Page 54 of The Gentlewoman Farmer

Sophia raced up the cliff’s narrow path, rushing to witness the fullness of Malcolm’s betrayal. It took her nearly an hour to hike from the cave to the only place she might get a glimpse of the boat.

The gap between the cliffs was narrow and could easily be missed. But lights moving on the beach below betrayed the smuggler’s position. She lay on her stomach and watched the distant lanterns that outlined the boat. More lights gathered on the ship and then extinguished until only a few remained. In a rectangular formation, Sophia saw four men, each with his own lantern, carrying something between them. Perhaps it was Mr. Tate. Sophia wondered if he lived or if he had taken her place as tonight’s casualty and would sink to the bottom of the sea.

The remaining lanterns went out one by one until only infinite darkness lay beneath her. She squinted into the void, sharp rocks pressing into her stomach and chest until the rain stopped. Trembling with exhaustion and cold, she lit her lantern. The light caught on the ring she wore on her left finger. She yanked it off and flung it over the cliff before turning her back to the caves, away from the sea and from Malcolm Burns. Sophia walked toward home hunched and defeated.

When she was halfway home, a male voice broke through the night. Philip. She shouted back, “I am here.” It took all of Sophia’s strength to raise her lantern so Philip could find her. He was soon at her side.

He held his light up to her. “You’re covered in blood.”

“I am not hurt,” she said. Her coat flapped open in the breeze, and her hair had fallen into disheveled waves around her shoulders. The torn shirt’s hem hung ragged over her thighs. She looked a mess.

“What happened? I have been wandering for hours in search of you. I couldn’t find the path down to the beach in this darkness. Is that where you went? Where did all this blood come from? Are you certain you are all right?” Philip spoke in a panicked whisper. He reached for her, paused, and then let his arm drop.

“I went to the beach—into the cave. They were there. Mr. Burns was there, using my wool to cover his dishonesty.” Sophia’s throat tightened. “The blood is Tate’s. I don’t wish to talk about it.” She took hold of Philip’s arm and pulled him in the direction of the house.

“You’re very calm,” he said.

“I am too tired to be anything else. It was a shock. I have seen the blood of animals, but a gunshot wound in a human is more than I could take.”

Philip shuddered. “Gunshot? Whose gun?”

“I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.” They walked in silence a good while before Sophia said, “Thank you, Philip. I owe you a great deal. I suspected nothing. Who knows how many years of marriage I would have spent with that man before discovering who he was?”

“You are exhausted.” He withdrew his arm from hers, sliding it, instead, around her waist, pulling her close. She allowed her body to melt into his warmth.

It was nearly three in the morning when Philip and Sophia bid one another good night and departed for their beds. Sophia shed her clothes, tattered from her scrambles on the cliff, and cleaned the dirt and blood from her hands and hair before slipping into a shift. Her body sang with relief when she finally dropped into bed. Needing a distraction to help her sleep, she leaned over the edge of her bed and fished around. She pulled Philip’s letters out from under her bed. She opened one and read it. The tears came when Sophia reached the end of the letter: “All my love, Philip.” Solitude engulfed her. Would loneliness always be her burden?

The following morning, Sophia woke to a flooding reminder of last night’s discovery. She turned her face into her pillow and groaned, outraged at Mr. Burns and mortified that she’d been his victim. She, who prided herself on being so clever, who celebrated her own success, had been duped, unwittingly part of a ruse to make a common smuggler appear honest.

Aunt Mary, Mrs. Eliot, and Philip all knew of Mr. Burns’ deceit. She wished they had included her in their suspicions. Another betrayal. She was tempted to descend the stairs and unburden her fury upon them. But then she’d have to see them. Best to stay in her room.

When she looked at her window to gauge the time, the brightness of the sun brought a stab of pain behind her eyes. She never stayed in bed past six. Why had no one awakened her?

On the bedside table, Philip’s letters were bundled together. Many were still sealed. Suddenly, she wanted to read them all. And why not? She would stay in her room and read every one of Philip’s correspondences. She needed something to take her mind from Mr. Burns, something to occupy her while her anger cooled, and she mustered the courage to face the world. Reading the letters was an indulgence, a waste of time, a way to draw her focus away from her troubles. After reading two or three, a knock sounded at her door. Sophia hid the letters under her coverlet and lay still, foolishly pretending to have just awakened. The maid poked her head in.

“I’m lying in today, Betsy. Will you please bring me tea with bread and butter?”

Tea from Mr. Burns. She cringed.

“Certainly, ma’am. You will ring if you need anything else?”

“Of course, thank you. I’d like to rest. Tell everyone I will stay in my room today. No one is to disturb me.”

Betsy nodded and closed the door. Sophia remained with her letters clutched to her chest until Betsy came back and set the tea on a nearby table. Once the maid had gone, Sophia sat up and leafed through the letters. There were so many. He had written to her with as much regularity as she had written to him. She reached for her cup, but her stomach turned at the sight of it. She buttered a piece of bread and settled back against her pillow. She inspected the dates on the letters. He had written every week.

With a sigh, Sophia took a bite of her bread and opened another letter. She read and read. Her tea became cold as her stomach turned with emotion. Philip was an engaging writer, and his words brought her to laughter and tears, but her heart was sick. She found in the missives the boy she’d loved growing into a man. They pulled memories of long-forgotten stories and escapades she’d shared with Philip.

Under the bed was a small old trunk where Sophia kept her childhood treasures. She got out of bed and pulled it out. Even as she opened the lid, the essence of Bramblefields washed over her, the heat of summer, the smell of grass, and a thousand adventures. Inside, neatly organized in ribbons and paper boxes, were the precious items she’d preserved.

A flower crumbled between two thin sheets of paper, and suddenly she and Philip were eight years old, rolling down a grassy, wet hill dotted with yellow Welsh poppies, a litter of red puppies chasing after them. When they reached the bottom, the puppies licked their faces and jumped on and around them. They laughed as children do, with their whole hearts. Philip had reached over and placed a poppy behind Sophia’s ear before dashing back up the hill to repeat the fun.

Sophia set the flower aside and opened a book of Philip’s sketches. Among the many insects, birds, and flowers, Sophia found a drawing of a strawberry tart. They were ten, on a flight from the house, each carrying a stolen strawberry tart. In a hurry, Sophia dropped hers. Philip, without pause or misstep, shoved his into her hands as they ran.

Generosity had always been one of Philip’s strongest traits. At twelve, they had gone to town with Mrs. Eliot and Mrs. Allen. A young boy asking for tuppence on the street was pushed aside by a well-dressed man. Philip walked over to the dirty young child, who had found a corner to slump in, and dug in his pockets. He took out the small change his mother had given him and put it into the boy’s hand. Sophia remembered Philip’s wink as they walked on.

On a piece of paper, Sophia read the words to a ballad. When they were fourteen, they had become a piano and vocal duo, nightly entertainment for Mrs. Allen and Mr. and Mrs. Eliot. While practicing “Black-Eyed Susan,” they remembered the tranquil cow, Susan, whose serene black eyes watched them run around the pasture, and they changed a few words to the song:

Oh Susan, Susan, lovely heifer!