Page 60 of The Gentlewoman Farmer

“You are a Justice of the Peace,” she said to him one morning over breakfast. “If I come under suspicion, surely you can do something for me.”

“I will do what I can, but you must take responsibility for your actions. Charles told me you were with Mr. Burns in the cave where he kept his contraband.” Uncle Thorpe spoke while chewing a mouthful of eggs, and a chunk of his breakfast flew across the table.

Sophia lost her appetite. “I was there coincidentally.”

“Why were you at the beach in the dark of night? And how could you possibly have been ignorant of the smuggling being done on your property? It is best you go nowhere for the time being.” He looked at her, squinting his tiny eyes. “Stay here and see no one. Do you understand?”

It was no use arguing, so she didn’t. Instead, she excused herself, went to the drawing room, and opened the novel she was reading. A stalk of dried bluebell fell out. It was a flower she picked from the field Philip had planted for her. She examined its vibrant purple-blue petals, then put it to her lips. There had been no reply to the letter she sent him. She fell into the same despondence she’d felt years ago before his absence had become a habit.

Neither had she seen the Spencers. Truth be told, she could have sought them out, but she dreaded what she might hear. Katherine was a flirt. She’d been in love with every man in the county. It would be no surprise if she had developed a tendre for Philip, but Sophia thought Philip deserved better. To know for certain that Philip’s affection had transferred from herself to Katherine Spencer was a pain Sophia wished to postpone for as long as possible. If he did love Katherine, it was Sophia’s fault.

She hadn’t spared time for Philip. With single-minded obstinacy, she’d chased success, relinquishing the happiness she could have had with Philip and losing the farm despite her efforts.

The housekeeper bustled into the room. “There is someone here to see you, Miss. In the library, if you please.”

Philip had returned. A thrill zipped through her. She stood and brushed at the creases in her dress, wishing she’d taken more care with her appearance. With measured steps, she reminded herself that she did not know why Philip had returned. Maybe for his portfolio?

But Sophia did know. Her heart told her he’d received her letter and had come back to renew his love.

He sat with his back to her, Uncle Thorpe across from him. She stopped in the doorway to calm her breath.

The men stood. But she was mistaken. It was not Philip.

“Sophia, this is the magistrate, Mr. Tuttle. Perhaps you know each other already,” said Uncle Thorpe.

Sophia’s disappointment must have shown on her face because Mr. Tuttle said, “Don’t be nervous, Miss Worthington. I’m not here to put you on trial.”

Sophia realized then what was happening. The magistrate would want to know what she could tell him about Mr. Burns.

“Please have a seat, Niece.” Uncle Thorpe indicated with his cane where he would have her sit, and she complied, sitting in a chair with legs two inches shorter than the chairs upon which Uncle Thorpe and Mr. Tuttle sat.

In this state of disadvantage, she looked up at Mr. Tuttle. Though he resembled Philip from the back, they were nothing alike from the front. Mr. Tuttle looked just as a parish magistrate should. He was serious, unfriendly, and intimidating. But he was not a stranger. He’d come to her for advice less than six months ago when he thought his newly purchased sheep might have scrapie. They hadn’t, but Sophia had sent Shepherd Stanton to put his mind at ease with an expert opinion.

“How are your sheep, Mr. Tuttle?”

“What? Oh, yes. Sheep. They are very well. Thank you.” Mr. Tuttle cleared his throat and rubbed his jaw.

The idea of being questioned by a magistrate was not nearly as unnerving as the idea of Philip being in the library. “I am ready to answer your questions, sir.”

“Yes.” He cleared his throat again. “I understand that your fiancé, Mr. Malcolm Burns, is reportedly a smuggler.”

“That is the report. My cousin heard it all for himself over a game of cards in the local tavern. But Mr. Burns is not my fiancé any longer.” She shot a dark look in her uncle’s direction.

“Do you know where he is now?” This was the same question Uncle Thorpe had asked Sophia every day.

“I’m afraid not.”

“I was told that you might be involved in the smuggling operation, perhaps allowed your fiancé to make use of the caves on your property.”

“I assure you, Mr. Tuttle, I had no idea Mr. Burns was a smuggler or that he used my caves. Just like you and the rest of the town, I thought he was a respectable merchant.”

“Yes, our little county has had its share of ill deeds. I only wish I could put an end to them.”

“If it helps, I don’t think he will come back.”

“What makes you think so?”

“He told me as much the last time I saw him.” Sophia vaguely described her last interaction with Mr. Burns. She told him she had grown suspicious of him, had gone to her caves, and had seen him there loading cargo.