"The Invitation....Part 2...."

 

Letter from the Hand of the Contessa Maria Theresa Isabella Emilia Lucia Gabriella Rosalina Liliana Paloma Written at Her Residence on the Heights of Port Dominion, Island of St. Albion April the 22nd

To Her Ladyship, The Most Gracious Lady Eleanor Whitehall, At Government House, Port Dominion.

Mi estimada y encantadora Lady Whitehall, 

Your most gracious letter has reached my hands — its perfume and precision as fine as any courtly gesture I have known. How beautifully the English pen flatters: so measured, so deliberate, and yet, between every syllable, I can feel the warmth of a woman who knows her own strength. You honor me beyond words with your invitation to dine beneath your roof at Government House — the seat of Whitehall gleaming brighter than the morning sun. It seemed, for a moment, that even the air of this island carried a whisper of your welcome. I am deeply touched — and, I confess, delighted — to accept.

In my homeland we say, “Cortesía es la corona del corazón noble, y la curiosidad su fiel servidor” — “Courtesy is the crown of the noble heart, and curiosity its loyal servant.” Your letter, so delicately penned, embodies both. I am touched, intrigued, and eager. It will be my great honor to accept your invitation and to join you and His Lordship upon the evening of the twenty-ninth. To share such company, amid the grace and refinement of your home, is a privilege for which I am sincerely grateful. It will give me the greatest pleasure to spend an evening in such refined company — amidst your candles, your conversation, and the sea-breeze that carries with it the soul of this remarkable island. I have admired the elegance with which you command this small world of English grace upon these tropical shores. To be received by your hand, and in the presence of your distinguished husband, is no small distinction — and I accept it with gratitude both sincere and spirited. As a token of my esteem and friendship, I shall bring a small gift of gratitude — a case of my finest vino tinto de la Ribera del Duero, from my own cellars in Spain, from the sun-kissed vineyards near Valencia. The flavor is bold, intricate, and mysterious — a reflection, I hope, of the spirit of goodwill with which it is offered. May it gladden the evening and warm English hearts, as your kindness has warmed mine. It is a wine of deep character, born of sun and stone, and I trust it will bring warmth and pleasure to your table as your kindness brings warmth and pleasure to mine. May it serve as a small symbol of goodwill between our houses — of friendship offered, and, I hope, returned. How curious it is, my dear Lady, that the sea divides our nations yet brings together our spirits. There is something fateful, I think, in your letter finding me upon this island — like two lanterns lit on opposite shores, now burning with the same flame. I look forward with anticipation to our meeting, to your conversation, and to that delightful interplay which only truly distinguished women may share — the unspoken understanding behind every word. With sincere affection and unfeigned respect, and the hope that this will be the beginning of a most gracious acquaintance, 

La Contessa Maria Theresa Isabella Emilia Lucia Gabriella Rosalina Liliana Paloma 

La Condesa de Valencia del Mar 

(Her seal: a crimson wax impression bearing the sigil of a sea-star entwined with a rose.) 

I pray the sea is calm on the night of our gathering. The old mariners say that when the tides stir without cause, it is because they sense the meeting of kindred spirits — or of equal wills upon the shore.

"Reading between the lines..."

From the Private Journal of the Contessa Maria Theresa Isabella Emilia Lucia Gabriella Rosalina Liliana Paloma

Port Dominion, Saturday, April the 22nd — Late Evening

At last — it has come.

The invitation I knew would arrive, written in that careful, perfumed English manner that mistakes precision for grace and formality for feeling. Lady Eleanor Whitehall invites me to dine at Government House. How proper. How punctual. How predictable. How delightfully, incurably English.

The messenger stood upon my threshold as if awaiting judgment, hat clutched in trembling hands, sweat glistening on his brow despite the evening breeze. I let him stand there longer than civility required. It does one good, sometimes, to remind the servants of empire that the Spanish still know what dignity looks like. When at last I took the letter, I could see how he exhaled — as though spared a sentence. They are trained to fear power, these English retainers. They smell it before they understand it.

The seal was heavy with intent, pressed deep into scarlet wax — a symbol of English order, English confidence, English caution. When I broke it, the parchment unfolded like a whisper of starch and roses. The handwriting was exquisite, the ink evenly measured, each word turned with delicate care — and yet beneath that lacework of politeness, I felt the edge of the blade. Lady Eleanor writes as one who smiles while keeping her hand upon the hilt.

I admire her already.

Her invitation is more than a courtesy. It is a summons, a test wrapped in silk. Every line is a question she dares not ask aloud. “The truest spirit of welcome,” she writes — ah, el espíritu más verdadero de la cortesía inglesa is to place one’s guest nearest the candlelight, that every flaw may gleam. It is not hospitality they seek; it is illumination. They wish to see what glimmers — and what burns.

But I am not one to fear the flame. I am the daughter of fire myself.

I imagine her now, in her fine English chamber, the candlelight dancing upon her pale hands as she chose her words with care. Her husband — that solemn Governor, Henry Archibald Whitehall — would be nearby, feigning distraction with his dispatches, though I suspect he watches her more closely than his own affairs. She writes as one accustomed to power; he rules as one accustomed to restraint. It is a dangerous balance, that marriage — perhaps the only kind worth having.

She means to study me. She wishes to know whether I am danger or delight. Let her wonder. I have been examined by queens and envied by courtiers, and each believed themselves the wiser for the effort. I have learned that the act of being observed is its own form of mastery — for it is I who decides what they see.

Of course I shall attend. To refuse would be an admission, and I am far too well-bred for that. No, I shall arrive precisely when the sun has fallen and the air still holds its breath — in a gown of crimson silk, rojo como el corazón de una llama, trimmed in black lace. Let them whisper that the Spanish woman wears the color of sin. They will not be wrong.

I can already envision their faces: the Governor, grave and composed; his wife, radiant and cunning; the assembled company watching as if the night itself might reveal something forbidden. They will speak of weather and trade and the virtues of empire, and I shall smile — gently, sweetly — while the real conversation unfolds in glances and pauses and the weight of silence.

It pleases me, this play they think they have devised. They believe they have invited me to dine. In truth, I have been waiting for them to set the table.

The game begins, and I know my place upon the board — not as pawn, nor queen, but as the player herself.

Tonight, I will pen my reply — courteous, elegant, and entirely as they expect. But when the candles are lit and Lady Eleanor looks across her table, she will understand. The invitation was not hers to send.

Let her light her candles, then.

I shall come dressed in red — and I shall bring the fire.

 

Narrative: "The Errand and The Message."

 (The Players for this narrative at The Contessa's residence....)

(Contessa Maria Theresa Isabella Emilia Lucia
Gabriella Rosalina Liliana Paloma)

  

(Benedict Marlowe)

A Narrative of Benedict Marlowe’s Errand.

Saturday, April the 22nd — The Island of St. Albion

The morning had grown warm by the time Benedict Marlowe departed the Governor’s House, the sealed letter tucked carefully inside his coat pocket. The wax bore the Whitehall crest — the device of the lion and anchor — and it seemed to gleam faintly in the sunlight whenever he checked to assure himself it was still there. He had been given explicit instructions: the letter was to be delivered to the Contessa herself, not to a servant, not to a secretary, and under no circumstances was it to be mishandled.

The young clerk felt the weight of the errand pressing upon him like a stone. It was not often that one of his rank carried correspondence of such consequence, nor was it common for Lady Eleanor Whitehall to take notice of clerks at all. That she had entrusted the letter’s dispatch, even indirectly, to his hands filled him with equal parts pride and terror. The last thing he wanted to do was to fail in his task as directed by Mr. Franklin Benjamin, and thus in doing so-fail Lady Eleanor. To him that alone, was simply unthinkable.

The carriage took the winding road that led up to where the house that the Contessa had taken residence in — that crescent of land overlooking the harbor where some the wealthiest of Port Dominion’s residents had built their homes. As the carriage climbed slightly and moved further away from the harbor and town, the air changed; the scent of salt and spice gave way to the subtler perfume of imported flowers. The Contessa’s villa stood apart from the rest — a vision of pale stone and sun-warmed marble, its balconies draped with bougainvillea, its tall shutters thrown open to the sea breeze. He could see that the house was close to the estate of Lord and Lady Mitchell, but still far enough away to insure privacy for both parties if and when needed or wanted.

A wrought-iron gate, flanked by two bronze statues of angels, marked the entrance. There, a liveried servant in Spanish colors greeted him with a bow that was polite but cool. Benedict wondered about how the statues and such ornamentation was delivered upon the Contessa's arrival. "Perhaps, more cargo was unloaded off the Spanish ship in the harbor later on in the day?" He mused to himself,  upon exiting the carriage, as the servant approached him.

“Good day,” Marlowe began, his voice steady despite his pulse. “I come from Lady Eleanor Whitehall of Government House. I bear a letter for the Contessa Maria Theresa Isabella Emilia Lucia Gabriella Rosalina Liliana Paloma. I am instructed to deliver it into her own hands.” He made sure to say that to understand that no one - no one would hold this envelope in their hands, except for the Contessa.

The servant’s eyes flickered briefly to the seal and nodded as if understanding the importance of what was said to him. “Her Ladyship receives few visitors without notice,” he said in accented English. “But you will wait. I shall inquire.”

The servant disappeared through the courtyard gate, leaving Marlowe to stand beneath the shade of a tree. From somewhere within, he could hear the faint notes of a harpsichord, slow and deliberate, like the sound of someone thinking aloud through music. It was sound that soothed and somewhat unnerved him simultaneously. 

A few minutes passed — long enough for his apprehension to grow. Then the servant returned. “La Contessa will see you,” he said, his tone altered now — not warm, but touched with something that might have been curiosity.

Marlowe followed him through the courtyard, where a fountain murmured softly beneath flowering vines, and through the entry doors into a cool marble hall. There the air was scented faintly with orange blossom and candle wax. A tall door of polished wood and gleaming brass leading into another room was opened, and he found himself standing at the threshold of a salon bathed in filtered light.

The Contessa sat by the window, half-turned toward the sea. She wore a gown of soft ivory silk embroidered with faint threads of gold, and her hair, dark as midnight, was coiled loosely upon her shoulders. Upon the small table beside her lay a book in Spanish, a glass of pale sherry, and a single red rose in a crystal vase. For a moment Benedict's thoughts evaporated and all he could do was to simply stare at her.

When she looked up, her eyes met his — deep, dark, and startlingly direct and yet in their own way - intoxicating. “Señor,” she said, her voice carrying that lilting Spanish music that seemed to turn every word into something half between speech and song. “You come from Lady Whitehall?”

“Yes, my lady,” he said, suddenly regaining his composure and bowing as best he knew how. “I am charged with delivering this letter to you from her own hand.”

He stepped forward and presented the envelope. The Contessa reached for it with unhurried grace, her fingers gloved in white lace. She studied the seal for a moment, smiling faintly — a smile that might have been amusement or challenge, he could not tell. Then, with a small silver blade from the table, she broke the wax and unfolded the letter.

The room was silent but for the faint rustle of parchment. Marlowe stood motionless, unsure whether to remain or withdraw. When she had read the letter, she looked up again, her eyes thoughtful, dark, and deep.

“So… the lion’s lady extends her hand,” she murmured, more to herself than to him. “And with such courtesy that one might forget it is also a weighing of intentions.”

Then, noticing the young clerk’s uncertainty, she softened her expression. “You may tell Lady Whitehall,” she said, “that her invitation is received with both pleasure and gratitude. And that I shall come — gladly — to dine at Government House upon the evening she proposes.” She smiled at him. "A letter of acceptance will be forthcoming this afternoon."

She rose then, crossing the floor with the measured elegance of one long accustomed to command. “You are young, Señor…?” she said to him with a slight smile.

“Marlowe, my lady. Benedict Marlowe.”  Benedict answered, trying to maintain himself, and hoping that she didn't notice his shaking.

“Ah. Benedicto,” she said, tasting the syllables as though weighing their worth. “Tell me, Benedicto, do you believe your Lady Whitehall a woman of warmth… or of watchfulness?”

The question startled him. “Both, I think,” he said after a pause. “As one must be, in her place.”

The Contessa smiled again, a slow, approving curve of the lips. “A careful answer,” she said. “You may go now, Señor Marlowe. You have done your errand well. Wait a moment.”

She turned to her escritoire, took a small envelope, and sealed within it a note of reply — her acceptance, no doubt — marked with her own crimson seal, the device of a sea star entwined with a rose. Handing it to him, she inclined her head. “Carry this back to your mistress with my compliments… and my wine shall follow.”

Marlowe bowed again, his heart pounding. As he turned to go, she added softly, almost as an afterthought:

“Tell Lady Whitehall that I look forward to seeing her candlelight… and to discovering whether her flame burns warm — or bright enough to blind.”

Outside, the sun had climbed high, and the sea below shone like molten glass. As the carriage descended from the high ground area of the villa, Benedict Marlowe glanced once more at the letter in his hands, its seal glimmering red in the light.

He could not shake the feeling that something had shifted — that this errand, so simple in form, had set into motion the beginning of a game whose rules only the women who had written these letters could understand.

"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.

 

"Instructions to those that need it...."

From the Private Journal of Mr. Alastair Greene

Saturday, April the 22nd, 1702
Government House, Port Dominion

This morning began with an air of quiet consequence — one of those days when even the servants seem to move with greater care, as though aware that something of refinement and significance is taking shape above their station. It was still early, the light sharp and new through the shutters, when I received a summons to attend Lady Eleanor in her study.

Her Ladyship, I must say, is never less than composed. Even in those first hours after dawn, she carried herself with the same calm poise that could silence a room full of colonels. There she sat, quill and candle before her, the faintest trace of ink still glistening on the letter she had sealed. The wax bore the Whitehall crest — a delicate impression, yet unmistakable in its authority. She informed me, in that melodic tone of hers that carries both grace and command, that this invitation was to be conveyed to the residence of the Contessa Maria Theresa Isabella Emilia Lucia Gabriella Rosalina Liliana Paloma — whose name alone sounds as though it were written for the stage.

Lady Eleanor’s instructions were simple in form but precise in spirit: the letter must reach the Contessa before sunset, by a messenger both discreet and punctual. She looked directly at me when she said it — a subtle emphasis that, I suspect, implied her expectation that the entire affair would bear my polish. Naturally, I assured her that it would.

There is something formidable about Lady Eleanor when she speaks in such tones. One feels as though one has been trusted with the handling of an unspoken intrigue. I know she believes me a man of order and propriety — and she is correct — but I flatter myself that she also recognizes in me a certain discretion not common among the administrative breed. She did not elaborate upon her purpose, nor did I presume to ask, though it is plain that this dinner of hers is no mere social occasion. Lady Eleanor is a strategist draped in silk; when she arranges flowers or guests, she arranges power.

After leaving her presence, I set about selecting the appropriate messenger. However, it was then that I encountered a small inconvenience — none were presently at hand. I had scarcely begun to consider an alternative when Mr. Franklin Benjamin’s clerk, young Benedict Marlowe, arrived at my door bearing a note from his superior. Franklin — ever deliberate, ever cautious — had been informed of Lady Eleanor’s request and was sending one of his men to retrieve the invitation.

Now, Mr. Benjamin is a man I find… respectable, in that infuriatingly understated way of his. He does everything correctly but without flourish. His tone is perpetually moderate, his expressions unreadable. If he possesses ambition, it is of the quiet and patient sort — the kind that waits for others to stumble. I have seen such men rise far; yet I cannot imagine him enjoying the ascent. Still, one must grant him credit for efficiency.

As for young Marlowe, the lad looked both eager and anxious when I presented him with the sealed letter. I took the opportunity — for his own edification, of course — to instruct him on the proper bearing for such a delivery: posture erect, voice steady, comportment marked by modest dignity. He listened with that mixture of fear and fascination the inexperienced often reserve for their betters. I confess, I may have indulged in a touch of ceremony when handing him the envelope. There is value, after all, in teaching the lower ranks the gravity of their duties.

When it became apparent that there were no messengers immediately available, I was unsurprised that Franklin chose to send the boy himself. The man has a utilitarian streak that borders on the ascetic. “Efficiency before elegance,” might as well be his motto — one I find uncomfortably dull. Still, I approved the arrangement, and dispatched Marlowe with instructions to deliver the letter directly into the Contessa’s hands, should her household permit it.

Ah, the Contessa. Even now, Port Dominion hums with her name. There is something almost operatic about the woman — all fire and perfume and mystery. The servants say she arrived as though stepping from a dream, the sun at her back and a smile that could thaw iron. I have yet to make her acquaintance, though I expect that will soon change. I can only imagine the impression she will make when she reads Lady Eleanor’s letter — that exquisite balance of grace and challenge, the velvet invitation concealing a subtle test.

For indeed, that is what this dinner shall be — a test. A weighing of women, and perhaps of nations. The Governor, I suspect, believes this an act of diplomacy; Lady Eleanor, I suspect, knows better. She means to draw the Contessa near enough to measure her — to see what lies behind that impeccable courtesy and Spanish splendor. I would wager that before the final course is cleared, one of them will know precisely how to unmake the other.

As for myself, I am merely the custodian of the mechanism — the careful hand that ensures the pieces move as they should. But I admit, I take a certain satisfaction in my part. These are the moments in which true refinement distinguishes itself: when diplomacy, danger, and decorum intertwine like threads of gold.

The letter has been sent. By now, young Marlowe will have reached the Contessa’s house on the Heights. I imagine her servants receiving him with cool suspicion, and the lady herself — poised, radiant — breaking the seal with a slow smile that hides far more than it reveals.

I almost envy her. She plays upon a grander stage than most.

Still, I would not trade places with her. For in this quiet game of civility and power, it is often the observer — not the player — who survives to tell the tale.

"Early morning thoughts...."

Private Journal of Lady Eleanor Whitehall

The Morning of Saturday, April the 22nd.

Whitehall Manor, Port Dominion

The dawn had not yet broken when I rose this morning. The house lay in that peculiar stillness that comes just before the first light—when even the sea seems to hush its breathing. The air was cool, touched faintly with the salt that drifts up from the harbor, and through the shutters the faintest line of silver could be seen along the horizon. It is a strange hour—neither night nor day—an hour for clarity, for secrets, for the small acts that set larger things in motion.

It was in that quiet that I sat at my writing desk and took up my pen to compose the invitation to the Contessa. I had thought of it often since Henry and I last spoke of her. Now, with the house asleep and the world holding its breath, the task seemed almost ceremonial. The candles flickered softly, their light gilding the edges of the paper, and I found myself choosing each word as though it were a move in some delicate game.

How curious, the nature of women such as she. There is something about the Contessa that both fascinates and unsettles. I cannot say whether it is her beauty, her mystery, or the ripple she has caused in this colony’s composure. Henry distrusts her; I do not blame him. Yet I suspect distrust alone will not protect us from what she brings. The invitation, then, is more than courtesy—it is reconnaissance, wrapped in civility.

I wrote with deliberate grace, each phrase touched with warmth, each sentence balanced between invitation and inquiry. “The truest spirit of welcome,” I wrote, and smiled to myself as the ink dried. Such words please both the innocent and the wary. By the time the final flourish was complete and the wax seal pressed firm with our crest, the first light had begun to creep through the shutters, painting the room in pale gold. I laid down my pen and let the hush of early morning wash over me. There is a kind of power in being awake before the world—when one’s thoughts are sharpest, and no one yet expects one to smile.

I took a small breakfast in the withdrawing room—a slice of bread, a poached egg, and a cup of chocolate. From the terrace, I could hear the murmur of voices drifting from the Governor’s study below. Henry was already awake, of course, for he is never long at rest when the colony weighs on his mind. Through the open doors I glimpsed him with General Winthrop and Colonel White, heads bent together over a spread of maps. Their tones were low, serious, the kind of talk men share when they sense a storm on the horizon.

They spoke of Europe, of war, of the French fleets rumored to stir in the Atlantic. Colonel White believes that St. Albion will not remain untouched, that Port Dominion’s peace is a thin veneer soon to crack beneath the press of empire. Henry listened with that grave stillness he wears like armor. I watched him for a time, unseen, the morning light glancing off his hair, and I wondered—not for the first time—whether the weight he carries might someday crush even him.

When my cup was empty, I rose and went to the study, summoning Mr. Greene to attend me. He arrived, immaculate as ever, his hair perfectly powdered, his expression composed in that polished way of his that seems half courtesy, half conceit. I handed him the sealed letter and instructed him to see that it be delivered to the Contessa’s residence upon the Heights before sunset. “A reliable messenger,” I said, “one who knows when to hold his tongue.”

He bowed with the air of a man accepting a royal commission. “It shall be done with the utmost decorum, my Lady,” he said, though I noted the faint spark of curiosity in his eye. No doubt the thought of carrying correspondence between two women of influence delights his sense of importance. Let him think it so—it will keep him diligent.

Before he departed, I sent a brief note to Mr. Franklin Benjamin, requesting that one of his clerks call upon Mr. Greene’s office to verify the delivery instructions and messenger’s name. Franklin is a man of quiet perception; I trust him far more than most who haunt the Governor’s corridors. He will see to it that no small misstep turns into gossip.

And so, as the sun rose above the palms, the matter was set in motion. The invitation lies now in Mr. Greene’s capable—if self-satisfied—hands, soon to find its way to the Contessa’s door. I wonder what she will make of it when she reads it in her fine Spanish morning light.

The day has begun, and already the pieces move.

 

"The Invitation...Part 1..."

From the hand of Lady Eleanor Whitehall to La Contessa Maria Theresa Isabella Emilia Lucia Gabriella Rosalina Liliana Paloma

Port Dominion, Saturday, April the 22nd.

To the Most Esteemed and Distinguished Lady, La Contessa Maria Theresa Isabella Emilia Lucia Gabriella Rosalina Liliana Paloma,

It is with the sincerest pleasure and no small degree of anticipation that I take up my pen this morning to extend to Your Ladyship an invitation to dine with His Lordship, the Governor, and myself at the Governor’s Mansion upon the evening of Saturday next, the twenty-ninth of April, at the turning of the eighth hour.

Your arrival upon our shores has, I confess, lent our modest colony a certain refinement to which it has long aspired. The tales of your grace and accomplishments have reached even the quiet parlors of our household, and both my Lord and I would be most honored to make your acquaintance in the more immediate and agreeable setting of our own table.

It shall be an intimate gathering — a few friends of discernment, good conversation, and such fare as our island may provide in its humble imitation of European luxury. We flatter ourselves that amidst the flicker of candlelight and the murmur of the sea, Your Ladyship might find a moment’s comfort and perhaps a touch of familiarity, even at so great a remove from the world you have so lately left behind.

Pray consider this invitation not merely as a formality of courtesy, but as the expression of a genuine wish for acquaintance. There is much, I think, that our shared understanding of the world might find to admire — and perhaps, if Providence allows, to learn — one from the other.

I shall hope for the pleasure of your reply at your earliest convenience, and with it, the assurance that you will favor us with your presence.

With the highest regard and esteem,

I remain, Madam,

Your obedient and most humble servant,

Eleanor Whitehall

(Lady of Port Dominion)