The Clarifying Distance

"The expectations one carries—the weight of what one is supposed to be, supposed to want—those don't disappear simply because one has crossed an ocean. But the attempt at liberation is worth making."— Elizabeth Harding

The second course arrived—a roasted lamb that filled the dining room with the rich scent of herbs and rendered fat, accompanied by vegetables that had been coaxed from colonial soil with evident care. William watched as servants moved along the table, their movements choreographed to avoid collision, their faces carefully blank.

The conversation had settled into safer channels since Elizabeth's intervention, flowing around topics that generated warmth without heat: the prospects for the coming season's wool clip, the latest ship arrivals from Sydney, a theatrical performance that had apparently scandalised some of Hobart Town's more delicate sensibilities. Davey contributed occasional barbs that kept the atmosphere from becoming too comfortable, but he seemed content, for now, to observe rather than provoke.

William found himself grateful for the respite, using the opportunity to eat—properly eat, for the first time since arriving at the Harding residence. The lamb was excellent, seasoned with rosemary and something else he could not identify, and the wine that accompanied it was finer than anything he had tasted since leaving England. Small mercies, perhaps, but he had learned to appreciate small mercies.

Fitzpatrick, beside him, had lapsed into a contemplative silence, apparently satisfied that their earlier exchange had established whatever he needed to know. The older man ate with the focus of someone who viewed meals as fuel rather than pleasure, his attention directed more toward his plate than the conversation around him.

It was the florid gentleman on William's left who broke into his thoughts.

"I don't believe we've been properly introduced." The voice was warm, carrying the rounded vowels of someone who had spent considerable time in the West Country. "Tobias Mercer. I have the dubious honour of serving as the colony's Superintendent of Public Works—which means I spend most of my days arguing with convict labourers about why the roads they're building keep washing away."

William turned to face him properly for the first time. Mercer was perhaps forty-five, with the sort of face that seemed designed for good humour—round cheeks, laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, a mouth that appeared to default to smiling. The florid complexion William had noted earlier seemed less a mark of overindulgence than simple constitution; some men simply coloured easily.

"William Jeffries," he replied, offering his hand. "I'm afraid my work is rather less essential than yours—I've been assisting with operations at Hartley's trading house."

"Hartley's." Mercer's expression flickered with something—sympathy, perhaps, or merely recognition of a difficult situation. "Yes, I've heard the name. The enterprise has seen better days, I understand."

"All enterprises have their seasons, Mr Mercer. The wise man prepares for winter while the sun still shines."

"Ha!" Mercer's laugh was genuine, unforced. "A philosopher as well as a merchant. I like that. Too many men in commerce think only of the next shipment, the next contract, the next opportunity for profit. They forget that the wheel turns, and what rises must eventually fall." He took a long drink of wine, his expression growing more thoughtful. "Though I suppose in this colony, rising and falling happen rather more quickly than they do in England. The distances are shorter, somehow. From success to failure, I mean. Or from failure to success, for those fortunate enough to find the path."

"You've been in the colony long, Mr Mercer?"

"Seven years this coming January. Long enough to see fortunes made and lost, reputations built and destroyed." His eyes held William's with unexpected directness. "Long enough to learn that what a man was before he came here matters rather less than what he becomes after he arrives."

The words landed strangely, carrying weight that might have been intentional or might have been mere observation. William searched Mercer's face for signs of hidden meaning, but found only that default good humour, that appearance of openness that revealed nothing of what lay beneath.

Before he could formulate a response, Elizabeth appeared at the far end of the table, rising from her seat to speak quietly with one of the servants. Something had gone wrong with the wine service—William caught fragments of murmured instruction, saw the servant nod and withdraw—and Elizabeth handled the minor crisis with the same unruffled competence she had shown all evening.

He was not the only one watching her.

From his position further down the table, Silas had paused in his conversation with James Whitmore, his attention caught by Elizabeth's movement. It was a small thing—a glance that lasted perhaps a moment longer than casual interest would explain—but William noticed it, and filed it away alongside the other observations he had been accumulating throughout the evening.

Elizabeth, having resolved whatever difficulty had arisen, began to make her way along the table, pausing at each cluster of guests to ensure that needs were met and conversations flowing. It was the work of a hostess, unremarkable in itself, but William found himself watching the way she performed it—the careful attention she paid to each exchange, the way she adjusted her manner to suit whoever she was addressing, the intelligence that animated her features without ever quite becoming visible.

She reached his section of the table and paused, her gaze moving between William, Fitzpatrick, and Mercer with the assessing quality he had come to recognise.

"Gentlemen. I trust you're finding the lamb to your satisfaction? Cook was particularly anxious about the seasoning—we've had difficulty obtaining proper herbs since the last supply ship was delayed."

"Excellent, Miss Harding," Mercer assured her. "Though I confess I'm more partial to the company than the cuisine. Young Mr Jeffries here has been enlightening me about the philosophical dimensions of commerce."

"Has he?" Elizabeth's gaze shifted to William, and he felt again that sensation of being seen—truly seen, in a way that had nothing to do with his borrowed clothes or careful performance. "Mr Jeffries seems to be a man of unexpected depths. I've noticed him observing the room with considerable attention all evening."

"One learns more by watching than by speaking, in unfamiliar territory," William said. "At least, that's been my experience."

"A sound principle. Though observation without engagement can become mere spectating—watching life unfold rather than participating in it." Her tone was light, but her eyes held something sharper. "The colony has room for observers, I suppose, but it rewards those who eventually step forward."

"Miss Harding speaks from experience," Fitzpatrick interjected, his gravelly voice carrying a note of what might have been respect. "She's managed her father's household since arriving here, in conditions that would have sent most English ladies fleeing back to civilisation. There's nothing of the mere observer about her."

"You flatter me, Mr Fitzpatrick."

"I never flatter. I observe." The old man's pale eyes held a glint of something like humour. "Much like young Jeffries here, apparently. Though I suspect he'll prove better at stepping forward when the moment requires."

Elizabeth's expression flickered—the slightest acknowledgment of the compliment hidden within Fitzpatrick's gruff words—before returning to its careful neutrality.

"Since we're discussing observation," she said, her attention returning to William, "I confess I've been curious about something all evening. Your accent, Mr Jeffries—there's something in it I can't quite place. A hint of the south coast, perhaps? Southampton, or...?"

"Portsmouth," William said, because lying would be worse than truth, and because the word, by itself, proved nothing. "I grew up near the harbour there."

"Portsmouth!" Elizabeth's face brightened with what appeared to be genuine pleasure. "How extraordinary. My mother maintained correspondence with several families there for years—merchants, mostly, connected through her own family's trading interests. The Spencers, the Ballys... do you know those names?"

The Ballys.

William heard the name as though from a great distance, registering its syllables without immediate recognition. It meant nothing to him—just another merchant family among the dozens who had populated Portsmouth's commercial districts, names he might have heard in passing without ever encountering the people themselves. The world of prosperous traders had been as remote from his dockside childhood as the surface of the moon.

"I'm afraid not," he said, and the admission cost him nothing because it was true. "My family's circumstances were rather more modest. We didn't move in merchant circles."

"A pity. Thomas Bally was quite the character, by my mother's account—made his fortune in the shipping trade and raised his children to continue it. She always said his daughter showed remarkable promise, though I gather she was quite young when my mother knew the family." Elizabeth's expression carried the wistful quality of someone discussing memories inherited rather than lived. "I've sometimes wondered what became of them. One loses touch so easily when oceans intervene."

"The Ballys," Mercer contributed, "are still quite active in Portsmouth, I believe. I had dealings with their firm before I departed for the colony—competent people, if somewhat conservative in their business practices. The daughter you mention would be a young woman now, I suppose. Marriageable age, if she hasn't already found a husband."

"How the years pass." Elizabeth shook her head slightly, as though dismissing the tangent. "Forgive me, Mr Jeffries—I didn't mean to interrogate you about your origins. It's merely that one encounters so few people with connections to the places one knows. The colony can feel terribly isolated, and any thread back to England becomes precious."

"No apology necessary, Miss Harding. I understand the longing for familiar ground." William kept his voice steady, though his heart had begun to race at the near-miss. She had not asked about his family directly, had not probed into circumstances that would have required evasion or outright falsehood. The conversation had skirted the edge of danger and passed safely by. "Though I confess I've found Van Diemen's Land has its own appeal. There's something clarifying about distance—it strips away the complications of the past and forces one to focus on what lies ahead."

"Clarifying." Elizabeth tested the word as Harding and Bradshaw had tested others earlier in the evening. "Yes, I can see that. The colony does have a way of reducing things to essentials. Who you were matters less than who you are; where you came from matters less than where you're going." Her gaze held his with an intensity that suggested she understood more than her words acknowledged. "It's rather liberating, in a way. If one chooses to see it that way."

"And do you? See it that way?"

The question emerged before William could consider whether asking it was wise. It was more direct than propriety strictly allowed—a personal inquiry addressed to a young woman he had only just met, in a setting where such directness might be remarked upon.

But Elizabeth did not seem offended. If anything, her expression softened into something more genuine than the polished hostess manner she had worn all evening.

"I try to," she said quietly. "Though I confess it's easier to speak of liberation than to feel it. The expectations one carries—the weight of what one is supposed to be, supposed to want, supposed to achieve—those don't disappear simply because one has crossed an ocean." She glanced toward her father at the head of the table, a look that contained depths William could not read. "But the attempt is worth making, I think. The alternative is to remain forever bound by circumstances one didn't choose."

"Miss Harding." Mercer's voice broke into the moment with gentle apology. "I believe Mrs Hartwell is trying to catch your attention. Something about the dessert course, perhaps?"

Elizabeth blinked, as though returning from somewhere distant, and turned to follow Mercer's gesture toward the thin woman standing at the other end of the table.

"Of course. Please excuse me, gentlemen." She offered a smile that included all three of them but seemed, to William, to linger on him a moment longer than the others. "I hope we'll have opportunity to continue this conversation. Mr Jeffries, it was a pleasure to speak with someone who appreciates the value of observation—and of stepping forward when the moment requires."

She moved away, her blue gown catching the candlelight as she navigated between chairs and servants toward whatever domestic crisis awaited, and William watched her go with a feeling he could not quite name.

"Remarkable young woman," Mercer observed, his tone carrying genuine admiration. "Harding's fortunate to have her. Managing a household in the colony is trial enough; managing one while serving as hostess to the Lieutenant Governor and half the merchant class requires something rather more than ordinary competence."

"She mentioned her mother's correspondence," William said, still processing the conversation that had just occurred. "The families in Portsmouth. Did you know them? The Ballys, I mean?"

"Only slightly. Thomas Bally handled some provisioning for a project I was involved with, years ago. Solid man, careful with money, raised his children with the same careful attention to detail." Mercer's expression turned thoughtful. "Why do you ask?"

"Curiosity, nothing more. It's strange, isn't it—how names from the past can surface unexpectedly, connecting people and places in ways one wouldn't anticipate."

"The world is smaller than it appears," Mercer agreed. "Especially for those of us who've wandered to its edges. The same families, the same connections, the same threads of commerce and kinship stretching across oceans. One can flee England entirely and still find oneself entangled in its web."

William absorbed this, thinking of the name that had passed through the conversation so casually—Bally, a merchant family in Portsmouth, with a daughter of marriageable age. It meant nothing to him now, would probably continue to mean nothing, just another fragment of social detail accumulated over the course of an overwhelming evening.

And yet he found himself filing it away nonetheless, adding it to the catalogue of observations and impressions that he had been building since stepping through the Harding residence's front door. The colony might be a place where the past mattered less than the present, as Elizabeth had suggested. But the past had a way of remaining present, waiting in corners and conversations, ready to emerge when least expected.

He glanced down the table toward where Silas sat, and found his friend's gaze directed not at him but at Elizabeth, who had paused to speak with Mrs Whitmore near the foot of the table. There was something in Silas's expression that William had never seen before—a quality of attention that went beyond casual interest, beyond the assessment one might give to any attractive young woman.

Recognition, perhaps. Or the beginning of something that might become recognition, given time.

William turned back to his plate, lifting his fork to address the remains of his lamb, his mind churning through implications he was not yet ready to examine. The evening had already proven more complex than he could have imagined. And something told him its complications were only beginning to reveal themselves.

At the head of the table, Davey's laugh erupted suddenly, sharp and knowing, in response to something Harding had said. The sound cut through the gentler conversation, and William felt the room's attention shift once more toward its most unpredictable element.

The dessert course could not arrive soon enough.