Narrative: "There and Back Again...."

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

(Benedict Marlowe)

(Mr. Alastair Greene)

(Mr. Franklin Benjamin)

(Lady Eleanor Whitehall)

Narrative: The Summons of Benedict Marlowe

Port Dominion — Afternoon, April 22nd

The heat had grown heavy by mid-afternoon, that peculiar, shimmering stillness that settles upon Port Dominion when the sea breeze retreats and the island holds its breath. The clerks had begun to loosen their collars, inkpots stood half-dried upon the desks, and even the ticking of the longcase clock in the Governor’s outer office seemed languid.

It was in this drowsy hour that Benedict Marlowe, having believed his morning errands concluded, was startled by the appearance of young Simon the page, who stood at the doorway of the clerk’s chamber, cheeks flushed and eyes wide.

“Mr. Marlowe, sir,” the boy stammered, “Mr. Greene requests your immediate attendance — and Mr. Benjamin as well.”

Marlowe straightened at once, the faint comfort of his afternoon rest vanishing. He smoothed his waistcoat, wiped a speck of ink from his thumb, and followed the boy down the corridor toward the Governor’s administrative offices, where the air always seemed cooler and the sound of the sea fainter.

When he entered the study, he found both men already there. Mr. Alastair Greene stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back, his habitual severity sharpened by curiosity. Mr. Franklin Benjamin sat at the desk, spectacles perched low upon his nose, studying a sealed letter that had evidently just been delivered.

A third man stood before them — a dark-haired fellow in a neat but travel-worn coat, bearing the unmistakable carriage of a servant of foreign households. The air about him was faintly perfumed with citrus and tobacco, and his English carried the lyrical cadence of Spain.

“This is Señor Valdés,” Mr. Greene said curtly. “He comes from the residence of the Contessa de Valencia del Mar.”

The Spaniard inclined his head. “Sí, señores. My mistress bids me bring word that her formal reply to Lady Whitehall’s gracious invitation is prepared — if it pleases Her Ladyship that the same young man who delivered the message this morning might return to receive it from her hand.”

A silence followed — brief, but heavy with surprise.

Mr. Benjamin looked up sharply, brows rising over the rim of his spectacles. “From her hand?” he repeated. “The Contessa herself?”

“Sí, señor,” the Spaniard said with a faint smile. “She has written it herself, and wishes it to be conveyed to the Lady by the same bearer. It is… her custom.”

Greene exhaled slowly through his nose, his eyes narrowing. “Custom or not, it is a singular request,” he muttered. “Spanish etiquette does not often bend so far toward colonial informality.”

Benjamin chuckled softly, the sound like a quill scratching against vellum. “Come now, Mr. Greene — you must admit, the lady has a sense of theatre. And Lady Eleanor will no doubt find this gesture… charming.”

“Charming,” Greene repeated dryly. “A word often applied to things that conceal danger.”

Benedict stood silently, uncertain whether to speak. He could feel their attention shift toward him — first Benjamin’s, then Greene’s, the weight of authority pressing upon him like the tropical air.

“Well then, Mr. Marlowe,” Benjamin said at last, folding his hands atop the desk. “It appears you’ve made an impression this morning. The Contessa wishes for you to attend to her reply.”

“Yes, sir,” Marlowe managed, though his voice came out quieter than he intended. “If it please you, I shall go at once.”

Greene eyed him coolly. “You seem eager, Mr. Marlowe. I trust you remember you are not being sent to pay court to a lady, but to perform an errand of official propriety.”

“Yes, sir,” Benedict said again, bowing slightly, though he could not prevent the color rising in his cheeks.

Benjamin smiled faintly, as though amused by both men. “Go then, Mr. Marlowe,” he said, waving his hand with quiet authority. “Receive the Contessa’s letter, offer her the Governor’s compliments, and return without delay. Lady Eleanor will be expecting the reply by evening.”

The Spaniard gave a low, courteous nod. “My mistress awaits, señor. The hour is not yet too hot for the climb.”

And so it was that Benedict Marlowe found himself once more descending the steps of Government House, the air humming with the sound of cicadas, the sunlight flaring against the white stone. He could feel the pulse of his own heart — not with dread, but something far more dangerous: anticipation.

Behind him, through the open shutters, he caught a last glimpse of Greene turning to Benjamin, his voice low but edged.

“She summons him, Franklin — and not by accident. The woman knows exactly what she’s about.”

Benjamin only smiled, tapping the quill against his ledger. “Indeed, Alastair. That’s what makes her fascinating.”

As the gates closed behind him, Benedict thought of the Contessa’s eyes — dark, luminous, knowing — and the faint perfume that had lingered in her chamber that morning.

The invitation had been delivered. The answer awaited.

And whatever this strange dance between ladies and letters might mean, he, Benedict Marlowe, was somehow caught in its steps.