The Domain Clearing

The Domain stretched along Sydney's eastern shore, a sweep of parkland reserved for public use where paths wound through stands of eucalyptus and native shrubs. On Sundays it attracted walkers and picnickers, families escaping the crowded streets, young couples seeking moments of conversation away from the scrutiny of chaperones. Among those who entered through the eastern gate on the fourth of December was William Jeffries, dressed in his best clothes and following directions that would lead him to a clearing where Eliza Donnelly had promised to wait.

He found the place without difficulty—a small depression in the land where several eucalyptus trees created a natural shelter, their branches screening the space from casual observation. A fallen tree lay across one edge like a great grey serpent, its bark peeling to reveal pale wood beneath. Through gaps in the foliage, the harbour stretched silver in the December sun.

She was already there. Miss Donnelly sat on the fallen tree with a book open in her lap, though she did not appear to be reading. She had dressed simply by her standards—pale blue cotton, her copper hair pinned loosely—and without the formal architecture of her dock attire she appeared younger, more vulnerable, more real. When she looked up and saw him emerging from the path, the smile that transformed her features held none of the composed reserve she maintained in public.

The hours that followed bore no resemblance to anything Jeffries had experienced since his transportation. Here, in this hidden clearing with the harbour spread before them, the barriers between merchant's daughter and ticket-of-leave man seemed to dissolve. They spoke of everything—her childhood in Sydney, watching the colony transform from rough settlement to proper town; his youth in Portsmouth, the parents who had worked themselves to exhaustion in hopes of giving their children something better.

Miss Donnelly spoke of her mother, dead when Eliza was twelve, and the father who had not known quite what to do with a daughter possessed of beauty and sharp intelligence in equal measure. She described the governesses engaged to teach her needlework and watercolours, the dancing lessons and instruction in household management—all the accomplishments expected of a woman of her station. She had learned them because defiance would have accomplished nothing, but she had also convinced her father to teach her the business, to let her understand the world on her own terms.

Jeffries spoke of the voyage out, of the hulks where he had nearly lost himself to despair, of the men who had taught him how to survive and how to think about survival. He spoke of Parramatta and the government farm, of bending his back to labour that would have broken men with less to prove. He spoke of the vow he had made to himself—to become something that could not be broken by a thief's whim and a court's indifference.

The sun traced its arc toward the harbour, painting the water in shades of amber and rose. They had been talking for hours, so absorbed in one another that the world beyond their sanctuary had ceased to exist. When Miss Donnelly finally acknowledged that she must return before her absence prompted questions, neither made any move to rise.

What followed was not planned by either party, yet felt inevitable nonetheless. Their first kiss was neither fumbling collision nor practised seduction, but something softer—a recognition, a seal upon an understanding both felt but neither could have articulated. When they parted, foreheads resting together, the sounds of the evening bush surrounded them whilst the harbour glowed gold beneath the descending sun.

They made arrangements to meet again—same time, same place, every Sunday for as long as circumstances permitted. Miss Donnelly departed first, following her own route through the Domain, whilst Jeffries remained in the clearing watching the light fade from the water. He understood with perfect clarity that what they had begun was almost certainly doomed. The colony's hierarchies were not mere inconveniences; they were the foundations upon which respectable society rested.

Yet as he walked back through the twilight toward his lodgings, William Jeffries found that he could not bring himself to regret what had transpired. For the first time since Jack Hawley's betrayal had shattered his world, he felt fully and terrifyingly alive. The memory of Eliza's hand in his, warm and trusting, made his chest ache with something that felt perilously close to joy.

The secret courtship of William Jeffries and Eliza Donnelly had begun.