Page 26 of The Gentlewoman Farmer

“So, you want to switch partners?” asked Mr. Burns.

“Certainly. Beating Miss Worthington is nearly as gratifying as winning with her.”

Sophia scoffed. “You only say that because you never win against me, Philip. You have rarely had that satisfaction, though you have a quicker eye and faster grab when it comes to animals and insects.”

Mr. Burns stiffened, perhaps at Sophia’s casual use of Philip’s first name.

“Of what do you speak? Catching insects and animals?” asked Mr. Spencer.

“Nay, I don’t wish to hear of their blissful childhood,” Mr. Burns said. He stood up. “I’m finished with cards for the evening. Perhaps Mrs. Worthington or Mrs. Spencer wishes to take my place?”

“I believe we are all finished for the night. I will play a song,” Sophia said.

“I’ll sing with you,” volunteered Philip.

“You are a bunch of spoilsports! I believe we were about to start winning,” said Mr. Spencer.

“Oh, come, Mr. Spencer,” Mrs. Eliot chided from across the room. “I have heard nothing but complaints from you.”

Sophia ignored both Mr. Spencer and Mrs. Eliot and walked to the pianoforte, followed by Philip. As Sophia played and Philip sang, time slowed. Sophia was transported back to an earlier day when her heart had been lighter and the current responsibilities of her life had not yet settled on her shoulders. She had to smile at Philip as he voiced his song, and she could not help the bumps that rose on her arms as his voice and her music combined in perfect harmony.

Paris, France

4 September 1750

Dear Sophia,

My studies are rewarding and frustrating. I’m not as good as I thought, and there’s the rub. Painting at home with no master to critique my work and no masterpieces with which to compare them is much easier on the ego. Everyone at home exclaimed over my talent, but I begin to understand the work necessary to become a true artist. I am willing to do what it takes if my art teacher, Monsieur Pierre Aubin, does not discourage me from trying.

I paint all day with few breaks. When I stop, I wander around the city watching the different people who make up the world, the rich and poor and all in between. Sometimes, I sit on a bench overlooking Pont Neuf and stare at the Seine. I wonder what you are seeing right now. Are the spring trees blooming in England as they are in France?

All my love,

Philip

Chapter 12

6 May 1753

Since Philip’s arrival, Mr. Burns came by the house more often than usual. Two days following the card party, Mr. Burns stopped in after luncheon when Sophia and her mother usually enjoyed an hour together. Today, they were joined by their house guests.

When Betsy led Mr. Burns into the drawing room, Sophia looked up to smile at her fiancé, but her smile was lost when her eyes fell upon Mr. Burns’ dark expression. He was not looking at Sophia but at Mrs. Worthington, Mrs. Eliot, and Mrs. Allen standing together around a little table. Mrs. Worthington was laughing, which didn’t often happen. Worse still, Sophia and Philip were across the room from the others, shoulders touching, flipping through a portfolio of Philip’s artwork. As the others took notice of Mr. Burns’ entrance, smiles and laughter ceased, and the gay party took on a somber attitude as if having been caught in an indiscretion.

“Mr. Burns, how delightful. What brings you here this afternoon?” Sophia dropped the edge of the drawing she was holding to greet Malcolm.

“I was just passing and thought I would stop in to say hello.”

“We are pleased you could join us.” Sophia smiled, hoping to soothe the wrinkle between his brows. Mr. Burns walked over to where Philip held his drawings.

“What is this?” Malcolm asked as he peered over Philip’s shoulder.

“I was sharing with Miss Worthington a few memories of my travels,” Philip said.

Malcolm pointed to the drawing. “That must be Brittany, though it doesn’t match my memory of the coast. I suppose the world looks different to those of us who have to work for a living.” Malcolm stepped closer to Sophia and placed a hand on the small of her back, including her in the statement. Her skin tingled where his hand rested, but it brought no comfort.

Philip’s face remained impassive. “We all use the talents we have. I do what I can with canvas and color, though, as you say, it isn’t much. And you, Mr. Burns, bring scarves.” He touched the corner of the scarf Sophia was wearing. Philip had complimented her on the scarf earlier, and she’d told him Mr. Burns had given it to her. “Each of us makes the world more beautiful in our own way. If you will excuse me,” Philip said, addressing the room. “Mr. Burns has reminded me I need to spend more time in travail, and my canvas is calling to me.” With a bow, Philip left the room.

Sophia remembered biting into a crabapple as a child, the sourness instantly absorbing all the moisture in her mouth. Mr. Burns’ entrance and Philip’s exit felt similar. Sophia was disappointed in Mr. Burns. He was not usually so impolite. Indeed, she had never seen him behave toward anyone the way he did toward Philip. She blamed herself, assuming it was her overly familiar behavior with Philip that caused Malcolm’s rudeness.