Page 52 of The Gentlewoman Farmer

Suddenly, Sophia stood. “I must go check on the lambs. I nearly forgot I promised Stanton I would watch tonight. He is so exhausted.”

“You aren’t thinking of going to the cave,” Philip said, knowing her inclinations.

“I want to, but no, I am not such a fool as that. If there are smugglers on the beach, it would be death to disturb them.”

“I can accompany you, if you like,” Philip suggested, feeling foolish at his desperate plea to be with her. But at his suggestion, Sophia’s fists balled up, and she became as tight as the strings inside her pianoforte.

“No, that’s unnecessary.” Her eyes were stony. She was still angry at him, after all. “Goodnight, everyone.” Sophia turned and left the room brusquely, only to return a moment later, her hands balling up her skirt. “You should have told me when you first suspected.”

Philip watched her go, wondering if he should follow her regardless of what she had said. No one should go into the darkness alone with fresh knowledge of betrayal. But Philip was unsure. A few days ago, she’d asked him to leave. Perhaps he had never been welcome. So, he listened to her retreating footsteps, wishing without hope that he might find a place in her life once more.

The Hague, Netherlands

10 December 1751

Dear Sophia,

We came to the Netherlands to find out what the famous Johann Tischbein could teach me about portraiture. We get along, though my German is horrendous. I suppose paint has its own language. I think his portraits lack emotion, but I like his composition and use of color. It’s different from the fluffy pastels used in France. Meeting him has given me hope. He is the son of a baker and began his career in a wallpaper factory. If he can find success, so might I.

Although it’s cold, I look out the windows and wish I were outside painting the snow that droops from tree branches. Monsieur Aubin assures me I will eventually study landscapes. That day cannot come soon enough.

All my love,

Philip

Chapter 23

20 May 1753

The smell of sheep droppings greeted Sophia as she opened the door to the outbuilding. She checked on her orphaned lamb before taking a shovel and a bucket and scooping up dung from each enclosure. It was a task usually performed in the morning, but since she intended to stay awhile, she preferred clean air, and the labor helped clear her mind.

She knew that inside the house Philip, his mother, and Aunt Mary were discussing her. She felt their pity seeping past the walls and into the dark night air. If what they told her about Mr. Burns proved true, she would be alone again. She’d have full responsibility for the farm, her mother’s comfort, and the tenants’ welfare. Or perhaps not. She’d forgotten Charles was ready to take over the farm for her. The weasel.

White mounds of sleeping sheep littered the building, warming the otherwise chill evening. Mostly they slept, but there was an occasional bleat from a lamb. She loved them, and she loved her farm. The building was quiet, so when a few drops of rain pinged against a pail that had been left near the door, it was enough to startle her. The rain increased until the torrential slosh became deafening. Sophia was glad for it. It nourished the fields, made good company for her mood, and separated her even more from her houseguests.

Sophia groaned aloud, humiliated at the error of judgment that might cost her the farm. And yet, perhaps there was an explanation, a reason the wool was being held in a cave. Perhaps Mr. Burns needed to empty a ship for another use and the cave was a convenient storage place. Judgment must be withheld until the facts were clear.

Once the building was cleaned out, Sophia sat in an old rattan chair kept in the sheep house. She’d altered several of her father’s breeches to fit her and wore a pair now, which allowed her to sit back with her legs straddling the chair. She only indulged in this attire and posture when she was alone, but she enjoyed the freedom of not being encumbered by layers of skirts.

Was there anything that clarified the incriminating evidence against Burns? Sophia never had reason to suspect Mr. Burns was anything but honest. When he had approached her with Mr. Smith, she’d been so grateful for the contact. He had been a savior, had rescued her when her father’s buyers could not be found. Mr. Burns had been smooth, guileless. Unanswerable questions flowed in and out of Sophia’s mind like the unsettling waves that made her so ill when she took to the sea. She paced back and forth, walking past the sheep without seeing them.

She had to visit the caves.

Covered in an oilcloth coat, she picked up her lantern, pocketed flint and steel, and walked into the night. Sophia did not pause to contemplate her actions as she headed toward the cliffs. There was no waiting, no questioning, no other viable choice she could make.

The sky was fully clouded over, but Sophia extinguished the lantern for fear of being seen from the house. If Philip’s uncharacteristically sober demeanor was any indication, he’d be watching for her. But she was familiar with the terrain, even when slippery with rain, and the night did not frighten her. Besides, Malcolm was gone for a few days.

The rush of the ocean crashing against the cliffs rose over the gush of rain, signaling Sophia was close to the edge. She deftly lit her lantern and crept down the path leading to the caves—to her wool.

She moved slowly, one hand on the lantern and the other on the knotted earth to her left, unsure of her steps in the near-darkness. Crashing waves grew louder until she arrived on the beach. Standing still for a moment, Sophia’s breath settled to match the steady rhythm of the ocean.

She held her up light until it caught the shadow of the cave opening and made her way inside. Ocean and rain muted, but other sounds were not far off—voices, hurried shouting, shuffling, splashing feet, low grunting, and the echoes of heavy objects being dragged across rock floors. She blew out her lantern, and the weight of darkness pressed against her chest making it hard to breathe.

She hovered on the brink of flight but was held in place by the need to know the truth. If a boatsman spotted her, he would not hesitate to end her life. There were too many tales of boats run ashore full of men with slit throats or a magistrate found dead, washed up on the beach. Even so, Sophia was illogically pleased with the prospect of catching Malcolm in action. It would be easier than approaching him when he returned. She could imagine how he would soothe her concerns in the comforting light of day.

“Mr. Burns,” she would say. “My friends tell me you are a smuggler, that you have used my wool as a cover for your scheme. They say you use my property to conceal your illegal imports. Can it be true?”

“Miss Worthington,” he might protest. “I could never do such a thing. Your friends are set against me. There is nothing amiss in our transactions. Tell me, what have they said to you? I assure you, I can explain any misunderstandings.”