, for Uncle would have scolded me had he caught me staring too long. He muttered his disapproval in his usual gruff tone, railing at her ostentation, her servants, her chests, her furniture, her airs and the fact that she was Spanish, and yes!- a Spaniard here in an English Colony! That in itself seemed to have incensed him most of all.

Yet I could not look away. She seemed like a figure from one of my books, an enchantress out of an epic poem, or a heroine drawn from Cervantes or Ariosto.

Her gown, the color of blood and roses, shimmered as she stepped ashore, and her eyes—dark, fathomless—seemed to carry within them whole oceans of memory. She did not smile much, but when she did, it was like sunlight through a storm-cloud. I could almost imagine music following her footsteps.

Why is she here? The gossips wag their tongues, whispering of plots, Papist schemes, or worse. Uncle says she is here to unsettle our town, to undermine good English order, and then I heard him mutter some about "bothering with our profits and business", under his breath. Aunt, though, says she is an affront—that no lady ought to arrive in such magnificence, without regard for the sensibilities of others.

But I—ah, I!—I cannot believe she is here merely for mischief. She must have come for some higher purpose, some secret quest. Perhaps she flees a broken heart in Madrid, or an intrigue at the Spanish court. Perhaps she seeks refuge on our shores, a phoenix in exile, waiting to rise again. Or perhaps—how thrilling the thought!—she is a spy, sent to watch our Governor, our officers, our merchants. If so, then never was a spy so fair, nor so dangerous.

I long to know her story. If I could but sit with her in her new manor, and she would tell me of Spain, of Seville’s orange blossoms, of the guitars and dances of her people! Or if she would but confide in me, even a morsel of her truth, I would treasure it forever.

Uncle scoffs at my reading, says my books fill my head with foolishness. But today, when I saw the Contessa Maria Theresa Isabella Emilia Lucia Gabriella Rosalina Liliana Paloma, I knew that the world of poetry is not all fancy. For here she stands, flesh and blood, a poem walking, a riddle wrapped in velvet and silk.

I will write more of her. She deserves to be placed among the pages of my imagination, alongside the heroines of antiquity. For whether she comes as friend or foe, saint or sorceress, she is a story, and one I cannot wait to see unfold.