Page 3 of The Gentlewoman Farmer

14 March 1753

Later that evening, Sophia thrummed her fingers against the windowpane, waiting for Mr. Burns’ arrival. Rain streamed over the glass, falling almost as loudly as her fingers tapped the glass. Regardless of the weather, he would come. He always followed through on his commitments, and every Thursday, he dined with Sophia and her mother regardless of the weather. Tonight was different, though. Tonight, she would promise herself to him.

Sophia seldom visited his residence, as she didn’t like to leave her mother alone in the evenings, and Charlotte dreaded leaving home. Mr. Burns seemed only too happy to forsake his lonely old house despite the extensive remodeling he’d done since his return to Cornwall. It was tawdry in Sophia’s opinion, but she would tame it when they married.

Just before her father died, Mr. Burns had offered for her hand. Sophia had refused. He wisely did not mention marriage again but quietly made himself part of her life all the same. He shared his land, his boat, and his business connections. They spent time together. Occasionally, Malcolm surprised Sophia when she was working in the fields. He brought her gifts and conversed with her mother. Those demonstrations of affection sometimes seemed calculated, but they had their desired effect. He’d become an indispensable ally. A week ago, when he’d suggested they marry, Sophia had agreed to think about it. Uncle Thorpe’s visit was not the deciding factor, but it did hurry the decision. She would do what was best for her farm. Marriage would rid her of Uncle Thorpe. Marriage to Mr. Burns would allow her access to his resources.

Two minutes before the appointed hour, Mr. Burns’ carriage rolled in. He appeared in the doorway with wet hair stuck to his forehead and water dripping over his nose. Heavens! But he was handsome. Dark with strong shoulders and regular features, he was fantastically beautiful. She greeted him warmly, but he did not hold her gaze.

Once he was dry, Sophia led him into the drawing room, where her mother waited.

“How do you do, Mrs. Worthington?” He bowed to his hostess and lifted a package from beneath his arm. “Before I forget, one of my merchant ships arrived this week and I brought you the best of its treasures.” He handed them each a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. The ladies opened them to find beautiful silk scarves, but Sophia eyed a third package, still held by Malcolm. She hoped it was tea.

Her scarf was the color of the ocean, embroidered in silver and outlined with seed pearls. Sophia exclaimed over the beauty of the gift, and she and her mother wrapped themselves in the sumptuous fabric. When Sophia and Malcolm married, there would be no shortage of these luxuries. Not that Sophia cared for such things, but her mother’s face lit up with every gift Mr. Burns offered. Sophia suspected his generosity toward her mother sprang from having lost his own mother when he was only eight years old.

If the gossips were to be believed, Mr. Burns’ childhood had been one of misery. Sophia was too young to remember, but the late Mr. Burns had not been a kind man. Some insinuated that his wife’s early death had come at the hand of her husband, a notoriously mean drunk. He was a heavy gambler and owed money everywhere. It was little wonder Malcolm had left home at fifteen.

“To replenish your supply of tea,” Mr. Burns said, giving her the third package. Now, that was an indulgence Sophia appreciated.

Once seated around the dinner table, Charlotte continued to fawn over her scarf. “You are too kind, Mr. Burns.”

“Not at all. It is only what you deserve. How have you been?” Inquired Mr. Burns of Sophia’s mother.

“I am painting the spring foliage, ever-changing this time of year. Sophia took me to the top of a knoll that overlooks the sheep on one side and the apple orchard on the other. I could not decide which aspect I preferred. I do not love sheep the same way my daughter does, but when they are sprinkled against emerald grass, I begin to understand Sophia’s partiality for the animal.” Mrs. Worthington’s voice was soothing and low, and Sophia leaned back in her chair while Mr. Burns and Charlotte fell into conversation about the weather and watercolors and neighborhood news. Mr. Burns’ solicitude to Sophia’s mother was reassuring.

“Sophia, dear? Tell Mr. Burns about the festival.” She then proceeded to explain it all herself.

Sophia caught Mr. Burns’ eye to share a look of fond humor over her mother’s chattiness. He held her gaze, but there was no accompanying thrill, no quavering heartbeat associated with his admiring eye. That would come with time.

After dinner, Mrs. Worthington made herself nearly invisible by settling in a corner with her knitting. Sophia and Mr. Burns sat together at the opposite end of the room.

She had no wish to prolong their discomfort. “You asked me if I would consent to be your wife. I’m inclined to accept your proposal so long as my mother may live with us.”

He smiled as if pleased with her directness. “Sophia, if I may call you by your given name, your mother will always be welcome in our home.”

“And I will run my farm, even after we are married, though I will consent to live in your house.”

He laughed. “I find that reasonable.”

“I must thank you, Malcolm.” His given name sounded strange to her ears. “You have come to my aid countless times and in so many ways. Were it not for you, I’d not have endured this last year.”

“It has been a long time since I have done anything to help. You must take credit for your accomplishments.”

“That is kind of you. However, I absolutely attribute you for the fact that Mother and I are not in the poor house.”

It was to be a marriage of convenience, but she trusted him, found him a true friend. His hand closed around hers. It was cold, but his smile was warm and genuine.

An assembly of tenant farmers, hard-working women, and their children stood, erupting in applause as Sophia Worthington entered an outbuilding in which tools had been replaced or concealed with wisteria and apple blossoms for the annual Worthington Farm spring celebration. A long table covered in spring asparagus, watercress, peas, meats, and puddings was also presented for the celebration. On a farm that depended on sheep, spring was an important time, and it deserved as much recognition as the fall harvest festival. Sophia organized the event to show thanks to all who helped assure the farm’s success.

Sophia shook hands and exchanged smiles as she walked through the room. She thanked Theodore for caring for the fruit trees so beautifully and kissed Eliza’s apple cheeks in thanks for organizing the grain planting. She expressed her gratitude for the contributions of each tenant and staff member. Mr. Stanton, the shepherd, deserved the most praise for handling a substantial increase in the flock. At last, Sophia arrived at her seat at the head of the table. All remained standing as Sophia held high her mug of ale.

“My gratitude cannot be contained or expressed in words this afternoon. It has been a long and difficult year. We have learned much, survived much, and are all stronger for it. I thank you for your patience, your hard work, and your loyalty. I am proud to announce that I expect the farm to reach profitability this season. Your homes and families will benefit from your diligence. I am deeply indebted to each of you.”

The crowd hooted and cheered before drinking to their mistress.

“This year, I must ask extra of you. I am obligated to hurry the planting and shearing. We’ll need to ready every field, and quickly. Everything—‍planting and shearing—‍will be finished before June. Since it’s still early, it should not interfere with your kitchen gardens. But this will require a good deal of work from all of us.” Sophia’s words were met with silence until the shepherd, who already knew of her plans, shouted, “Here, here!” to show his support. Sophia nodded her gratitude and sat to enjoy lunch with her tenants.

Other landowners disapproved of Sophia’s camaraderie and the forthright manner she had with those who worked for her, but it served her well. More loyal tenants and servants existed nowhere. She regretted asking them to work harder this spring.