Private Journal of Lord Henry Archibald Whitehall, Governor of St. Albion
The Governor's Manor, in The City of Port Dominion, in the midst of the Great Rainstorm
This day has been all but lost to the weather. The storm began before dawn with a steady patter, but by midmorning it had swelled into a deluge of such force that the very windows rattled in their casements and the gutters of Port Dominion must surely be running like rivers. From my study, the view is obscured by sheets of rain, gray upon gray, so thick one can hardly discern the outline of the square below. The market stalls are deserted, their tarps collapsing beneath the weight of water, and the usual bustle of wagons and vendors has been replaced by the dull monotone of falling rain and the occasional crash of thunder rolling in from the sea.
Storms such as this remind me of England, though here the violence seems greater, the skies darker, the air more oppressive. The island takes on a kind of gloom, as though some giant hand has laid a pall across it, blotting out the sun and choking all activity. Even Fort Hemmerly, which I can just spy from the upper windows between the gusts, looks diminished in the tempest, its flag snapped taut and sodden, its walls streaked with water.
I confess, I find these storms wearisome. They bring not only a cessation of work but also an unsettling of the spirit. Dispatches from London cannot reach us when seas are impassable, and no ships may depart to carry my own words. I am left to my thoughts, which, on such dark days, are no easy companions.
Foremost is the matter of our tenuous position here. The garrison remains understrength; Winthrop does what he can with the men he has, but until reinforcements arrive, we are vulnerable. Letters have been sent—repeatedly—but whether they are heeded or delayed in London’s endless web of bureaucracy, I cannot say. Rumors circulate that HMS Elysium approaches with fresh troops. If it proves true, I shall breathe easier, though I will not rest until I see their red coats upon our soil.
Equally troubling are the so-called “understandings” I have arranged with the French, the Spanish, and even the Dutch in these waters. Practicality compels me to treat with them—commerce must flow, the town must eat, and supplies must be secured—but I am not blind to the risks. A truce with old enemies is but a paper shield. A single insult, a single greed too great, and the accord will dissolve like parchment in this storm. I know well that many in London would accuse me of overstepping my authority. But they are not here, staring down an empty storehouse or weighing the loyalty of merchants who would as easily sell to a Frenchman as to an Englishman if the coin is good.
There is also Mitchell—grumbling, suspicious, forever tallying his accounts. A useful ally, yes, and indispensable in certain ventures, but the man tests my patience. He rails against taxes, against delays, against any man or nation not English. Yet his zeal for profit outweighs even his prejudice, and so I endure him. Still, on days such as this, his voice seems to echo even in silence, like the buzzing of a fly I cannot swat away.
Mr. Greene has hovered all morning, his tongue wagging as though the storm had loosed it from its moorings. He delights in reminding me of my duties, as if I required a nurse. I keep him close because his orderliness is useful, his duties fulfilled to my satisfaction, and without failure, and his petty ambitions can be steered as any approval seeking lackey such as himself can be handled, but I weary of his insinuations and his air of indispensability. Were it not for the need of such men in these lonely corners of Empire, I would dismiss him, however in this place and in this current time and situations, I cannot afford to do so and thus I am burdened with him. Perhaps in the future...
As for Eleanor… she is ever a riddle, even to me. She glides through the house like the very spirit of the storm, her dark hair gleaming against the candlelight, her words sweet but edged, as though each compliment carries a hidden sting. She asked this morning whether the rain might not be a blessing, for it washes away the dust and dirt of the town and leaves the streets fresh. I smiled and nodded, though I could not decide whether she spoke of mere streets or of schemes, plots, and men themselves. There are times—more often than I care to admit—that I feel she delights in seeing me unsettled, in pressing just enough to test my composure.
Lucy is restless, pacing the halls, sighing at being kept indoors. I pity the girl; this is no place for youth. She ought to be in England, with proper friends and diversions. Yet Eleanor insists she is best kept here, where we may see to her future. I sometimes wonder if Eleanor takes pleasure in shaping the girl as she wills.
The thunder grows louder. My ink smears upon the page, the dampness seeping even into this chamber. The storm confines us all, but it also strips away the distractions of the day. Alone with my thoughts, I find them a heavy burden: reinforcements overdue, alliances brittle, partners irksome, an aide too eager and thinking too highly of himself, and foremost; a wife too beautiful and too clever.
And yet—perhaps Eleanor was right. Perhaps storms do wash the earth clean. One can only hope that when the skies clear, I may see more clearly the path forward, for the Crown, for this island, and for myself.
Still… in my darker moods, I sometimes wonder. When thunder shakes the windows and shadows leap upon the walls, I find myself thinking not of London or the French, but of her. Eleanor, standing calm in the tempest, as if it answered to her and not to God. If there is sorcery in this world, it may well wear her face.
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