Narrative: "The Errand and The Message."

 (The Players for this narrative at The Contessa's residence....)

(Contessa Maria Theresa Isabella Emilia Lucia
Gabriella Rosalina Liliana Paloma)

  

(Benedict Marlowe)

A Narrative of Benedict Marlowe’s Errand.

Saturday, April the 22nd — The Island of St. Albion

The morning had grown warm by the time Benedict Marlowe departed the Governor’s House, the sealed letter tucked carefully inside his coat pocket. The wax bore the Whitehall crest — the device of the lion and anchor — and it seemed to gleam faintly in the sunlight whenever he checked to assure himself it was still there. He had been given explicit instructions: the letter was to be delivered to the Contessa herself, not to a servant, not to a secretary, and under no circumstances was it to be mishandled.

The young clerk felt the weight of the errand pressing upon him like a stone. It was not often that one of his rank carried correspondence of such consequence, nor was it common for Lady Eleanor Whitehall to take notice of clerks at all. That she had entrusted the letter’s dispatch, even indirectly, to his hands filled him with equal parts pride and terror. The last thing he wanted to do was to fail in his task as directed by Mr. Franklin Benjamin, and thus in doing so-fail Lady Eleanor. To him that alone, was simply unthinkable.

The carriage took the winding road that led up to where the house that the Contessa had taken residence in — that crescent of land overlooking the harbor where some the wealthiest of Port Dominion’s residents had built their homes. As the carriage climbed slightly and moved further away from the harbor and town, the air changed; the scent of salt and spice gave way to the subtler perfume of imported flowers. The Contessa’s villa stood apart from the rest — a vision of pale stone and sun-warmed marble, its balconies draped with bougainvillea, its tall shutters thrown open to the sea breeze. He could see that the house was close to the estate of Lord and Lady Mitchell, but still far enough away to insure privacy for both parties if and when needed or wanted.

A wrought-iron gate, flanked by two bronze statues of angels, marked the entrance. There, a liveried servant in Spanish colors greeted him with a bow that was polite but cool. Benedict wondered about how the statues and such ornamentation was delivered upon the Contessa's arrival. "Perhaps, more cargo was unloaded off the Spanish ship in the harbor later on in the day?" He mused to himself,  upon exiting the carriage, as the servant approached him.

“Good day,” Marlowe began, his voice steady despite his pulse. “I come from Lady Eleanor Whitehall of Government House. I bear a letter for the Contessa Maria Theresa Isabella Emilia Lucia Gabriella Rosalina Liliana Paloma. I am instructed to deliver it into her own hands.” He made sure to say that to understand that no one - no one would hold this envelope in their hands, except for the Contessa.

The servant’s eyes flickered briefly to the seal and nodded as if understanding the importance of what was said to him. “Her Ladyship receives few visitors without notice,” he said in accented English. “But you will wait. I shall inquire.”

The servant disappeared through the courtyard gate, leaving Marlowe to stand beneath the shade of a tree. From somewhere within, he could hear the faint notes of a harpsichord, slow and deliberate, like the sound of someone thinking aloud through music. It was sound that soothed and somewhat unnerved him simultaneously. 

A few minutes passed — long enough for his apprehension to grow. Then the servant returned. “La Contessa will see you,” he said, his tone altered now — not warm, but touched with something that might have been curiosity.

Marlowe followed him through the courtyard, where a fountain murmured softly beneath flowering vines, and through the entry doors into a cool marble hall. There the air was scented faintly with orange blossom and candle wax. A tall door of polished wood and gleaming brass leading into another room was opened, and he found himself standing at the threshold of a salon bathed in filtered light.

The Contessa sat by the window, half-turned toward the sea. She wore a gown of soft ivory silk embroidered with faint threads of gold, and her hair, dark as midnight, was coiled loosely upon her shoulders. Upon the small table beside her lay a book in Spanish, a glass of pale sherry, and a single red rose in a crystal vase. For a moment Benedict's thoughts evaporated and all he could do was to simply stare at her.

When she looked up, her eyes met his — deep, dark, and startlingly direct and yet in their own way - intoxicating. “Señor,” she said, her voice carrying that lilting Spanish music that seemed to turn every word into something half between speech and song. “You come from Lady Whitehall?”

“Yes, my lady,” he said, suddenly regaining his composure and bowing as best he knew how. “I am charged with delivering this letter to you from her own hand.”

He stepped forward and presented the envelope. The Contessa reached for it with unhurried grace, her fingers gloved in white lace. She studied the seal for a moment, smiling faintly — a smile that might have been amusement or challenge, he could not tell. Then, with a small silver blade from the table, she broke the wax and unfolded the letter.

The room was silent but for the faint rustle of parchment. Marlowe stood motionless, unsure whether to remain or withdraw. When she had read the letter, she looked up again, her eyes thoughtful, dark, and deep.

“So… the lion’s lady extends her hand,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. “And with such courtesy that one might forget it is also a weighing of intentions.”

Then, noticing the young clerk’s uncertainty, she softened her expression. “You may tell Lady Whitehall,” she said, “that her invitation is received with both pleasure and gratitude. And that I shall come — gladly — to dine at Government House upon the evening she proposes.” She smiled at him. "A letter of acceptance will be forthcoming this afternoon."

She rose then, crossing the floor with the measured elegance of one long accustomed to command. “You are young, Señor…?” she said to him with a slight smile.

“Marlowe, my lady. Benedict Marlowe.”  Benedict answered, trying to maintain himself, and hoping that she didn't notice his shaking.

“Ah. Benedicto,” she said, tasting the syllables as though weighing their worth. “Tell me, Benedicto, do you believe your Lady Whitehall a woman of warmth… or of watchfulness?”

The question startled him. “Both, I think,” he said after a pause. “As one must be, in her place.”

The Contessa smiled again, a slow, approving curve of the lips. “A careful answer,” she said. “You may go now, Señor Marlowe. You have done your errand well. Wait a moment.”

She turned to her escritoire, took a small envelope, and sealed within it a note of reply — her acceptance, no doubt — marked with her own crimson seal, the device of a sea star entwined with a rose. Handing it to him, she inclined her head. “Carry this back to your mistress with my compliments… and my wine shall follow.”

Marlowe bowed again, his heart pounding. As he turned to go, she added softly, almost as an afterthought:

“Tell Lady Whitehall that I look forward to seeing her candlelight… and to discovering whether her flame burns warm — or bright enough to blind.”

Outside, the sun had climbed high, and the sea below shone like molten glass. As the carriage descended from the high ground area of the villa, Benedict Marlowe glanced once more at the letter in his hands, its seal glimmering red in the light.

He could not shake the feeling that something had shifted — that this errand, so simple in form, had set into motion the beginning of a game whose rules only the women who had written these letters could understand.