by Carla Kelly
“Yes, Miss Milton, I do fear your imagination has been stifled by too much confrontation with Lady Carruthers,” he replied. “There! I was hoping you would smile!”
“How can I do otherwise, when you are so preposterous?” she asked.
“It is this way, my dear. The addition of another mill in Huddersfield means that I finally require the services of a secretary here. Now, do not frown! I have needed a secretary for several months, and have been too poky to stir myself about it until now.”
“You are so busy,” she began, but even to her ears, it sounded like a weak protest.
“Busy is what I like, Miss Milton, and you know it,” he reminded her. “My secretary will handle any additional correspondence that the new mill generates, but I am certain that he will have extra time.” He leaned closer and looked into her eyes, as though daring her to animadvert. “That was why I put off transferring Joseph Singletary here. He clerks in my other mill in Huddersfield. I happen to know that he took honors in Latin at school, and is just the tiniest bit bored by only secretarial duties. Andrew and Caesar will be just what he needs to round out his week.”
“He should be on his way to Oxford then,” Jane said.
“And he will be, when I figure out a way for one of his distant relatives to leave him a nest egg.” He leaned back in triumph. “It takes even me time to think of everything, Miss Milton. Joe can handle my additional correspondence, which will not be onerous, and tutor a small boy who will find him quite a remarkable fellow, and far more fun than a mill owner whom he probably thinks is old enough to have accompanied Caesar’s legions. Now you may applaud my good sense!”
She laughed and clapped her hands. “How will you create a distant wealthy relative, Mr. Butterworth? Mr. Butterworth?” She looked at him in alarm, surprised at the sudden tears in his eyes. “Are you well?”
He took her hand again, and could not speak for several moments. She wanted to dab at his eyes with her own handkerchief, but felt shy. Besides that, he was holding her hand, and she had no urge to pull her fingers away.
In another moment he was smiling at her. He released her fingers. “Miss Milton, I have not heard you laugh in months. That is all,” he said as he stood up and moved to his own desk across the room. “If that is what a secretary and newfangled dip pens will do, why, we will plan surprises every week!”
“Thank you,” she said simply. “I suppose now you will tell me that you will discover a distant nabob dangling from Mr. Singletary’s family tree, or a buried Caribbean treasure, or Revolutionary War bonds next fall when the Long Term begins.” She knew he would smile at her own wit again, and he did. I think that exposing your own generosity is more than you care for, my dear Mr. Butterworth, she thought. I can keep this light. She folded a paper and sailed it across the room to him. He caught it in midair and returned it the same way.
“You are almost correct, Miss Milton,” he said as he opened the ledger before him. “Mr. Singletary—who by the way will arrive by the end of the week—will indeed find good fortune by September next, and so will Andrew, if you will permit me some entanglement in his affairs. I believe that your charge will discover St. Stephen’s in Scarborough far more to his liking than Harrow. It will not contain those little twits currently applying themselves at the vicar’s Latin School, who are probably more than eager to spread rumors enough to blight Andrew’s existence. St. Stephen’s is my school; I am a trustee, and it will be an economy over Harrow, so Lady Carruthers will dare not complain.”
“Why are you managing Andrew’s affairs, sir?” she asked suddenly. “No one has ever taken an interest in them before.”
He opened his eyes wide and stared at her until she laughed again. “Miss Milton, you are going to tell me what you think!” he declared. “I thought that you would retreat and become missish after our little heart to heart yesterday. Thank God I was wrong.”
“You were wrong,” she agreed. “After I told Lord Denby what I thought last night, and sent that note to you, I knew that I had no shame left, sir!” This is the right touch, she thought, pleased with herself. And my word, but it feels good to say what I think. I shall continue. “You are amazing, sir.”
He settled back in his chair with a smile on his face as he directed his attention to the ledger. “Amazing, eh? Now, hush. I have mills to run.”
She straightened the paper missile on her desk, dipped the pen in the ink, and wrote, “Thank you!” on one of its wings. When it dried, she sailed it back, enjoyed his chuckle, and turned her mind to the reunion invitations.
It came sailing back with “You’re welcome,” written on the other fold. Impulsively, she blew a kiss in the mill owner’s direction, felt the warmth of his laugh, and returned to the invitations.
They were done by the end of the week. She had no more excuse to visit, and so she told Mr. Butterworth as she sealed the last invitation and waited for the wax to cool.
“I refuse to accept that, Miss Mitten,” he said, with typical good humor. “Joe Singletary is arriving tomorrow or Sunday, so you must return on Monday to meet him, and see if he passes muster.”
“Very well, sir,” she agreed, admiring the invitations. “Thank you for the use of your lovely sitting room, the extravagant luncheons …”
“I must eat, too,” he interrupted, and winked at her.
“… the dip pens, fresh ink and paper,” she continued, then clasped her hands in front of her. “But I will wager you have no idea what else has happened this week, sir.”
He closed the ledger in front of him with a certain finality. “You have decided that I am a superior man,” he quizzed.
“I already knew that, Mr. Butterworth,” she said serenely, and felt a certain delight when he blushed. “Lord Denby is starting to grumble and complain because I was not at Stover Hall this week.” She gestured to the invitations. “What is even better, he began complaining again about you and your ham-handed, mill owner’s way of buying this estate right out from under his nose ten years ago!”
Mr. Butterworth rolled his eyes. “After it had sat vacant for years and sprung more leaks than an East India merchant’s dinghy!” He rubbed his hands together, and she almost laughed at the look in his eyes. “Did he squawk about the survey and assure you that he was robbed of my pretty little lake?”
“The very thing, sir,” she replied, looking around for her reticule and bonnet. “Stanton is so proud of himself and his reunion idea. He is practically crowing about the fact that Lord Denby is grouchy now and taking a real interest in things again. Even you.”
She found her reticule, and Mr. Butterworth retrieved her bonnet from the bust of Julius Caesar where Andrew regularly hung it each morning. He set the bonnet carefully on her head. “Actually, my dear, if we are to be plain speakers, I suspect that Lord Denby is a grouch because you are not there.”
“That is a strange notion,” Jane contradicted as she tied the ribbands. “No one ever misses me.” No, that is not true, she thought. They miss me if there is something disagreeable to do, like sitting up with Blair while he lies dying. She frowned into the mirror over the fireplace as she realized that she had not thought about Lord Canfield for an entire week. How odd. “They do not miss me, Mr. Butterworth,” she repeated.
“I cannot agree,” he said. He handed her the invitations and walked with her to the library. “I’ll wager that you are the heart and soul of the place, Miss Milton.”
It was so absurd that she stopped. “You cannot be serious, sir,” she said finally, when she could almost feel the blush spreading up from her bosom to her face.
To her relief, the mill owner did not pursue the matter. He shrugged and held open the library door for her. “My mother—you would have liked her, Miss Milton—was much that way. I do not recall Mama ever raising her voice, or even stating her opinions much in a far too opinionated household.” He sighed. “But I do not suppose I have felt much peace since she left us, my dear. I never knew how necessary she was to me until
it was too late to tell her.”
Then we are all fools together, she thought, you and me, and Blair, and probably Lord Denby, for all I know. “You should marry, Mr. Butterworth,” she said impulsively, motioning to Andrew that it was time to leave.
“So should you, Miss Milton,” he replied just as quickly. “Andrew, have you finished the entire page? You will make Mr. Singletary’s life a heaven on earth. Let us go over it.” He winked at her. “Miss Mitten can wait, for it is what she is best at, so she tells me.”
This is odd, she thought in confusion as she watched the two of them, their heads together, discussing Andrew’s page of the Gallic Commentaries. She retreated to the window seat and perched herself there, letters in her lap, as she watched the last of the leaves drift in spirals from the elm outside the window. As she watched, the rain began, and then slanted sideways as the wind roared down from the Pennines. It will be so long until spring, she thought, and felt a familiar prickling behind her eyelids. Why did Blair have to wait until the last day of his life to tell me he loved me? How could he have been so stupid?
She leaned her forehead against the windowpane, grateful for the cold glass. The rain beat against it, and the drops pulsed against her face through the glass. How good this feels, she thought.
She sat up and looked around, hoping that Mr. Butterworth and Andrew were still occupied with the translation. But no, Andrew was pulling on his coat and chattering in that animated fashion he never used at Denby, and the mill owner was watching her. Don’t ask me anything, she thought.
He saw them to the front door, speaking of inconsequentials, and informed her that Marsh had already called for the carriage, when she pulled up the hood of her cloak.
“Sir, it is only a brief walk past the lake,” she protested. “You know how brief. Lord Denby claims it is his!”
Mr. Butterworth smiled. “I won’t have you catching the cold, or getting those invitations wet and start the ink running, my dear Miss Mitten.”
When the carriage arrived, Andrew darted out and leaped inside. The mill owner took the umbrella from his butler and held it over her as she moved at a more sedate pace. “Seriously, Miss Milton, I have wondered these ten years why you are still a single lady,” he said after he helped her inside.
She seated herself and leaned forward. “Mr. Butterworth, no one has ever asked me to be otherwise.” She sat back. “You have no such excuse, sir.”
“No, I have not,” he agreed. “You would call me an idiot if I presented the lame excuse that I am too involved in cotton mills. ‘No one is that busy,’ you would tell me, wouldn’t you, now that we have decided to be truth tellers, eh. Miss Milton?”
She shook her head, wishing that he would hurry inside before he took a chill. Now is the time to return a quizzing answer, she thought, except that I am never clever enough to think of one. “I know how time gets away from us, Mr. Butterworth,” she said quietly. “Twelve years ago, Andrew was a baby in my arms, and now he is preparing for school away from me. I don’t know when it all happened. Lord Denby is contemplating a reunion of old men who were sprigs in the American Revolution. And Blair is dead ….” She turned away to search her reticule for a handkerchief.
The carriage jostled, and the door closed, and Mr. Butterworth surprised her by seating himself next to her. “It’s getting dark, Andrew, and one must beware of road agents between my house and Stover,” he explained. “You need me.”
Andrew only laughed and stared out the window again at the rain. “If an agent tells us to stand and deliver, sir, I can surrender Caesar’s Commentaries.”
Mr. Butterworth laughed. He put his arm around Jane and held her close to him. “Have a good cry tonight, Miss Milton,” he whispered in her ear, “then dry your eyes and plan this reunion.”
She nodded, and blew her nose, grateful to lean against his comforting bulk. “I am being missish,” she said in apology.
“I don’t care,” Mr. Butterworth replied serenely. “If you think Lord Denby could stand the strain, invite me over some afternoon to drink tea and play cribbage with him.” He turned to look at her. “Just tell him that I have missed his visits of complaint about the lake and will bring the quarrel to him, for a change.”
“I’ll do it,” she said, drying her eyes, “on one condition.”
“Which is ….”
“That you make some push to meet an agreeable lady of sense—I do not care if it is here or in Huddersfield—and waste no more of your own time.”
“That’s a straightforward request,” he said. “I shall think about it, Miss Milton.”
She sighed, and made no objection as his arm continued firm about her shoulders. “I do not know that I have ever leaned on anyone before, sir,” she whispered. “You are not uncomfortable?”
He shook his head. “Miss Milton, you are totty-headed if you think that I am uncomfortable.”
That is honest enough, she thought with amusement as the carriage passed down the grander lane of Stover. To her way of thinking, the trees were not so finely shaped as Mr. Butterworth’s. How that must chafe Lord Denby, she told herself. And how much prettier this park would look with Mr. Butterworth’s lake attached. She began to laugh softly, so Andrew could not hear.
The mill owner looked at her. “Now what is so amusing?”
“I was thinking of your lake, sir, which Lord Denby covets. None of us seem to get what we want, do we?” She leaned closer. “I want Andrew to be happy, and Lord Denby to go about living again. Lord Denby—when he isn’t wanting to die—wants your lake. Stanton and I are foisting a reunion on him.” She looked at him, then followed his gaze to the front door as they pulled up before it, and the mourning wreath, which even now dripped black dye onto the stoop. “Do you want me to remove that, Mr. Butterworth?” she asked.
“It would be a good start,” he answered as the carriage stopped. “Shall I do it now?”
He opened the door and Andrew hurried out, after promising to be on time Monday morning to meet Mr. Singletary. Jane sat where she was, contemplating the wreath, then looked at the mill owner. “Not yet, please,” she said. “Let me think about it some more. I mean, I should consult Lord Denby.”
Mr. Butterworth nodded and left the carriage first, so he could help her down. “The rain has stopped,” he said as she took his hand to steady herself.
“See there, sir,” she told him. “You could have saved yourself the exertion of a carriage ride. We could have walked. After all, who puts you out more than Andrew and I? I am almost embarrassed.”
He bowed over her hand and kissed her fingers. “My dear Miss Milton, just invite me to tea now and then. If my presence doesn’t send Lord Denby into the boughs every so often, then I am scarcely worth my salt as a neighbor, and he is too far gone to be resuscitated! Good day, my dear. Have a thought about yourself once in a while.”
She nodded. “I suppose you will give me no peace until I do, sir.” She took his arm to detain him. “In all my quizzing, I have not been thoughtful enough to ask you what it is you want. You have been so kind to me, that I wish it were in my power to grant whatever it is.”
He shrugged and she released his arm. “Miss Milton, where is your imagination? Surely Lady Carruthers has gone on and on about how disgustingly, unwholesomely wealthy I am, and that I must lack for nothing! How could I need anything?”
“That is no answer,” she said as he climbed into the carriage again, then lowered the glass.
“My dear, I will tell you what I want when you decide what you want.”
She frowned at him, and stepped away from the carriage as the coachman mounted to the box again. “You know that I am most concerned about Andrew’s welfare and Lord Denby’s state of mind and health. I want them to be happy.”
“Which tells me nothing about you, Miss Milton,” he replied. “Do think about yourself, when you can fit it into your schedule.”
Chapter Six
What do I want? It was food for thought, but surprisin
gly simple to push to the back of her mind as October turned to November and then December, and the postman brought replies to her invitations. Lord Denby surprised her one morning by pacing back and forth in his nightshirt and robe in the foyer, waiting for the postman. “I’m expecting some important papers from my solicitor in Leeds,” he said, before she had a chance to say anything. “I’ll let you know if any letters come for someone else.” She had the good sense to withdraw from the foyer, on the excuse that she was just passing through on her way to go over the week’s menus with Cook.
“You wait now, Stanton. I will go upstairs with the latest post, and he will be quite casual, even though he is just almost jumping about, wanting to know whom I have heard from,” she told the butler belowstairs as she drank tea with him.
“He’s pleased then?”
“Oh, yes,” she assured him. “He’s even planning who will sleep in what room, and debating whether or not he should encourage them to bring along their old uniforms!”
Between morning walks to Mr. Butterworth’s house to deposit Andrew into the tutelage of Mr. Singletary—an amiable young man of no particular background, but with vast supplies of both character and intelligence—she spent time belowstairs with Stanton, making plans for the reunion.
“It is never too soon to plan menus,” she told Mr. Butterworth when he came over, as he often did now, for cribbage with Lord Denby. “Everyone who is able is making plans, sir, and I mean for this to be an event.” She made a face. “He even wondered if we could procure a rather disgusting creature called a ’possum, for the evening we have a Carolina menu.”
“You don’t want one,” Mr. Butterworth assured her. “I believe those bags of guts with snouts were only eaten to assuage the outer extremities of starvation.” He patted his waistcoat. “A good haunch of venison should serve rustic purposes, Miss Milton.”
