From the journal entries of Benedict Marlowe.
The Inn of the King’s Arms, Port Dominion.
Tuesday, April the 18th.
It has now been five days since the great rain, and though the memory of it still hangs about the island in the damp smell of the soil and the swollen air, life in Port Dominion has, as ever, found its rhythm again. The streets are once more full of sound — carts rolling, sailors shouting, the usual arguments from the fishmongers down by the wharf. Only “The Hollows” still bears the marks of the storm’s temper. Half-flooded still, the ground there is a quagmire of black mud and broken fence rails, with the poorer folk laboring to repair their small dwellings. The carpenters and masons are doing what they can, though it seems a hopeless task — the place was ill-constructed to begin with, and worse maintained. Yet even there, I saw laughter today among the workmen, as if resilience were a natural resource of this island.
I breakfasted early this morning before work, taking tea and a dish of salt pork with boiled plantain, and a little bread brought over from Mrs. Ellery’s oven, which was still warm. She is a good woman, though her temper is sharp when her husband comes home drunk from the docks. The morning air was thick with the scent of wet earth, but the sky was bright — the kind of morning where one almost believes the rain has washed the island clean.
By midday, the sun was fierce again, and I took my meal with the others — a simple fare of bread, cheese, and a dried fish, eaten under the partial shade of the storehouse. The talk was, as always, of gossip and politics, but chiefly of her — the Contessa.
It has now been two full days since her arrival, and still the town hums with the sound of her name. Although it is well known that she arrived dressed in a gown of scarlet red of the brightest dark red hue, with black trim, and gold lacing, now it seems that one of the sailors swears she came ashore dressed all in black, with a lace veil that trailed behind her like a shadow. One of them, a man named Harcourt, swore that when she passed by, the gulls went silent, and not a dog barked until she had gone from view. Others, more practical, say she came to deal in sugar and contracts — but no one truly believes that is all. There is something about her that has set every tongue wagging.
At the taverns they say the Governor himself will soon dine with her in the evening, and that Lady Eleanor will be present also. That, of course, has stirred even greater speculation. Some say Lady Eleanor will not take kindly to the Contessa’s manner — that the two women will measure each other across the table like duelists before the draw. Others say they will speak with all the sweetness of saints, but their eyes will a different story.
Other than the brief glance I had of her at the wharf when she disembarked the Spanish ship, I have not yet seen the Contessa myself, though I confess curiosity. There is a peculiar electricity in the air since she came — as though she carries with her some invisible charge that has unsettled the very balance of this place. The merchants are anxious, the officers distracted, and the servants whisper in corners.
Of Lady Eleanor, I have only this to note — she has been seen more often at the Governor’s residence of late, and some say her voice carries further in those councils than propriety might once have allowed. There is something in her, a composure that others mistake for calm but which I believe is calculation. She moves through a room as though she already knows the thoughts of those within it, and I suspect the arrival of the Contessa has pricked at something prideful in her — some need to assert her place in the social order that governs Port Dominion as surely as the King’s charter does.
As for me, I take my supper this evening at the King’s Arms, as I have done often since the rains. Mrs. Dunstable provided a hearty dish of roasted fowl with onion and wine, and I took a glass of Madeira while the inn’s fire burned bright and cheerful. Around me, the talk was the same — the Contessa, the state of the roads, the Spanish ship that arrived in our port in the harbor, and whether it truly meant peace or trouble. Reverend Task passed through briefly, speaking to Reverend Goodall in low tones near the doorway, their faces tight with concern. Even the good clergymen seem uneasy these days, though they would never say so aloud.
In one corner, two of the Governor’s clerks were arguing over whether the Contessa’s presence will help trade or ruin it. One declared that she had come to “meddle in affairs that belong to men of business,” while the other said she might yet be a friend to the colony, bringing connections and coin. I suspect both are wrong — women such as she do not come so far across the sea for business alone.
I write this now, before I slip beneath the covers and to sleep, the candles burn low upon my desk, and outside the shutters the wind carries the scent of salt and distant rain. Somewhere beyond the darkened and quiet Dominion Square, the Contessa’s is in her residence, perhaps asleep, perhaps in prayer (although I would think not), or perhaps looking at important papers and making plots and schemes to bring upon us all.
And I cannot help but think that St. Albion — for all its quiet routines and civility — stands on the edge of some subtle transformation. The air feels charged, the way it does before a storm.
If the Contessa’s arrival has stirred the sea, I wonder what tempests may yet rise when her shadow falls upon the hearts of men—and women—alike.
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