From the Private Journal of the Contessa Maria Theresa Isabella Emilia Lucia Gabriella Rosalina Liliana Paloma
Evening, Port Dominion —Wednesday, April the 19th
They say the sea brings many things to these shores — spice, blood, gold, and rumor. Today, it has brought me laughter.
This afternoon, as I sat by the long veranda that overlooks the square, the bells of the harbor clanged in the damp wind, and I knew before any servant whispered it to me — a new ship had arrived. The air trembled differently. It always does when a change steps ashore.
By sunset, word came fluttering through my house like gossiping birds — a French ship, flying the lilies of Bourbon, had come to dock. And from it, a single man of note: Monsieur Gaspard François LeCroissant. I nearly smiled when I heard the name — it sounded like a confection, delicate, sugared, and full of air. All pomp and procession, and no substance.
They say he stepped onto the wharf in a blaze of yellow silk, bright as a canary trapped among crows, his every movement perfumed and powdered, as though the world itself were unworthy of his scent. How very French. How very deliciously absurd.
I imagine the English faces — Governor Whitehall pursing his lips until they nearly disappear, that vein at his temple beginning to beat; his Lady Eleanor back at the manor, hearing of his arrival, hiding her smile behind a fan, eyes glimmering with that feline amusement of hers; General Winthrop pretending not to care but already calculating what mischief a man such as this might bring. The soldiers would whisper, the servants would giggle, and the wives… ah, the wives would pretend not to stare.
And I?
I sit above them all in this candlelit house, the sea’s breath curling through the shutters, my wine deep and red as sin. I think of Monsieur LeCroissant — a little peacock fluttering into the serpent’s garden. He does not yet know where he has come. Paris may have tired of him, but I do not tire of curiosities.
Men such as he are useful. They create noise, movement, distraction — they pull the gaze of others away from where the true game is played. Perhaps the heavens sent him to amuse me; perhaps the devils below wish to see whether his silks can withstand the salt and sweat of the tropics.
The English will despise him. He will despise them in turn. And I will watch. I will learn. Every arrival is a ripple upon the water — and I am most at home when the waters are not still.
As I write, the night presses close against the glass, heavy and warm. The candles have burned low, their light soft and trembling. My reflection in the window is not quite my own — the eyes that meet mine are older, wiser, crueler. I think, sometimes, she looks out at me from the other side of the glass, that other me, the one who whispers when the winds change, who remembers older seas and older lives.
Perhaps she, too, waits to see what this Frenchman will bring.
I have already dreamed once of him — though I had never seen his face. A golden figure, surrounded by mirrors, lost in his own reflection while the room burned around him. When I woke, I tasted smoke and perfume both.
Coincidence? Or a small reminder that the world still dances to the rhythm I once knew how to play?
Let the Frenchman preen. Let the English gossip. Let the Governor’s wife laugh behind her fan and the soldiers look to their muskets.
I shall remain here, in the cool dark, where the sea hums against the shore, and wait for the next move.
After all — what is one more piece upon the board?
— M.T.I.E.L.G.R.L.P.
The Contessa of St. Albion
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