Page 46 of The Gentlewoman Farmer

“Smith is every man’s name. I could tell you of a dozen or more Mr. Smiths. I am Miss Smith, if it comes to that.”

“Are you indeed? Well, then, it seems we have found the right person. Let me see.” Mrs. Eliot opened her reticule and pulled out the envelope Sophia gave her. “It seems it is a Mr. Frank Smith we seek.”

“In that case, you have only to look across the street. A man of that name is the proprietor of that shop. And he lives above it. ’Tis a strange man and a strange shop and no relation of mine. But excuse me, as I must attend to my duties.” Miss Smith extricated herself from the conversation and darted away.

The shop which Miss Smith indicated was in the shadows, set back from its neighbors. The sign hanging above the door was painted with the vague word, “Objects.” The windows were large enough to reveal what the shop contained, but heavy, crimson-colored curtains covered half of each window. Stacks of nondescript items cluttered the other half as if someone had picked up the store, given it a great shake, then tilted it forward so that all the contents slid to the front and settled against the windows.

The following day, the two women stood across the road from Mr. Smith’s shop. Agnes leaned forward and squinted at it, as if she could decipher its purpose by looking hard enough.

“Perhaps it is a tinker’s shop,” Mary guessed.

“It has everything. I see fabric there in the corner. And a bag of seed on top. How does everything manage not to topple over? It is a very strange place.”

“Agnes, are you bouncing on your heels?” Mary asked.

Agnes stilled with great effort.

“I have not seen you this excited since school.” Mary took Agnes’s arm, and together, they stepped into the road. “Best stop ogling the shop, or we may draw attention to ourselves. Let’s go in.”

The interior was not what Agnes had expected. While there were great miraculously stacked piles of indecipherable objects in front of the large windows, the room that Agnes and Mary entered was not otherwise disordered. Though dark, it was clean, with a long counter consuming most of the room. Behind the counter were two desks pushed up on either side of a doorway, which opened to a staircase, presumably leading to the owner’s apartment.

Sitting at one of the desks, a man stared down at some papers. He didn’t move or acknowledge that someone had entered his store. The top of his head reflected what little light filtered through the windows. What was left of his hair was grey and hung frayed to his shoulders.

“Good morning. I presume you are Mr. Frank Smith?” Mary began.

“Who would like to know?” the man said, turning around to look at his visitors. He put down his pen and ledger and rose to meet them. He showed himself to be unusually fit for his age, with broad shoulders. He stood tall and erect and was muscled beyond what could be hidden beneath his coat. He was well-dressed in tidy, working-class clothes with a clean-shaved face that was ruddy but not unpleasant.

Mary gaped at him as if she’d never seen such a large man before. Agnes elbowed her, hoping to urge her back into the conversation.

It was to no avail, so Agnes took over. “I am Mrs. Eliot, and this is Mrs. Allen. We are friends of Miss Sophia Worthington.”

Mr. Smith continued looking at the ladies, expression unyielding. A silent moment passed.

To Agnes’s relief, Mary found her voice. “Actually, we have traveled here on behalf of Miss Worthington. We wondered if perhaps you could tell us what it is you do with the wool from Worthington Farm. You are Mr. Smith, are you not?”

Suddenly, it seemed very foolish that they had traveled into an unknown town to ask a man where Sophia’s wool was woven. But there was no turning back. She would carry on for Philip.

Mr. Smith squinted down at them. “I am the Mr. Smith of Miss Worthington’s acquaintance. I take her wool to many places. All over. It is woven over the course of nine months or so, and then I pick it up and take it to market. There is no mystery about it except, perhaps, why you want to know. And why Miss Worthington did not make this inquiry herself.” He crossed his arms in front of his body in a decidedly ungracious gesture.

Agnes’s blood cooled, and her next swallow didn’t quite make it down her throat, but she would not show fear. Straightening, she said, “She is very busy, Mr. Smith. The fact is, we wanted to look into purchasing some of it. We sponsor an orphanage in London, and we think it would be splendid to have a carpet from Worthington Farm. How would we do that?”

“I am sorry you came all this way. That is not something within my power to do. I merely deliver the wool to one place, pick it up, and sell it to another.”

Agnes was never ready to give up. “To whom do you sell? We can inquire there. It is very important for us to support Miss Worthington’s enterprise.”

“Some shipping company or other. I believe they export most of it.” Mr. Smith shifted toward his desk while the women spoke to him, indicating he was through with the conversation. “I am sorry I cannot help you further. Good morning.” Mr. Smith returned to his desk.

The conversation could not end yet. “You must understand, Mr. Smith. You need only tell us to whom you sell the wool, and then we will inquire for ourselves. It is very simple.”

He turned from his desk and strode forward, needing only three steps to reach them. With his hands on his hips, he leered over them with a dominant masculinity that made Agnes want to kick him.

“I have no information I can share with you. If Miss Worthington would like to inquire after the wool, you may tell her to apply to me. Please close the door on your way out.”

Despite herself, cool beads of sweat pricked along Agnes’s scalp. There was something frightening about this man. Mary stepped away from Mr. Smith’s manly display, but Agnes resisted. She raised her brows and sniffed, holding Mr. Smith’s gaze for a stretch of time before glancing casually around the unusual room. “And what do you do here, Mr. Smith? This is a very odd shop. Objects, you call it. Perhaps Mrs. Allen and I will just peruse your wares before departing. I am sure our patronage cannot be distasteful to you.”

“As you will, Madame.” Mr. Smith glared at her, watching for several seconds as the women moved to examine the strange assortment of goods piled willy-nilly up the windowed end of the room.

Everything could be found in Mr. Smith’s mound of goods. They spotted sewing needles and knitting needles, butter dishes and butter churners, tea and teacups. After several minutes of inspecting the shop without interruption from Mr. Smith, Agnes recovered her courage.