Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind

by Carla Kelly

  She glanced at him, alarmed at her hemorrhage of words, but his expression did not change. “To hold this reunion, apparently I must sacrifice Andrew to the vicar’s Latin School, which is inhabited entirely by twerpy little heathens who only want to tease him about his dead mama, even though so many years have passed. Oh! It is all so impossible!”

  Her voice rang in the tidy apartment, and she opened her eyes wide in amazement. “Did all of that just come out of my mouth?” she asked.

  Mr. Butterworth nodded. “I believe it did.” To her heart’s relief, he sheltered her dignity by taking off his spectacles to clean them. He directed all his attention to this homely detail, and even hummed under his breath. “Do you feel better?” he asked after he replaced his spectacles. “If it will help I will challenge Lady Carruthers to a duel and shoot her dead. Ah, I was waiting for that smile.”

  He rose to stand by the window, rocking back and forth on his heels. She finished the pastry, wondering how low her credit was now, after such an outburst. Lady Carruthers is right, she thought mournfully; I have no countenance. “I know I have agitated you and I apologize,” she said, her voice quiet. “Thank you for listening, though.”

  “Pretty petty of me,” he murmured. “You and Andrew suffer, and I listen and offer pastry.”

  Surprised, Jane looked at him. I should leave, she thought, but joined him at the window. “I didn’t mean to give you a fit of the megrims, too,” she said.

  “Just a little one, Miss Milton,” he said after a long moment. “So there is to be a reunion?”

  She knew a change of subject when she heard one, and grasped at it with both hands. “Yes! We—Stanton and I—did anyone ever have a better confederate?—are conspiring to draw together next spring Lord Denby’s comrades from the American War.”

  “For the purpose of ….” Mr. Butterworth began.

  “… of … of … oh, I suppose we want to blast Lord Denby out of bed, and into taking more of an interest in things again,” she said. “After all, it was in America that he began focusing his thoughts on the conduct of soldiers in wartime occupation that have so signally affected all levels of military life.”

  Mr. Butterworth made a noncommittal sound in his throat. “So you feel that something extra is needed to prop up Lord Denby?”

  “It is our hope,” she said simply.

  “But what if he really wishes to die?” he asked her. “A man ought to have some say in the matter, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Trust a mill owner to find the practical warp in this weaving, she thought. “Sir, he is only sixty!” she protested.

  He smiled at her. “Cheer up, Jane Milton!” he said. “I think it is a wonderful idea, and I await the day … no, the very moment … when Lord Denby will throw back his covers, storm over to whatever social gathering where I am to be found, and assure me that a proper survey of my estate would return my lake to Stover Hall, once and for all!”

  “It has been a while since he has bothered you about that, hasn’t it?” she said. “It used to be his chiefest amusement.” She shook her head. “You see how low we have fallen.”

  Mr. Butterworth was silent for another long minute, and then he clapped his hands together. “A reunion it should be then, Miss Milton. If he is in a sufficiently weakened state, he will be indifferent if you bring over the invitations so I can help write them, too.” He touched her shoulder. “If you will not allow me to shoot Lady Carruthers, and the vicar, too, as well as all those pesky Latin scholars, we can at least gorge on pastry and umbrage!”

  “And plot revolutions of our own. Done, sir,” she replied, holding out her hand to him. He surprised her by kissing her fingers.

  She had no time to be embarrassed, because then Marsh was there with her cloak, quite dry and even warm. She allowed the butler to swirl it around her shoulders, and then permitted Mr. Butterworth to escort her to the entrance. “I will be over soon then, once we have composed an invitation. At least one of the letters, maybe more, must go all the way to Canada, so we cannot waste a moment,” she said.

  “You know I would happily call for my carriage,” he told her as they stood at the open door. “It hardly seems sporting to rescue you on the road in front of my house and then send you out again.”

  “Of course you can, sir. It is only misting now, and I do not require an escort. She pointed to his feet. “I would not have you utterly destroying last year’s Christmas present.”

  He laughed in that hearty way of his that seemed to fill the room. “I forgot all about these!” He leaned closer, his finger to his lips. “Do not tell Lady Carruthers. She will have another charge about mill owners to lay at my door.”

  “That you are eccentric?” she teased, as the rain spotted his spectacles.

  “That will be the kindest thing she says.” He squinted into the rain, which was spotting his glasses. “Do tell Andrew that I will be happy to help him with his Latin, should he need some brushing up. Good night, Miss Milton, and thank you.”

  She tugged her cloak tighter. “For what, sir? For letting me speak my mind?”

  “That is it, my dear Miss Milton. Someday—if you are really good—I will tell you what is on mine.”

  Chapter Four

  They began the following Monday, after Andrew’s incarceration in the vicar’s Latin School. The way was paved by Lady Denby’s abrupt departure for London and a visit with her son. “Or ‘Cecil the Silly, the queerest leaf on anyone’s family tree,’ ” Jane told Mr. Butterworth as he sat her down at the desk, which he had moved to take advantage of the best morning light. “That was what Blair used to call him.”

  Mr. Butterworth stood over the wastebasket, shaving the last quill into a finer point. “I rejoice then, that my diminished status as mill owner in this fine neighborhood has kept me from claiming a closer acquaintance with so rara an avis.”

  She twinkled her eyes at him. “Oh, excellent, excellent man! We should have engaged you as Andrew’s Latin teacher.” She frowned. “I did hate to leave him there today.”

  “Buck up, Miss Milton,” he said, his voice mild. “Growing up is difficult, but not impossible.”

  “For him or me, sir?” she asked.

  He touched her shoulder. “Correct me if I am wrong, but since you have, in all but actual fact, been this lad’s mother since almost his birth, we will allow some misgivings on your part.” With their heads together, she and Mr. Butterworth composed an invitation that was more of a letter, informing Lord Denby’s former brothers-in-arms of the book, and his desire to see them all once more. “We don’t want to be too morbid,” Jane said. “They should be informed of his son’s death—those who do not know—and our ardent hope that such a reunion will bring Lord Denby the cheer so sadly lacking from his life, of late.” My life, too, she thought, swallowing down an enormous lump.

  To her relief, Mr. Butterworth took the narrative from her. “We will invite them to spend a day or two here at Denby in … when do you think, Stanton?”

  “The middle of April, sir,” he said after a moment’s thought, then looked at Jane. “What about it, Miss Milton?”

  Thank you both again for sparing me, she thought. “That would be good. By then some will be returning from the London Season, and others will be heading for their summer pursuits.” She glanced at the directions on the list. “And considering that this is October, it will provide adequate time for those far away to reply. Except possibly those here in Canada.” She looked closer. “My word, Connecticut, United States?”

  Stanton took the list from her and held it at arm’s length to read the name where she pointed. “Edward Bingham, Hartford, Connecticut.”

  “After all these years, how on earth does Lord Denby have his direction?” Mr. Butterworth asked.

  “Lord Ware—you remember Lord Ware from the funeral—has kept in touch with Bingham through the years,” Stanton explained, handing back the list. “I suppose that is why it is among Lord Denby’s directions. Apparently Ware, Lord Denb
y, and Bingham were lieutenants together before a change in orders sent Lord Denby as adjutant to Lord Cornwallis in Charleston. The other two sailed to New York to wait attendance on Lord Clinton.” He accepted the quills from Mr. Butterworth. “We can assume that Bingham preferred life among the rebels.”

  “I don’t know that it’s worth the bother to write to him,” she said as she opened the bottle of ink before her.

  “Oh, I would,” Stanton said. “He could be the most interesting participant of all, should he show up.”

  “Which is unlikely,” Jane said. “Fresh ink, Mr. Butterworth? Lord Denby will have to repent some day of his constantly nagging about your lake, especially since you are treating us so well!”

  The first letter did not suit her. “I do not want them to think we are on our last legs, Mr. Butterworth,” she told him when she realized he was watching her hesitation. “I am determined that this is going to be a pleasant experience for Lord Denby. If only we did not have to keep reminding him how pleasant!”

  He wouldn’t hear of their return to Denby for lunch, cheerfully ignoring their protests at his efforts on their behalf. “Cook would be disappointed if I did not occasionally bring someone here to test a new receipt,” he said, when she attempted a halfhearted argument.

  Stanton did take his leave, but insisted that she remain. “Lord Denby expects me to serve him his gruel and tea, but you needn’t dance attendance,” he assured her.

  “I could never protest too much,” she said as Mr. Butterworth seated her in the breakfast room. The draperies were open to the warmth of the October sun. She accepted the dish that he handed to her, reminding herself that while others in the district had welcomed this good man to meals, and probably dined here, those at Denby had not, on the poor excuse that he “smelled of the shop.”

  Chagrined at herself, she looked about her at the wonderful ivy wallpaper that pulled the outdoors inside, and the expanse of glass that warmed the room, even in mid-October. She was comfortable right down to her toes with a sense of well-being that startled her with its suddenness. This suits me far more than Stover Hall. She picked up her fork. No wonder it is so easy to speak my mind here.

  Mr. Butterworth lifted the lid from the soup tureen. “It is nothing more exciting than navy bean soup,” he admitted with a shake of his head, as he filled a bowl for her. “We mill owners are too commonplace for hummingbird tongue.”

  She breathed deep of the fragrance of beans and ham. I could almost eat, she thought, even though she made no move to pick up the spoon. I must, or he will think that I am an indifferent guest. She stared at the soup, realizing for the first time that since Blair’s death she had stopped eating luncheon. No one ever commented at Stover, but here there was only Mr. Butterworth, and she knew he was watching her.

  He sat beside her instead of across the table. “Food’s not much fun anymore, Miss Milton?” he asked gently, even as he took her spoon and put it in the bowl for her.

  Even though she did nothing more than watch him stir the soup as though to tempt her appetite, she knew that somewhere a page had turned in her book of life. I need a friend, she thought suddenly. Andrew is in school where I fear he will be mistreated, Blair is dead, there is a reunion to plan, I am nearly thirty, and I need a friend.

  “Nothing is fun anymore,” she said. She hesitated, waiting for him to move away in embarrassment. After Blair’s funeral she had tried to talk to the vicar, but he had been more concerned for Lord Denby. There was Andrew to comfort, made all the more difficult because she did not know how much comfort he needed. Now here I am, sitting at my neighbor’s table for a perfectly prosaic luncheon, and I am about to fly into a thousand tiny pieces, she thought. He will think I am a lunatic. “Nothing,” she concluded, and picked up the spoon.

  “Then we will have to change that, Miss Milton,” he said. “Now eat your soup and let us return to the invitations.”

  She did as he said, disinclined to say more, since she had already said too much. While Mr. Butterworth ate another bowl of soup, Jane worked her way around a strawberry tart. I am so good at creating the illusion of eating, she thought, observing to herself that she had quite mastered the art of plying knife and fork to no effect. I need a friend, she thought again, as she put down her fork. She took a deep breath.

  “Mr. Butterworth, can we be friends?” She thought it would sound dreadfully forward, and cause her neighbor to fall off his chair. Nothing of the kind happened.

  “We will speak our minds to each other. I find that agreeable, Miss Milton.”

  So it is, she thought, as she allowed him to pull back her chair. As he escorted her back to the desk in the sitting room, she was hard-pressed to recall a time when she had been on such terms with anyone. Only at the very end of his life had Blair entrusted her with his thoughts, and by then, they were only regrets. She sighed and turned her attention to the invitations before her.

  Jane worked steadily, her mind on the task before her, until she noticed that the light was changing in the room. She put down the quill and flexed her fingers, then rose to look out the window.

  “It is too early for Andrew,” Mr. Butterworth said, and she realized with a start that he was sitting at the other desk in the room, one with pigeonholes and papers. She supposed that he had been there all afternoon.

  “Do you run your mill from here?” she asked, not ignoring his comment, but interested in a desk so cluttered. There was a wooden basket marked “In,” and another marked “Out,” and a large inkwell. “I have never seen anyone engaged in actual business before,” she said.

  He gestured at the desk. ‘Then look here, Miss Jane Milton. My brother-in-law is my junior partner. He sends me weekly reports and only troubles me with those problems he cannot solve himself. I go home one week in the month. In this way, we have managed to keep our crass commerce flowing through the empire.”

  “Why do you live here?” she asked, coming around the desk to look over his shoulder. “I should think it would be easier for you to be closer to Huddersfield.”

  “I choose it,” he said, closing the ledger in front of him. “The village is quiet, the air is better, and I choose it.”

  “What is that like, I wonder,” she said. “To choose something, I mean, and then to do it?” she added, when he looked at her in surprise. “And do not be so astonished! I doubt one female in three has much choice in anything she does.”

  She thought he would laugh, but he only frowned, and then went to stand beside the window. “Now you are watching for Andrew, sir,” she accused him. “He already knows that I am a worrywart, Mr. Butterworth, but I do not think he suspects such a thing of you. Come away, sir!”

  He shook his head, but said nothing, and she was content to watch him there. She was deciding that he was handsome in an impressive sort of way when he turned to her and gestured toward the door. “My dear Miss Milton, let us rummage about belowstairs and locate some refreshment for Andrew when he arrives. If I remember right—can it be over thirty years ago that I was ten?—Latin is a fatiguing business.”

  The kitchen was quite the place she thought it would be, with a cook up to her elbows in flour, and the scullery maid paring potatoes. What surprised her was the light in the room, let in by large windows and accentuated by pale yellow paint. “Such a pleasant kitchen,” she whispered to him. “Sir, did you do all this?”

  Mr. Butterworth nodded, and smiled at the scullery maid, who was beaming at him and sitting up straighter as she worked on the mound of potatoes. “Moira, you are an expert with that knife,” he said, and then, “Mrs. Chatham, do your exertions point to kidney pie for dinner? You are a pearl beyond price.”

  Jane tried to imagine Lady Carruthers even going belowstairs and then speaking to a scullery maid, and could not. Heaven knows she did not speak to me, she thought, watching while Mr. Butterworth engaged his cook in earnest conversation. He was joined by the butler and footman, who each seemed to have a morsel to contribute. I wonder if it is lik
e this belowstairs at Stover, she thought.

  After a few minutes, everyone returned to their duties. Jane picked up the tray, smiling her thanks to Mrs. Chatham. Mr. Butterworth held open the door and admonished her to mind her steps as she walked upstairs. I wonder if he even knows about me, she thought, then decided to plunge ahead.

  “Did you know, Mr. Butterworth, that I came to Stover Hall through the scullery?” she said as she set the tray on the table in the sitting room. “In a letter, Lord Denby told his sister—Lady Carruthers, of course—to retrieve me from the workhouse, but he neglected to add that I was meant to be upstairs, and not belowstairs, so down I went.”

  “I’ve heard those rumors,” he replied, giving her his full attention, in that way of his that she always found perfectly gratifying. “If I may ask, how did you find yourself in a workhouse in the first place?”

  “No one has ever wanted to know,” she said, wishing that her uncertainty did not show. “Are you certain ….”

  “I am certain, Miss Milton,” he said. “In fact, I am firm upon the matter.”

  “My mother was a Stover on a modest branch of the family tree. She made an improvident marriage. My father left us when I was five.” My, I sound so casual, she marveled to herself. “After Mama had contrived and schemed and then sold everything of any value to keep us afloat, she locked the door and we walked to the Leeds workhouse.”

  “Why did she not apply to her Stover relatives instead?” Mr. Butterworth asked, seating himself beside her.

  “Pride, sir. Her father had made no bones about his distaste for the marriage, and on the Milton side, I can only assume that there were grave reservations, as well. And I suppose people said things they could not retract.”

  As she watched his face, she could not overlook his expression. “People do that, don’t they?” he commented, after a moment.