Narrative: "A Quiet Conversation at Whitehall Manor..."

 

(The Players for this evening's narrative at the Lord Governor's residence....)

(Lord Henry Whitehall)

(Lady Eleanor Whitehall)

The Governor’s Mansion, Port Dominion — Late in the Evening

The hour had grown comfortably late, and the house had long since settled into the hush that comes after supper. In the drawing room, a the fire crackled, and a single candle lantern burned low, throwing soft amber light across the patterned carpet and the gleam of polished wood. The night outside was clear and still, and through the tall windows the harbor lights of Port Dominion could be seen winking faintly across the water.

Lord Whitehall sat in his armchair near the hearth, the final remains of the fire giving off a steady, quiet heat. His brandy glass caught the flicker of the flames as he swirled it idly, deep in thought. Lady Eleanor reclined nearby on the chaise, a faint smile on her lips as she watched her husband’s reflection in the glass cabinet opposite. She had removed the last of her jewelry, and her hair hung in a loose cascade over one shoulder—a rare informality that belonged to no one but the night and her husband. It was times like this that the desires of men would run deep and driving, if they were to see her in this manner.

It was Eleanor who broke the silence first.

“She has made herself quite the topic, hasn’t she?”

Whitehall’s gaze did not lift from the fire. “The Contessa?”

“Who else? ” Eleanor replied lightly, her voice touched with amusement. “All of Port Dominion seems quite bewitched. I can’t go an hour without hearing her name whispered as if she were some myth newly arrived from the continent. And it is curious, is it not, that so little is actually known of her?”

Whitehall’s brow furrowed. “Curious, yes. And inconvenient. A woman of her sort does not cross the sea for mere leisure. There’s always a reason — a debt, a scheme, or an ambition tucked beneath the silk." He took a sip from the glass before looking at it and slowly swirling it again, his mind in deep thought.

Eleanor tilted her head, her eyes studying him over the rim of her teacup. “You suspect her, then?”

“I suspect everyone, my dear,” he said, dryly. “It is the only reliable habit of a man in my position.” He paused, leaning back slightly, his gaze growing sharper. “LeCroissant’s arrival not a week after hers… coincidence is a poor friend to trust. And yet here they both are — charming, extravagant, whispering French phrases to whoever will listen. If there is mischief afoot, I would wager it began long before their ships ever made port.”

Eleanor set her cup aside and folded her hands in her lap. Her tone softened, though her eyes gleamed with the sort of intelligence that Whitehall both admired and occasionally feared.

“Then perhaps it is time we made her acquaintance properly. A dinner invitation, perhaps — formal, respectable, the sort that cannot be refused. She will come, of course. They always do.”

Whitehall looked up then, truly studying his wife. “You wish to draw her out?”

“Of course,” Eleanor said, with a knowing smile. “There is no better mirror for a woman’s secrets than another woman’s conversation. Men may boast or bargain; women reveal. Not by intent, perhaps — but in the ways they speak of others, in the pauses between their words, in what they neglect to say. Over dinner, she’ll be forced to perform her charm, and in doing so… we might catch a glimpse of what lies behind it.”

He regarded her for a long moment, then chuckled quietly, shaking his head. “You would make a better diplomat than half the men I’ve employed.”

“I would make a better many things,” she replied, her tone playful but edged with something more serious beneath. “But for now, I shall content myself with managing your dinner table.”

Whitehall rose, crossing the room to stand beside her. He rested a hand on the back of her chair, gazing down with a faint, approving smile. “Send the invitation then. Make it an evening she cannot resist — fine wine, good company, a touch of music perhaps. Let her see the grace of Port Dominion in its best light.”

“And you,” Eleanor said, glancing up at him, “will play the role of genial host — all civility and warmth, as if suspicion had never crossed your mind.”

He raised his glass in quiet acknowledgment. “And you will charm her as only you can. You have that talent, Eleanor. Men fall to it easily. Women, more slowly — but they fall all the same.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The fire popped softly in the grate. Outside, the faint sound of the sea reached through the open window — a slow, rhythmic hush against the shore.

Finally, Eleanor rose, smoothing her gown. “Then it’s settled. I shall pen the letter in the morning. I imagine she’ll be delighted — or at least pretend to be.”

As she crossed toward the door, Whitehall’s eyes followed her. There was affection there, but also calculation — the mind of a man who saw in his wife both a partner and an instrument of subtle strategy.

When she paused at the threshold, she glanced back, her expression thoughtful.

“Henry,” she said softly, “what do you think she truly wants here?”

He saw the expression on her face and in her eyes, and could see that for once, whatever she was playing was momentarily, but just for a moment, set aside as she looked to him for an answer. He swirled his brandy once more, his gaze turning distant. “Whatever it is… she won’t leave without getting it. That much, I suspect.”

Eleanor’s smile was slow, knowing, and tinged with something like excitement.

“Then,” she murmured, “let us see how much she reveals… when the candles are lit, and the wine is poured.”

And with that, she slipped out into the hall, leaving Whitehall alone with his thoughts and the dying fire — both of which burned low, but far from out.

"Eleanor...God help me is a power to be reckoned with.", he thought to himself, "As is the Contessa. And if they were to ever ally together....", he stopped at the thought. He looked down into his brandy glass, ""IF" they were to ever ally together, then God help us all.", he muttered to himself before emptying the last contents of the glass as if trying to wash away those last thoughts.