Page 13 of The Gentlewoman Farmer

“I am sure the Spencers would come,” Mrs. Worthington said.

They were interrupted by the sound of Philip descending the stairs. She offered her mother her arm, and they walked out of the room to greet Philip by the stairs. Glancing up, Sophia was struck anew that Philip was in her home. He greeted her with a half-smile.

She knew that smile.

When they’d first met, Sophia had been overcome with the magnificence of his home. She’d stood in the entryway, noting the immense chandelier, the curving staircase, and the white marble floor inlaid with a pink and green floral pattern. She didn’t think she could live comfortably in such a place. Things would break, and adults would scold.

And then there was Philip. Mrs. Eliot had introduced her young son and then greeted Aunt Mary. While the adults were absorbed in conversation, Sophia whispered to Philip, “What is it like living in this grand place? Do you get in trouble for sliding down the banister?”

Philip said he was never caught. They looked at each other for a long moment. Sophia was immediately at ease with Philip’s playful eyes. They were instant friends. Sophia imagined that when Aunt Mary and Mrs. Eliot finished their how-do-you-dos, they turned to find themselves alone, children’s laughter echoing through the halls.

Philip’s slightly wicked grin had always been his best tool in convincing Sophia to join him in whatever adventure he’d devised. Unlike many charms whose potency wore away with time, Philip’s smile was increasingly effective. Even now, as he moved down the stairs toward her, it consumed her.

Sophia’s mother nudged her with the arm linked to hers. Only then did she realize she was squeezing her mother’s arm. She loosened her hold and tried to fix her attention somewhere other than at Philip. She couldn’t.

Philip took Mrs. Worthington’s other arm, and they walked into the dining room. Sophia wobbled into her chair, her legs weak, but at least she was no longer staring at Philip. She’d have to get used to him again.

Mrs. Worthington’s prediction proved sound. There were no silences and no talk of the weather. Halfway through the first course, even Sophia found her equilibrium and could look at Philip without tremor. He became a natural part of their usual mother-daughter pair. With no one dominating the conversation, they spoke of art, travel, and the farm with the ease of old friends. So long as Sophia’s thoughts remained firmly in the present, this pleased her. She steered her thoughts away from the hurt she felt at not having seen or heard from Philip for three long years and pushed away questions as to the reasons for his absence.

Once the small party adjourned to the drawing room after dinner, Sophia kept to the pianoforte for most of the evening. Her mother had a habit of hiding in the corner when anyone except her daughter was in the room, so Sophia expected her to retreat, leaving her nearly alone with Philip. Although dinner had gone well, Sophia was disinclined to talk to Philip one-on-one.

They’d shared a deep friendship, but time and experience had created space between them. She didn’t know where to start a meaningful conversation. It was easy enough to talk of trivial things, but even when Philip had asked about her day over dinner, it had been difficult for her to know where to begin. Did she start with, “My father was ill for a long time before he died…” and then continue with the long story of all she had learned and done to keep her family from bankruptcy? Had Philip surmised all of that from the letter she’d sent to him with news of her father’s death? She had written to him habitually, almost keeping a diary in the letters. For what purpose she’d continued writing without a response, she could not say. Perhaps it was the memory of her last words to him. I will write to you, she had promised.

Sophia was also hesitant to question Philip, having little idea of what his life had been like since they parted. He’d told them over dinner that he’d been on a grand tour, where he had studied art. But what else? Had he suffered as she had during their years apart? Had he fallen in love? She was unsure of how to begin when time had made near-strangers of them.

Sophia glanced up from her music at the sound of her mother’s delighted laughter.

“Mr. Eliot, how charming. You must share with me some of your technique.”

Sophia had rarely seen her mother so diverted. Philip pulled out his charcoals and drew something. Her mother watched and then drew on her own paper. Sophia stumbled over her music, but her heart warmed at the image before her. Two figures, a grey-haired woman and a young man, shoulders touching, hunched over their drawings. At least his visit was good for someone.

Later that evening, long after her mother and Philip had retired, Sophia walked wearily up the stairs to her room. She stayed up late with the budget she’d left unfinished earlier that afternoon. Content with the day’s work, Sophia would sleep for a few hours before beginning another day.

Other than the light from Sophia’s candle and the swishing of her petticoats, the house was dark and silent. As she entered her bedroom, her slippered foot struck something that whooshed across the wooden floor. It was too dark to see what it was, so she fell to her knees, holding the candle low to the ground. There, across from the door, lay a letter with a large round seal in the middle of the folded paper. Sophia took hold of the letter and held it up to the light. It was postmarked from France, written three years ago and never opened. It was from Philip.

It was oddly comforting to receive a letter from Philip, however strange the timing and delivery. She’d waited for this letter for years. Someone had crossed out Sophia’s address and exchanged it for Bramblefields. A mystery. Yet the treasure she’d waited for was at last in her trembling hand.

Sophia closed her eyes and held the letter to her chest.

Paris, France

7 August 1750

Dear Sophia,

You will love France. As I discover new and beautiful places, I mentally prepare a private tour for the day you and I will visit together. I’ll take you first to Notre Dame de Paris. If you have been to London, you can compare it to Westminster Abbey, but I treasonously admit that Notre Dame has my heart. It is a romantic edifice, organic in a way, as if grown out of the surrounding river, Seine. She, Our Lady, is warm and stately at the same time, rather like you.

When I need a break from painting, I walk through the city to the cathedral, hoping to arrive for the Gregorian chant because then I get both architectural grandeur and the ethereal beauty of music. If the sun is shining through the rose window, I am transported.

When we are married, I will take you here, and you will experience it for yourself.

All my love,

Philip

Chapter 7

8 April 1753