"Late Night, Within My Chambers..."

 

Private Journal of Lady Eleanor Whitehall

Late night, Friday, April the 21st, Port Dominion.

This evening finds me unable to quiet my thoughts, and so I take up my pen before retiring. The matter of the Contessa weighs upon me still — though I cannot say whether it is curiosity or caution that stirs most within me. She is a presence that has set the whole of Port Dominion whispering — some with admiration, some with envy, and others with a quiet unease. It is remarkable how swiftly a woman of means and mystery can turn the rhythm of this island upon its head.

Henry — my dear Lord Whitehall — spoke again tonight of her, his tone practical, his manner grave. There is strategy in every word that falls from his lips these days, yet beneath it I sense a glimmer of that suspicion which he so carefully tries to hide from me. He believes, as I do, that to understand this Contessa we must draw her nearer. He is a man of politics, not parlors, and so it falls to me to extend the hand of civility that may open her true self to our scrutiny.

Tomorrow, I shall write the invitation. It must be neither too formal nor too familiar — a gesture of refined hospitality, couched in the expectation of social grace. The dinner must speak for us as much as our words shall. I must see that the silver is polished, that the finest linens are pressed, and that the table is arranged with symmetry and warmth. A small gathering — no more than six — would suit best. Too many, and the conversation would scatter; too few, and it might feel like an interrogation.

I have thought much on the dishes to be served. Something that flatters the senses without appearing indulgent. The turtle soup, perhaps, followed by the pheasant in Madeira sauce, as well as a fish dish, and a simple pudding to close. The Contessa, I am told, has European tastes — though whether Italian or French in origin, no one seems entirely certain. I shall have both wines decanted, to cover every possibility.

There is something else, too — something unspoken. When Henry speaks of her, I see a flicker of the same interest that dances through the minds of many men on this island. Yet I cannot fault him for it; beauty and intrigue are powerful lures, and even the wisest can be momentarily dazzled. For my part, I wish to look beyond her painted face and silken voice — to know the mind that stirs beneath.

I wonder what she truly seeks in Port Dominion. No woman like her comes to such a place without a purpose.

As for myself, I shall wear the sapphire silk — the one Henry admires, though he will not say so aloud. It lends me a confidence I may need, for I suspect the Contessa is a woman accustomed to commanding a room. Still, I have my own form of command — one founded in composure, not display.

If she means to play a game, then she shall find me no easy opponent.