From the journal entries of Benedict Marlowe.
The Inn of the King’s Arms, Port Dominion.
Thursday, April the 13th
Port Dominion, this day of rain and storm.
The rain has not ceased since before dawn, a heavy, steady downpour that drums upon the roofs and cobblestones with ceaseless determination. Mr. Benjamin, in his foresight, warned me yesterday that the storm would be fierce and advised I need not come to the Governor’s offices. I heeded him, and so here I sit, in my small quarters, with little more to my table than a mug of beer, a heel of brown bread, and a portion of hard cheese. The window is my entertainment today, and through its panes I watch the town bow itself beneath the storm.
Dominion Square, which at this hour would ordinarily be alive with hucksters, fishmongers, farmers, and their wives, is now deserted but for the rivulets of rain coursing through the stones and gathering in puddles where men and women tread each morning. The stalls are shut, their awnings tied back or beaten down by the gale, and no cries of “fresh fruit” or “salt cod” rise up above the din of rain. The square, robbed of its life, looks more like a stage after the play has ended, silent and bare, awaiting the next performance.
I think too of the dockside: ships that cannot load or unload, sailors driven into the taverns or curled up miserably under dripping tarpaulins, and carts idle along the road where goods might otherwise be moved inland. It is as though the entire town has been forced into submission, not by musket or law, but by the sheer weight of water descending from heaven.
There is something almost purgative in such weather. The rain beats down without regard to man or station, governor or fishwife, soldier or clerk. It washes the dirt from the streets, the smoke from the air, and perhaps even the darker matters that cling to this place. I cannot help but think how the torrents might wash away the footprints of schemes, the ink stains of plots, the whispered evidence of secret dealings carried out in shadowed corners. Perhaps when the clouds part, the town will be given a new, clean slate, a fresh beginning—though I am not so naïve as to believe such things last. Men will scheme again as sure as the sun will return.
Still, I find myself wishing that the rain might also cleanse a man’s mind as it does the streets. Of late, my thoughts have been tangled and troubling—chief among them Lady Eleanor Whitehall. She lingers in my head like a vision both sweet and perilous. I have dreamed of her, I have found my gaze wandering at the very mention of her name, and I know it is not safe to tread down such paths, not for one in my station. Perhaps this storm will scour such thoughts from me, or at the very least dull their sharpness. For they bring with them temptation, unease, and a shame I cannot rightly shake.
Yet I cannot help but imagine how the rain falls upon those of higher station than I. The Governor himself—no doubt closeted in his study with Greene at his elbow—may view this storm as a nuisance to his correspondence, but perhaps also as a moment’s pause from the endless business of trade and treaty. Greene will, I suspect, seize the day to remind him of his indispensability, dripping his thin, needling voice like a drop of vinegar into the Governor’s ear.
Lady Eleanor, though—what does she make of such a day? I picture her walking the corridors of the Governor’s residence, the hem of her gown whispering against the polished floor, pausing now and then at a window to gaze at the rain with that inscrutable look of hers. Perhaps she speaks to her maids of household matters, or perhaps she lets her thoughts wander far beyond the storm and the confines of Port Dominion. And yet I wonder, does she ever sense how easily she commands the thoughts of men unseen? It is a dangerous line of speculation, yet one I cannot resist.
Little Lucy Whitehall, I imagine, is restless, trapped indoors, sighing at her lessons and dreaming of the outdoors. Mr. Benjamin, I can well envision, takes the storm with practical patience, using the hours to put his papers in order and doubtless lamenting the meddling of Greene, even while the rain beats on the shutters. Lord Mitchell, somewhere in his house, is likely railing at the weather as though it were a personal affront, filling his glass more quickly than he ought.
It is strange, this sense of separation. While the storm hems us all in, I remain here alone with my bread, my cheese, my beer, and my thoughts, as distant from their world as if I were in another country. The rain beats against us all equally, but the walls that divide high from low remain untouched.
And yet I cannot shake the thought that when the skies clear, Port Dominion may not look or feel quite the same. Storms wash away more than dirt and refuse; they shift the ground beneath, they loosen the stones in the foundation. Who can say what this one will wash away—or what it may leave revealed?
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