Page 32 of The Gentlewoman Farmer

Philip leaned back and ran his fingers through his hair.

“What is bothering you, Philip? You seem very distressed,” Mrs. Allen asked.

“Nothing I want to discuss.”

“Oh, come now, Philip. We do not believe you,” his mother said. “May I guess it has something to do with Sophia? You may as well tell us. Mary is on our side. Tell us what idiocy you performed. You did not confess your love, I hope.”

“I did, but that isn’t the stupidest thing I’ve done.”

“I beg your pardon, but there is nothing worse. This is not the stage at which you make your feelings known,” his mother said.

“I had to. I cannot watch her with boorish Mr. Burns.”

“Mr. Burns is not boorish. You, however, are bordering on boorish now.”

“What am I to do, then?” Philip sat up, leaned toward his mother, and rested his arms on his knees. “Sit around and watch Mr. Burns take Sophia’s arm, lead her away to private conversations, and take liberties with her? Ugh! I want to duel the man! Shoot him. Or better, dismember him with a sword. I have never disliked a person so much.” Philip threw himself back on the settee.

“You need do nothing so dramatic. In fact, less is better. Take time each day, only a little, to remind her how charming you are, how she misses you. And then feign indifference.” Mrs. Eliot spoke with the confidence of one who knew.

“Yes, be very busy with other things and other people,” Mrs. Allen added.

Philip looked at each of the women, bewildered at the odd advice. “I hardly see how seeing less of me will make her like me more. Unless you are suggesting I’m loved best from a distance, which may be the truth after the fool I’ve acted today.”

Mrs. Allen set down her embroidery. “Let me tell you a story. Before I was married, I had many young gentlemen interested in me. Lord Allen, being one of them, took me out in a carriage each day at the fashionable time when everyone else was observing who was out with whom. Though I enjoyed his company, I worried he was making too bold a statement and my other suitors may abandon me. I asked him to stop. And to my horror, he did!”

This story didn’t enlighten Philip. So, his mother began her own. “I was also sought after, for my father’s money more than any personal charms.” Mrs. Eliot smiled at her embroidery. “I did not, however, cherish the idea of marriage. Suitors came and went, but Mr. Eliot was a regular. I knew he was interested, but I wanted time and independence. One day, he was over for dinner, and he implied he would like to speak to my father about having me as a wife. I did not feel ready. But he said, ‘Agnes, I will not wait for you forever.’”

Philip was no further in understanding what they wanted him to do. “What do either of your stories have to do with me and Sophia?”

Mary nodded. “If Lord Allen had desisted for only one day and then pursued me the next, I would never have wanted him so desperately. His staying away convinced me I did not want to live without him.”

Mrs. Eliot added, “Likewise, if your father had not made it clear to me that he was not willing to wait for me, I never would have accepted his proposal. Sophia needs to wonder how you feel about her. Throwing yourself at her is the very worst you can do.”

“I have already done my worst, then.”

“All is not lost. Be a little less available, perhaps even cool. But you still need to remind her who you are.”

“I am just not capable of that. You don’t know how this feels.”

They each gave him a withering look.

In an effort to heed their counsel, he would drop the remainder of the letters he had written on the threshold of Sophia’s bedroom.

Paris, France

21 April 1752

Dear Sophia,

My mother and father are visiting. I love my mother very much, but I side with my father when it comes to balls and soirées. I’d rather go to the theatre or have a small dinner party than join the throng of overdressed partygoers. But we are no match for Agnes Eliot, and so my father and I put our heads down and endured.

The worst of it is that Mother thinks she has found a match for me. I hope I’m never too critical of the female sex, but the girl is the most vacuous human I have ever met. I don’t think she has a thought in her brain beyond what she is wearing. I’m quite serious. Upon my mother’s insistence, we sat down together to have some refreshments between dances. She said only three things to me in a breathy, hurried way as if she knew I had no interest but could not contain her thoughts.

“I will have an ostrich feather like the duchess.”

“This shade of pink suits me very well.”

“I so admire the lace on your mother’s hem.”