"The Rainstorm on the Island...From Lady Eleanor Whitehall"

 

Private Journal of Lady Eleanor Whitehall

Port Dominion, the Day of the Great Rainstorm

How the rain does pour without ceasing! Since before dawn it has drummed its fingers upon the roof and beat its endless music against the windows. The whole island seems hushed under its curtain; the marketplace is deserted, stalls closed and canvases flapping miserably in the wind, and even the soldiers appear as little more than wraiths in their sodden cloaks as they dash to and from their posts. The very sea is hidden beneath veils of mist and rain, though I imagine it churns and foams like a great beast in its cage.

I confess, the storm stirs something restless in me. A sense of secrecy and concealment—as though all the world is veiled and we may hide our truest thoughts without fear of discovery.

I have had much time today to think upon those about me. Reverend Goodall, that earnest, gentle soul, comes foremost to mind. He spoke to me only days ago in the garden, his voice soft and humble, as though afraid the flowers might overhear him. He speaks much of grace, forgiveness, and the healing of the broken. Sweet sentiments, to be sure, but I cannot help but think he is far too mild for this place. Dominion is not England; it is no gentle parish filled with tame country folk. Here the air itself brims with unrest, with ambition, with secret hungers and schemes. Goodall’s kindness may comfort a few widows and soothe the heads of children, but I wonder if it blinds him to the darker truths beneath.

Reverend Task, on the other hand—ah, there is a man torn upon the rack of his own thoughts. One need not be a witch to see it; his eyes betray him. He glares at me with fury, yet behind that fire is something else. Fear, yes—but also longing. Poor, foolish man, he wars with shadows of his own making. I have done naught but smile, yet he looks upon me as though I hold the key to his damnation. Perhaps I do. The thought amuses me more than it should. His torment is almost… intoxicating.

As for my husband—my Lord Governor—I watch him today with a different eye. He has walked the halls restless, his brow heavy, muttering of ships delayed, of dispatches ruined, of stores soaked through and soldiers ill-supplied. The storm grates on him, for he cannot bend it to his will, nor command it with a decree. I do love him, though I say it rarely enough, for affection is not often the coin spent in public life. Yet his cares weigh upon me too, though not as they weigh upon him. He thinks of provisions, of walls and soldiers; I think of what the storm reveals of the man himself. He hates powerlessness. He loathes to be thwarted by anything, even heaven’s rain.

And what of me? I sit at the window, my fingers tracing idle patterns on the pane, and I feel a curious mingling of melancholy and strength. The storm seems to wash away much—grime from the streets, tracks from the square, perhaps even thoughts too heavy to carry. I think of the eyes upon me—of men who whisper, of wives who wonder, of clerics who tremble—and I wonder if I should pity them or revel in their confusion. To be feared, admired, and mistrusted all at once is a strange burden… yet is it not also a form of power?

Perhaps, when this storm has passed, the island shall feel born anew, cleansed of its dust and sins. But for me? The rain cannot wash away what I am. Nor, I think, what I might yet become.