by Carla Kelly
There now, I have delivered that with total aplomb, she thought, as she watched her cousin’s face grow beet red and then resume its customary pallor. Even you will not accuse me of sarcasm, because I have said nothing unseemly. Oh, three cheers for a bland demeanor, Mr. Butterworth, you dear fellow!
“Poor Cecil is lying down with a sick headache,” Lady Carruthers said. “I blame the wretched postilions, who did not tie down his smaller traveling case.” She paused for what seemed to Jane to be dramatic effect, even though her audience was only one. “It was dumped in the snow this side of Leeds, and his lace and neckcloths have suffered real indignities. As a consequence, he has taken to his bed.”
I shall go into whoops, Jane thought, as she tightened her lips together. “I cannot imagine such a mishap,” she said, when she was able.
Lady Carruthers looked at her with an expression that Jane could not recognize. She thinks I am in agreement with her, she realized finally, struck almost to openmouthed amazement by this blinding epiphany. For years I have hung my head and stammered around this dragon, when all I needed to do was look her in the eye and deliver my sarcasm with a straight face. I cannot wait to write a note to Mr. Butterworth. “Oh, my,” she said faintly, not even realizing that she had spoken out loud, until Lady Carruthers nodded.
“It was a dreadful thing, indeed, Jane,” she said. “Cecil had scolded and scolded them to tie down his luggage just so, and then this happens. I cannot understand why he has all the misfortune.”
Oh, I can, Jane thought suddenly. It is the revenge of the powerless, cousin, can’t you see? Cecil probably pranced about, wringing his hands and rolling his eyes, and cajoling and threatening their jobs. The postilions dare not talk back in kind, so they manage to drop his traveling case in the snow and blame it on winter and travel conditions. “There was probably a quantity of mud, too, wasn’t there, where the case fell off?” she said, controlling her voice by the force of her will and praying that she sounded sympathetic.
Lady Carruthers nodded. “It was as though the coachman found the worst place on the entire Great North Road to stop the post chaise and clear the mud from the horses’ hooves.” She shook her head. “My dear baby has such wretched luck. And so I told the butler. What’s his name ….”
“Stanton, ma’am,” Jane said, linking her arm through her cousin’s and pulling her gently along the corridor. “Did … did Cecil rehearse all his troubles to Stanton?”
“Oh, yes, and to the footman, as well. There may even have been that wretched upstairs maid peeping about and spying on her betters.” Lady Carruthers stopped. “That was over an hour ago, and do you think the servants have made a single push to bring him bouillon, a tisane, and a simple can of hot water? I requested it specifically. In fact, I demanded it.”
Stanton, you are a sly dog, she thought, barely able to contain herself. “Perhaps if you had not demanded it, cousin ….” she ventured.
Lady Carruthers removed her arm from the crook of Jane’s elbow. “Jane Milton, stupidities like that will always brand you as workhouse. You will never know how to deal with servants!”
Jane had to duck her head then to hide her smile. “That is it,” she said, her voice soft. “I tell them please and thank you like a ninny.” And I always have hot water and whatever else I wish, she thought. “Thank you for the education, cousin. Do excuse me for a moment. I must check on Lord Denby.”
She escaped up the stairs, raising her skirts and taking them two at a time, even as she heard Lady Carruthers’ gasp of disapproval. “Jane, I despair of your improvement!” her cousin called after her.
“And so do I,” Jane murmured. The upstairs linen closet door was open, so she ducked inside. Stanton stood there examining the shelves where the sheets were stored. With a wave of her hand to him, she sat on the stool by the towels, grabbed one, and laughed into it. If the butler was surprised, he did not indicate it, but continued his perusal of the shelves.
She wiped her eyes on her sleeve after another moment and then watched him. “Stanton, is there something I can help you find? I probably know those shelves as well as you do.”
“You probably do,” he agreed, his voice serene. “I have come from the Honorable Cecil Carruthers’ room, where he tells me that his sheets are too scratchy and insists that I do something before he breaks out in hives because his skin is so delicate.” He peered at her from around a mound of sheets. “I disremember how long it takes for him to throw out spots, Miss Milton,” he continued, the picture of placid demeanor. “Was it ten minutes or twenty minutes?”
“Ten, I think,” she replied, laughter bubbling up inside her again.
The butler slapped his forehead. “Oh dear! I know I have been here at least fifteen minutes! How thoughtless.”
“Stanton, you are amazing,” she said. “I think you will find the sheets you want over there next to the burlap bags and hair shirts. And do you plan to see that he gets only tepid shaving water?”
He bowed. “If he is extremely lucky, Miss Milton, it will not have chunks of ice floating in it. We are washing his muddy neckcloths and lace right now, but I greatly fear for them. And as for his bouillon?” He shrugged. “I cannot imagine why that is taking so long.”
Very well, sir, she thought, getting off the stool, if you are so composed, I can be, too. “Perhaps too much wind down the chimney is making the stove draw strangely,” she said.
“I am certain that is it.” He sighed. “And now Lord Denby swears that he will remain in bed until he dies.”
She giggled, then covered her mouth with her hand. “I cannot blame him. I wonder, Stanton, do you think he will take an interest in things again when Lady Carruthers and Cecil leave?”
“I wouldn’t know, Miss Milton,” he said.
There was a long pause. She looked at the butler, and wondered why, like the other upstairs inmates, she had never taken his full measure. I have always had allies in this house, she thought, even in the worst moments. “I am certain that he will, Stanton. You are a wonder, sir!”
He bowed again. “We only do what we can, Miss Milton.” After another careful perusal of the shelves that threatened to send her into a fit of laughter, the butler selected some sheets. From a distant room, Jane could hear a bell jangling. “I thought I heard something, Miss Milton,” he said, pausing to listen and then simply amazing her with a long, slow wink. “No, must’ve been the wind.” He shook his head. “I am certain the stove is not drawing properly now. Oh, dear.”
With the slightest of smiles, he nodded to her and went to the door. “Miss Milton, I do believe that Lord Denby received a letter from Mr. Butterworth next door, inviting you and Andrew to spend Christmas in Huddersfield with him at his sister’s family home. Lord Denby would like to talk to you about that, and he told me to mention it to you.”
She left the linen room with the butler, her heart in perfect charity with him. Down the hall in the opposite direction, the bell jangled more fiercely. “Perhaps I should see to Cecil,” she offered, holding out her arms for the sheets. She ran her hand over the fabric. “These feel like sandpaper! Stanton, did you hear me?”
“Actually, no, Miss Milton,” he replied. “Did you say something?”
She shook her head. “Nothing of importance. Do check on Lord Denby and tell him I will be with him directly.” She waited while he bowed to her. “And, Stanton ….”
“Yes, Miss Milton?”
“I doubt there is a thing wrong with Huddersfield,” she told him. “Surely you are not as big a snob about mill towns as Lady Carruthers!”
He did not even pretend to look shocked. In fact, she was amazed that a man could raise his eyebrows so high without really changing his expression. “Never,” he said succinctly.
I can hardly wait to dash off a note to Mr. Butterworth this evening and tell him how much I have learned, she told herself, and then another thought took hold. “Do you know, Stanton, in the—oh, my, has it been twenty years since we have known each o
ther?”
“I believe it has been, Miss Milton. I was a footman then.”
He was smiling now, and she could not help but notice how it animated his eyes. What a handsome man, she thought. “All these years, and I do not even know your Christian name,” she concluded simply.
“It is Oliver, Miss Milton.”
“Then Merry Christmas, Oliver.”
Chapter Seven
In her heart of hearts, she knew she would rather crawl the length of the driveway on ground glass than knock on Cecil’s door, but she knew—even if Mr. Butterworth did not—that duty counted for something. From the frantic sound of the handbell, she knew that Cecil Carruthers was not noticeably enfeebled.
“Cecil?” she asked, peering into the room. He had been propped up on his elbow, but when he saw her, to Jane’s intense amusement, he collapsed back onto the mattress and the bell dropped from nerveless fingers.
“I thought help would never come,” he managed, when she tiptoed closer.
“Oh, Cecil, it was only your traveling case,” she said, noticing that there was no fire in the hearth yet, and that the draperies were still open, even though the afternoon had waned into dusk. She closed them, grateful that she had never given the servants cause to ignore her. Cecil, I predict you will have a dreadful Christmas, she thought, without a shred of remorse. “Don’t you have a valet?”
The slight figure under the covers moved only a little. “I have been abandoned, cuz,” he said, hand to forehead, “and all because I was a little behind with his wages.”
“How little, Cecil?” she inquired as she laid a fire.
“Eight months is all. I ask you, Jane, where is loyalty these days?”
“Where, indeed?” she echoed, her heart sinking. If this excuse for a human ever gets his hands on Lord Denby’s estate, we are all doomed, she thought. The solicitors might as well put everyone on the estate in a wicker basket and send us over those falls on the Canadian border.
“Come closer, Jane, and feel my forehead,” her cousin begged.
She watched the fire a moment to make sure that it was burning properly, and went to the bed. Cecil Carruthers lay there, his hand delicately to his chest, the picture of put-upon humanity. He looked enough like his cousin Blair to make her stand there a moment, unwilling to touch him. I have done this too often, she thought, finally placing the back of her hand against his head. He was not so much like Blair, she told herself, reconsidering. He is rather like Blair done in watercolors and then blotted and smudged until only a shadow remained. Or Blair with all the blood drained from him. She took her hand away quickly.
“Is it that bad?” he asked in alarm.
“There is nothing wrong with you that a little sal volatile in porter would not cure,” she replied, going to the door, wanting to be away from him. “Let me see what I can find.” She left before he could begin his protest, but before she was many steps down the corridor, the bell began to jangle again.
It was almost a relief to step into Lord Denby’s room and sit down beside his bed. She took his hand, admiring, as she always did, the handsome veins so well-defined. “I cannot have you taking to your bed again, my lord,” she said, leaning forward to rest her cheek against his hand for a moment. “Not when you have been doing so well.”
He sighed. “My sister was in here earlier,” he said.
She could not help but notice the dismay in his voice. “I am certain she wanted to wish you a good evening, my lord,” she said, sitting up straight again.
“No, my dear, she wanted to rehearse for me all of Cecil’s woes and beg for an advance upon his next quarter’s allowance,” he said, the exhaustion unmistakable in his voice. “I told her that I would.”
And he will only beg for more next time, and more, until he has your estate and he ruins us all, she thought, looking around the room because she could not bear to gaze at Lord Denby so helpless again, when only yesterday he was arguing with Mr. Butterworth. All she achieved was a reminder of how shabby the place was becoming. There is no firm hand at Denby anymore, she realized.
“Stanton said that you received a note from Mr. Butterworth,” she prompted, wanting to change the subject.
He turned his head toward a letter lying on the night table. “It is some sheer nonsense about inviting you and Andrew to spend Christmas at his sister’s home near Huddersfield.” With an effort he turned upon his side and faced the wall. “Of course you will answer and give your regrets.”
“Of course I will,” she echoed. “Good night, my lord.” She picked up the letter, the paper familiar to her fingers because it was the same stationery she had used for the reunion invitations. She hesitated at the door. “Perhaps things will seem better in the morning, my lord.”
“Is she going away then?” he asked hopefully.
“No, my lord. She and Cecil are here for Christmas.” His sigh went on so long that she wanted to cover her ears. So much for loving relatives, she told herself as she left the room quietly.
It doesn’t have to be this way, she wanted to shout as she hurried down the hall. “But how do you know that, Jane Milton?” she asked out loud as she stopped before the door to Blair’s room, then went inside. How do I know? she wondered as she moved, sure of herself, in the dark room as she had done so many times during that last winter and spring, when the light had finally begun to bother his eyes. She found the box of sulphurs where they always were, and lit the candle.
She sat on the chair next to the bed, as she had sat so often during the months when he loitered between life and death. The room was peaceful now, smelling of mint and balsam that Lady Carruthers had insisted on placing about. It was a good idea, she thought, breathing in the fragrance. I should tell her; everyone likes a compliment.
There was a sound in the doorway, and it did not surprise her to see Andrew. She motioned him in, and he leaned against her chair. In another moment his arm was around her shoulder. Without a word she took hold of his hand as it lay on her shoulder.
“Do you miss him, Miss Mitten?” he asked, his voice as quiet as the room.
She nodded, unable to speak.
“I think I would miss him more, if I knew him better,” Andrew said.
Jane looked at him in surprise, and then she thought about what he had said. “It was the war that took him away, my dear. If you want to blame someone, blame Napoleon.”
To her further surprise, he shook his head, and then after a moment’s hesitation perched himself on the bed so he was facing her. “Other fathers came home once in a while, Miss Mitten,” he said, as though the words were being dragged from him. He leaned toward her. “Miss Mitten, do you think he believed those stories about my mother, too?”
She leaped from her chair and sat beside him, both arms around him. “I am sure he did not!” she exclaimed.
“Then why did he never come home?” he asked, his eyes big with a question that she could not answer.
“There is so much we do not know,” she replied. It was an unsatisfactory tack, but she was unable to think of another. She held her breath, hoping that he would not ask anything else. He sighed, and settled against her. “I wish that you had let me sit with him, too,” he said softly.
Oh, you do not, she thought. Besides, I promised.
“I … I could have told him that I loved him.”
Touched, she looked at Andrew, thinking of the other boys his age in the district, and how childish they seemed by comparison. Andrew, have you always been old? she thought, even as she knew the answer.
“He knows you loved him, my dear,” she replied.
The boy nodded and got off the bed. He looked at it a moment, then patted the pillow. “Maybe so, but there is something in the telling, isn’t there, Miss Mitten?” He nodded to her and left the room.
Silent, she sat in the chair again, unwilling to leave the room, unwilling to fetch sal volatile and face Cecil again, or even to pick up a pen and turn down Mr. Butterworth’s kind offer. She heard anot
her sound behind her, and smiled. There is something in the telling, she thought. I suppose it won’t hurt to tell you, my dear. Mr. Butterworth says I should speak my mind, and it matters, you know.
“My dear boy, do you know, before he died your father told me that he loved me.” It seemed easy to say just then, and a weight lifted from her shoulders. You are so right, Mr. Butterworth, she told herself. I should speak my mind more often.
Her blood turned to chunks as she heard someone clapping behind her. Jane whirled around, hardly breathing, to see Lady Carruthers standing in the room. “Oh, I thought you were ….” she began, and then stopped, as the applause continued. “Please don’t do that,” she begged.
Lady Carruthers laughed and stopped clapping. “Jane, trust you to believe a delirious man,” she said. “Lord, I do not know when I have been so diverted. I simply must share this with Cecil. He needs a good laugh!” She was still laughing when she turned on her heel and left the room.
Jane was awake all night, hands clenched at her sides, staring at the ceiling in her room, wishing for morning to come, and then dreading it, because that would mean another encounter with Lady Carruthers. “No, Mr. Butterworth, I cannot speak my mind around Lady Carruthers,” she said out loud, when it seemed that morning would never come. “I must leave this place.”
When she could not stand another moment of lying in her bed, she got up and dressed quickly, her fingers clumsy. She was tying her shoes when she stopped, her hand on the lace. And where will I go? she thought in despair. Where am I free from relatives? I could never leave Andrew. It was almost the last thing Blair had said to her, his last thought, after he told her he loved her. “Watch him, Janie, as you always have,” he had whispered, the words draining out of him like his own blood.
Jane shivered and finished tying her shoes. She snatched up her cloak and tiptoed from the house. In only a few minutes she was circling Mr. Butterworth’s lake and then seating herself on a bench, shielded by trees from both houses. In exhaustion and perfect misery, she sat there through Lady Denby’s departure for church. When the carriage was small in the distance, she trudged back to the house.
