Private Journal of Lord Mitchell
Port Dominion, during the storm
The rain has not ceased since morning, and I feel as though the whole island is sinking beneath it. The square lies empty, the stalls abandoned like corpses upon a battlefield. Even the dogs have vanished from the streets. Only the water moves—pouring, splashing, running in channels down the cobbles and into every hole. It is a cruel sight for a man who depends on trade. Every drop is lost coin, every puddle another delay. Business and profit does not wait on the weather.
I sit here with my half full glass of brandy, looking out at the blurred shapes beyond, and I find myself thinking—dangerously thinking. Storms drag thoughts from me I would rather keep buried. Perhaps it is the devil’s work, or perhaps just old age turning my mind sour.
The truth is this: With the exception of my beloved wife, I do not trust a soul in this cursed town. Not the Governor with his fine words, nor his black-eyed wife who charms and unsettles in equal measure. Eleanor—aye, she is beautiful, but beauty such as hers is a knife, sharp and dangerous in the wrong hands. I have seen men undone for less. Sometimes I wonder if she does not wield her looks as a weapon, even against her own husband. The Reverend Task mutters of witches, and though I am no godly fool, I cannot deny that there is something in her smile that whispers of secrets best left unspoken. I am blessed by The Almighty, or perhaps good fortune to have been married to my wife, Lady Mitchell; a fine upstanding woman that fills that empty space within me, and I her, thus finding ourselves complete. Had I not had her by my side and rings on our fingers, I myself might be one of the poor wretches ensnared by the charms and enchantments of Lady Eleanor Whitehall, and for me and my business, that would be detrimental to all, and lead me to ruin.
The Governor himself—I call him friend in public, but what is friendship to men such as we? It is merely convenience, an alignment of interests. He plays at diplomacy with Spaniards and Frenchmen, while I count my ships and guard my coin. Yet storms such as this remind me how fragile our standing is. The sea takes what it pleases, and the Crown, far across the ocean, would hardly mourn us should we drown here.
My thoughts turn then to Margaret, my maid. A rough woman, plain and unlovely, yet there is a strength in her I value more than in many so-called gentlemen of this colony. She runs my house with no-nonsense efficiency, and her loyalty is worth more than the fawning of flatterers like Greene. She speaks plainly, even too boldly at times, but her eyes do not lie. At least with her I know where I stand.
And what of myself? The rain brings a mirror. I see in it a man past his prime, his belly heavier, his hair thinner, his temper sharper with every year. I brood on my ledgers more than on any noble duty for a tiny mistake in a ledger may unravel all that I have worked for, accomplished, and gained. I trust no one, for no one has proven worthy of it. I grasp at coin and schemes because they are all I can still command, and command then I do, yet even commands may sometimes falter, and those profits that I seek may slip through my fingers as water through a sieve.
Yes, storms unsettle me. They remind me that power, wealth, and pride are but flimsy boards before the sea. Perhaps the rain does not wash us clean at all—perhaps it only reveals the rot beneath, swelling it until the timbers split. I wonder if that is what I am becoming: a rotten beam in this house of Port Dominion, waiting for the right storm to bring me down.
Still, I clutch my glass, I count my coin, and I plan for tomorrow. The storm will pass. They always do. But when it clears, the air may be sharper, the ground less sure, and men’s hearts changed. I must be ready.
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