Page 63 of The Gentlewoman Farmer

“You little scoundrel.” He approached and stared into Charles’s bloodshot eyes. “I’ve a mind to teach you a lesson.”

“How do you propose to do that?” As he spoke, Charles leaned a little too far back. The chair slipped, and Charles fell with a thud and many curses.

It was too ridiculous to laugh at. “It looks like you are doing a fine job of punishing yourself.” He went to help the boy find his feet, but Charles refused his hand. “All right, then. Please, tell Sophia I came by.” Philip had little hope of Charles passing along the message, but he bowed all the same to Charles, who still lay on the floor. He left the house to tell his mother and Mrs. Allen what had happened.

He gave some quick instructions to the driver, then he climbed into the carriage. “She’s not at home,” Philip told his mother. The carriage turned off the gravel in front of the farmhouse and back onto the road toward the squire’s estate.

Sophia had spent the day with Gregory, looking at tenant houses and deciding which improvements they would make this fall. It had been a long morning, and she was hungry. She mounted Clarissa and headed back to the farmhouse for something to eat. But first, she needed to get some papers from her library.

Sophia knew Charles liked to pretend to work, so she’d locked up any important papers in her desk and kept the key with her. And there he was now, sitting in her place, looking more than commonly disgruntled.

“Good afternoon, Charles. I need a few things from the desk. Do you mind moving for a moment?” He grumbled but did as she asked and got up from the chair, rubbing the back of his head as he did so.

“Is your head troubling you?” Sophia asked as she opened the desk drawer, with Charles looking on. Before Charles could answer, Betsy came flying into the room.

“He’s come! Philip was here. Did he find you?”

Sophia’s hands froze and her stomach clenched. Philip? Here? “He—no! Where is he now?”

“He was talking to Charles not half an hour ago.” Betsy gestured toward Charles as if he might become suddenly useful.

“Charles, do you know where he went?” Sophia asked.

“That coward can go to the devil.” With that, he stomped out of the room, holding his head.

Betsy continued. “He left you something. Come into the kitchen. I saw him carrying a package. When I found it on the table, I took it. I don’t trust your cousin.”

“Bless you, Betsy.” Sophia locked the door to her desk. She felt like she was wasting time. She needed to catch Philip. But her hands tingled to get ahold of whatever he left for her.

In the kitchen, Betsy handed her a package about the size of a large book. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, her name scripted over the top. Betsy slid out of the room, and Sophia sat down on a kitchen chair.

Untying the twine, Sophia found a painting. It was of herself and the little lambs she and Philip had played with several weeks before. More than that, it was a synthesis of all the drawings she’d found in his portfolio. Her breath caught as she took in every detail. She was with her lambs, but there were clusters of people working around her. While not every image was included from his drawings, he had somehow captured the emotion of it all. The toil, the pain, the love, and the beauty. It was stunning. Light radiated out of the canvas, and its brilliance centered on Sophia, who was looking toward the artist with a smile of unmitigated happiness. Looking at herself in such a mood put a new smile on Sophia’s face. The image was calm and joyful, serene, and transcendent.

Sophia stared at the painting for several long minutes before remembering that Philip was back. She must find him. Carriage wheels marked the gravel outside the house, and she hurried to saddle Clarissa.

Sophia followed the carriage tracks as quickly as Clarissa could safely travel. They led toward Uncle Thorpe’s estate. Though she rode hastily, she didn’t catch sight of the carriage until it pulled in front of the house. She saw Philip from a distance, and there was no mistaking him. He descended the carriage, and he was alone. If anyone was with him, they’d already gone inside. She urged her horse on and soon was beside Philip. He looked up at her with a blank expression, and she realized what she must look like. She was hot from the summer sun and her swift ride. She probably looked desperate.

Suddenly, she could not meet Philip’s eye. She ran a hand over her hair and adjusted her hat, straightening in the saddle to look slightly more presentable.

“Sophia,” he breathed. He stared at her for a moment. He gestured to the carriage. “I was just looking for something. I brought you something, and now I can’t find it.”

“Oh. I think I have it. A painting? Betsy gave it to me.” Sophia wanted to tell him how much she loved it but couldn’t find the words.

“She’s been helpful today. She gave me this.” Smiling, he pulled the letter out of his pocket and waved it.

Sophia grew hotter. She felt the burn to the roots of her hair. It was one thing to write the letter and send it into the void. It was quite another to see it in Philip’s hand, though every word she’d written was true. “Oh.”

He seemed to wait for more of a response, and when she didn’t move or speak, his mouth twitched. “Are you planning to stay on your horse for a while, then?”

“I—I don’t know.” Sophia didn’t really hear what he said, but her mind was now ready to unleash her questions. “Why did you leave? And why didn’t you say goodbye?” The hurt from his abandonment rose fresh and made her even less capable of looking at him. She wanted the answers without revealing her own emotions.

His face darkened. “It was Charles. I left a letter explaining where I went, and he took it. I believe he took all the letters I sent you.”

Sophia shot a look at Philip. “You wrote to me?”

“Of course. I always do, but it seems our letters rarely find the person for whom they’re intended.”

An airy laugh rushed from Sophia. Her chest was too tight. “It seems we need a new communication method.”