"The Contessa's Arrival..."

From the journal entries of Benedict Marlowe

The Inn of The King's Arms, Port Dominion, 

Saturday Evening, April the 15th.

“She has come, a vision in crimson, as though the storm itself birthed her. She unsettles me more than the Governor’s lady, for her look is foreign, fierce, and veiled with some secret purpose. Why here? Why now? And why does my hand tremble as I write of her?”

The storm of the previous day has left the air heavy and damp, and yet tonight the town stirs with talk more heated than any thunder that rolled from the heavens. From my window above the King’s Arms I beheld her—the Contessa Maria Theresa Isabella Emilia Lucia Gabriella Rosalina Liliana Paloma, in scarlet silk, her retinue spilling onto the wharf like a pageant from Madrid itself.  The arrival of Contessa Maria Theresa Isabella Emilia Lucia Gabriella Rosalina Liliana Paloma, whose name alone exhausts the English tongue. In the manner of her people, such abundance of names is a matter of pride and lineage.  

It had started in the late morning as I was returning from the governor's residence after delivering some documents to Solicitor Wilfred Willoughby, whose office and residence was on the corner of Dominion Square, when I heard the drums of Fort Hemmerly beating out what I suspected to be the sound to arms. 

I saw a great throng of people move towards the wharf and my curiosity got the better of me, and I found myself following. From where I stood, I could see a ship coming into the harbor, and upon the walls of the fort, I could see anxious soldiers ready for battle. My gaze returned to the ship and my question of "Why" was soon answered as the banner of Castile and Leon appeared. 

"It's a Spanish ship!" Someone in the crowd said. This statement was soon followed by gasps, and moans of frightened concern. 

The ship was remarkably close, and yet no guns were firing from either it, nor the fort. Whereupon one of dockhands informed us that it seemed "As if she were making to dock".

At this times a small element of soldiers from the fort came rushing out and formed up on the wharf, and from my eye I could see the Lord Governor, and the officers of the fort riding out to the wharf to take charge of the situation.  For my own safety and well being, I stepped back a few steps. All of those guns and cannons, and someone was surely ready to fire one. 

As I am still new to this island and my position and station here, I have no desire to have my life ended due to an errant musket ball or cannon shot.

We watched as the ship docked and the gangplank came down. The Lord Governor and the officers had dismounted and stood nearby awaiting to discover the reasons for this.

Soon afterwards a Spanish captain disembarked from the vessel and greeted his Lordship and the officers in a manner most theatrical.  After some discussion, he stepped back and a passenger disembarked.

The Contessa...

She arrived under the delicate cover of the fragile truce that currently binds the Spanish, English, French, and Dutch to their uneasy peace in these waters. Her caravan of servants, attendants, and endless trunks of silks, jewels, and ornaments stirred both awe and resentment as it made its stately procession into the town. She has taken up residence in a fine new villa at the edge of Dominion, a house so freshly built its plaster has scarcely dried. Its location, uncomfortably near to both Lord Mitchell’s estate and the Governor’s residence, has set tongues wagging and tempers rising. The Mitchells, in particular, are said to be quite indignant at the encroachment of so high-born and foreign a neighbor.

But her proximity is not what excites gossip—it is her person. The Contessa is possessed of a beauty dark and smoldering, with eyes like candleflame in shadow and a bearing that mingles pride with suggestion. Her every movement, from the slow turn of her head to the faintest quirk of her lips, seems imbued with some sultry promise. Already, men of the garrison and merchants alike are said to be stumbling over their own tongues in her presence, and more than one respectable wife has complained of husbands returning home distracted and sighing.

And yet—there are murmurs. Whispers carried in corners of taverns and kitchens, spoken with half a laugh but the sign of the cross made after. Some claim that the Contessa’s beauty is not entirely natural, that her arrival coincides too closely with strange tides, uncanny dreams, and the sudden death of livestock in fields near the town. Others mutter of witchcraft, voodoo, or darker pacts—stories carried, no doubt, from Spain’s own troubled colonies. Whether these tales are the inventions of envious tongues or contain some element of truth, none can say. But few fail to note how easily she seems to command attention, charm even the skeptical, and unsettle the pious.

One cannot help but wonder why a woman of such wealth, power, and mystery has chosen this island. A mere indulgence? A quiet exile? Or some hidden design beneath her velvet gowns and golden rosaries?

The Contessa herself seemed untouched by all this attention. She stood calm and radiant on the dock as her servants bustled, her smile faint and unreadable. To some, it was the smile of welcome. To others, of promise. To others still, of danger.

By nightfall, it seemed that all of Port Dominion would know her name.

Her presence is like a flint struck to dry tinder; all Port Dominion sparks with speculation. The merchants gape at the weight of her trunks and the finery of her furniture, the sailors mutter at the sight of so much wine and sangria stacked like treasure, and even the Governor—though he would not admit it—looked uneasy as word of her came quick to his ears.

I confess: I could not look away. She holds herself with such composure, as though the very mud at her feet dares not soil her hem. Her smile—a mere suggestion upon her lips—sets the heart uneasy. It is neither cold nor warm, but something more dangerous: unreadable. It stirs questions in me, questions I dare not put to paper lest they betray too much of my own mind.

Below stairs, the Dunstables had their own thoughts, and I could not help but overhear as I passed.

• Mr. Dunstable, polishing tankards, grumbled, “Mark me, such a woman don’t come to Port Dominion for peace and quiet. She’s trouble wrapped in silk, and you’ll see soon enough.”

• Mrs. Dunstable, ever the sharper tongue, countered, “Trouble or no, she’ll draw custom. Half the town will line up at these tables to whisper about her, and the other half will come to drink at the thought of her. Best we pray she stays long enough to keep the ale flowing.”

Their words echo truth. Whether she brings fortune or ruin, she has already become the pulse of the town.

As I write, I wonder—what draws her here? Some say she comes in the spirit of truce, to enjoy the island’s commerce. Others mutter of papist intrigues, or darker still, whisper of witchcraft. I know not what to believe. Only this: the storm is past, yet in her, I sense another storm, greater and more perilous, has only just begun to gather above Port Dominion.

And God help me, I find myself eager to see where it breaks.