"Instructions to those that need it...."

From the Private Journal of Mr. Alastair Greene

Saturday, April the 22nd, 1702
Government House, Port Dominion

This morning began with an air of quiet consequence — one of those days when even the servants seem to move with greater care, as though aware that something of refinement and significance is taking shape above their station. It was still early, the light sharp and new through the shutters, when I received a summons to attend Lady Eleanor in her study.

Her Ladyship, I must say, is never less than composed. Even in those first hours after dawn, she carried herself with the same calm poise that could silence a room full of colonels. There she sat, quill and candle before her, the faintest trace of ink still glistening on the letter she had sealed. The wax bore the Whitehall crest — a delicate impression, yet unmistakable in its authority. She informed me, in that melodic tone of hers that carries both grace and command, that this invitation was to be conveyed to the residence of the Contessa Maria Theresa Isabella Emilia Lucia Gabriella Rosalina Liliana Paloma — whose name alone sounds as though it were written for the stage.

Lady Eleanor’s instructions were simple in form but precise in spirit: the letter must reach the Contessa before sunset, by a messenger both discreet and punctual. She looked directly at me when she said it — a subtle emphasis that, I suspect, implied her expectation that the entire affair would bear my polish. Naturally, I assured her that it would.

There is something formidable about Lady Eleanor when she speaks in such tones. One feels as though one has been trusted with the handling of an unspoken intrigue. I know she believes me a man of order and propriety — and she is correct — but I flatter myself that she also recognizes in me a certain discretion not common among the administrative breed. She did not elaborate upon her purpose, nor did I presume to ask, though it is plain that this dinner of hers is no mere social occasion. Lady Eleanor is a strategist draped in silk; when she arranges flowers or guests, she arranges power.

After leaving her presence, I set about selecting the appropriate messenger. However, it was then that I encountered a small inconvenience — none were presently at hand. I had scarcely begun to consider an alternative when Mr. Franklin Benjamin’s clerk, young Benedict Marlowe, arrived at my door bearing a note from his superior. Franklin — ever deliberate, ever cautious — had been informed of Lady Eleanor’s request and was sending one of his men to retrieve the invitation.

Now, Mr. Benjamin is a man I find… respectable, in that infuriatingly understated way of his. He does everything correctly but without flourish. His tone is perpetually moderate, his expressions unreadable. If he possesses ambition, it is of the quiet and patient sort — the kind that waits for others to stumble. I have seen such men rise far; yet I cannot imagine him enjoying the ascent. Still, one must grant him credit for efficiency.

As for young Marlowe, the lad looked both eager and anxious when I presented him with the sealed letter. I took the opportunity — for his own edification, of course — to instruct him on the proper bearing for such a delivery: posture erect, voice steady, comportment marked by modest dignity. He listened with that mixture of fear and fascination the inexperienced often reserve for their betters. I confess, I may have indulged in a touch of ceremony when handing him the envelope. There is value, after all, in teaching the lower ranks the gravity of their duties.

When it became apparent that there were no messengers immediately available, I was unsurprised that Franklin chose to send the boy himself. The man has a utilitarian streak that borders on the ascetic. “Efficiency before elegance,” might as well be his motto — one I find uncomfortably dull. Still, I approved the arrangement, and dispatched Marlowe with instructions to deliver the letter directly into the Contessa’s hands, should her household permit it.

Ah, the Contessa. Even now, Port Dominion hums with her name. There is something almost operatic about the woman — all fire and perfume and mystery. The servants say she arrived as though stepping from a dream, the sun at her back and a smile that could thaw iron. I have yet to make her acquaintance, though I expect that will soon change. I can only imagine the impression she will make when she reads Lady Eleanor’s letter — that exquisite balance of grace and challenge, the velvet invitation concealing a subtle test.

For indeed, that is what this dinner shall be — a test. A weighing of women, and perhaps of nations. The Governor, I suspect, believes this an act of diplomacy; Lady Eleanor, I suspect, knows better. She means to draw the Contessa near enough to measure her — to see what lies behind that impeccable courtesy and Spanish splendor. I would wager that before the final course is cleared, one of them will know precisely how to unmake the other.

As for myself, I am merely the custodian of the mechanism — the careful hand that ensures the pieces move as they should. But I admit, I take a certain satisfaction in my part. These are the moments in which true refinement distinguishes itself: when diplomacy, danger, and decorum intertwine like threads of gold.

The letter has been sent. By now, young Marlowe will have reached the Contessa’s house on the Heights. I imagine her servants receiving him with cool suspicion, and the lady herself — poised, radiant — breaking the seal with a slow smile that hides far more than it reveals.

I almost envy her. She plays upon a grander stage than most.

Still, I would not trade places with her. For in this quiet game of civility and power, it is often the observer — not the player — who survives to tell the tale.