4135.246 · September 3, 1815 AD
The Ambitious Trifle
The second course arrives—lamb with rosemary and the finest wine William has tasted since leaving England. Elizabeth Harding pauses at his section of the table, and the conversation turns to Portsmouth. She mentions families her mother knew there. The Ballys. Do you know the name? William's heart stutters. Then dessert arrives: a trifle of ambitious construction and questionable stability. Rather like the colony itself, someone observes. Rather like all of them.
Elizabeth sees more than she reveals. When she asks about his accent—a hint of the south coast, perhaps?—William admits to Portsmouth because lying would be worse than truth. She speaks of merchant families her mother knew. The names mean nothing to him, but the conversation skirts dangerous territory before veering away.
The colony has a way of reducing things to essentials, she says. Who you were matters less than who you are.
Her eyes suggest she understands more than her words acknowledge.
Then Davey speaks again. This time he names Blackwood—describes warehouses that weren't where records said, goods that weren't what manifests described. William's stomach clenches. The name echoes through the room, and no one reacts with outrage. They react with careful silence. With tacit acknowledgment.
The tallow that keeps the hinges silent, Davey says. So that respectable folk can pretend it was never done at all.
The trifle sits at the centre of the table, cream sliding sideways, threatening collapse.
Elizabeth rises to suggest they move to the drawing room.
William follows, understanding at last: everyone at this table has dirty hands. The only question is how well they wash.
