Page 58 of The Gentlewoman Farmer

Betsy was there with the cook, Mabel, and they were busy making apple cake from dried apples. It was Sophia’s favorite, second to strawberry tarts, a fact well known among her staff. Her weary heart warmed at their gesture. They looked up in surprise. Mabel winced, and Betsy’s face wrinkled up. She tsked and shook her head. Sophia wanted to run from their sympathy.

“This cake will be done in an hour but have some bread and butter while you wait.” Betsy pulled out a chair for Sophia.

The ache grew in Sophia’s stomach, and she reprimanded herself for being such a coward. These women cared about her. She would let them show it today.

“It’s so quiet. Where is everyone?” Sophia asked, smothering bread with butter.

Betsy shot her a glance. “They’ve gone, love. Mr. Eliot and his mother left with the Spencers early this morning. I think they went to London.”

The bread dried on Sophia’s tongue. Philip was gone, and he’d left with the Spencers. Perhaps she’d underestimated the friendship between Katherine and Philip. She struggled to swallow.

“What of Mrs. Allen?”

“Gone with them.”

“Without a word?”

Betsy shrugged as she held the bowl of cake batter over the baking pan for Mabel to scrape out.

“At least I have the house to myself. Have you seen Charles?”

“Left a few minutes ago.” Betsy wiped her floured hands on her apron. “I expect he’ll be home in the middle of the night, as usual.”

Since no one was home, Sophia excused herself to find solace at the pianoforte. As she walked across the drawing room, her eye caught on one of Philip’s portfolios. He must have forgotten it. She changed her mind about playing and took a seat near the window where the sunlight would afford the best view of his art. She pulled out a sheet of paper and sucked in her breath. She placed the charcoal drawing on the floor, pulled out another and another, and set it beside the first. When the folder was empty, she looked at an array of art that captured her life. There were Betsy and Tom, who’d been married twenty years, stealing a kiss in the kitchen. A lamb curled up beside its mother. A field of seeded rye, peeking its early tendrils above the earth. Sophia’s mother knitting by the fire with her mouth in a circle. Sophia could almost hear her mother’s hooing. Tenants digging alongside their children. A merry group of workers rejoicing together during shearing. A community of people gathered in front of a cottage, laughing at a joke from Mr. Gregory, the steward. The images together were raw and real. And—above all—lovely.

While looking at her life through Philip’s eyes, Sophia saw what she’d been missing. She was surrounded by beauty, love, and creation. She had people whom she loved and who loved her. But she’d only seen crops for harvest, wool for profits, people for work. Tears burned the corners of her eyes as she picked up a picture of her tenants. While it was clear Mr. Gregory was the one who had said something amusing, Philip had composed the drawing in a way that put Sophia at the center. A child held her finger. The woman sitting next to her elbowed Sophia in appreciation of the moment and several others looked at her as if enjoying her merriment as much as they’d enjoyed Mr. Gregory’s witticism.

Her father would have loved to see the farm as it was now. He’d have celebrated the improvements she made and the way they benefited the families who worked there. Sophia already had the life she craved. Philip helped her recognize it.

She choked back a sob. Where was Philip now? The logical explanation was that she’d told him to leave, and he’d done as she’d asked, departing as soon as his mother returned. But it wasn’t like him to leave without saying goodbye. Perhaps he left a letter.

Sophia went to her desk. If he left a note, it would be there where she kept paper and ink. Nothing. Her desk was without even a spot of dust. At least she had his image of the farm, but it wasn’t enough. She put the picture on her desk and sagged into a chair.

Gravel crunched outside, and Sophia flew to the window, hoping Philip had returned. Charles and Uncle Thorpe were approaching in the same cart that had carried away her mother. Her skin crawled. Charles alighted from the carriage, followed by the squire. Father and son spoke easily as they approached the house. Unusual. Sophia fled through the hall, up the stairs, and into her room before they could knock at the front door.

Several moments later, there was a soft knock at her bedroom door.

“Sophia, dear. Your uncle insists upon seeing you. I wouldn’t bother you, but I’m afraid he’ll impose upon your privacy and try to enter your room by force,” Betsy said through a crack in Sophia’s bedroom door.

She squeezed her eyes and sighed. “All right. Will you help me tidy myself, Betsy?”

When Betsy finished helping Sophia with her hair, Sophia took the letter she had written to Philip. “Betsy, wait a minute while I address this letter. I hope you can post it for me today.” The Eliots had a house in town, and by a miracle, Sophia remembered the street. She hoped the letter carrier knew the house number.

“Of course, Miss Sophia.”

Before long, Sophia was sitting across from her uncle.

“What brings you here?” Sophia asked her uncle, though she looked at Charles, who stood by the window with his hands in his pockets, the toe of one boot crossing the other. He looked pleased.

“I have come to express my deepest condolences.” Uncle Thorpe bobbed his head. He sat in his usual chair. Chin held high, he kept his hand on the knob of his cane as if it lent him special authority.

Sophia’s heart stopped. “For what? Is my mother ill?”

“Not at all. I was speaking of the unfortunate occupation of your fiancé. I assume you will not marry a smuggler and therefore cannot fulfill your part of the bargain.” He tapped his cane twice on the floor as if to emphasize his victory. “I am here to take you to my house.”

Sophia’s eyes flicked to Charles, whose grin could not have been wider. He must have somehow learned the truth about Mr. Burns. Had he heard Philip talking to his mother?

Uncle Thorpe continued. “You will wish to see your mother and stay out of society for a time until the rumors have died down. That is understandable.”