"The Affair of the Day..."

From the Journal of Mr. Franklin Benjamin

Port Dominion, Saturday, April the 22nd, 1702

At the Offices of Government House

The morning began with the faint hum of sea wind against the shutters and the scratch of quills in the clerk’s chamber below. I had scarcely settled to my own correspondence when a footman appeared, bearing a folded note sealed in white wax and marked with the hand of Lady Eleanor Whitehall. Her writing—graceful, deliberate, and utterly self-possessed—never fails to convey both refinement and resolve. She requested that I dispatch one of my clerks to Mr. Greene’s office to collect an invitation prepared for delivery and to ensure that the arrangements for its conveyance were executed with precision.

It was, as I suspected, the long-anticipated invitation to the Contessa.

I confess, I find Lady Eleanor a most compelling study. There are those who underestimate her—men of the sort who mistake composure for complacency—but I am not among them. Beneath her calm exterior runs a current of calculation, and I suspect few things within this house, or indeed this colony, escape her notice. She wields her civility as deftly as others wield a blade, and what she chooses to call “hospitality” often serves as reconnaissance. Yet there is elegance in it—an artistry of intellect and instinct both. The Governor is wise to trust her counsel, though I wonder if even he fully grasps how far her understanding extends.

Having read her note, I rose at once to see the matter handled. Of my clerks, Benedict Marlowe seemed the natural choice. The lad is diligent and observant, and though still green in certain matters of discretion, he possesses that earnest caution that can, with experience, harden into wisdom. I summoned him to my office, gave him Lady Eleanor’s instructions, and directed him to Mr. Greene.

Ah, Mr. Greene. If Lady Eleanor’s grace is an instrument of subtle persuasion, Mr. Alastair Greene’s manner is its opposite—a symphony of self-importance in minor key. His devotion to propriety borders upon the theatrical, and he has the unfortunate habit of mistaking ceremony for substance. Still, he is efficient, which is more than can be said for most men of his temperament.

When young Marlowe returned from Greene’s chamber, he reported that the man had received him with exaggerated gravity, presenting the sealed invitation as though it were a treaty of state. Greene lectured him at some length on the proper deportment for a bearer of correspondence “of so delicate and distinguished a nature,” as he phrased it, before finally relinquishing the document.

It was then that I learned we had no messengers immediately available. The morning’s errands had already scattered them across the island—harbor dispatches, shipping manifests, a delivery to the garrison. I hesitated only a moment before deciding that Marlowe himself must carry the letter. It was not the usual course, but necessity often dictates propriety.

I impressed upon him the importance of the errand: that the letter was to be conveyed directly to the Contessa’s residence upon the Heights and delivered into her own hands, without intermediary or delay. I told him that if the lady’s servants received him coldly—as they might—he was to remain courteous but firm, invoking the authority of Government House and Lady Whitehall’s personal seal. I saw, as I spoke, a flicker of both anxiety and pride cross his face. He bowed, tucked the letter carefully into his coat, and departed with commendable haste.

As I watched him descend the front steps toward the waiting carriage, the morning light glinting off the harbor beyond, I found myself wondering how this small act—a letter penned in the quiet of dawn, carried by an unassuming clerk—might yet shape the course of greater things. Lady Eleanor does not act without design. And where she and the Contessa are concerned, design and danger may not be far apart.

As for Mr. Greene, I suspect he will spend the remainder of the day congratulating himself for having presided over so distinguished an errand. He is welcome to his pride; every hive requires its drones.

For my part, I will await Marlowe’s return—and the reply that will surely follow. Something in the air of Port Dominion has shifted these past weeks. The island feels poised, as though holding its breath before a storm. And if my instincts are correct, this letter—this breakfast-hour courtesy between two formidable women—may prove to be the spark that draws the first lightning.