"Mr. Alastair Greene, who is much, much, better than you..."

Mr. Alastair Greene — A Character Study

Mr. Alastair Greene is, without question, a man of uncommon self-assurance—though many in Port Dominion would argue that his confidence has long since slipped its tether and strayed into the territory of arrogance. A tall, fastidious gentleman of perhaps forty years, Greene dresses with impeccable precision: his coats are always brushed to a sheen, the lace at his cuffs crisp and spotless, and his powdered wig sits just so, as if daring the coastal wind to try its mischief upon him. He carries himself with the deliberate air of one who believes the very ground is privileged to receive his footfall.

In both appearance and manner, Mr. Greene is the embodiment of self-importance. He moves through the halls of the Governor’s offices with the measured gait of a man convinced that the administrative machinery of Port Dominion would grind to a halt were he to take ill. Indeed, he has told more than one clerk—half in jest, half in warning—that were it not for his steady hand upon the ledgers and correspondences, “the colony might as well return itself to the wilderness.”

Professionally, Greene is competent, even formidable. His mind is as sharp as the nib of his quill, and his ability to navigate the labyrinthine channels of trade, taxation, and maritime law has made him an invaluable asset to Lord Whitehall’s administration.   Greene is utterly convinced that he is indispensable to Lord Whitehall. In truth, the Governor tolerates Greene’s arrogance because his efficiency is unmatched. When papers need arranging, orders need transcribing, or a message must be delivered without delay — Greene ensures it happens before the Governor can even ask.

Behind closed doors, he is capable of subtle manipulation. He plants seeds of suggestion — recommendations disguised as flattery — steering decisions ever so slightly toward his preferred outcomes.

“My Lord Governor, if I may — it might appear more prudent to delay that audience with the Contessa. One must not seem too eager to indulge foreign intrigues…”

He is always careful, always deferential — and always in control.

He has a gift for precision — every document, every report, every ledger under his care is immaculate. His penmanship is elegant, his phrasing polished, and his understanding of bureaucratic order unmatched in Port Dominion. 

In short: Greene is excellent at what he does — and he never lets anyone forget it.

Yet where others might temper skill with humility, Greene gilds his with condescension. He treats subordinates and household servants alike with a cool disdain, believing deference to be his due. To be of “lesser station,” in Greene’s estimation, is not merely to be unfortunate—it is to be irrelevant.

He begins his mornings with a ritual that would scandalize most English sensibilities: a glass of claret before noon, sipped as he reviews correspondence or revises official reports. He claims it steadies the nerves and “sharpens the mind.” His breakfast—usually poached eggs, buttered bread, and slices of ham—is taken at leisure, for Mr. Greene is never one to hurry himself for the convenience of others. His midday meal, too, reflects a man of indulgent tastes: cold beef, oysters when available, and always a fresh loaf and wine enough to last him through his post-luncheon work.

Dinner is his true delight. He favors rich fare—duck in orange glaze, stewed hare, and puddings flavored with nutmeg and rum. He despises simplicity in food as much as in company. To dine with Greene is to endure a monologue disguised as conversation; he will discourse at length upon the decline of manners in the colonies, the mediocrity of most men’s minds, and the “quiet tragedy” of being surrounded by those who cannot appreciate one’s genius.

In his private quarters, Greene surrounds himself with imported comforts: thick velvet curtains, a Turkish carpet, an ivory-handled cane, and an absurdly large globe he rarely consults. He keeps an oil portrait of himself—commissioned, naturally, at his own expense—hanging above his writing desk, as if to remind visitors that they stand before a man of consequence.

Yet for all his airs, Mr. Greene’s self-possession is not unshakeable. The calm façade strains when faced with Mr. Franklin Benjamin—a man whose unflappable composure and measured wit have proven infuriatingly resistant to Greene’s attempts at provocation. Every failed effort to unnerve Benjamin deepens Greene’s resentment, though he hides it behind a veneer of chilly civility.

Toward Lady Eleanor, his thoughts are more tangled. There is admiration, yes—her intelligence, her grace, and the quiet command she exerts even in silence all appeal to his sense of discernment. But intertwined with admiration is something darker: resentment at her poise, fear of her perception, and a begrudging acknowledgment that she is one of the few souls he cannot so easily impress. He suspects she sees through him entirely, and that thought unsettles him more than he would ever confess.

As for the Contessa—ah, there the matter grows more complicated still. Monsieur LeCroissant may irritate him, but the Contessa fascinates him in a manner both thrilling and disquieting. Her arrival has set all of Port Dominion whispering, and Greene is no exception to that chorus of intrigue. He finds her manner intoxicating—her composure artful, her beauty commanding, her confidence almost dangerous. She carries with her an air of mystery that pricks at his pride. He tells himself she is merely another foreign distraction, a figure of fleeting interest. Yet privately, he finds her presence unnerving. She reminds him of a finely cut diamond—brilliant, cold, and sharp enough to draw blood if held too tightly.

He cannot decide whether he wishes to impress her or outmatch her, to intrigue her or to expose her as a fraud. Her knowing smiles make him feel, for the briefest moments, like one of the lesser men he so often disdains. And that, to Alastair Greene, is intolerable.

Of late, with the arrival of both the Contessa and Monsieur LeCroissant, Greene’s arrogance has taken on a sharper edge. He senses in the Frenchman a rival—not only in wit and refinement but in the subtle contest for influence that plays out beneath the civility of Port Dominion’s social veneer. What began as mild irritation will soon ferment into rivalry; Greene cannot abide another man so boldly strutting through the Governor’s orbit, particularly one whose charm so easily wins the admiration Greene demands as his right. The Contessa’s apparent favor toward LeCroissant—whether real or imagined—only deepens his agitation.

Still, he perseveres, secure in the belief that his intellect and station will prevail. For Mr. Alastair Greene’s greatest talent—aside from his professional acumen—is the unshakable ability to convince himself that the world, despite its many faults, is arranged exactly as it ought to be: with him near its center.