Page 49 of The Gentlewoman Farmer

“I was unaware of that arrangement. So now you go through my papers, making a mess of them for revenge?”

“Revenge is a side benefit. My father told me I needed to go through your ledger and figure out how much you make in a year.”

“How are your calculations coming?”

“Not at all.”

“As I presumed. When I told you to enjoy your visit, I didn’t mean for you to spend your days in the tavern. I meant that if your conduct improved, you would probably be sent back to school. Your parents want you to become educated.”

Charles groaned. “Not you, as well. I was eager to return to school, but I find life here suits me. I will not complain if my father takes you to his house and leaves me here to run the farm.”

“Run the farm? You won’t have a chance. Your father and I have a bargain. I am doing what is necessary to keep the farm.”

“And how is that going so far? With your mother gone and me here as a substitute?” Charles met Sophia’s gaze. “I’m looking forward to your departure so I can take over her rooms.”

Sophia inhaled, willing herself not to respond to his insolence. She closed her eyes. “Get out of my library. Or I will fetch Tom to force you.” There was no need to make such a threat. Charles left the room but did so with a serene smile. His retreating steps echoed through the house.

After tidying her papers, Sophia stepped into the parlor. An abandoned work basket leaned against a chair with a pink strand of embroidery floss hanging over the side. She’d forgotten her mother was gone.

She abandoned the house for the solace of her lambs. Once inside the lambing quarters, Sophia sensed that she was not alone. “Hello?” she called out.

“Hello, there.” Philip’s cheerful voice greeted her.

Sophia stiffened. Here was one more pebble in her boot that needed extracting. She and Philip had steadily renewed their friendship during his visit. But his jovial greeting grated on her. So much was going awry. She wanted her mother home. And Philip had promised to plant a field but failed. Instead of attempting to befriend Mr. Burns, he’d looked through his private papers. Yes, Philip had become a nuisance.

Sophia’s blood pulsed as she turned to look at Philip. All the irritation she’d felt over the past weeks surfaced and headed straight toward him.

“I am pleased to have renewed our acquaintance, but it is time for you to leave,” she said. “I don’t understand why you came when a letter would have served. You have wrought mischief by going through my fiancé’s papers, and you failed to plant the crops you promised. You’ve been a distraction. Please go.”

Philip stood completely still and quiet while she spoke. Now, he nodded his head. “I will go as soon as my mother returns with Mrs. Allen.”

That was all. No rebuttal. No explanations as to the reasons he’d been in Burns’ library or what he’d done with the field. He walked out without looking back. Sophia wilted to the floor and took a lamb in her lap. How she wished life had unfolded differently. Had her father been alive and her uncle dead in his place, she and Philip may have…No, it was not worth thinking of. She’d never think of it again.

In fact, she would go to her uncle’s house to see her mother. She would stay a night or two. That way, she might avoid Philip altogether. She would return home only after she was sure Mrs. Eliot had returned. Then, as Sophia requested, Philip would leave, and she could wish him farewell and move on. A heavy pit dropped in her stomach at her resolution, but she saw no other way.

Paris, France

3 December 1750

Dear Sophia,

I used to frequent the Comedie-Française, but I have discovered that French theatre has more to offer elsewhere. The French can be very passionate in their artistic expression. At the theatre, I can truly escape the rigors of my training and immerse myself in another world. It spurs me to continue my own artistic quest.

And it feels like a quest, sometimes an impossible one. I am told I need to concentrate on either portraiture or landscape. It seems an impossible decision, for I love both. I chanced to see a series of self-portraits by Rembrandt and found them ingenious. They are not the clean images of men that I see in other portraits. The paintings are not tidy but clouded. The artist looks vulnerable, as if we are looking into his soul.

So inspired was I by these portraits that I tried the technique on Monsieur Aubin. He appears quite arrogant, but I have learned this is to cover his disappointment at being a teacher and never the acclaimed artist he aspires to be. I tried to paint him as I saw him, inside and out. Either it was too good and revealed his nature too well, or it was terrible. He despised it and criticized me mercilessly. I will not paint his portrait again.

All my love,

Philip

Chapter 21

20 May 1753

Philip sketched on the other side of the apple orchard where he and Sophia had played with the lambs a few days before. After being dismissed by Sophia, he was staying out of her way. Not that it was hard. It was already past noon, and he hadn’t seen her. She worked every waking moment and was probably doing her best to stay out of his way as well.

Had he been right in not defending himself under her accusations? Though wounded that Sophia suspected him of foul play, he’d made no excuse. He hadn’t even explained what he’d planted in her fields. And with no actual proof that Mr. Burns was a smuggler or a pirate or anything else, he’d taken her accusations in silence. Still, Philip didn’t trust Burns. But distrust was no excuse for having invaded the man’s privacy.