Page 53 of The Gentlewoman Farmer

And then he might. He might do that. He might be just such a man, a man who could pacify her until she felt silly for suspecting him. She would be angry at the Eliots and at Aunt Mary. She would send them away and marry Mr. Burns. She shivered at that thought. No, if there was something amiss, it would be much better to catch him in the act.

She removed her coat and put it on a rock inside the cave, needing to move unfettered. With her knowledge of the caverns, she could slip into darkness should anyone approach.

With a quiet step, she followed the echoing scrapes of wooden crates against craggy stone toward the cove where Malcolm’s boat must be. The tall, narrow ridge would protect the smugglers from view, and the boat would have dropped anchor inside the security of that arm. It was ingenious. They were virtually undiscoverable. Her stomach churned at what was happening on her very own property, this place that held tender memories of childhood and her father now violated by crime.

Sophia followed the curved walls of the grotto, searching for a place in the shadows where she would have a good view of who was there and what they were doing. As she rounded a corner, dim light illuminated a dozen or more men emptying the cave of a vast quantity of crates. A brushing sound came from behind her, and she froze. An arm wrapped around her and held her tight. The barrel of a pistol pushed into her jaw.

“Let go of me! You would not dare shoot!” All instinct told her to run, but she could not move. Her wild heartbeat rendered all other faculties useless. The gun faltered then slid onto her neck, the cold metal chilling her blood but helping her find her voice. “I am a friend of Mr. Burns. He will have you for this.” There was no bravery in her tone.

“Walk out the way you came, and I will not hurt you.” Hot words moved through her hair. The man holding her was resting his cheek close to her ear.

“I came to see what my caves are being used for. I expect to speak with Mr. Burns before I go.” The statement came out weaker than she intended, but she was pleased to have said anything. She was trying to be brave but perhaps was simply stupid. Much was at stake for smugglers. They viciously protected their trade. If caught, they would hang. But she didn’t think Malcolm would kill her. Whoever held her captive, however, might.

“Miss Worthington, please, go. Please.” The voice in her ear pleaded, and she recognized it.

“Malcolm!”

The hold on her relaxed, and Sophia whirled around, stepping back from him lest he should try grabbing at her again. Even in the dark, she saw him wince. “I trusted you.” She wrapped her arms around herself. “You have taken advantage of me.” Her voice cracked. Now was likely her only chance to tell him what a vile, repugnant man he was, but her teeth chattered, and she could not speak with any dignity. Sophia’s eyes were trained on his but flickered to the pistol in his hand.

“Hush.” Malcolm raised his gun and pointed it at Sophia’s head.

Sophia couldn’t breathe or move. She wanted to close her eyes but focused on the pistol Malcolm pointed at her.

He was still speaking. “I warn you. Our relationship and business together are nothing. You are replaceable. Turn and go.” Malcolm’s words were louder than necessary, as if he were speaking over her shoulder to someone else, or maybe he was trying to alert a boatsman. His words were spiked with a practiced, dangerous edge. Sophia was left with no doubt of his intentions. He would kill her. He would load her onto the boat with his crates of wine and her mounds of wool. He would drop her into the sea, and she would never be found. Not a word escaped her mouth, not a thought entered her head, save a vision of herself sinking to the bottom of the sea.

The gun cocked. Malcolm pulled the trigger. At the crack, she fell to her knees. Had he shot her? A grunt from behind drew her attention. Mr. Tate clutched his right wrist. Malcolm had blown off his hand with the shot. Mr. Tate lunged toward Malcolm and Sophia, but he tripped on the uneven ground and wasn’t able to fully catch himself. Sophia rushed to the lantern Mr. Tate had left. Malcolm tackled Tate to the ground, but the two men still struggled against each other. Blood trickled from Tate’s arm into the roughhewn floor. She untucked the over-large shirt she was wearing, found the knife that had fallen from Tate’s hand, and sliced the bottom of her shirt. She ripped the bottom seam into a long strip.

“Stop!” Sophia shouted. And to her surprise, they did. Tate’s face was sweaty and pale. “I am going to look at your arm, Mr. Tate. Mr. Burns, you will help me secure the tourniquet.”

Sophia approached the men. Malcolm stood away from Mr. Tate, who seemed to have passed out. Footsteps splashed around them. They were surrounded by other crew members.

“Return to your work, and be quick about it,” Malcolm told them. “We have less time than planned. We will clear out in an hour.” At Malcolm’s command, the crew returned to their work without question, protest, or even curiosity.

Sophia knelt next to Tate with her strip of cloth. “Help me with this, Mr. Burns.” His arm brushed against her shoulder, and she shuddered away from him, doing her best to focus on her work. Together they tightened the strip around Tate’s forearm, but he did not look at her.

“Bring me some brandy for the wound,” Sophia ordered.

Malcolm handed her the bottle. “I will not come back, Miss Worthington.”

Sophia only nodded, and after pouring the alcohol over the bloody wrist, she stood. Malcolm remained crouched on the ground, putting pressure on the wound. She looked at him for a long second, wondering if there was anything left to say. There was not. She picked up Tate’s lantern and walked back the way she came.

Paris, France

21 February 1753

Dear Sophia,

Paris is grey, from cobbled streets to the sky. The working-class dress in grey as they trudge, burdened with firewood or bundles of clothing for washing. And yet, I’m told that I must paint sunny days filled with voluptuous flirting women clad in pale blue silk. I am not interested. If I have to paint people, I want to paint humanity.

Enough complaining. I dread working in an office like my father. So, I’m grateful to be here. I wonder what will become of my father’s business. I never ask because I fear it’ll turn into an argument.

All my love,

Philip

Chapter 24

21 May 1753