Page 57 of The Gentlewoman Farmer

“You are very drunk, Charles,” Mrs. Allen said. “What are you talking about? What ruin?”

Charles fell into a chair and, taking a piece of bacon from Mrs. Eliot’s plate, began his tale with all the alacrity and honesty of a thoroughly intoxicated man. Philip’s hands clenched with the desire to slap him.

He spent all night in the tavern nearest the docks playing cards with a burly man he’d never seen before. As gin had flowed between the two men, Charles’ companion had become loose-tongued.

“He tol’ me, in the strictest con-fer-ence, of course…” Charles paused to laugh. When he didn’t continue immediately, Philip’s patience broke, and his fist connected with the table.

Charles nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound and sobered measurably. “H-he said that he, though a fisherman”—Charles lowered his voice and looked left and right— “earned a extra farthing loading and unloading for a smugglin’ op’ration.” Charles leaned back in his chair and shifted his unfocused eyes over his listeners. “You will never guess who’s the smuggler.” Now Charles spoke too loudly.

“Lower your voice, sir!” Philip said.

“It is none other than my Cousin Sophia’s fiancé! Malcolm Burns! I was told Mr. Burns was found out last night. My friend did not know the par-tic’lars, but it’s said that Burns’ll never more be seen in England.” He followed this declaration with such uproarious a burst of laughter that Tom appeared.

Philip lunged toward Charles, taking him by the collar.

Mrs. Allen laid a powerful hand on Philip’s arm. “Take Charles to bed, please, Tom,” she said.

As Tom guided Charles up the stairs, Charles whispered loudly, “Issa secret, y’know, Tom. Sophia’s a s-s-smuggler. Smarter than us all, that girl.”

Tom shook Charles by the shoulders. “Off to bed with you. And stop speaking your gibberish.”

Talland, Cornwall

23 May 1753

Dear Sophia,

I hope you will pardon me for my hasty departure and for not bidding you farewell. You will thank me for taking my mother out of your house, at least.

We left for London. I plan to consult a barrister on the subject of your father’s will. I hope someone more experienced and less influenced by your uncle will have ideas on how to extricate you from your uncle’s power.

While in London, I will finish my painting and present it to my patron. This may take some time, but I hope no more than four to six weeks.

All my love,

Philip

Chapter 26

23 May 1753

Warm light of late morning filled the room when Sophia’s feet touched the floor. For the first time in her life, she could not care what happened to the farm. Without the ability to influence its future, fretting over it was pointless.

The letter she’d scribbled lay on her desk. Last night, shrouded in darkness and with a head full of Philip’s letters, confessing her feelings had seemed an obvious step. Now, sunlight exposed her insecurities. Her face grew hot at the idea of brazenly admitting her love. Relieved that she’d not knocked on his door in the middle of the night, she opened the drawer of her dressing table to put the letter away. Inside the drawer was the scarf Mr. Burns gave her.

The pit that had been in her stomach since she’d learned about the caves grew. She had so misjudged him. When they had first known each other, he made her think that allying herself with him made her more independent. She barely recognized just how reliant she had become on him. Now that he was gone, what was to become of her? This year’s crop of wool was paid for, but what of the fall harvest? What about next year? She had relied on Malcolm because he introduced her to those willing to do business with a woman. She now wondered whether they’d actually been willing to do business with a woman or if they’d been willing to do business with an unsuspecting, gullible fool. She was still a woman, and when word got out that she’d been engaged to a smuggler and that her own beach and property had been used for the illicit business, she’d be further tainted. She may not recover quickly enough from the defamation and could be forced to sell the farm and live on the charity of her uncle.

That was a sinister possibility. A life in the squire’s house doing his bidding was no life at all when compared to what she had now. Although she’d made mistakes, she had tasted autonomy and didn’t think she could survive under her uncle’s rule.

If she had married Mr. Burns, she could have expanded her farm and bought as many sheep as she’d wished. She could have begun weaving the wool and gained even higher profits. She had vainly imagined a future in which everyone acknowledged that she excelled at running a farm. Fame and fortune. Those had been her expectations. But of happiness? What of love?

Sophia sank onto a chair near her window and regarded the bed, wishing she were still lying in its inviting warmth. It was a mess, blankets and sheets piled up and pushed aside throughout her long stay in bed. Among the disorder were letters from Philip and mementos of their friendship.

If she had ever been happy, it was with Philip. He was fun when she was serious. He showed her life’s pleasures when she could only see duties. When they worked together, the work was enjoyable and, though she didn’t like to admit it, more productive than ever. Philip would laugh to hear that confession. Sophia retrieved the letter she’d written to Philip from the drawer. She would give it to him, if only to assure herself she’d done all she could for her happiness.

Still, she didn’t want to leave her room and was not ready to talk with anyone. Her stomach protested with a growl, insisting on food. She’d just sneak downstairs to the kitchen via the stairs in her mother’s bedroom.

She crept barefooted across the hallway, poking her head into her mother’s room. Despite being relinquished to the attic, Charles had taken over the room. The bed was empty. Charles was not there, but Sophia sighed at the mess he’d left as she went down the stairs.