"Late night within my chambers...."

 

Private Journal of Lady Eleanor Whitehall

Late night, Wednesday, April the 19th, Port Dominion.

The harbor bell rang again. I believe they will never cease their ringing in this place — so like a heartbeat beneath the skin of the colony, too loud, too alive. The sound carries even here, through the open shutters of my chamber. I can still taste the salt of the sea on the air and the faint perfume of the gardenias that the servants left upon my dressing table.

Another ship. Another foreign shadow upon our shore.

This one French — of course. Bourbon lilies, they said, bright against the fading light. And stepping forth from its decks, a vision in yellow satin and powdered arrogance — Monsieur Gaspard François LeCroissant. I heard the name before supper; by the time we sat to dine, it was already half the conversation.

Henry’s face when he heard it — ah, I wish I had captured it in paint. His brows drew together as though the very thought offended him, his mouth pressing thin in that way that betrays both irritation and a flicker of worry. “First the Spanish Contessa,” he muttered, low enough that only I might hear, “and now this—this French fop!”

I touched his hand then, just lightly, just enough for him to still the storm that brews so easily behind those proud eyes of his. And he did. He always does, though it costs him something each time — a kind of surrender I both adore and fear.

He thinks me his solace, but I am his undoing.

Even now, as I sit by the window, I can see him below through the glass — pacing the lantern-lit veranda, hands clasped behind his back, every inch the soldier and the statesman. But I know the tension that hides beneath that polished surface. The arrival of the Contessa unsettled him in ways he would never speak aloud. And now this preening French creature, with his silks and scents and sneers, has pushed him further still toward the edge of something he cannot name.

He tries to keep his voice measured when he speaks of her — of the Contessa. But I hear it. That mixture of fascination and distrust that all men wear around women like her. And perhaps, if I am honest, around me as well.

For she and I are not so different. Both of us foreign to this island, both of us masters of the unspoken game — the glance, the pause, the small smile that conceals more than words ever could. The difference, perhaps, is that she wears her mystery like a crown, while I wear mine like perfume: invisible, intoxicating, and perilous to breathe too deeply.

The servants whisper that strange things move about her house at night. That candles gutter when she enters a room. That the Governor dreams more often now, and wakes without remembering what he has seen.

If such things are true, I almost envy her.

Port Dominion has begun to change. There is a heaviness in the air — not just from the heat or the salt, but from expectation. Every new arrival brings with it another thread in a web none of us can yet see. The Contessa — her charm and her secrets. The Frenchman — his vanity and his disdain. And Henry, caught between duty and desire, strength and surrender.

Sometimes I wonder if this island draws souls such as ours to it — restless, proud, uncertain of our own reflection. The sea around us is beautiful, yes, but it is a prison too, and perhaps it keeps us here until the last mask falls away.

I can hear Henry coming up the stairs now — that familiar, deliberate rhythm of his boots. I should close this book. He will come to the door and stand there for a moment, as he always does, watching me before speaking. I will turn my head just so, and the candlelight will fall across my hair, and I will smile — not too much, only enough to remind him that for all his power, I can still make him forget his own name.

And he will.

He always does.

But later, when the fire has burned low and he lies sleeping in his bed chambers, I will think of the Contessa, and of Monsieur LeCroissant in his ridiculous yellow silks, and of the way this island hums like a secret waiting to be told.

Something is coming. I can feel it in the stillness before dawn.

And when it comes — I will be ready.