The Domino Effect, Chapter Seven

To the boisterous family that flowed over the grounds with the shameless intrusion of the tide, Wallis Harthsorne was off managing the poor excuse of a farm that signified the former estate of the late Earl of Blystone. But safely out of sight in his study, Wallis studied the charcoal drawing of a young woman.

The medium suggested that the upswept hair and fringe of thready curls about the face were a deep brown, so distantly unlike the lighter, ethereal wisps that flashed red-gold in the sunlight. The girl was paler, too, and more delicate in form and features than the artist had recalled. But no, there was no mistake. On paper and in person, the girl was indeed the old earl’s daughter.

Wallis thought she dressed simply for an earl’s daughter. He had expected someone of her position to attend the ball in silk or satin, perhaps overlaid with a fine, too-translucent tulle, and wickedly low-cut. But the gown she had worn beneath the domino--the same gown she had by necessity donned for breakfast--was a disarmingly modest affair made of soft, white lace over a pink linen underdress. It had a gathered bodice and straight, nearly elbow-length sleeves. A moss-green velvet ribbon defined the high waist. Shoes and gloves of York-tan kid completed the outfit, which was more suited for day than night.

What is she up to?, Wallis wondered, revisiting the way she had hastened from room to room, and how she had jumped away when they collided. Was she thrilled to be home, or was she gathering evidence, made bold by something he had failed to put away?

There was also the matter of her name. Athol-Hight, she said it was, not Fitzmaier, her family name. A Lady Athol-Hight was the publisher of a society paper. Surely, Lady Phylidda had better sense than to masquerade as a scandalmonger! If not, what, then would compel an eighteen-year-old girl to pretend to be something she wasn't? Or was it possible that he was wrong, he really had brought home the wrong girl, after all?

Flushed with the notion that he had invented the major folly of his life, Wallis folded the drawing and, without a word to any of his kin or household help, headed towards the stables with a speed which he hoped would not attract attention. Within minutes he was cantering towards the hills beyond the park and two smocked figures who lounged in the shade of a twisted, outstretched tree, surrounded by round, wooly bodies, their limp, slouch-brimmed hats flopping low against the noontime brightness.

The figures were two rather young men who had their own reasons for escaping attention. Moments earlier, they had observed the adult members of their new employer’s family rolling hoops alongside the children. Gleeful shouts and squeals traveled through the clear spring air sounding more like barks than human sounds.

Bolger, the elder of the two, had rolled his eyes with disgust. “Look at them, carrying on like that! A desecration, if you ask me. What would the old earl say?”

Bolger’s ruddy cheeked associate spoke even as he bit off a chunk of bread. “Never mind the old earl. What would the young earl thay?”

Bolger’s glower deepened till it seemed his entire face were folded in. “I think I know what people would say about the young earl. He’s spineless. He can’t stand up to the usurper.”

“That’s arrogance,” Bolger’s colleague pronounced. ”Besides, do the people around here really care about the young earl? Nobody’s offering to help him get back the estate.”

Bolger shuddered and swiped at his associate’s head as the fellow shoved in more bread without first having swallowed the previous load. “Don’t do that!”

Completely unswayed, his friend simply ducked out of the way and jutted his chin towards the faraway scene. “They thpend an inordinate amount of time with their children, the Americanth.”

“Well, we’re spending an inordinate amount of time playing with what amounts to somebody else’s sheep.”

A whimper of an incipient laugh escaped the colleague’s slender person. “What’s that for?” inquired Bolger, caught between amusement and suspicion.

“You make that thound thooooo loaththome.”

“I make it sound loathsome? You know what people say about shepherds and their sheep.”

Blankness overcame the younger man’s face. Exasperation heightened Bolger’s voice. “Come now, you can’t be that thick! It ain’t humanly possible!”

Chewing, the younger shepherd squinted philosophically towards the treetop. “Actually, it ith humanly pothible. Morally reprehenthible, perhapth, but—“

Bolger restrained himself, an effort that gave him a mild tremor. “I was speaking about the human capacity for intellectual density, of which you seem to be the prime mover!”

Happily, the discussion about man’s moral conduct with animals was lidded by the appearance of the new squire, who, the shepherds grudgingly admitted, cut a fine figure on horseback. Bolger’s friend attempted to stand at Wallis’s approach. Bolger pulled him back down.

Wallis dismounted and approached the shepherds on foot, the reins swaying loosely over his arms. “Mr. Bolger!” he mouthed, giving a small, friendly bow. He looked from Bolger to the second shepherd, arching an eyebrow in the deliberate implication of “And who is this?”

“Master Allen Ham,” Bolger said without missing a beat. His associate coughed, spraying crumbs, but managed to raise his hand in a wordless greeting.

Wallis, the authentic voiceless one among the three, wrote quickly, not at all irked by Bolger’s remaining seated. He presented the note, which he carefully tore from the booklet, with the same easy manner that he had displayed upon approaching the shepherds.

”I believe I’ve found the lady whose likeness matches the portrait you drew for me. I would appreciate it if you could come by the house to confirm my find.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that, sir,” Bolger replied, shooing Master Ham away from peering over his shoulder. “You Americans may feel at liberty to go where you please, regardless of your station in life, but here? Men like us? We don’t belong in that house. It ain’t our place, you see?”

Wallis's pencil flew. “It’s your place if you have business with your employer.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, squire, we’d rather not. It wouldn’t look right. To the other servants.”

After brief and silent consideration, Wallis placed several coins in Bolger's hand, mouthed, "I understand,” and began to walk his horse back towards the house.

Bolger regarded the guineas with a face so tightly screwed with disdain that he looked like another person. He waited until Wallis was well out of earshot before admitting, “I feel filthy. As if I’ve sold her into... slavery.”

“I thought you were going to say ‘prostitution,’” said Master Ham, who had noticed Bolger’s pause between “into” and “slavery.”

“What shall we do with it?”

“The money? Give it to the vicar, I suppose. Perhaps he could direct it to something worthy.”

Bolger snorted. “Yes, the communion wine.” He allowed a moment of befuddled silence to pass before spitting.

Master Ham, who until that instant had exhibited himself as the master of crudity, gasped at the prodigious stream. “What a disgusting emission!”

Bolger shrugged. “Perhaps. Do you know, I’ve always heard of men spitting at something or somebody they disdained. I never understood why. Until now. I confess, it was a marvelous release.”

Master Ham regarded his associate with an expression that wavered between awe and distaste. Nevertheless, he took a deep breath, sat stiffly straight, worked the muscles about his jaw and ejected a volley of moisture that could go no farther than his chin. He grumbled, wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Humph! It did nothing for me.”

“Give it a few days,” replied Bolger in a tone of somber sagacity. “Then you’ll know what I’m talking about.”