Narrative: "Back with an answer...."

 (The Players for this late morning's narrative at the Lord Governor's residence....)

(Benedict Marlowe)

  

(Mr. Franklin Benjamin)

(Mr. Alastair Greene)

(Lady Eleanor Whitehall)

A Narrative of Benedict Marlowe’s Return to Government House

Port Dominion, April the 22nd, 1702 — Midmorning

The sun had risen high by the time Benedict Marlowe reached the gates of Government House, the dust of the road clinging to his coat and the salt wind still heavy in his hair. Though his errand had been carried out successfully, he found himself curiously unsettled, as if the air of the Contessa’s residence had followed him down from the heights — fragrant, watchful, and somehow charged with meaning.

He paused at the great doors to steady himself, brushing the creases from his coat before being shown through the marble hall to the administrative wing, where the morning’s business was already underway. The corridors buzzed softly with the sound of clerks at their ledgers, the scratch of quills, and the measured tread of footmen bearing correspondence.

First, he sought out Mr. Franklin Benjamin, whose small but well-ordered office overlooked the rear gardens. The secretary looked up from his papers as Marlowe entered — his expression neither welcoming nor severe, but one of quiet assessment.

“Well, Mr. Marlowe,” Benjamin said, setting down his pen. “I trust the delivery was made properly?”

“Yes, sir,” Marlowe replied, standing straight. “The invitation was received personally by the Contessa herself, as Lady Eleanor instructed. She expressed... appreciation for the courtesy, and I was told that a written reply would be sent this afternoon.”

Benjamin nodded once, satisfied, though a faint smile tugged at his mouth. “Efficiently done. Her Ladyship values precision. See that you note the hour of delivery in the log — and that you inform Mr. Greene at once.”

Dismissed with a wave of the hand, Marlowe bowed slightly and made his way down the corridor to Mr. Alastair Greene’s office, where the ever-composed steward was already deep in conversation with a clerk. Greene’s manner was brisk, his attention divided between the ledgers and the conversation before him, but he looked up as Marlowe entered.

“Ah, Mr. Marlowe,” Greene said, his tone clipped but not unkind. “Report.”

“The Contessa has received Lady Eleanor’s letter, sir. She read it immediately in my presence, and—” Marlowe hesitated briefly, recalling the faint smile that had curved the Contessa’s lips as she broke the seal. “—she seemed most pleased. She instructed that a formal response would be delivered this afternoon.”

Greene’s brow lifted slightly. “Most pleased, you say? Hm. Good. Lady Eleanor will be gratified. You’ve done well.” He glanced toward the window, his mind already turning toward the next task. “You are to present yourself to Her Ladyship at once. She will wish to hear your account firsthand.”

That pronouncement made Marlowe’s stomach tighten. “Personally, sir?”

“Personally,” Greene replied, the faintest ghost of amusement in his eyes. “And, Mr. Marlowe — speak plainly. Her Ladyship has a way of seeing through embellishment.”

Within minutes, Marlowe found himself standing before the tall doors of the Governor’s study — doors that seemed to hum faintly with the gravity of those who had passed through them. When he was announced and admitted, Lady Eleanor Whitehall sat near the window, the morning light falling upon her writing desk and the soft sheen of her hair. She looked up at him with that calm, measured poise that could still a room.

“Ah, Mr. Marlowe,” she said, her voice smooth and precise. “You have been diligent. Pray, tell me — how was my letter received?”

Marlowe bowed. “My Lady, it was received with... great grace. The Contessa herself took the letter from my hand and read it at once. She expressed pleasure — and gratitude for the honor of your invitation.”

Lady Eleanor’s gaze lingered on him, her head tilted slightly, as though testing the weight of his words. “Pleasure, you say. Did she speak at length?”

“Not at great length, my Lady,” he answered carefully. “Only to remark — if I recall rightly — that the English are ‘so prompt,’ though she said it with a tone of warmth. She thanked me for my service and seemed... amused, perhaps, though not unkindly so.”

“Amused,” Eleanor repeated softly, a slight curve forming at the corner of her lips. “Did she seem surprised?”

“I would not say surprised, my Lady,” Marlowe replied, his palms growing warm. “Rather, as though she had expected it — as though she had known the letter would come.”

Lady Eleanor’s eyes sharpened just slightly, and for a moment, Marlowe felt as though her gaze were searching beyond his words, into his thoughts themselves. “And what impression did she leave upon you, Mr. Marlowe?” she asked at last. “You saw her closely — I am curious what you made of her.”

The question struck him with an unexpected force. He hesitated, struggling to order his thoughts, aware of the faint quickening of his own heartbeat. “She is... unlike any lady I have met,” he began slowly. “Graceful, yes, but—there is something in her manner, a kind of... certainty. She has a presence that fills the room, my Lady. It is difficult to describe. I confess she made me feel—” He stopped short, then bowed his head slightly. “—that is, she conducts herself with great composure.”

Lady Eleanor regarded him for a long, silent moment, and he felt her gaze like sunlight upon glass — bright, unyielding, and impossible to escape. Then, at last, she smiled faintly. “Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. You have done well. A reply, you say, will come this afternoon?”

“Yes, my Lady.”

“Very good,” she said, turning her eyes briefly toward the sea beyond the window. “Then let us see what manner of reply the Contessa sends.”

As he bowed himself out of the room, his heart was still thundering in his chest. He could not say whether it was fear, pride, or the strange thrill of having stood before two such women — each powerful in her own way, each commanding the world with little more than her words.

Outside of her chambers and in the hallway, the air was cooler. He exhaled deeply, his pulse still quick. He had done his duty — and yet he could not shake the feeling that he had just stepped onto a stage far grander than he understood.

Whatever this dinner might bring, he thought, it would not be a simple affair of wine and civility. It would be something else entirely — something already stirring in the tides between them.