Page 48 of The Gentlewoman Farmer

I know I’ve mentioned my Uncle Thorpe in the past, but have I ever told you what he’s like? He is my mother’s older brother and lives about seven miles from Worthington Farm. I despise him. I don’t know how my sweet mother and my rotten uncle came from the same parents.

Just yesterday, he came for a visit. My father is not well, but Uncle Thorpe took no notice—keeping him out in the cold, rambling on about things no one cares about. But I was taught by my parents to be charitable. And so I will be. It is with great charity that I proclaim my uncle the most odious man in the world.

Yours always,

Sophia

Chapter 20

16 May 1753

With Aunt Mary and Mrs. Eliot gone, Sophia was free to fully participate in sheep shearing. She pulled a length of fleece out of the way before Shepherd Stanton could step on it. Executing the role of handler, Sophia collected the fleece as the shearers worked. She tied the wool into tidy bundles, ready for delivery to Mr. Burns. The task was heavy with childhood memories of when she’d performed the same task with her father looking on, amused by her interest in farm labor. “If she is determined to woolgather in the house, she may as well be doing the real thing outside,” her father had said to her mother.

Sophia preferred to shear in early June rather than mid-May, but Uncle Thorpe had made it necessary. She had only two weeks until everything must be complete to fulfill the terms of their bargain. The job needed doing quickly, and despite the cost, she hired an extra shearer. When the shearing finished, she’d be able to fulfill the rest of her contract with her uncle. It wasn’t the best way to run a farm, but if it meant getting her uncle out of her business, it was worth it.

She knew that most farmers in her position might stop to watch the work progress but would never actively labor alongside their tenants. Perhaps her involvement wasn’t necessary, but as she perspired beside her tenants, Sophia felt a camaraderie with them that helped when they came to her with their troubles.

The day was bright, damp, and noisy, with an air of festivity. Shearing was hard work, and everyone set aside their usual jobs to either help with the sheep or watch. Spontaneous games broke out among the children. An older man had brought his fiddle, adding music to the symphony of snipping shears and children’s laughter.

Some tenants sat idle, enjoying the day, according to tradition. Shearing day was a bit of a holiday. It was usually one of Sophia’s favorite days of the year. But this year, she pressed her lips together, watching her carefree workers savor their idleness, thinking of all the tasks that were not getting done. She focused on tying her bundles ever tighter, trying not to think of Philip going through Mr. Burns’ library or the fact that her mother was living like a hostage at her uncle’s home or her wayward cousin, who spent his time drinking and gambling with sailors in town. One thing only brought her comfort—with the shearing finished and the fields planted, she had only to marry Mr. Burns to fulfill the bargain she made with her uncle.

Someone pulled at Sophia’s sleeve. She looked up to see one of her tenants. “Yes, Millie? What is it?”

“Squire Thorpe has arrived and wishes to speak with you.”

Across the yard, Uncle sat astride his horse. Most people looked regal or intimidating on a horse. Uncle Thorpe looked a lot like a candle that had melted over the horse’s back—a melted candle wearing a great white wig. The horse sidestepped at the commotion of sheep and people. Yet the proud squire remained mounted. The nervous horse shook its mane like he might bolt.

“Can you take over for me, Millie? I believe you’ve done this work before.”

“Of course. Though I can’t bundle them as tightly as you.”

“No matter.” Sophia nodded at Millie in thanks as she wiped her hands on her apron.

Sophia made her way to her relative as slowly as possible, stopping to talk to her tenants as she went. Uncle Thorpe’s face was already red, on its way to purple.

Her uncle called out to her. “I saw on my way here that you have an extensive field that has not been planted.”

“Good morning to you, too, Uncle. It is a pleasant morning to ride. How is my mother?”

“Do not ignore me, child. What of that field?”

Sophia swallowed hard and looked up at her uncle’s face. His horse danced uneasily as Sophia approached, so she kept her distance, shouting her reply. “You are mistaken. All of my fields are planted.”

“All but one, the plot on the northwest side.” Keeping his hands on the reins to steady his horse, he nodded his wigged head in the field’s direction.

The plot Philip had promised to take care of. “I assure you, Uncle, it has been done.”

“It is full of weeds. It has not even been plowed.”

Sophia shrugged, feeling uneasy yet trusting Philip had done the job. “It’s nothing you need worry over. Your son is your proper concern. Find him and steer him away from the gambling houses. He needs the stern hand of a parent.”

It was time to send Uncle Thorpe on his way. Sophia monitored the wary mare, waiting until she knew the horse observed her. Then, in a rapid motion, she unpinned her straw bonnet. She took hold of the brim and swiftly threw her arm above her head, waving the bonnet in an arc down to her side. The horse bolted, and Thorpe struggled to gain control as he bounced unsteadily away.

Later that afternoon, when Sophia returned home, she found Cousin Charles sitting at her desk, looking through her papers.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

Charles responded, his head still buried in papers. “Ah, there you are, traitorous cousin. I thought we had an understanding. I was to lie low, and you were to give my father good reports of my behavior so that I might return to school.”