Nothing Here Is Permanent

"The colony doesn't care about effort—it cares about results. And results require a certain flexibility that polite society prefers not to acknowledge."— Lieutenant Governor Thomas Davey

Thomas Davey entered a room the way a storm enters a harbour—impossible to ignore, difficult to prepare for, and likely to leave damage in its wake.

The Lieutenant Governor of Van Diemen's Land was not at all what William had expected. He had imagined someone in the mould of Harding—dignified, restrained, embodying the authority of the Crown with suitable gravity. What he saw instead was a man of perhaps fifty years who seemed to have dressed in the dark and not bothered to check the result: his coat was buttoned incorrectly, his cravat had come loose on one side, and his waistcoat bore a stain near the third button that might have been wine or gravy or something less identifiable.

But it was his face that truly commanded attention. Davey had the florid complexion of a man intimately acquainted with strong drink, his cheeks and nose carrying the permanent flush that came from years of devoted application. His eyes, however, were startlingly alert—bright and quick and missing nothing, despite whatever state the rest of him might be in. They were the eyes of a man who had learned to function through inebriation, who had mastered the art of appearing more impaired than he actually was.

Or perhaps less impaired. William could not tell which, and suspected that uncertainty was precisely the point.

"Governor Davey." Harding's voice carried the particular flatness of someone exercising considerable self-control. "We're honoured by your presence. I had not been certain you would be able to attend."

"Hadn't been certain?" Davey's laugh boomed through the drawing room, too loud for the space, deliberately so. "My dear Harding, wild horses couldn't have kept me away. A dinner party at the new magistrate's residence, all the colony's best and brightest gathered to pay homage—how could I possibly miss such entertainment?" He pronounced the last word with an emphasis that made it sound like something other than a compliment.

The room had gone very still. William watched as the other guests performed a collective recalibration, adjusting their positions and expressions to accommodate this new and unpredictable element. Mrs Whitmore had drawn closer to her husband. The florid gentleman by the fire had developed a sudden interest in his drink. Even Bradshaw, unflappable Bradshaw, had taken a small step back, as though creating distance from whatever was about to unfold.

Only Elizabeth Harding moved forward, her manner smooth and untroubled as she approached the Lieutenant Governor with a tray bearing a glass of what appeared to be excellent brandy.

"Governor Davey," she said, her voice carrying just the right note of welcome. "How good of you to join us. May I offer you refreshment?"

Davey turned to her, and something in his expression shifted—softening, perhaps, or at least moderating its aggressive joviality. "Miss Harding. The saving grace of your father's establishment, as I've always maintained." He took the glass with a bow that might have been mocking or might have been genuine. "You are wasted on colonial society, my dear. In London, you'd have duchesses weeping with envy."

"You flatter me, Governor."

"I never flatter. I merely observe." Davey took a long drink from the glass, his eyes moving across the room with that disconcerting alertness. "Now then. Let me see who we have here. Bradshaw, looking prosperous as always—still pulling the strings that make the rest of us dance? Fitzpatrick, glowering like a storm cloud—I see the Midlands haven't improved your disposition. The Whitmore boys, trying to look like they belong with the grown-ups..." His gaze continued its circuit, cataloguing and commenting, until it landed on William.

"And who's this? Fresh blood, unless I miss my guess. Young fellow in clothes that don't quite fit, standing next to Croft like a man waiting for permission to breathe." Davey moved closer, his approach surprisingly steady for someone who appeared so thoroughly inebriated. "I don't know your face, which means you're either very new or very insignificant. Which is it?"

The question landed like a slap, and William felt every eye in the room turn toward him. This was nothing like the careful probing of Bradshaw or the gruff testing of Fitzpatrick. This was naked provocation, delivered without pretence or apology.

"Very new, Your Excellency," William said, keeping his voice level with effort. "William Jeffries. I arrived in the colony earlier this year."

"Jeffries." Davey rolled the name around as though tasting it. "And what brings young Mr Jeffries to our charming penal outpost? Commerce? Adventure? Running from something unfortunate back home?" The last question carried a particular edge, and William felt his stomach clench.

"Opportunity, Your Excellency. I was told Van Diemen's Land rewards men willing to work."

"Rewards men willing to work!" Davey's laugh erupted again, sharp and humourless. "Is that what they're saying in England these days? How wonderfully optimistic. The truth, Mr Jeffries, is that Van Diemen's Land rewards men willing to do what's necessary—which is often rather different from mere work." He leaned closer, and William caught the smell of brandy on his breath, stronger than what the single glass could account for. "The colony doesn't care about effort. It cares about results. And results, in my experience, require a certain... flexibility that polite society prefers not to acknowledge."

"Thomas." Harding's voice cut across the exchange, carrying a note of warning. "Perhaps we might save the philosophy for after dinner. I'm sure Mr Jeffries would prefer to form his own impressions of colonial life rather than inheriting yours."

Davey turned to the magistrate, and something crackled in the air between them—not quite hostility, but certainly not warmth. Two men who represented different visions of authority, different approaches to the exercise of power, forced into proximity by circumstances neither had chosen.

"My impressions, Harding, are based on eight years of governing this delightful wilderness. Yours are based on—what? Six weeks of observing from your comfortable parlour?" Davey's smile had teeth in it now. "By all means, let the young man form his own views. But let him do so with his eyes open, rather than believing the pretty stories about honest labour and earned success."

"I wasn't aware there was a conflict between honest labour and earned success," William heard himself say, and immediately wished he hadn't.

Both men turned to look at him. Davey's expression flickered with something that might have been surprise or amusement; Harding's carried a warning that suggested speaking had been unwise.

"Weren't you?" Davey's voice dropped, becoming almost intimate. "Then you haven't been paying attention, Mr Jeffries. Look around this room. Look at the men who've succeeded in this colony—really succeeded, not just scraped by. Bradshaw with his convenient friendships and his useful blindnesses. Fitzpatrick with his land grants acquired through connections no one discusses. The Whitmores with their government contracts that somehow always fall their way." He spread his hands in a gesture that encompassed the entire gathering. "Do you imagine any of it came from honest labour alone? Do you think hard work, by itself, built what you see here?"

The room had gone absolutely silent. William could hear the fire crackling, could hear someone's uncomfortable swallow, could hear his own pulse loud in his ears. Davey had crossed some invisible line, said things that everyone knew but no one acknowledged, and the social fabric of the evening was stretching thin under the strain.

"I think," William said slowly, choosing each word with desperate care, "that success in any endeavour requires both work and opportunity. And that opportunity, in a colony such as this, often depends on relationships that go beyond simple merit." He paused, acutely aware that he was navigating by instinct through waters he did not understand. "But I also think that a man who relies entirely on relationships, without the work to justify them, builds on sand rather than stone."

Davey studied him for a long moment, those bright eyes missing nothing.

"Stone and sand," he said finally. "A pretty metaphor. And not entirely wrong, I suppose, as far as it goes." He took another drink from his glass, draining it completely. "The trouble is, Mr Jeffries, that in this colony, the line between stone and sand is never quite where you think it is. Men build what they believe are fortresses, only to watch them wash away when the tide turns. Others construct what seem like temporary shelters and find them standing long after the fortresses have fallen." His expression shifted, becoming something more complex than the crude joviality he had entered with. "The secret—if there is one—is knowing that nothing here is permanent. Everything is provisional. The moment you forget that, the moment you start believing your foundations are secure... that's when the ground opens beneath you."

Before William could respond, Elizabeth appeared at her father's elbow, her timing too perfect to be coincidental.

"Dinner will be served shortly," she announced, her voice carrying through the room with gentle authority. "Perhaps we might move toward the dining room? I believe the first course is ready."

The intervention was masterful—acknowledging the tension without addressing it directly, offering everyone a graceful exit from a conversation that had veered into dangerous territory. William watched as the guests began to move, grateful for the distraction even as his mind continued to churn through everything Davey had said.

"Saved by the bell," Silas murmured at his side, his voice barely audible. "Or by Miss Harding, rather. She's good at that—defusing things before they explode."

"Davey—"

"Is exactly what he appears to be, and also nothing like what he appears to be." Silas's expression was troubled. "He plays the drunken fool because it serves his purposes—people underestimate him, speak freely around him, assume he won't remember what they've said. But he remembers everything, William. Every word, every glance, every moment of weakness. He's been Lieutenant Governor for eight years, surviving scandals and accusations that would have destroyed anyone else. You don't do that by being the buffoon he pretends to be."

William watched as Davey moved toward the dining room, pausing to exchange words with Bradshaw—words that made the merchant's expression tighten almost imperceptibly before smoothing back into careful neutrality.

"What he said about the others—about how they built their success—"

"Was true. All of it." Silas's voice carried no judgement, only acknowledgment. "Bradshaw's fortune rests on knowing which officials to befriend and which regulations to ignore. Fitzpatrick's land grants came through connections to previous governors that no one examines too closely. The Whitmores... well, their government contracts aren't exactly awarded through competitive bidding." He met William's eyes directly. "This is the world we're entering, William. The world where everyone has arrangements, where success requires compromises, where the difference between respectable commerce and something darker is often just a matter of which ledger the transaction appears in."

"You knew this already."

"I knew it. But knowing something and hearing it spoken aloud in a room full of the people it describes... those are different experiences." Silas gestured toward the dining room, where the other guests were beginning to take their seats. "Come. We need to be present for what happens next. And whatever else occurs this evening, don't engage with Davey directly unless you have no choice. He's testing you, the way he tests everyone. The less material you give him, the less he has to work with."

They moved toward the dining room, joining the general procession. William found himself walking beside Elizabeth Harding for a few steps, close enough that she spoke to him in a voice pitched for his ears alone.

"You handled that well, Mr Jeffries. Better than most manage on their first encounter with the Governor."

"I'm not sure 'handled' is the right word. 'Survived' might be more accurate."

Her smile was brief but genuine. "In dealings with Governor Davey, survival is handling it well. He's rather like a force of nature—one doesn't defeat him, one merely endures until he moves on to other targets." She paused at the threshold of the dining room, her expression becoming more guarded. "A word of advice, if I may. The Governor speaks uncomfortable truths, but he speaks them for his own purposes, not for yours. Be careful about which of his observations you take to heart. Not everything true is useful, and not everything useful is kind."

Before William could ask what she meant, she had moved away, resuming her role as hostess, directing guests to their seats.

The dining room was smaller than the drawing room but no less carefully appointed. A long table dominated the space, set with china and crystal that caught the candlelight in soft refractions. Place cards indicated where each guest should sit, and William found himself guided to a position in the middle of the table—far enough from Harding and Davey at the head to avoid direct involvement in whatever might pass between them, but close enough to observe.

Fitzpatrick sat to his right, the older man settling into his chair with the deliberate movements of someone whose joints had begun to protest such formalities. To his left was the florid gentleman from the drawing room, whose name William still had not learned—though based on his position at the table, he was clearly someone of significance.

Silas had been placed further down, near the Whitmore brothers, too far for easy conversation. Elizabeth sat at the foot of the table, opposite her father, with Davey positioned at Harding's right hand in a placement that might have been courtesy or might have been strategy—keeping the Lieutenant Governor where he could be watched.

As the first course was served—a soup that smelled of vegetables and herbs—William allowed himself to observe the table's geography. The seating arrangements told a story, if one knew how to read them. The powerful clustered near the head, where they could speak with Harding and be seen speaking with him. The younger guests had been positioned in the middle, where they could observe but not easily participate in the most significant conversations. The wives—Mrs Whitmore and the florid gentleman's companion, a thin woman with sharp features—had been placed together near Elizabeth, where they could conduct their own parallel discourse.

It was, William realised, a kind of theatre. Every placement, every proximity, every line of sight had been considered and arranged. And somewhere in this careful choreography, he had been given a position—not important enough to sit near the head, but not so insignificant as to be banished to the far end. A man worth watching, perhaps. A potential player whose value had not yet been determined.

Davey's voice cut through his contemplation, loud enough to carry the length of the table.

"So, Harding. Now that we're all assembled, perhaps you'll enlighten us about your plans for bringing order to our little chaos. Sydney's been buzzing with rumours about the new magistrate who's going to civilise Van Diemen's Land. I'm dying to hear how you intend to accomplish what the rest of us have failed to achieve for the past decade."

The challenge was unmistakable, delivered with a smile that fooled no one. Harding set down his spoon carefully, his expression betraying nothing.

"I have no intention of civilising anyone, Governor. Merely of ensuring that the colony's legal affairs are conducted with appropriate rigour. The rule of law, properly applied, creates the conditions in which civilisation can flourish—or fail—on its own merits."

"The rule of law." Davey's laugh was sharp. "A wonderful phrase. Tell me, Harding—whose law? The law as written in London by men who've never seen this place? The law as interpreted by magistrates who arrive with theories and leave with disillusionment? Or the law as it actually operates here, which bears about as much resemblance to what's written in the statutes as I bear to the Archbishop of Canterbury?"

"The law," Harding replied evenly, "is what distinguishes a colony from a camp of bandits. However imperfectly it may be applied, however much local conditions may require adaptation, the fundamental principle remains: that men should know what is expected of them, and what consequences will follow from their actions. Without that certainty, commerce becomes impossible, property becomes meaningless, and society dissolves into the competition of every man against every other."

"Pretty words." Davey's tone had shifted, becoming something harder beneath the jovial surface. "And I don't disagree with them, as far as they go. But certainty, Harding—real certainty—requires more than principles written on paper. It requires power. The power to enforce, to punish, to reward. And in this colony, that power is distributed in ways that no amount of legal theory can adequately describe." He leaned forward, his bright eyes fixed on the magistrate. "You'll learn this, in time. The question is whether you'll learn it quickly enough to be useful, or slowly enough to be destroyed."

The silence that followed was profound. William glanced around the table, seeing variations of discomfort on every face—except Elizabeth's, which remained composed in a way that suggested long practice at weathering such storms, and Bradshaw's, which held something that looked almost like satisfaction.

"Perhaps," Elizabeth said into the silence, her voice calm and clear, "we might discuss the recent improvements to the harbour facilities. I understand the new wharf has significantly improved loading times for the wool ships."

The topic change was so abrupt, so deliberately mundane, that it broke the tension through sheer incongruity. Fitzpatrick seized upon it with visible relief, launching into a complaint about shipping delays that had nothing to do with wharves and everything to do with escaping the conversation that had been building.

William watched Elizabeth as the table's attention shifted, admiring the skill with which she had defused the confrontation. She caught his gaze briefly, and something passed between them—acknowledgment, perhaps, of the performance they were both witnessing and the roles they were both playing.

But even as the conversation turned to safer waters, William could feel the undercurrents that remained. Davey had not been silenced, merely redirected. Harding had not been defeated, merely postponed. Whatever conflict simmered between the Lieutenant Governor and the new magistrate, it would not be resolved over dinner—would perhaps never be resolved, but would instead continue to shape the colony's affairs in ways that men like William could barely perceive.

He lifted his spoon and began to eat his soup, tasting nothing, his mind churning through implications he was only beginning to understand.

The evening, he suspected, was far from over. And the lessons it had to teach were only beginning to reveal themselves.