Narrative: "The Return of Benedict Marlowe..."

(The Players for this afternoon's performance...) 

The Return of Benedict Marlowe

Port Dominion, April the 22nd.

The afternoon sun hung low over Port Dominion, filtering through a gauze of humid air that gave every color a faint golden haze. The clop of Benedict Marlowe’s horse loaned to him from the governor's stables, echoed along the Governor’s drive against the cobbled courtyard, sharp and rhythmic — the sound of haste masked as composure. Dust clung to his coat and boots, but he paid it little mind. His heart still beat with a strange insistence that had not lessened since leaving the Contessa’s residence.

He had the letter — sealed with crimson wax, its sigil pressed in the likeness of a sea-star entwined with a rose — and though the parchment was neatly tucked into his breast pocket, he felt the weight of it as though it were something far heavier.

When he dismounted before the Governor’s House, two sentries straightened immediately. Marlowe nodded curtly and strode inside, his mind whirring. He had delivered messages before — reports, memoranda, drafts for the Lord Governor — but never had a single errand so thoroughly unsettled him. The Contessa’s voice still lingered in his thoughts, that smooth Spanish inflection carrying the faintest trace of irony, or perhaps amusement, when she had said, “Tell Lady Whitehall that her courtesy is a jewel I shall treasure — and return in kind.”

He could still feel, too, the ghost of her touch — the delicate brush of her fingers as she handed him the sealed letter. It had been nothing, a mere motion of etiquette, but it had burned through him all the same.

He paused in the vestibule, composed himself, and made his way to the west wing, where Mr. Alastair Greene maintained his office. The room smelled faintly of ink, pipe smoke, and wax — the scent of endless paperwork and private ambition.

Mr. Greene looked up from his desk as Marlowe entered. The older man’s expression was one of habitual skepticism, though his eyes gleamed with interest when he saw the letter in Marlowe’s hand.

“Well, Mr. Marlowe,” Greene said, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve returned sooner than expected. I take it the Contessa did not keep you waiting.”

“No, sir,” Marlowe replied, offering the faintest bow. “She was most gracious. Her messenger, Señor Valdés, escorted me to her residence. She received me personally.”

Greene’s brow rose slightly. “Personally, you say?”

“Yes, sir. She had prepared her letter of acceptance as promised. She… she expressed her compliments to Lady Whitehall and spoke kindly of the honor.”

Greene extended his hand for the letter, turning it over once, studying the seal as though it were a relic. “A sea-star and a rose,” he murmured. “Exotic, but deliberate. Even her wax speaks in riddles.”

He looked back up at Marlowe, eyes narrowing in assessment. “And how did you find her, Mr. Marlowe? You’ve seen her now, spoken to her — what impression does she make?”

Marlowe hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “She is… unlike anyone I’ve met in this colony, sir. There’s an ease about her, but also something measured — as if every smile, every gesture were part of some greater design. She has presence. One feels it immediately.”

Mr. Greene smiled thinly. “Presence, yes. The sort that bends a room around it. A dangerous quality in a woman, or in anyone.”

He rose from his chair, holding the letter between two fingers, and nodded toward the adjoining door. “You’d best report to Mr. Benjamin as well. He will see that the Governor’s household is informed of its safe arrival. I’ll keep no delay between this letter and Lady Whitehall’s hands — she’s not one for patience when curiosity takes her.”

Marlowe crossed into the outer office, where Mr. Franklin Benjamin stood by a high window, spectacles perched on his nose as he reviewed a stack of documents. His manner was brisk, always faintly irritated by the inefficiency of the world around him.

“Ah, Marlowe,” Benjamin said without looking up. “You’ve been to the Spanish lady, then?”

“Yes, sir. I have the letter.”

Benjamin turned, holding out his hand. Marlowe presented the sealed parchment.

“Hmm. Fine wax,” Benjamin remarked, inspecting it. “They say she writes her own correspondence in three languages. A woman of refinement — or conceit. We shall see which.”

He glanced toward the door of the corridor that led deeper into the Governor’s quarters. “Her Ladyship awaits this, no doubt. You’re to take it to her personally. I shall have word sent that you’ve returned and carried out your charge.”

“Yes, sir,” Marlowe said, inclining his head.

Benjamin lowered his voice. “A word of advice, Marlowe. When you’re in Lady Eleanor’s presence, speak plainly, answer her questions fully, but don’t attempt flattery. She has no patience for artifice — she reads through it as easily as glass. And whatever you do, do not let her see you flustered. She dislikes weakness in her subordinates.”

Marlowe swallowed. “Understood, sir.”

Benjamin handed the letter back. “Then go on. She’s in her morning room.”

The corridors of Government House were cool and quiet, the thick shutters drawn against the late afternoon glare. Marlowe’s boots struck softly against the flagstones as he approached Lady Eleanor’s private chamber. A servant admitted him with a bow.

She was seated by the tall windows, the sea visible beyond them through shifting curtains of white muslin. The light softened her features but could not lessen the commanding composure in her eyes. Lady Eleanor Whitehall was not a woman one addressed lightly.

“Mister Marlowe,” she said, setting aside her quill. “Mr. Greene tells me you have returned from the Contessa’s residence.”

“Yes, my lady.” He stepped forward, bowing slightly as he presented the sealed letter upon his palm. “Her ladyship bade me deliver this into your hands personally.”

Lady Eleanor took the letter delicately, turning it as she examined the seal. “A rose and a sea-star,” she murmured. “Fitting.” She glanced up at him then, her expression unreadable. “Tell me, Mr. Marlowe — how did she receive you?”

Marlowe hesitated, aware of her eyes studying him as though to read truth from the smallest tremor in his voice. “With great civility, my lady. She seemed… expectant of the invitation. Calm, confident. She spoke warmly of your courtesy and expressed delight in accepting it.”

“And what was your impression of her?” Lady Eleanor asked, leaning slightly forward.

He shifted, aware that his heart beat faster under her gaze. “She is… remarkable, my lady. Poised. A woman of refinement, certainly, but also of… presence. One feels her command of a room even when she does not speak.”

Lady Eleanor smiled faintly, the corners of her lips just curling. “So she made an impression upon you, then?”

Marlowe flushed. “Only in the manner of one accustomed to rank and intelligence, my lady. Nothing more.”

Her smile deepened — not mocking, but knowing. “Quite so, Mr. Marlowe. You did well. I shall read her reply later this evening, when my husband has returned. You may tell Mr. Greene and Mr. Benjamin that the letter has been received.”

He bowed again, but as he turned to leave, she spoke once more.

“One more question, Mr. Marlowe.”

He paused. “My lady?”

“When you were in her presence,” she said, her voice softer now, “did you feel she was a woman who hides what she knows — or one who reveals it in her own time?”

Marlowe thought for a long moment. “The latter, my lady. She gives the impression of someone who knows far more than she ever says.”

Lady Eleanor regarded him steadily, then inclined her head. “Thank you, Mr. Marlowe. That will be all.”

As he stepped from the room, closing the door gently behind him, Marlowe exhaled the breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His pulse was still quick, not from fear, but from the quiet thrill of having stood between two women of such formidable intelligence — each commanding in her own way, each aware of the other’s significance.

By the time he reached the courtyard again, the sky was turning amber with the coming of evening. He looked once more toward the hills beyond the harbor, where the Contessa’s residence stood faintly outlined against the light.

He could not say what the future held — but somehow he knew that the dinner to come would not be merely a social occasion. It would be a reckoning of sorts, a meeting of forces beneath the guise of civility.

And though he told himself he was but a clerk, a messenger, a man of minor station — he could not escape the feeling that, somehow, he had just carried a spark between two minds that would soon set the air of Port Dominion alight.