Page 47 of The Gentlewoman Farmer

“How extraordinary! Look here, Mrs. Allen. This is the very same French lace I purchased at the milliner’s last week.”

“Is it? What a wonder!”

Agnes faced Mr. Smith’s back. “It is such a coincidence. I purchased this very same lace in Talland only last week. From Miss Taylor. Do you do business with her, as well?”

“I do business with many people.” His posture did not falter, nor did he pause his pen.

“What exactly do you do in this shop? It is very unusual.” Agnes went on conversationally. Mr. Smith’s threatening demeanor invigorated Agnes now that there was some distance between them. After a moment or two of waiting, she continued babbling as if the conversation were not one-sided.

“You must sell directly from this shop. Or perhaps it is only used as storage for what looks like many businesses. You must distribute a vast and varying number of things. I have never seen such a place. I should think the entire town would come here to do all their shopping. Except for the butcher and the grocer, you might put everyone else out of business.”

Agnes winked at Mary, who gestured for them to leave. “Do you find many local customers, Mr. Smith? If not, you might consider advertising. If the window displays were a little more organized, you could attract anyone looking for anything from a spindle to a fork. Or maybe you sell directly to shops. With all the enterprises you are involved in, how on earth do you have time to distribute and collect all of Miss Worthington’s wool? Perhaps you have employees. Certainly. It would be impossible without help.”

During this speech, Mr. Smith put down his pen, stood, and leaned his back against the wall beside the desk with his arms crossed over his chest once again.

“Is this a game, ladies? Why are you here?”

The innkeeper appeared in the doorway. “Good morning, Smith. I’m here to collect my order.” He nodded to Agnes and Mary.

“You can pick it up in the back. These ladies were just leaving.” With a nod to Mrs. Allen and Mrs. Eliot, he turned and walked through the door set between the two desks.

The innkeeper opened the door for Agnes and Mary before exiting the building behind them. They had no choice but to leave, but Agnes was not ready to give up. She paused in the middle of the road, watching the innkeeper turn right and then right again. He entered a dark, narrow passage almost hidden between the buildings.

Mary approached Agnes. “What do we do?”

“Let’s follow him. Mr. Smith was impenetrable. We know nothing except that he sold lace to our milliner. And we guessed that before. Something about him is suspicious.”

“The passage is very narrow. It looks dirty, and it is impertinent to go after him. We have no excuse to do so.”

“If we do not, we may never know what Mr. Smith is up to. We must find out.” Mary had grabbed ahold of Agnes, as if to prevent her from bolting into the alley. Agnes tried to shake her off, moving to follow the innkeeper. Mary tightened her grip. “Why are you holding me back?” Agnes struggled against Mary, who now held Agnes with two hands.

“Whatever the innkeeper is collecting, it is likely hidden in a box, and we will gain nothing but soiled skirts.” As Mary spoke, Agnes yanked herself free. With the momentum from the additional force required to extricate herself, Agnes turned and charged toward the alley.

Something hard rammed against her chest—the innkeeper’s shoulder. He steadied himself, but the two crates stacked on top of each other did not withstand the impact. Agnes lurched forward in an attempt to catch the one on top, but she misjudged both its weight and her proximity to the innkeeper. The crate pulled her forward, scratching her arms as it tumbled. She lobbed it to the side, twisting her body to keep the box from landing on her, lost her balance, and fell. Agnes squeezed her eyes shut as her body thudded, the impact corresponding with the crashing fracture of glass bottles.

A groan from beneath alerted her to the full humiliation of her position. Her eyes opened and met the bulbous, infuriated stare of the innkeeper. Despite her attempts to twist and roll away, her pocket hoops had her in a tangle. She kicked and grunted, the innkeeper squirming beneath her. To her left stood Mary, watching wide-eyed, her hands flying with indecision from her eyes to her mouth. Agnes could not tell if she was trying to smother a laugh or cover a scream.

“Mrs. Allen! I need you!” Agnes screeched, drawing Mary from her stupor. Mary rushed to offer assistance. The two women struggled together until, finally upright, both women turned to help the innkeeper.

With everyone on their feet, Agnes surveyed the mess. A jumble of bottles, some broken and others intact, lay on the ground. Other bottles rolled out of the wooden crates near where Agnes had lain prostrate over the innkeeper. Red wine and spirits pooled into the mud.

“Let me know if you need anything else,” Mr. Smith said, leaning against the alley wall. He laughed, turned toward his shop, and disappeared behind its doors.

Back at the inn, Mary treated Agnes’s scratches and bruises with the generosity of a true friend. She brought Agnes food and ensured she ate a proper supper before taking a seat in a chair beside Agnes’s bed and pulling out her knitting needles.

“Will you be able to sleep?” Mary asked.

“If I can stop reliving the humiliation I’ve suffered.” She examined her scraped hands. “My mind will not let go of it.”

Mary snorted, then covered her face with the sock she was making. “Oh, Agnes.” She was fully laughing now. “I cannot get it out of my head either.” She dropped her knitting and clutched her stomach. With a handkerchief pulled from her sleeve, she wiped her eyes. “The innkeeper was fully hidden beneath your abundant skirts.” Her voice cracked in mirth. “Your face!” She was squealing like a schoolgirl.

Agnes crossed her arms. “I am glad it afforded you so much pleasure.”

Talland, Cornwall

15 January 1750

Dear Philip,