Page 34 of The Gentlewoman Farmer

Just as Agnes took hold of the little knob, approaching footsteps sounded in the hall. She startled violently, revealing that she was not as practiced at espionage as she would have Mary believe. Agnes spun toward the door, with the tiny apothecary drawer still in her hand. The contents fluttered everywhere as the milliner entered.

Miss Taylor’s eyes swept the room, from the open cupboard to the mess on the floor. She gasped and placed her hand on her chest.

“Miss Taylor.” Agnes was proud of her calm voice, for to her horror, beads of sweat erupted on her forehead. “I am delighted to meet you once again. So pleased to introduce you to my dear friend, Mrs. Allen.” She half-gestured to Mary with the same hand that held the drawer. “I told her you are the most talented milliner I have ever seen. Did I not warn you of the treasures found in this little shop, Mrs. Allen?”

Mary was quick to answer. “Yes! And to think, as a regular visitor to this part of Cornwall, I have overlooked this gem. So lovely to meet you, Miss Taylor.” Mary nodded with the poise and grace of a true gentlewoman. Thank heavens she knew to play her part.

Miss Taylor glanced down at the bits of paper that cluttered the floor.

“Good gracious. What is this?” Agnes’ only hope was to behave like an ignoramus. Before anyone could move, she picked up the papers and read aloud from one scrap. “French lace five yards, blue silk three bolts, pink silk three bolts, rum five barrels, tea—thirty pounds.” Looking up, Agnes said in an offhand tone, “That is a lot of tea.”

Agnes slid the papers inside the drawer and handed the whole thing to Miss Taylor who slid it back in its place. “That cupboard is not full of ribbon, as I’d hoped, but I am simply dying to see that bonnet you have for me! I can wait no longer.” Agnes addressed Mary, “You will soon see the genius that is Miss Taylor.”

Miss Taylor did as she was bid and left to retrieve the finished bonnet, throwing a glare over her shoulder on her way out the door.

“Mary, did you see—” Agnes began, but Mary cut her off.

“Hush. No talking. No touching. We will discuss it later.”

Mary was right, for it did not take more than a minute for Miss Taylor to return to the room, bonnet in hand.

“Here you are, Mrs. Eliot.” Miss Taylor handed over the bonnet, but Agnes let Mary take it to admire its excellence. She performed well, exclaiming over the fine workmanship until the milliner’s face relaxed.

However, Agnes’s heart continued to flutter even after they left the shop.

“Good heavens, Agnes. I have never been so startled or so frightened in my life!” Mary said on their way to the carriage.

“You have a very poor memory, Mary. Do you remember at school when I was so angry at Madame Garnier for forcing me to stay after lessons for speaking English in French class? We snuck into her classroom to put that dead mouse in her drawer. I thought you would die of fright at every creak of the old schoolroom.” Mary had certainly not been alone in her fear, but Agnes would never reveal her own weakness.

“I have not forgotten. These things are always your idea, Agnes. And all for nothing.”

“Yes. You are fortunate to have me to enliven your life. But this time, I found a clue. That paper had the name ‘Mr. Burns’ written at the top of it. And it was found, you will remember, in the drawer labeled, Accounts: Mr. S.”

Paris, France

17 February 1751

Dear Sophia,

As I am in France, I read Voltaire, specifically Letters on the English. It is out of date, but it helps with my French, and I find it amusing. I wonder if you have read it? I think you would find these letters interesting. They’ve opened my eyes to how an outsider might view the English. I strive to understand the French and their ways since I live among them.

Voltaire is opinionated but writes in such a diverting manner that I’m not offended. Indeed, he is right in many of his criticisms of both the French and the English. I’ll not detail all I have read, but I wish you were here to talk about it with me. Monsieur Aubin is a bore and wants only to discuss painting and the superiority of French fashion. The latter is a subject upon which I have very little to say. Or rather, I cannot say all I wish because it will offend Aubin, who is ridiculous in copious amounts of lace. Please, run me through with a sword if I ever don a wig.

All my love,

Philip

Chapter 15

8 May 1753

Sophia buttoned her brown woolen jacket and pinned her favorite hat atop her head. Her eyes dashed repeatedly to the pile of letters Philip had left her the night before. She had not read any of them. They reminded her not only of what she’d lost with Philip but also of the kiss Mr. Burns had bestowed upon her.

It had felt like a violation. She supposed it was within his rights, but he’d performed the kiss without romance. Philip had acted like a fool, but Mr. Burns’ behavior had been no better.

Sophia stopped trying to avoid those letters and picked them up, running her thumb over the smooth satin ribbon that bound them together. No, she would not indulge. She shoved them under the bed to put both men out of her mind.

Turning on her heel, Sophia left her room and headed to breakfast. Golden light streamed through the windows in the entry hall, indicating the beginning of sunrise. Philip was not an earlier riser, so she would leave for the fair without him. Besides, the earlier she arrived, the earlier she could leave to check on the lambing ewes.