Page 50 of The Gentlewoman Farmer

Once again, he stood before his canvas. Inspired from when he watched Sophia among the sheep, he’d reconfigured the painting. If he could combine the image he sketched with the joy he’d felt when with her, the painting would be his best. But each stroke of his brush was wrong, his uncertainty visible in wayward lashes of color.

Sophia wanted him to leave.

Discontented and unable to recapture the mood, he set his colors aside and wandered toward the sea. Perhaps Sophia was right. Was it time to go? He wanted to stay, to convince her not to marry Mr. Burns, but he and his mother were causing additional stress for Sophia. He’d been a fool on so many counts. It was no wonder she wanted him away.

His time at Worthington Farm was over, and it had been a failure. When his mother returned, Philip would go to London to see about rewording the will. It would be a parting gift.

Philip arrived at the edge of a cliff that overlooked a cove. Great arms of rocky earth reached out into the ocean as if trying to gather the sea to itself despite the inevitable tide. It was the same place where he and Sophia had gone fishing when he’d first arrived. Though past noon, the fog had not yet dissipated, and it hovered over the cove mirroring Philip’s own melancholy.

Intrigued by the image, Philip proceeded to the rocky lip of the escarpment. He spied the path leading down to a strip of sand and to the ocean below. The cliff was steep and seemed even steeper without Sophia with him. He removed his jacket, leaving it on a boulder, and began his descent.

Once on the trail, it was easygoing, much easier than it looked from where he’d stood above. It was like walking down a very narrow stairway with a wall on only one side. A cool breeze blew through Philip’s shirt and hair, refreshing and not cold enough to make him miss the jacket he had left behind. The closer he got to the beach, the easier the descent.

From the shore, Philip marveled at the black cliffs topped in green and the narrow strip of sand that divided the water from the rock. Philip removed his shoes and socks and walked gingerly through rocks and sand into the cold saltwater.

Philip turned his back on the ocean and looked up at the cliff he had climbed down. It was still partially covered in mist. A wave splashed against Philip’s legs and left a trickle of cold running down his spine. He shivered, his body cooling. He examined the rocks that made up the precipice, thinking about how to capture them in paint, when he noticed a dark and shadowed hole at the base of the cliff. It was the cave he had pointed out to Sophia when they’d gone fishing. She’d told him stories about it during her summer visits, and his childhood imaginings had been full of fantastical adventures in Sophia’s cave.

Finally, he could see it for himself.

Philip had to duck to get inside, but it was too dark to see. He moved away from the opening, hoping he was merely blocking the sun. As his eyes adjusted, he noticed that the air did not feel stale as it might in a small cave. It was vast and airy, and though he couldn’t tell how deep it was, it was wide. His steps splashed in shallow water that covered his ankles. The farther into the cavern he went, the lighter it became.

Philip followed the light, noting there was something odd about the glow of the chamber. The color of the cave walls seemed too bright, not at all the dark, shining wetness he expected. He inched toward a wall, still moving carefully. The light, though brighter, was not sufficient to prevent him from tripping on the uneven ground. The surrounding rocks were strange, like cream-colored, round boulders. He reached out, expecting to feel cold rock, but the walls were furry and soft.

He withdrew his hand, shaking it, and wiping it on his pants to get rid of the unpleasant, unexpected softness that still tickled his palm. He took a step forward to scrutinize what he’d touched. He again reached out, curious now, and felt something soft, like clothing, but rough and itchy too. It was wool—wool from what he could only assume were Sophia’s sheep. Philip considered his surroundings with fresh eyes. Mounds of wool covered an area that would probably stay dry, even at high tide. But why on earth would Sophia store her wool here? He had understood it to be loaded immediately after shearing onto Mr. Burns’ ship.

He made his way toward the light. Wool was not the only thing stashed in the cavern. Dozens of crates piled on the high ground. Some were labeled brandy, rum, wine, lace, and other luxuries.

Philip continued to follow the light until he reached a large opening. The sun shining through was not as brilliant as he expected, for it was shadowed by another cliff. Because the two cliffs were so close, the little beach that lay between them would be invisible from the sea.

The inlet could hide a ship, a smuggler’s paradise. A collection of fishing boats littered the small beach, boats that could bring cargo from the caves to a waiting ship.

Suddenly cold, Philip’s heart pounded in his ears. Sophia needed to know. He sloshed through puddles, over rocks, through sand, and ascended the steep cliff as rapidly as he could. Though unnerved, Philip became hopeful. This was the evidence he’d hoped to find. Mr. Burns was a blackguard.

As Philip approached the house, a carriage arrived. His mother and Mrs. Allen were back. They had not yet alighted from the carriage, so he took the opportunity to climb in beside them.

“I’m glad you’re back.” He sat next to his mother, opposite Mrs. Allen, who took in his damp trousers. “You will not believe what I have discovered.”

Philip waved off the servants, who were anxious to help the women into the house. Once they were alone, Philip described what he had seen.

The ladies hung on his every word. Then, they added their story of adventure, or misadventure, to what Philip had shared. Together, they combed through the details, trying to determine the facts. They also discussed how much should be told to Sophia. Philip wanted to find her and tell her everything immediately.

Mrs. Allen and Mrs. Eliot, on the other hand, stood united against Philip’s inclination. They believed they needed more evidence. Sophia would, no doubt, ask her fiancé if he were involved in some fraud. If Sophia spoke to Mr. Burns before they could find firm proof, they would be giving him a chance to spin further deception and destroy any potential evidence. Sophia would not want to believe so much ill of a man to whom she was betrothed.

“What further proof do we need?” Philip asked. “It’s clear that something is wrong. We have everything short of a confession. No one stores wool in a damp cave.”

“Wool is very resistant to mildew,” Mrs. Allen said.

“Oh, Mary. That is not the point,” said Philip’s mother, waving a dismissive hand in Mary’s direction. “I agree with you, Philip.” She patted his knee. “We have enough proof. But I would like to think of a way to save her. I hate throwing a problem at her without a solution when we could solve all her difficulties at once. We need to find someone else to buy her wool.”

“But that’s not what she would like. Sophia doesn’t want to be rescued. She may cast us off along with Mr. Burns if we don’t tell her soon.” And then he realized another barrier. “She’s asked me to leave because Mr. Burns told her I was looking through his papers. We are out of time. We must tell her at once.”

“Good grief, Philip. You have no delicacy,” his mother chided him.

Philip smiled inwardly at his mother’s rebuke. Mrs. Eliot was the least diplomatic person Philip knew. She did not obtain her desires through subtlety, but through perseverance.

Mary intervened. “That makes things more urgent. Let us think on it overnight. Perhaps the solution will present itself if we let it rest,” Mary said.

“No, I will tell her.” Philip stepped out of the carriage before the others could disagree further.