From the journal entries of Benedict Marlowe.
The Inn of the King’s Arms, Port Dominion.
Saturday, April the 22nd.
Evening — My Chambers at The King’s Arms
Tonight my hand trembles not from fear, nor from labor, nor from wine, but from the strange and unnameable agitation that has settled deep within my breast since sunrise. I have lived modestly, quietly, almost invisibly upon the island of St. Albion since my arrival scarcely less than one month past — and yet today I found myself at the very heart of an affair of utmost consequence, entrusted by persons of stature, rank, and elegance beyond my merit. I must record all, lest time or sleep should dull the edges of memory, for I doubt that this day shall ever fade from me.
I was summoned in the morning by Mr. Franklin Benjamin, Clerk of Port Dominion and a man whose intellect is as formidable as his manner is courteous and his attention to duty is commendable. His request was simple in words though heavy in implication: Lady Eleanor Whitehall, wife of His Lordship the Governor, had penned a personal invitation to a visiting noblewoman — the Contessa Maria Theresa Isabella Emilia Lucia Gabriella Rosalina Liliana Paloma; the La Condesa de Valencia del Mar — and required a trustworthy messenger to ensure it reached her hand without delay, interruption, or indiscretion. No official courier was available, and thus I was entrusted with the task.
I bowed and accepted before my reason could interfere.
From Mr. Benjamin I proceeded to the office of Mr. Alastair Greene, Governor’s Secretary, a man whose ambition is only barely masked by polished civility. He reviewed the letter with a severity I found unnecessary, and though neither of them stated it aloud, I sensed that this invitation was no mere social courtesy, but a gesture heavy with political curiosity, perhaps even diplomatic testing of waters. Still, neither man gave hint of the Governor’s opinion on it. Perhaps in a sense, there was a small amount of envy trickling forth from him towards me in knowing of the important task that I was to undertake and that he would not have any guiding hand towards.
By late morning I set out toward the Contessa’s residence on horseback, the sealed envelope tucked safely inside my breast pocket, close enough that with each breath I felt it tap against my ribs like a small insistent drum. The journey, though not long, allowed ample time for my mind to torment itself — Why me? Would my performance reflect upon my future prospects? Upon the esteem of Mr. Greene? Of Mr. Benjamin? Of Lady Eleanor herself?
But all these anxious inquiries were soon erased when I reached her home, and was admitted into the presence of the Contessa herself.
I know not how to express the effect she had upon me without being mistaken for a fool or a poet, yet I must write: she is unlike any woman I have ever seen — foreign grace, dark eyes full of midnight flame, and a manner both commanding and intoxicating. Her words, accented with the music of Spain, seemed to glide rather than fall. When she accepted the letter from my hand, her fingertips brushed mine — so lightly that it could have been dismissed as accident, but my entire body felt it as though thunder rolled beneath my skin. She thanked me with a smile that revealed nothing and everything. A knowing smile — as though she could see straight through my heart and my inexperience.
When I left her presence, I found myself breathing as though I had escaped drowning.
Upon my return to the Governor’s House, I first reported to Mr. Greene. His eyes narrowed with an eagerness he tried to bury beneath administrative neutrality. He questioned me as though I were a witness on trial — what she said, how she looked, what impression she gave, whether she seemed pleased or offended or amused. I answered truthfully, though he seemed to hear hidden meanings where I placed none. At times, as he listened to my answers to his seemingly endless dissecting questions, it seemed he gripped the glass of wine in his hand so tightly that I feared it would shatter
Next, I reported to Mr. Benjamin, who proved far more concerned with efficiency than interpretation. He nodded, smiled, noted, dismissed — though I could see behind his spectacles that he was calculating outcomes two and three steps ahead. In his manner, he would probably speak a word of two to me in private about this in the days forthcoming. He is an accomplished fellow, and mentors me well.
Then, unexpectedly, I was escorted to Lady Eleanor herself.
I have never been so aware of my posture, my tongue, my very breathing as when standing before her. She possesses a beauty that is light where the Contessa’s is shadow — English poise, pale refinement, calm intelligence behind delicate eyes. I told her all that was required, though her gaze seemed to search for more than my spoken account allowed. When she asked what the Contessa was like, I feared my voice might betray my impression, so I answered with respectful reserve. She received my reply with grace, though I fancied I detected a spark — whether of curiosity, concern, or calculation, I cannot say.
I believed the matter concluded, yet scarcely an hour passed before a Spanish messenger arrived at Government House requesting my presence — me, a mere clerk, not an officer nor aide — to retrieve the Contessa’s formal written acceptance. The astonishment of Mr. Greene and Mr. Benjamin was near comical, though neither allowed it full expression.
Thus I returned again to the Contessa, and again stood in her presence. She handed me her sealed letter herself — and once more her fingertips grazed mine, so faintly it might not have occurred, yet my pulse hammered as if she had taken my hand entirely. She thanked me again — not as a servant, nor as a clerk — but as though I were a worthy envoy. Her voice, low and warm, has lodged itself within my memory.
And then — it was over.
The sun was low in the afternoon by the time I returned to Government House to complete my final round of reporting. Mr. Benjamin expressed terse approval, a slight nod, and even slighter, but noticeable, smile. Mr. Greene appeared almost frustrated that I had become the necessary link in the chain rather than himself; he cloaked it, but poorly.
Finally, Lady Eleanor again — she seemed genuinely pleased, though thoughtful, as if contemplating the turning of unseen cogs. I bowed, handed over the Contessa’s reply, and was released with gentle words of thanks which, absurdly, I shall treasure.
Tonight, at last, I sit within my rented chamber at The King’s Arms. For supper I ate a modest plate of salted fish, brown bread, and onion broth, washed down with mild ale. The common room swirled with rumor — pirates sighted westward, whispers of Spanish dignitaries, and speculation that Government House is preparing something unusual. No one yet knows of the invitation — but they soon will. News is a forest fire in this colony.
And what do I feel?
Exalted.
Confused.
Hopeful.
Troubled.
Determined.
Two women of high rank now exist in my thoughts like opposing constellations — one of English daylight and propriety, one of Spanish midnight and dazzling secrets. I have spoken more today to persons of influence than I have in my entire life.
If my fate is ever altered — it began today.
May Heaven guide my steps.
For I do not trust my own heart.
No comments:
Post a Comment