"Afternoon thoughts...."

 

Private Journal of Lady Eleanor Whitehall

Afternoon of Friday, April the 22th, — Port Dominion, St. Albion

The light this afternoon is thin and golden, falling through the tall windows of my sitting room and catching the dust like motes of drifting thought. The household hums faintly with that gentle rhythm of the hours before supper — servants moving quietly, the Governor’s clerks departing, the scent of sea air mingling with polish and linen. I have taken refuge here, with my papers spread before me and the Contessa’s letter resting beside my teacup like a secret that cannot quite be ignored.

Benedict Marlowe returned today, at last, from her residence upon the heights. The boy looked wind-touched and flushed, as though the climb itself had carried him through some private storm. He bore her letter carefully, as if it were something sacred. The seal — a sea-star entwined with a rose, pressed deep into crimson wax — caught the afternoon light and seemed almost to breathe.

Her words were, as I expected, impeccable. The Contessa writes with grace and calculation woven so tightly together that one cannot tell where sincerity ends and intent begins. She accepts the invitation warmly, even poetically, but beneath her phrases there runs an undercurrent — not hostility, no, but design. She writes as one who measures not only her hosts, but the stage upon which she is to appear.

I have read her letter twice now, and with each reading I find more layers. She thanks me for my courtesy, yet it reads as though she also congratulates herself for expecting it. Her tone is gracious but never deferential; she offers friendship with the air of one conferring a favor rather than receiving one. I cannot fault her for it — in truth, I rather admire it. It is a delicate art, to cloak power in gratitude.

Mr. Greene, of course, is nearly vibrating with curiosity. I can imagine him at his desk, twirling his quill and dreaming of how this correspondence might elevate his own importance. He forgets that his place is to serve, not to weave intrigue. He will try to read more into this than there is, and in doing so, he may create the very gossip he claims to interpret. I must watch him closely — his ambition is not dangerous, but it is tiresome, and such men sometimes believe themselves cleverer than they are.

Mr. Franklin Benjamin, ever the steady hand, has already ordered the clerks to record the delivery in the official correspondence ledger. I can trust him to keep order where Greene cannot. It is comforting to know that between them, one can be relied upon to act properly — even if the other must be kept at arm’s length.

As for my husband, Henry… he will hear of this soon enough. I think it best to speak to him after supper, once Lucy is asleep and the house is quiet. There is a kind of peace in those late hours, when the shutters are drawn and the candles burn low, and he can listen without the distraction of duty pressing on him. He will wish to see the letter himself — and I shall let him, though I may choose my commentary with care. He sees strategy in lines of soldiers and fleets of ships, but not in ink and parchment. Yet he is wise enough to trust my instinct where women are concerned, even if he does not always admit it.

Lucy, dear child, is already fluttering with excitement at the idea of “the Spanish lady.” She has overheard enough of the servants’ gossip to fashion a romance out of it — jewels, silks, ships, and secrets. I shall allow her to dream a little longer. Childhood is the one season of life that thrives upon illusions. But when she is in bed tonight, perhaps dreaming of Spanish carriages and candlelit halls, Henry and I will speak plainly of the real matter — of the Contessa herself, her purpose, and what this dinner may bring.

Rumor will begin to spread soon, if it has not already. The colony is far too small, and its people far too idle, to let such a novelty rest. They will whisper that the Contessa seeks influence, or protection, or even the Governor’s favor. Some may say she has already ensnared him, for men here love their fictions as much as their politics. It will not trouble me. I know what we are about, and I intend to keep the narrative in my hands, not theirs.

As for the dinner — yes, it must be planned now in earnest. The affair must appear natural, as though it were an inevitable expression of civility rather than a carefully constructed tableau. I shall limit the guest list to eight, no more. Henry and I, of course, and the Contessa. General Winthrop and Colonel White for balance, but not, Monsieur LeCroissant for Henry would not stand for both the Contessa, and whom he calls "The French Fop" to be at our table at the same time. Perhaps, Lord and Lady Mitchell, if his temperament is pleasant for the evening, and Lord Cartwright to lend the evening an air of official decorum. If I must, I might invite the Reverend Goodall for gossip disguised as piety is the surest way to control the story that leaves one’s table. Reverend Task would be too much of a powder keg with a fuse and a lit match to be there. His feelings about "Papists, Witches, and myself" would pitch the evening into ruined turmoil.

The menu shall be colonial in abundance but English in soul: turtle soup to begin, followed by roast pheasant with Madeira, salt fish with lemon and spice, sugared puddings, and local fruits served on silver trays. The Contessa’s Spanish wine shall be the centerpiece — accepted publicly with warmth, praised generously, and poured liberally. Nothing builds alliances like shared praise for a gift offered in good faith.

The veranda will need garlands and lanterns, and I must see that the string quartet rehearses every evening until the dinner. The table linens must be aired, the silver polished, the china without flaw. I shall wear the sapphire silk, though not for vanity’s sake — it steadies me, and Henry adores me even more when I wear it. Confidence is its own armor, and I will need it.

It is strange, but as I think of her now, I do not feel dread — only anticipation. I know she is dangerous, though in a refined and measured way. But perhaps that is what draws me to this: a curiosity born of recognition. She is not merely another visitor to our shores. She is a woman who plays her own game, as I do mine.

Tonight, after Lucy is asleep and Henry and I sit by the fire with his brandy, and my wine, I shall let him read her letter. I shall watch his expression as he takes in her phrasing — the delicate balance of flattery and provocation. And then, together, we shall decide how best to meet her — not just at dinner, but in the quiet war that will surely follow.

For now, I will close this journal. The bells from the harbor are beginning to sound the hour, and I hear the clatter of dishes in the hall below. Supper will be soon, and I must play the gracious wife once more. But my thoughts remain on the Contessa, and the subtle scent of challenge that lingers still upon her words.