Page 24 of The Gentlewoman Farmer

Turning toward Betsy’s husband, Sophia instructed, “Tom, put the trunks in the remaining upstairs rooms.” With that, Sophia went to call her mother to come to her aid. Sophia had far too much to do to entertain more guests.

“I told you!” Sophia heard Aunt Mary whisper to Mrs. Eliot as she walked up the stairs.

The rooms of Worthington Farm were predictably organized, except for one irregularity. There was a staircase leading from Mrs. Worthington’s room into the kitchen. Hence, after obliging her unwilling mother to leave the book of poetry in favor of their guests, Sophia made use of those stairs. She had a quick lunch of cheese and bread and afterward escaped out the kitchen door.

Once outside, Sophia leaned against the stone wall of the house. She closed her eyes and pushed all thoughts of her guests out of her mind. She listened to the wind in the trees and the singing birds and felt the sun on her face, then went to the stable, forgetting about her unexpected visitors. She prepared the sheep for shearing with a singlemindedness that had no room for Mrs. Eliot.

When Sophia returned home, she was met with Mrs. Eliot’s loud voice chiding her son. “Philip, where have you been?”

Sophia rushed into the drawing room to see what had gotten Mrs. Eliot so upset.

There, with his back to the door, stood Philip, covered in dirt. The only part of him not soiled were his stockinged feet. He held his muddy boots in one hand to save the floor, and his hair was mussed. Sophia wished she could see his face.

Mrs. Eliot sucked in a loud breath before saying, “Philip. You look like a farmhand. Explain yourself.”

“I am a farmhand. I planted three acres today.” Philip released a short laugh, but his posture was stiff. He tapped one stockinged foot and asked, “What are you doing here, Mother?”

Mrs. Eliot waved her arm in the air like it was a little dancer. Her tone took on a lazy air. “I needed to get away from stuffy Bramblefields. Mary and I thought we would see how you and Sophia are getting on. Good heavens, Philip! Go tidy up. What a disgraceful amount of soil you carry about on your person.”

“Not without greeting you properly.” He approached his mother, draped his dirty arms around her pristine shoulders. As he did so, he turned in Sophia’s direction. She caught the twinkle in Philip’s eye. He was enjoying this. Mrs. Eliot never had a hair out of order or a wrinkle on her skirt.

Philip smiled down at his mother, holding her against him. “How I love you, Mother. And how nice to see you. Your presence is all I could wish for.” He rested his chin on top of her coiffed hair as she swatted at him.

Philip addressed Sophia, “You are back as well and nearly as dirty. Well, not quite. I planted those fields today. One less thing for you to do.” With a final loving squeeze for his mother and a wink for everyone else, he went upstairs. Mrs. Eliot sputtered and brushed dirt from her gown. Philip had his mother well in hand.

Talland, Cornwall

15 December 1752

Dear Philip,

While cleaning my shelves, I found the book we wrote together. We made it the summer I fancied becoming an author. Do you remember? You illustrated, of course. I wrote a silly story about a dragon who couldn’t control his fire. Reading the book was almost like having you with me, the memory of you was so clear. It wasn’t just the pictures.

Remember you wanted a knight to help the princess defeat the dragon? I refused to let the princess accept the knight’s help. I insisted she could tame the nasty dragon on her own. In the end, I had my way with the story, but you drew the pictures as you liked. I was furious when the princess looked just like me. You drew yourself as the knight, carefully hidden on every page. On the last page, the knight embraced the princess just as one might in a traditional story of chivalry. I was angry at you for ruining my story. But you just smiled at me and said nothing.

I am that princess still, always refusing help. I need you here to remind me that there is help waiting in the shadows. I wish you were here.

Right now, Mr. Gregory, the new steward, tries to fill that role. He wants me to give him more responsibility, and I struggle to let him. I wouldn’t have taken him on if I didn’t believe him competent, but I just know I can do it better and faster than he. Hah. Listen to me! I am only this honest with you.

Yours always,

Sophia

Chapter 11

4 May 1753

Several days passed in which those at Worthington Farm saw little of each other. Philip was focused on an important painting. Sophia was always working somewhere on the estate. Mrs. Worthington snipped about her garden. Aunt Mary and Mrs. Eliot found plenty to do about town. It was not until dinner each night that Sophia felt the burden of visitors. It was almost inconceivable that Philip and his mother were in her home. And yet, she looked up from her soup, and there they were.

“Miss Worthington, tell us everything about your day,” Mrs. Eliot said. “I am intrigued by what you do. Mr. Eliot, or perhaps his steward, sees to all those things at Bramblefields. It is delightful to find a young lady who is capable enough to manage all of this herself.”

Bramblefields was far more extensive than her own property. The ill-suited comparison irritated Sophia.

“You are kind to inquire. Since Mr. Burns and the Spencers are coming for cards this evening, I do not wish to put you to sleep prematurely,” Sophia said.

“I am in earnest, child. I am impressed with you. Tell me what you did today. I want all the details,” persisted Mrs. Eliot.

Sophia put down her spoon, and Mrs. Eliot leaned forward as if an aria were about to begin. “I helped my tenants shovel manure from the cow pasture into carts so it could be moved to a planting field. Normally, we move the cows around, but one of the planting fields is inconveniently situated for the cows. It is an excellent way to fertilize.” Sophia ignored Philip’s snort. She hadn’t actually taken part in shoveling, but she hoped the subject and a tiny stretch of the truth would end the conversation.