From the journal entries of Benedict Marlowe.
The Inn of the King’s Arms, Port Dominion.
Friday, April the 21st
The hour grows late. The lamps are dimmed, and the steady hum of the sea carries up through my open window. I should be asleep, yet the weight of the day refuses to let my thoughts rest. There is a peculiar stillness tonight—an expectant hush that seems to linger in the air, as though the island itself is listening.
These last few days at the Governor’s House have been quietly restless. The arrival of the Contessa has set the household abuzz, and now with this new presence—Monsieur Gaspard François LeCroissant—every tongue in the clerks’ office seems to wag twice as fast. One would think the pair had brought with them the very stuff of intrigue, for Port Dominion has not stopped whispering since their ships made harbor.
My morning began as they often do: a breakfast of toasted bread, a thin slice of salted pork, and a small cup of strong black tea. The air was still heavy from the night’s rain, the palms along the road to the mansion beaded with dew that caught the first light of dawn. From the hilltop, the Governor’s residence gleamed pale and proud, its white walls taking on a faint golden hue.
Inside, the clerks’ office was already alive with quiet talk. Thomas Hargood, the senior clerk, was at his usual post before any of us, spectacles perched low, his pen scratching wearily across ledgers. He is a man who bears the weight of routine like an old coat—comfortable, if somewhat frayed. Hargood has seen too many ambitious young men come and go to be much moved by the gossip of the day, yet even he lifted an eyebrow when William Pratchett began his spirited retelling of the latest rumors surrounding the Contessa.
Pratchett, ever eager to fill silence, leaned across the desk to share what he’d heard: that the lady’s wealth was not inherited but acquired—through clever charm, scandalous liaisons, and perhaps a touch of deceit. He even claimed she had once been courted by a Spanish duke and rejected him so publicly that the man fled to a monastery. Hargood snorted, muttered something about “romantic drivel,” and returned to his ink.
Edwin Clarke, as usual, said little. He works like a ghost—quiet, steady, and tireless. If he ever entertains gossip, it remains locked behind those watchful eyes. Yet I caught him glancing up once during Pratchett’s tale, a faint, almost amused smile passing over his lips before he turned back to his figures.
At midday, we shared a simple meal—boiled yam, salted fish, and watered ale—taken together in the lower hall. Mr. Greene, naturally, dined apart, in what he calls his “private interval.” He cannot bear to share a table with those he deems beneath him. When he passed us later, glass of wine already in hand and smirk set firmly in place, I caught Hargood muttering under his breath, “The man mistakes hauteur for refinement.”
Later in the afternoon, I crossed paths with Mr. Franklin Benjamin in the hallway outside the Governor’s study. He is a man of few words and sharper wit, and though he rarely speaks of others, I heard him say—perhaps to himself, perhaps to me—“There are those who believe superiority is a virtue, when in truth it is merely vanity in better tailoring.” He glanced toward Greene’s empty office when he said it, and I could not help but think he’d struck the mark precisely. His ability to put thoughts into careful words and use the exact sentences one needs (no more or no less), has impressed me greatly. I have much to learn from this gentleman, if he would teach me.
As for the Governor, he has been scarce these past days, moving briskly between chambers, giving short instructions in that low, measured tone of his. The staff sense his unease but dare not name it. Something, or someone, troubles him.
Lady Eleanor, too, moves through the halls with an air of quiet command. I saw her twice today—once in the courtyard, directing servants in the arrangement of flowers, and once later, gliding down the staircase in pale silk, the candlelight catching at the edges of her gown. Conversation stopped as she passed. There is a stillness that follows her, not born of reverence, but of caution—an unspoken recognition that she is more than she appears.
A part of me is ashamed to admit that the two brief moments I was given a glance of her, I could feel as if a part of me rushed to her, or perhaps she reached out in some invisible form, and touched my inner being. It took all of my strength in body and mind to keep from gasping aloud when I gazed upon her for those very brief moments in time.
Young Clarke, breaking his usual silence, whispered to me after she had gone, “She carries herself like one who plays a game the rest of us haven’t been told the rules to.” I found that observation rather astute.
The gossip of LeCroissant, the Frenchman, grows more ridiculous with every telling. Pratchett claims he has offended the cook already, demanding that his meals be “of European delicacy” and that his bathwater be scented with rose oil. Others say he has already paid a visit to the Contessa’s villa, though none can prove it. There is laughter at his expense, of course—but I sense beneath it a thread of wariness. For all his vanity, there is something unsettling about a man who arrives on this island with such confidence, as though he already knows its secrets.
This evening, I took supper at The Inn of The King's Arms—roast duck, yam purée, and a generous mug of dark rum. Mr. Dunstable, ever the cheerful innkeeper, could not resist weighing in. “Mark my words,” he said, polishing a glass, “that French popinjay will stir up trouble before the season’s out. A man who perfumes himself before breakfast is not to be trusted.” His wife gave him a reproachful look and murmured, “It’s always the proud who see danger in the beautiful.”
Now, the hour nears midnight. The lamps burn low. From my window, I can see the faint lights of the Governor’s mansion flickering through the palms, its windows glowing like watchful eyes. Somewhere within, Lady Eleanor and the Governor are no doubt perhaps discussing the Contessa or Monsieur LeCroissant—or both. The thought stirs a strange unease in me, though I cannot say why.
I am merely a clerk, a recorder of ledgers and minutes, yet I cannot help but feel that something moves beneath the calm surface of this place. The arrivals of these strangers have set the air quivering. Even the sea tonight seems to murmur of it.
I shall take another sip of rum before I sleep. It dulls the sense that something is coming.
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