"Early morning thoughts...."

Private Journal of Lady Eleanor Whitehall

The Morning of Saturday, April the 22nd.

Whitehall Manor, Port Dominion

The dawn had not yet broken when I rose this morning. The house lay in that peculiar stillness that comes just before the first light—when even the sea seems to hush its breathing. The air was cool, touched faintly with the salt that drifts up from the harbor, and through the shutters the faintest line of silver could be seen along the horizon. It is a strange hour—neither night nor day—an hour for clarity, for secrets, for the small acts that set larger things in motion.

It was in that quiet that I sat at my writing desk and took up my pen to compose the invitation to the Contessa. I had thought of it often since Henry and I last spoke of her. Now, with the house asleep and the world holding its breath, the task seemed almost ceremonial. The candles flickered softly, their light gilding the edges of the paper, and I found myself choosing each word as though it were a move in some delicate game.

How curious, the nature of women such as she. There is something about the Contessa that both fascinates and unsettles. I cannot say whether it is her beauty, her mystery, or the ripple she has caused in this colony’s composure. Henry distrusts her; I do not blame him. Yet I suspect distrust alone will not protect us from what she brings. The invitation, then, is more than courtesy—it is reconnaissance, wrapped in civility.

I wrote with deliberate grace, each phrase touched with warmth, each sentence balanced between invitation and inquiry. “The truest spirit of welcome,” I wrote, and smiled to myself as the ink dried. Such words please both the innocent and the wary. By the time the final flourish was complete and the wax seal pressed firm with our crest, the first light had begun to creep through the shutters, painting the room in pale gold. I laid down my pen and let the hush of early morning wash over me. There is a kind of power in being awake before the world—when one’s thoughts are sharpest, and no one yet expects one to smile.

I took a small breakfast in the withdrawing room—a slice of bread, a poached egg, and a cup of chocolate. From the terrace, I could hear the murmur of voices drifting from the Governor’s study below. Henry was already awake, of course, for he is never long at rest when the colony weighs on his mind. Through the open doors I glimpsed him with General Winthrop and Colonel White, heads bent together over a spread of maps. Their tones were low, serious, the kind of talk men share when they sense a storm on the horizon.

They spoke of Europe, of war, of the French fleets rumored to stir in the Atlantic. Colonel White believes that St. Albion will not remain untouched, that Port Dominion’s peace is a thin veneer soon to crack beneath the press of empire. Henry listened with that grave stillness he wears like armor. I watched him for a time, unseen, the morning light glancing off his hair, and I wondered—not for the first time—whether the weight he carries might someday crush even him.

When my cup was empty, I rose and went to the study, summoning Mr. Greene to attend me. He arrived, immaculate as ever, his hair perfectly powdered, his expression composed in that polished way of his that seems half courtesy, half conceit. I handed him the sealed letter and instructed him to see that it be delivered to the Contessa’s residence upon the Heights before sunset. “A reliable messenger,” I said, “one who knows when to hold his tongue.”

He bowed with the air of a man accepting a royal commission. “It shall be done with the utmost decorum, my Lady,” he said, though I noted the faint spark of curiosity in his eye. No doubt the thought of carrying correspondence between two women of influence delights his sense of importance. Let him think it so—it will keep him diligent.

Before he departed, I sent a brief note to Mr. Franklin Benjamin, requesting that one of his clerks call upon Mr. Greene’s office to verify the delivery instructions and messenger’s name. Franklin is a man of quiet perception; I trust him far more than most who haunt the Governor’s corridors. He will see to it that no small misstep turns into gossip.

And so, as the sun rose above the palms, the matter was set in motion. The invitation lies now in Mr. Greene’s capable—if self-satisfied—hands, soon to find its way to the Contessa’s door. I wonder what she will make of it when she reads it in her fine Spanish morning light.

The day has begun, and already the pieces move.