Narrative: "A Supper at Whitehall Manor..."

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

(Lord Governor Henry Whitehall)

(Lady Eleanor Whitehall)

   

(Miss Lucy Whitehall)

The time: Early evening, (dinner time)

The location: The Lord Governor's Residence, (also known as "Whitehall Manor"), and specifically The Dining Room.

A Supper at Whitehall Manor

The dining room of Whitehall Manor glowed softly under the light of two tall candelabra, their flames reflected in the silverware and the rim of the decanters set upon the table. Outside, the sea wind whispered through the shutters, carrying with it the faint scent of brine and the distant rhythm of Port Dominion’s harbor bells.

Lord Whitehall sat at the head of the long mahogany table, a figure of quiet authority wrapped in a deep blue evening coat. Across from him sat Lady Whitehall, composed as ever, her eyes steady and serene beneath the gentle light. Between them, his daughter Lucy sat, cheeks rosy from laughter and the warmth of the fire, delicately twirling a bit of roasted carrot on her fork.

Tonight’s meal was a fine one — roasted pheasant in a rich wine reduction, buttered peas, and a dish of potatoes gratin that had browned beautifully at the edges. A basket of freshly baked rolls rested between Lady Whitehall and Lucy, the crusts glistening with a sheen of butter. The servants moved silently, pouring a deep claret for the lord and lady, and a small glass of watered wine for young Lucy, who felt quite grown up for being allowed even that.

“So it would seem, ” Lord Whitehall began, breaking the companionable quiet with a gruff sort of amusement, “that Monsieur LeCroissant has arrived at last. Docked just this morning, or so Captain Darnell, the Harbormaster claimed before I arrived there to greet...our new guest.”

Lady Whitehall looked up from her plate with an even expression. “I imagine the harbor has been abuzz all afternoon. It is not often that a Frenchman of his... distinction... finds his way to Port Dominion. Imagine the discussions and talk. First a Spanish Contessa, and now a Frenchman all the way from Paris, here on our fair island."

Lucy brightened. “Is he truly a monsieur, Papa? A real one? From Paris?”

Lord Whitehall chuckled, though there was no real warmth in it. “Aye, my dear, from Paris indeed. A fine gentleman by all accounts—perfumed, powdered, and preening, no doubt. The French fop has probably spent more time arranging his cuffs than attending to his affairs.”

Lady Whitehall shot him a soft glance—half reproach, half amusement—and turned to Lucy. “Your father enjoys exaggeration. I’m sure Monsieur LeCroissant is quite respectable, and perhaps even charming.”

Lucy giggled. “Then perhaps you’ll invite him to dinner?”

At this, Lord Whitehall paused with his fork halfway to his mouth. His gray eyes flickered toward his wife, and there was the briefest tightening at the corner of his mouth before he resumed eating. “Perhaps,” he said at last, dryly. “When I’ve seen whether he’s a man worth breaking bread with.”

Lady Whitehall’s tone was smooth as cream. “I imagine we shall learn soon enough.  I've heard a rumor that the Contessa has already extended him an invitation to her estate, has she not?”

“Aye, I've heard that rumor also, but I am not to the extent to know if it is true or not,” Lord Whitehall grunted, setting down his knife with a faint clatter. “And if half of what’s whispered about that woman holds true, we’ll soon see the pair of them parading about the colony as though they were its crowned monarchs.” He gave a short laugh that carried more irritation than humor. “The Contessa and her moonlit airs, and now this LeCroissant—Heaven help us, the island will never be short on spectacle.”

Lucy tilted her head. “Do you not like the Contessa, Papa?”

He looked at her for a moment, then softened slightly. “She’s... entertaining, my dear. Though perhaps a bit too fond of attention for my taste.”

Lady Whitehall reached across to adjust Lucy’s napkin, her tone placid. “She is a woman of the world, Lucy. Not all the ladies of Port Dominion have had such... cosmopolitan experiences.”

There was a faint smile on her lips, but Lord Whitehall noticed the way her eyes held his for a heartbeat longer than usual—an unspoken reminder. Careful.

Lucy chattered on about the dresses she imagined French ladies might wear and whether Monsieur LeCroissant might bring sweets from the continent. Her innocent enthusiasm filled the room with a warmth that kept the deeper shadows of the conversation at bay. Lord Whitehall felt pleased at his young daughters conduct and of her youthful innocence and excitement. It was a refreshing change of pace from yet another day of unpleasant surprises and encounters.

When the servants cleared the plates and brought out a small dish of stewed pears and cream, Lord Whitehall leaned back in his chair, swirling his wine. His gaze drifted to the fire, though his thoughts were elsewhere.

Rumors had been swirling like smoke these past weeks—ugly things whispered in corners about Eleanor’s flirtations and her husband’s obliviousness. A husband’s shame was the sort of contagion that could infect reputations by proximity, and the last thing he needed was to find his family entangled in the web of her indiscretions. If LeCroissant had any designs—business or otherwise—entwined with that woman’s intrigues, it would make him a liability. And Lord Whitehall dealt with liabilities swiftly.

But not tonight. Not before Lucy.

He turned back to his daughter, smiling faintly. “Perhaps, my dear, we shall attend the Contessa’s rumored gathering next week. You’ll have your chance to see this Frenchman yourself.”

Lucy clapped her hands softly. “Oh, may we, Mama?”

Lord Whitehall smiled to himself. He was pleased to see how easy and warm Lucy had become to her stepmother. He remembered with a fleeting thought his first wife, and Lucy's actual mother Elsbeth, who died only a couple of years ago from sickness in London and how Lucy was really too young to realize what was really happening. It's a good thing... he thought to himself, that Lucy and Eleanor have become close.

Lady Whitehall’s gaze lingered on her husband, the faintest curve at the corner of her lips at Lucy's mentioning of her as "Mama". “We shall see, my love. It depends if your father behaves himself.”

Lord Whitehall chuckled, raising his glass to her in mock salute. “Touché, my dear.”

But beneath the polite laughter and the gentle flicker of candlelight, something quieter pulsed between husband and wife—a shared understanding that the real conversation, the one laced with suspicion, strategy, and calculation, would not begin until much later.

When Lucy had been kissed goodnight and the house fell silent, the wine decanter would be set between them once more.

And only then would the talk of LeCroissant, the Contessa, and the fragile balance of Port Dominion truly begin.