Page 4 of The Gentlewoman Farmer

After spending the afternoon with her tenants, Sophia ambled home, exhausted but ready to attack the paperwork waiting on her desk. She intended to reduce the time she worked while increasing the money coming in. Slowly, her goal was being realized, though it did not come with the contentment she had expected. If a crop failed, a disease spread among her flock, or the price of wool fluctuated in the wrong direction, she would be ruined. Anything could mean the end of Worthington Farm, to the detriment of many families beyond her own. Thus, Sophia worked as hard as ever to prepare for any eventuality, knowing she was the only person on whom she could count on to do things right.

The difficulties Uncle Thorpe threw her way were disturbing but minor. Sophia was confident she could avoid his interference. She thought, with delight, how he would receive the news of her engagement. What would he do with Cousin Charles now?

Sophia bent to collect some early spring flowers for her mother. The sun glinted off the ring on her left hand, reminding her of the promise she had made with Mr. Burns. The ring’s gem was a pink topaz surrounded by seed pearls, like a flower. It was beautiful, the iridescent pearls against the shine of the pink stone.

She liked and respected Mr. Burns. They worked well together, and she admired him. She even found him attractive, with dark brown hair to match the color of his eyes. Most of all, though, Malcolm Burns had resources. He was wealthy, well-connected, and a shrewd businessman. He was her best hope of genuine success. She was lonely and hoped marriage would bring the companionship she craved.

No one cared much for her fields and her sheep. Mrs. Worthington did her best but was not truly interested. Wouldn’t a husband shoulder the burdens of life with her, sharing in struggles and victories as she shared in his? Certainly, a husband would be obliged to at least feign interest.

Sophia sighed, glanced once more at her engagement ring, and hurried home to her mother and her endless list of obligations.

Paris, France

1 September 1750

Dear Sophia,

I have a great deal to say that wish I could tell you in person. I will have to start from the beginning when you left three weeks ago. On that morning, I woke to find you gone, which resulted in an argument with my mother, who, in a show of power, shipped me off to France. I am completely without means of traveling to you. I love her, but I am inexpressibly angry with her. The way she treated you is abominable. And I am miles of ocean and land away from you. I begin to understand that my mother is a tyrant. My father disagrees with what he calls her ‘outlandish measures,’ but he is too mild to put a dint in her iron resolve.

There is good news, however. Mother had the most incredible change of heart on one score. You will hardly credit it, but she agreed I should study painting while abroad. Can you believe she made that concession? Ironically, I think it was the portrait I did of you that convinced her. I’m glad I thought to hide that canvas. For now, I have you with me always.

I admit that were it not for our separation, I’d enjoy this adventure completely. I think of you everywhere I go, wishing you were here. You would love it, and your appreciation of this wider world would deepen mine. Surely, I will come home in the summer and contrive a way to see you. Until then, I’ll write you my travel log, and you will be so tired of my words that you will not care to see me when I return.

Sophia, I was in earnest when I asked you to marry me. My life is nothing without you.

All my love,

Philip

Chapter 3

29 March 1753

“Thank you, Father, Mother.” Philip bowed to his father and then bent to kiss his mother at the conclusion of the ball, which was the finale of a week-long celebration honoring Philip’s twenty-second birthday and his return home from three years studying on the continent.

“Philip, your father and I would like to discuss your trust and inheritance tomorrow morning. Will you meet us in the library at noon?” Philip’s mother looked as fresh as she had hours earlier when she’d emerged from her dressing room, while he felt as though he had been asleep for half the night.

“Of course. Goodnight,” he replied with a stab of guilt. He would soon tell his parents his plans, and they would be deeply disappointed in him.

Philip entered his bedroom alone, having sent his valet to bed hours ago with instructions not to rise until the morrow. Philip loosened his cravat and removed his jacket, placing his clothes neatly on a chair. It felt good to be home. He was in the same room he slept in as a child, where nothing had ever changed. It held an enduring comfort, an illusion of a safe and immovable world. The room was mostly blue and white with a touch of creamy yellow. Heavy curtains ensured Philip could sleep far into the morning without a ray of light to interrupt his respite.

He lowered himself onto the bed to pull off his shoes and sat on something that crinkled. It was a large burlap bag. A final birthday gift. Philip smiled, untying the strings. As he pulled open the bag, a note slipped out. Philip read, I am sorry for my part in this. -E.L.

E.L. must be the old butler, Lennox, who had recently retired and gone to live with his family in Scotland.

Curious, Philip opened the sack. Inside were letters, hundreds of them. He pulled the first of several carefully tied bundles. Sophia Worthington was scrawled across the top. It was postmarked 21 August 1750—about a week after their last parting. Philip let out a slow breath and traced Sophia’s name. His hands felt heavy as he stood in complete stillness, trying to comprehend.

Over the last three years, Philip had come to believe that Sophia had forgotten him. The day after she left Bramblefields, he’d found a note in the book he was reading. He’d kept the letter and reread it so many times, it was in tatters.

It said, “Philip—I have only a moment…I will write to you soon and often. All my love, Sophia.”

Despite her promise, he had received nothing from her, though he had written to her faithfully. To find mounds of old letters that had never reached him was both exciting and devastating. Philip reread Lennox’s note, turning it over as if to find an additional clue.

“Mother!” Philip whispered. She was the only person who would have instigated this betrayal.

Philip thumbed through the envelopes and saw his letters to Sophia were mixed into the lot, a line drawn through her address. They had been redirected to Bramblefields. His heart grew cold. Mrs. Eliot had taken them all. She’d bribed Lennox, and she must have corrupted Philip’s valet to sort through the outgoing and incoming mail. Their entire correspondence had been intercepted, and Philip hadn’t had the sense to be suspicious.

She had written to him! Letters from Sophia—an unimaginable birthday gift.