Page 43 of The Gentlewoman Farmer

With Sophia gone, Agnes looked at Mary with satisfaction. “That was easy, wasn’t it, Mary? You are very good.”

“I am not. You are the professional here. I merely began the conversation. You took over almost entirely—not that I’m complaining. Subterfuge is not a talent I seek to develop.” Despite her words, Mary’s mood seemed light. She was enjoying herself, and Agnes grinned inside.

Sophia returned with an envelope. Handing it to her aunt, she said, “This is interesting. I always imagined he lives near Bristol, but he is close. I wonder that I never marked his direction before.”

Mary took the envelope from Sophia’s hands. “I could do with a little exploration. It looks like he resides near Plymouth. I must not speak for you, Mrs. Eliot, but I would not mind a brief journey.”

“Yes. That is just what I crave, as well. A few days’ travel will rejuvenate us both, I dare say.”

Sophia laughed. “It’s absurd to think a ride in a coach would be anything but tiresome.” She expressed more doubts, but Mary upbraided her for treating them like old women. They were not so old that they would not enjoy seeing new places.

Sophia relented. “It sounds like you’ve made up your minds. Let me know what you find out. I’m interested in the final product of my wool—and to know the price he’s charging for it.”

“It’s settled, then,” Agnes said with finality. “Mrs. Allen and I will leave tomorrow to visit Mr. Smith. It will take four days, I expect.”

Agnes was thrilled at their success. She had not had so much fun in a long time and missed her adventures with Mary more than she liked to admit. She wondered what discoveries waited in Plymouth and imagined with what gratitude Sophia would receive the information.

Heroic fantasies played in Agnes’ fancy. If she could reveal a damning truth about Sophia’s fiancé, what glory might be hers. She would have her son’s gratitude, and that was worth everything.

Santorini, Greece

24 July 1752

Dear Sophia,

Everything is white and blue. We took a boat to Santorini, a Greek island. We spent only three days in Athens before it became clear that M. Aubin’s real aim in coming here was not to see great ancient sculptures and architecture but to see the Grecian islands. Not that I complain. The food is good, and the views are unimaginable. I paint and paint blue domes surrounded by white walls and the sea but cannot capture it. It’s hot and bright. The white buildings reflect the sun, just like snow. It hurts my eyes and reminds me of home.

All my love,

Philip

Chapter 18

16 May 1753

Philip stepped back to examine his painting. The strokes were too heavy, the colors too dark. Serenity was nowhere on the canvas. And how could he convey peace when he was filled with turmoil? He stabbed his brush into emerald paint and forced himself to apply it with a gentle hand.

His mother and Mrs. Allen had left on their quest to defame Mr. Burns, so Philip had eaten breakfast alone. Sophia was always up early, and her cousin, Charles, was prone to divert himself in town, come home late, and stay abed in the morning. Philip didn’t expect to see him until later in the afternoon.

Philip sequestered himself in his room, where he’d set up his canvas near a window. Lord Elston, Philip’s sponsor, had high expectations, and Philip needed a masterpiece. He’d achieved moderate success, but this one painting could elevate his reputation and extend his renown. When he went to London to inquire after the will, he hoped to bring this painting with him, but only if it were a profound triumph that would impress Lord Elston.

With only a crude outline and the beginnings of color, Philip was sadly uninspired, and at the rate he was painting, it was unlikely he’d finish in time. How had he believed he could survive as an artist? It was almost as vain and pompous as believing Sophia would run into his arms as soon as he arrived on her doorstep.

She was determined to marry Mr. Burns. But was it possible she loved him? The idea tempted him to stab his brush right through the canvas. He had loved Sophia for as long as he could remember and always imagined her as essential to his future happiness. Exchanging that ideal for a reality in which she loved another was torture. No one could love Sophia as well as he could.

Since his arrival, Philip had only caught glimpses of the Sophia he remembered. Three years ago, she’d been buoyant with life. She’d ridden fast and climbed high. Some of that joie de vivre had been lost under the burden of responsibility. It wasn’t the farm. She thrived when she was working. But she struggled to allow others to help her. Though hard to admit Sophia had any faults, if he had to name one, this was it. She wanted to do everything herself.

Her steward was competent and could relieve some of Sophia’s workload if she allowed him. Philip was sure she was fueled by fear. She believed that if she let go, it would all fall apart. He wanted to remind her how delightful life could be.

The more time they spent together, the more Philip realized he needed her, too. When they were children, Sophia had schooled Philip in persistence and hard work. It had not mattered what they were doing. She’d known they could do better. If Philip was thrilled when he caught a small fish, Sophia would say, “Throw it back. You can catch a bigger fish.” When he drew an insect for their collection, it was far more likely that Philip would be pleased with his first effort than for Sophia to approve it. She would inspect his work and then return it. “Great work. Almost there.” She said it so often and with such conviction that he was never offended but rather began to believe that he was capable of more.

This lesson pushed him to strive for better as he worked to become an artist. During his training, Sophia’s encouragement played louder in his head than any master’s harsh criticism. Philip was, by nature, complacent, and without the structure of lessons, he feared this tendency would lead him back to his parents’ pockets. He could be content with what his father and mother intended for him, but he didn’t want to miss the joy of trial and success or the sorrow of trial and failure. He wanted to live fully and make his own choices.

Philip abandoned his painting and took his sketchbook outside. Perhaps there he would find a muse. Through the apple orchard, he spied a little group of young lambs and their mothers. Sophia sat among them. Philip slowed and softened his step. The lambs were gleeful, jumping straight into the air or bounding in rainbow-shaped leaps. They nuzzled a laughing Sophia. A baby lamb lay in Sophia’s lap, and she made certain it was not disturbed. Philip’s breath caught at the tender prospect.

Sophia spoke to each lamb. “Hush now, do not wake the baby. Oh, you are a saucy one!” She scratched and massaged their necks and faces to the lambs’ delight.

Philip pulled out his sketch pad and outlined the scene before him. It was perfect, just what Philip hoped to find, an image of calm and beauty worthy of Lord Elston. Sophia was radiant, shining with the vitality that Philip missed in her from their youth.