Page 9 of The Gentlewoman Farmer

Not wishing him to interfere with the work going on in the fields, she galloped all the way. There, amidst her tenants, who were supposed to be planting turnips, was Uncle Thorpe, complete with his silly wig. He gesticulated with his cane while a group of men in various postures of disbelief gathered round. Sophia couldn’t hear what was said, but the number of cocked heads and furrowed brows showed he wasn’t making sense.

“Uncle! How delightful to see you. What brings you here so soon? I didn’t expect you for some weeks.” She smiled at her uncle and kissed his loathsome cheek, though it was wet with sweat.

“I am instructing your men on the correct method of planting oats.” Uncle Thorpe said this as if he were an eminent authority on the subject.

“Yes, there is a misunderstanding. We do not plant oats, Uncle. This field is for turnips. Perhaps we can discuss oats for another field. The work is done here.”

Uncle Thorpe cleared his throat. “We are reseeding with oats.”

“Please excuse us.” Sophia nodded to the workers and took her uncle’s arm, leading him away from the group. “We grow turnips for the sheep. It’s what they eat in the winter when the grass is low.”

“In talking to my steward, I am beginning to see that sheep are not the thing. It is far better to grow grain only. Simplifies things. We will do away with the flock here.”

All feeling left Sophia’s body for a moment. He would not take her sheep. Advancing two steps toward her uncle, she said quietly, “No, we will not.” Sophia was tall, and Uncle Thorpe had shrunk over the years. She stood close enough that her uncle had to look up to see her. When he did, Sophia found that Uncle Thorpe had become nearly purple, with a vein protruding from his forehead.

“We shall do this my way. Sheep are troublesome.” Thorpe squinted up at his niece but spoke with unfaltering assurance.

He was so obtuse. Sophia changed her tactics, taking a step back and surveying the field.

“Perhaps you’re right.” She paused, nodding her head. “Sheep are a great deal of work.”

Uncle Thorpe bounced his great wig in agreement.

“How fortunate I am to have your assistance, busy as you are. But how will you make time to oversee the planting and find a buyer for my flock?”

“Quite right. Your farm is additional weight. However, it must be done.” Thorpe’s face and posture began to relax.

Sophia continued mournfully, hoping she didn’t overdo it. “I fear we are a burden on you, Uncle. You are too great a man to trouble yourself with this bit of land.” Sophia gestured to the fields before them. “What will people think, seeing Squire Thorpe giving directions to farmhands and tenants? However, it is very kind of you to lower yourself so far below your station. I thank you for it.”

Thorpe’s brow knitted as he contemplated his condescension.

“Do you think…yes…” He cleared his throat. “Quite right.”

Sophia put a conciliatory hand on her uncle’s arm. “Now that I’m thinking about it, I had an inquiry about my sheep not six months ago. If you would allow me, I might follow up. It would help you maintain your reputation. I wouldn’t like to see your hands dirtied on my behalf.”

Uncle Thorpe harrumphed and began a series of unintelligible sentences before settling on, “Quite right. I will be by soon to check on your progress. Well, I must go see your mother before I return home.”

Sophia’s smile was sincere, but it was aimed at her uncle’s back as he walked away toward the horse he had borrowed.

As soon as his horse was out of sight, Sophia approached her tenants. “Do not listen to my uncle. You are all under strict orders to agree with everything he says—and then do nothing of it. Have someone fetch me any time he comes.”

With that, she mounted her horse and galloped off to visit Mr. Cunningham, the local solicitor. The man who’d urged her father to add Uncle Thorpe to the will had retired. Mr. Cunningham was his replacement. There was hope that he would see the situation as she did. She pulled her hood over her head and spurred her horse, praying the light rain would not develop into a downpour.

Mr. Cunningham’s office was lit against the darkness of the day. Inside, a clerk invited her to sit and told her Mr. Cunningham would speak with her soon. Sophia seated herself in a hard chair and waited but found it difficult to hold still. She paced until Mr. Cunningham called her into his office.

“Miss Worthington. What a delight to see you. What is the reason for your call?” Mr. Cunningham’s smile and placating tone brightened Sophia’s hope. He was a man of middling age, with a spindly frame and bulbous eyes set in a bald head.

“It’s my father’s will. As you know, I inherited the farm under my uncle’s supervision. I wonder if you could help me understand what the word ‘supervision’ entails here. What I mean to ask is, how much control is my Uncle Thorpe allowed to have over my farm?”

“Do you have a copy? It would be helpful as your uncle had the same question for me some weeks ago.”

Sophia looked sharply at the solicitor. “What did you tell him?”

“He is a Justice of the Peace, Miss Worthington. It is more what he told me, and that is confidential.”

Sophia tried to hide her grimace with a nod and gave Mr. Cunningham the will. “It’s here.” Sophia indicated a few lines toward the top of the page.

He adjusted his spectacles and read over the relevant sentences, mouthing the words to himself before setting the paper down.