"The Rainstorm on the Island...From Lady Mitchell"

 

Journal of Lady Mitchell

Port Dominion, the Day of Heavy Rainfall

The storm has not abated all this long day, and the skies pour their endless grey tears upon St. Albion as if the heavens themselves were intent upon washing the island away into the sea. From my window, I watch the sheets of rain fall across the gardens, hammering the stone paths and bending the flowers and herbs I had hoped to see flourish this season. The air is heavy and damp, though within the house I keep the fires burning so that the children, Amelia and Pip, do not grow chilled or restless.

My dear husband, Michael, is pacing belowstairs, as is his habit when confined. His business dealings—those endless matters of trade, agreements, and opportunity—sit heavily upon his brow. He is a man who thrives upon action, upon movement, upon the exercise of authority; when the world forces him to stillness, he can be gruff, short of word, and sometimes impatient with those about him. Yet I know this to be but the strain of responsibility, and not a true turn of heart. He remains my steadfast companion, and I, his loyal wife, support him in his burdens as best I may.

The household has been kept in strict order, despite the restlessness of the servants. Margaret Heddlethorpe—our senior maid—has been exacting in her duties, though I know the others sometimes whisper that she is over-demanding. Let them whisper; it is not their opinions that shape this household but mine. Order is the mark of a proper English home, even upon this faraway colonial island, and I will not see it undone by idle tongues or slothful hands. I suspect Margaret enjoys their mutterings in secret, for she thrives on discipline and takes pride in managing their labors.

The rain today reminds me of the frailty of this colony. The stalls in Dominion Square are shuttered, the streets turned to streams of mud, and the people retreat into their homes or taverns. It shows how quickly commerce and livelihood may be interrupted, and how swiftly this place could unravel without strength and discipline at its head. The Governor carries that charge, though I confess I do not always admire his manner. Whitehall is clever, capable, yet at times distracted by matters beyond his station—or, perhaps, within his home. His wife, Lady Eleanor, is an enigma. She moves with grace and subtle power, as though every word and glance carries meaning. Many say she enchants those around her, bending their attention to her will. I do not know if this is entirely true, yet I cannot deny that she possesses an art of presence which unsettles even men of stern authority.

Of the reverends, I think them each in their way earnest, though different as sun and storm. Reverend Goodall is a kind man, sincere and steadfast, his teachings clear and temperate. He is well suited to guide the souls of this town in quiet strength. Reverend Task, on the other hand, is fire itself—blazing words, fierce warnings, and a presence that demands attention. He thunders of sin and damnation with a fervor that is sometimes excessive. Yet there is no denying the effect upon the people. His eyes burn with conviction, though I sometimes wonder what passions and torments stir behind them.

As for the people of Port Dominion, they are like the island itself—diverse, unruly, yet filled with promise. The English must ever remain at the helm if order and prosperity are to be secured. The French I cannot abide, a constant vexation, as troublesome as sand caught in a shoe. The Spanish and Dutch even less so—avaricious, scheming, forever clawing for advantage. And as for the Irish, I echo my husband in his distaste. Still, if one or two may be turned toward usefulness, they may yet serve their place beneath us.

This storm has bound us all indoors, forcing reflection upon our small world here on St. Albion. It is a reminder of how delicate our position is, yet also how vital discipline and resolve remain. Tomorrow the skies will clear, and with them shall return the labors and schemes of men. But tonight, as I listen to the ceaseless drumming of rain upon the glass, I feel the weight of responsibility upon my shoulders—toward my husband, toward our household, and toward this colony that must, with English strength and order, endure.