Page 27 of The Gentlewoman Farmer

She was sorry to see Philip’s departure. They were making progress toward establishing a new friendship, and Malcolm’s entrance had disrupted that. Her fiancé’s attitude suggested that either he thought her disloyal or he was jealous. She and Philip could not be as unreserved as they had once been.

Ah, but they had proven how easy it was to slip into familiarity. They knew one another too well. Every letter slipped under her door was a reminder of their friendship. In them, she found the same charming friend she’d loved as a child, heard his voice, and felt closer to him again. They felt familiar, though she read them for the first time.

“Mr. Burns, I’m afraid I must return to work as well. Why not ride with me to the fields and then join us for dinner?”

“Yes, thank you. I believe I will.”

Later that evening, Sophia asked her servants to rearrange the dining room and replace the long rectangular table with a round table to provide a more genial atmosphere for her guests, one in which all could join the same conversation. She hoped for a pleasant evening.

Philip sat opposite Sophia, placed strategically to increase the space between them. She hadn’t anticipated that his seat would make his eyes the easiest to meet.

When Mrs. Eliot and Mrs. Allen didn’t have their heads together in exclusive whispering, Mrs. Eliot questioned Sophia about crops and wool. Sophia answered superficially, as she was distracted by the glares that flew between Mr. Burns and Philip. Her mother made things worse with her continual sighing and hooing. All this left Sophia exhausted and wondering if she had the energy to care that her little dinner party was a debacle.

Sophia elbowed Aunt Mary to get her to stop whispering with Mrs. Eliot. With her eyes, she redirected her aunt’s attention to Philip and Mr. Burns, who were having a low argument about politics over the head of Sophia’s mamma. Mr. Burns grumbled retorts to Philip’s cheerful remarks. But Aunt Mary only asked, “What is it, dear?”

Sophia sighed. She had no choice but to make everyone put aside their bad manners.

“Gentlemen, tell me,” Sophia said loudly. “What have you each done today?” They startled, as if they’d forgotten where they were. “Mr. Burns, you may go first.” Sophia could command when the situation demanded.

Malcolm, who had been leaning over Mrs. Worthington in order to speak with Philip, straightened in his chair.

“Today is Thursday, so I did what I usually do on Thursdays,” said Malcolm.

“And what is that, Mr. Burns?” Sophia asked.

“It’s not interesting, but since you asked, I went to the docks to inspect the ship recently emptied of cargo to make sure it’s cleaned out and ready for a new load.” As he spoke, Mr. Burns placed his hand on Sophia’s, which was resting on the arm of her chair.

“How interesting, is it not, Mr. Eliot?” At her words, Philip tore his gaze from their hands and set his fork down.

“That is about all. It is tedious work, though it sounds simple enough.”

This completed Mr. Burns’ oration, for he said no more. Sophia turned to Philip. “What about you, Mr. Eliot? What occupied your day?”

“I painted,” he said.

Getting these men to talk was like pulling teeth. But it was better than the quip Sophia had expected. “How nice,” Sophia said. “Tell us about your painting.”

“I’m working on several, but today I started painting a new landscape, one with lots of sheep.” Philip sounded glum, not his usual self.

“If you are interested in painting sheep, we will soon have freshly born lambs. Most have already made their way into the world, but there are a few still to come in the next few days. I will take you to see them.”

Philip lightened at this. “I’d like that, Sophia. I have been less than inspired lately. Perhaps those lambs will help.”

Mr. Burns made a quiet sound that was half-grunt, half-growl, a noise that Sophia realized he made every time she or Philip called one another by their given names. Sophia ignored Mr. Burns and responded that if lambs didn’t waken Philip’s muse, she didn’t know what would.

Mrs. Eliot cut in. “Miss Worthington,” she said, eyeing Mr. Burns. “My Philip is so talented. I know you admired his work before he left for the continent, but you will be astonished at the progress he has made. He has become a true master.”

“Thank you, Mother,” Philip replied before she could continue. “You will remember that Sophia saw some of my portfolio this afternoon. What she really needs to see is her mother’s work.” Turning to Mrs. Worthington, Philip said, “You and I both have a few pieces to show Sophia, do we not?”

“Oh, hoohoo, but we do. Mr. Eliot speaks truly. I have learned a great deal from him in the little time we have spent together with our brushes. Perhaps Mr. Eliot will show what he has done after dinner.”

“I will, but I insist you show your work as well.” Turning to Sophia, Philip said, “Your mother is a natural artist.”

Mr. Burns interrupted. “Mrs. Allen, I have not had the chance to tell you how glad Miss Worthington and I are that you are here. With the wedding in just a few months, we may need your help.”

Vexed by the rudeness of this comment, not to mention the inappropriate mention of their private plans in front of guests, Sophia quietly chided her fiancé. “Thank you, Mr. Burns. We will discuss this another time.”

Dinner progressed to a close in like fashion. Mr. Eliot and Mr. Burns never discovered a common interest or shared opinion.