Page 33 of The Gentlewoman Farmer

After each statement, she pursed her lips and blushed. At least she knew enough to be ashamed. She was pale from too much powder and had the most ridiculous patch shaped like a heart under her right eye. I could not take her seriously.

All my love,

Philip

Chapter 14

7 May 1753

As soon as Philip left the room, Agnes put down her embroidery and said, “Mary, it’s time. We must meddle. Immediately. He is so clearly incompetent.”

Agnes moved to the edge of her chair, close enough that she smelled Mary’s rosewater eau de parfum. “Let me tell you what happened at the milliner’s shop yesterday while you sat with your sister.” In whispers, Agnes told Mary her tale.

She had entered the milliner’s shop, expecting to find the lower quality and higher prices customary of a smaller town. To her surprise, the shop was well-appointed with lovely silks and laces.

“I immediately endeared myself to Miss Taylor—that’s her name, you know, the milliner—by complimenting her beautiful dress, which was impressive, though obviously of Miss Taylor’s own construction, being a little too imaginative.”

Mary nodded and Agnes continued her story, describing how she’d moved slowly through the shop, admiring this and that, praising Miss Taylor’s taste, asking questions, learning what she could.

In addition to haberdashery and millinery, Miss Taylor had a side job. She took in laundry and mending. It kept her comfortable when shop business was slow.

“I told Miss Taylor how impressed I was with her selection, that few shops in London boasted such quality. And the prices! You would not credit, Mary. The shocking discount on French lace!

“When I exclaimed over her prices, she gave herself away. She said, ‘I could never charge so little if not for Mr. Smith.’ And then she cut off and covered her mouth as if she let slip a great secret.”

“I hardly see—” Mary tried to cut in.

“Miss Taylor tried to cover herself, but I understood.” Agnes sat back in her chair and crossed her arms with a nod.

“Yes? Understood what?” Mary asked.

“Mr. Smith is the key. Remember, during dinner a few nights ago? The name Mr. Smith was mentioned between Miss Worthington and Mr. Burns.”

“Oh, Agnes, this feels very much like nothing at all. Smith is a common name.”

“Perhaps. But I do not think it is nothing. This woman, who calls herself a milliner, has no idea the value of what she carries in her shop. She must get it steeply reduced. Or free—perhaps a bribe.”

“I don’t like where this is going, but what do you propose we do?”

“I am scheduled to retrieve a bonnet I had her make up for me. Can you be ready to go in ten minutes?”

“Certainly,” replied Mary. “I am ready now, but this feels silly.”

Agnes laughed. “Only imagine if we are discovered poking around her shop!”

Not forty minutes later, the two women entered the milliner’s. Finding it empty, Mary reached to ring the bell, but Agnes stayed her hand.

“Hush!” Agnes began searching around corners and in drawers.

“Agnes, this is not right!”

“Silence, Mary! You may leave if you feel uncomfortable.” But she did not want Mary to leave. Indeed, her own heart fluttered so dramatically, the only thing that kept her sorting through Miss Taylor’s shop was Mary’s genteel presence. If they were caught, one look at prim, proper, and innocent Mary Allen would have the milliner second guessing.

Mary frowned while Agnes moved with feigned nonchalance through the store. She scoured miscellaneous logbooks, a register of sales, discarded pens, a bundle of letters, and a box of buttons, then combed through every drawer.

Mary’s sigh caught Agnes’ attention. “There is a little cupboard you have missed.” She gestured to the corner of the room.

“Thank you, Mary, dear.” The closet opened with only the tiniest squeal of a rusty hinge. Inside were rows of apothecary drawers under letter slots containing papers and envelopes. It was a writing desk. Each drawer was labeled with a different name. Agnes scanned the names until her eyes fell upon the words: “Account: Mr. S.”