Narrative: "A Supper at Whitehall Manor..."

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

(Lord Governor Henry Whitehall)

(Lady Eleanor Whitehall)

(Miss Lucy Whitehall)

Supper at Government House

Port Dominion, St. Albion — Saturday, April the 22nd.

The evening settled softly over the Governor’s mansion, the last of the sunlight slipping behind the western hills and leaving the harbor below scattered with glimmering lights. The great house, that proud relic of English order perched above the restless Caribbean, glowed warmly within — the light of civility against the humid dark.

In the dining room, the Whitehall's table had been laid with care: polished mahogany gleamed beneath the shimmer of candlelight; silver utensils reflected the flames like small, steady stars. The scent of roasted fowl mingled with that of stewed plantain and nutmeg — a colonial feast dressed in English restraint. Servants moved quietly in the background, their steps soft as breath upon the tiled floor.

Lord Henry Whitehall sat at the head of the table, posture erect, his uniform coat unbuttoned just enough to betray the day’s fatigue. To his right, Lady Eleanor — composed, luminous as always — presided with graceful command. Between them sat their young Lucy, her eyes bright with curiosity and delight.

The first course was being served — a delicate turtle soup, rich but clear — when Lucy, unable to contain herself any longer, looked up from her spoon and said eagerly,

“Is it true, Mama? Has the Contessa written back? Has she accepted?”

Lady Eleanor smiled faintly, folding her napkin with deliberate care before answering her stepdaughter. “She has indeed, my love. Her letter arrived this afternoon by Mr. Marlowe’s hand. The Contessa was most gracious in her reply — she will join us for dinner on the twenty-ninth.”

Lucy clapped her hands softly in delight, earning a gentle ahem from her father. “Oh, Papa! How splendid! I have never met a real Spanish lady before. Do you think she will wear jewels — like the ones in the stories?”

Lord Whitehall chuckled at his young daughters excitement over seeing a Spanish "lady" before setting down his spoon. “Perhaps she will, though I imagine the Contessa’s greatest jewel is her manner. The Spanish have a way of turning conversation into ornament, and silence into a sword.”

Eleanor looked toward him, her expression calm but knowing. “A poet’s answer, my dear Henry. You’ve been reading dispatches all day — I had not thought poetry among them.”

He gave her a wry smile. “One learns to read between the lines, my dear — especially when those lines are written by those who flatter and conceal in equal measure.”

Lucy blinked between them, sensing the current of something unspoken though not understanding it. “What does that mean, Papa?”

Eleanor reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind Lucy’s ear. “It means, darling, that grown-ups sometimes say one thing while thinking another. It is the way of the world — especially among those who dine by candlelight and write with perfume upon their paper.”

Henry’s brow arched slightly. “A delicate jab, Eleanor?”

“An observation,” she replied, her tone light as air. “And one you will appreciate when you read her letter yourself.”

He inclined his head in acknowledgment, eyes glinting with restrained amusement. “After supper, then. Or better — tomorrow morning, before the day’s duties steal my thoughts away. I would rather sleep on a full stomach and an empty mind tonight.”

“As you wish,” she said, and something subtle passed between them — a private understanding that their real conversation would begin only after the house was quiet, when Lucy slept and the masks of civility could be set aside.

The next course arrived: roasted pheasant glazed with Madeira and island spice, its aroma rich and warm. Lady Eleanor poured a modest measure of wine for herself and her husband, allowing Lucy only a sip watered with water and fruit.

Lucy continued to chatter happily between mouthfuls. “Will she bring her servants with her, Mama? Oh! And her Spanish wines — you said she has vineyards!”

Eleanor smiled, amused by her step-daughter’s earnestness. “Indeed she will, my love. She has promised a case of her finest. You shall not taste it, of course, but perhaps you may be allowed to see it — from a distance.”

Henry laughed quietly. “I think our daughter imagines this dinner will be a grand ball.”

Lucy’s cheeks flushed. “It sounds ever so grand already. Everyone will be watching, won’t they? The Contessa, and you and Mama, and all the fine guests!”

Eleanor exchanged a look with her husband — one part amusement, one part calculation. “Yes, dearest,” she said softly. “Everyone will be watching.”

Henry’s smile faded slightly as he set down his fork. “Then we must be certain they see what we wish them to see.”

A beat of silence followed — the kind of pause filled with meaning for adults and none for children. Eleanor reached for her glass, her expression smooth. “Always, my dear Henry. That is the art of it, is it not?”

Lucy, oblivious to the undercurrent, resumed her chatter, recounting a tale one of the servants had told her of a Spanish princess who could calm the sea with her singing. Her parents listened, each wearing the indulgent half-smiles of those thinking of other things.

As dessert was served — sugared fruits, cream, and sponge cake scented with orange — the conversation softened to the familiar rhythms of family comfort. The candlelight flickered on Henry’s face, showing lines of thought that had little to do with ships or soldiers now. Eleanor, poised and serene, watched him from across the table, her mind already preparing for the conversation that would follow later, when Lucy was tucked into bed and the house was quiet once more.

For now, she let the illusion of calm prevail.

When supper concluded, Henry rose and offered Eleanor his arm as they led Lucy from the table. The servants began to clear the dishes, their movements echoing softly in the great room as the household drifted toward its evening routines.

Lucy lingered for a moment at the doorway, her eyes bright. “Mama?” she asked. “Do you think the Contessa will like me?”

Eleanor bent to kiss her forehead. “I think, my darling, the Contessa will find you utterly charming — as we all do.”

Satisfied, Lucy skipped away toward her nurse and the upper chambers.

Henry watched her go, then turned to Eleanor, lowering his voice. “When she’s asleep,” he murmured, “you’ll show me the letter.”

Eleanor met his gaze evenly, her lips curving in that quiet, knowing smile of hers. “Of course. But not before. I want you to read it with a clear mind — and a steady heart, if that is what you wish. You did say at the table you wanted to sleep on a full stomach and an empty head, but if you wish to read it tonight, then I shall have it for your eyes."

He studied her for a moment, perhaps wondering at her tone, then nodded. “Very well. After she’s asleep.”

The evening air drifted in from the veranda, scented with salt and frangipani. Somewhere below, the waves broke faintly against the rocks, steady as breath.

For now, the house was peaceful — yet beneath its calm, the tide of intrigue had already begun to rise. And as the candles guttered and flared, the unspoken promise hung between husband and wife:
Tonight, the true conversation would begin.