Page 7 of The Gentlewoman Farmer

The glint of her engagement ring pestered Sophia. She and her mother were taking their afternoon tea in the shade of the orchard, as was their custom. Normally, this was a welcome respite, but today, dappled light glared off her left hand, at odds with the letter in her hand she received that morning.

“Sophia, I have tried no less than five topics of conversation, and yet you remain unresponsive. Is there something the matter?” Sophia’s mother asked.

Sophia glanced up and then back down at her full cup and untouched plate of scones. She may as well tell her mother, who may feel affronted at having to entertain with so little notice. “I received a note from Philip, and he is coming to visit.”

Her mother nearly spilled her cup of tea on the table. “You cannot be serious! What did he say?”

“Only that he arrives in two days.” Sophia looked away, afraid of what her mother might discern.

“Tell me, love. What happened between you and Philip?”

Every summer since Sophia was seven years old, she had gone with her aunt to Bramblefields, home of the Eliot family. She had been brought as a distraction and playmate to Philip so Aunt Mary Allen and Mrs. Eliot could work without interruption on their pet project, a London orphanage they patronized. Sophia’s final visit to Bramblefields had been three years ago.

“Can we walk? I feel I may be better able to speak while moving.” Sophia stood, and her mother followed. They linked arms and began making their way down the gravel path into the garden, which Mrs. Worthington had begun resurrecting after her husband’s death at the encouragement of her daughter.

After a long moment, Sophia spoke. “I’ve never said much of that time to anyone. Bramblefields was a place where I could be free. I hate to make a poor comparison, but I imagine it was a bit like being a boy. I wore pantaloons most days. The maid dressed me in the morning, and I ran outside directly after breakfast to change into the breeches and shirt Philip left for me in the stable.”

Sophia waited for her mother’s disapproval, but she only said, “What does it feel like to wear boys’ clothing?”

“Glorious. You know, Mamma, horses are not meant to be mounted sideways, and breeches permit all sorts of movement you could not imagine.” Sophia cleared her throat, happy her mother seemed nonplussed at the revelation.

“Mrs. Eliot and Aunt Mary were so busy soliciting contributions and deciding how to spend the money. I’m sure they did more that I cannot imagine.”

“Get on with it, then,” her mother said.

“Yes, well, they were far too busy to bother with Philip and me, and we were left to our own devices. There was, of course, always some nurse or footman or even a cook looking after us, but we were very adept at escape.”

“You always were, dear.”

“We rode horses, fished, swam, hunted, climbed trees. Philip and I were thick as thieves, deep in mischief, and best friends.” Sophia began to relax into her story since she had not been chided for unladylike behavior. “I think he knew me better than anyone.” Sophia became pensive and stopped talking.

“Yes? And then?”

“It was years before I noticed he was a boy, and I a girl. I became self-conscious and even tried to stop wearing breeches when I was around fourteen. But we couldn’t do the same things, so I continued changing in the stables. I suppose it was very improper.”

Mrs. Worthington surprised Sophia by saying, “It sounds ideal. My childhood comprised little beyond embroidery.”

“It isn’t too late, Mother,” Sophia said. “I’m sure I can fashion a pair for you. I still use Father’s breeches from time to time when I’m with the sheep.”

“Do you really? Well, you are quite shocking! Now, tell me what happened.” The weight of Mrs. Worthington’s arm grew heavy. Her mother was tired.

“The year Philip was nineteen and I was eighteen, things were different.” Sophia took a moment to remember sitting under a tree with Philip that summer. She squeezed her eyes against the memory, but he appeared in her mind’s eye as if it had all happened yesterday.

“What should we do this afternoon?” Philip had wondered aloud.

“We could play chess again, if you dare,” challenged Sophia.

Philip laughed. “I will beat you today. I’ve been dreaming about you, and in those dreams, I win at chess.”

“You have been dreaming about me? And we play chess in your dreams?” Incredulity laced Sophia’s question.

“Well, yes… and other things.”

“Other things? What sort of things?” Sophia had also been dreaming of Philip, but her dreams were not about chess.

Their heads leaned against the trunk of the tree, so when they turned simultaneously to look at each other, their faces were mere inches apart. Bright green specks glowed in Philip’s hazel eyes. She glanced at his lips. Philip leaned a bit closer.

“If I were dreaming right now, I would kiss you,” Philip said.