The Domino Effect, Chapter Two

The drying pen scratched the paper, turning what had begun as a neatly written sentence into a trail of disjointed black specks. Though Phylidda could complain about finding a hair in her breakfast, she said nothing about the loss of ink. She understood that she must wait until she arrived at the shop to finish writing. She slipped the paper into her reticule, tied on her bonnet, and began walking towards town.

It was a fine morning, bright and fragrant with the young green of blooming May tree leaves. She kept to the side of the wheel-rutted lane, refreshed by the shade that dappled the lawn and letting her feet, in their badly worn slippers, enjoy the luxurious, ankle-deep grass. Every so often a phaeton or curricle would pass by, and she would turn her head, hoping not to be recognized, pretending to admire the bright red roses that peeked amid the hedgerow.

One person she could not hide from: Ronald, who maintained a dignified walk in the presence of a carriage or a pedestrian, but who broke into a trot once the person or vehicle had passed. Phylidda heard him pulling on his jacket as he slowed down beside her. Individual words panted out of him: “Are. You. Posting. A. Letter. To. Bernard?”

Phylidda again turned her head to the hedgerow, believing the bonnet would shield her flaming cheeks from her brother’s curiosity about her relationship with yet another former suitor. “I do wish you would stop introducing me to men who refuse to marry a girl who has no dowry.”

“If they refuse to marry a girl who has no dowry, then they’re not worthy of being your husband.”

“That doesn’t say much about your friends, then, does it?”

“On the contrary, it doesn’t say much about your brother, that he would associate with people like that. I was wrong to introduce you to them. I can’t imagine the hurt and shame I’ve inflicted upon you.”

Phylidda smiled, and together, arm in arm, they walked in the comfortable silence that passes between siblings long confident in the affection they hold for each other.

“What hurts is people not believing that Papa left us so little,” Phyl said softly, as traffic grew heavy .

Ronald muttered as he nodded to an acquaintance across the street. “I’ve an idea.”

“You mean to marry me off to the highest bidder.”

“No, I mean to find a husband for Mother.”

“Ah! You mean to sell her off to the highest bidder! How glaringly expedient. I can’t help but wonder which will prove to be more work for you: finding Mama a husband or finding yourself a position.”

“I’d prefer to do neither, thank you! I want to be home, overseeing the estate."

“I do wish you would stop referring to it as home. It hasn’t been our home for six months.”

“I can hope, can’t I?”

“I wish you wouldn’t. It smacks of delusion.”

“Say that when you’re once again having tea in the orchard or painting pictures of the autumn woods at sunset.”

“That’s enough, Ronnie!” Such was Phyl’s distress at Ronald’s dreams that she suddenly stopped and scowled him in the face. “Nothing good can come of schemes. It’s better if you spent your energy and creativity on finding a decent position. What’s wrong with teaching or tutoring? You’d make a fine teacher. Papa always said as much.”

Annoyed—or was it unnerved?—Ronald twisted his mouth and glared at the pavement. “I’ve no patience with children. And I abhor discipline. If I couldn’t make myself rise in the morning for my own studies, how can I expect it of others?”

“Try.” Phyl squeezed the hand that had remained on her arm. She glanced at an ivy-covered brick house several doors away. A barouche was parked at the curb. Its two horses, tethered to the post, had lowered their heads; their eyes were half closed, a sure indication that their owner was immersed in a lengthy, detailed fitting. “I’ve got to go.”

Ronald grumbled tensely as he walked her to the door. “I don’t know how you can sit for hours on end, sewing dresses day after day, week after week, month after month."

I don’t, she thought as she kissed him goodbye.