by Carla Kelly
Andrew was gone, and Cecil, too. Jane marveled at her own insensitivity in exposing Blair’s son to the full force of their dislike. I should have gone, she thought, lying down on her bed and drawing up her knees to her chest. No matter how bad it is, I should have gone. She slept then, too tired to do anything else.
She was vaguely aware when they returned from church, but she slept again, to be roused soon enough by the smallest knock on her door. “Come in,” she said, pushing hair and sleep from her eyes.
Andrew, his face so pale that his lips were white, came into the room. She stared at him as he sat down in the chair in front of the fireplace. Horrified, she could tell that he was beyond tears. “Oh, Andrew, what did they say to you?” she said as she hurried to kneel beside the chair.
He shook his head. “Nothing to me,” he said finally. “After church, my aunt asked the vicar how I was doing in Latin School.”
Jane gasped. “Oh, God, I never thought of that! And … and did the vicar tell her about ….” She couldn’t finish.
Andrew nodded. “Mr. Butterworth was standing near.” He hung his head down and she watched the tears drop onto the arm of the chair. Wordlessly she pressed her hand against his head. “She said such terrible things to him, Miss Mitten!” He looked at her, his eyes red. “Called him common, and someone who pokes his nose where it doesn’t belong, and … and words I never heard before.” He sobbed into the arm of the chair. “All he was doing was teaching me Latin, Miss Mitten!”
Jane rested her cheek against his hair. “I know, Andrew. It’s all my fault.”
He shook his head. “No, it isn’t. We didn’t do anything wrong.” He looked at her. “Do you think Mr. Butterworth will ever want to see us again?”
Not if he is as smart as I think he is, she thought, and then went all hollow inside. We will have no friends anymore, and I am to blame for speaking my mind. I should have known no good would come of it. “We can wish that he would, my dear,” she replied, “although I would not hold out too much hope.”
Andrew sighed. “Why does she care how I learn Latin? She never cares about anything else I do.”
Andrew, if you only knew how many years I have been wondering why she dislikes me so much, Jane thought, as she got to her feet and found a handkerchief for the boy.
“I am sure it is she who has been telling everyone that my mama …. Oh, Miss Mitten, suppose it is all true?” he burst out. “I do not understand!”
Her own heart full to bursting, Jane took him onto her lap and let him cry. “I don’t understand, either,” she murmured. And I do not understand why no one—Blair included—made any effort to scotch the rumors. She could not stop her own tears then. Am I the only one who ignored the rumors?
She forced herself to stop crying, and held Andrew close against her until his tears turned into hiccups, and then stopped. Calmly she wiped his face, kissed his forehead, then let him rest against her again. “My dear, I believe that your aunt wants our cousin Cecil to inherit Lord Denby’s titles and estates,” she told him.
“He can have them,” Andrew replied promptly, his voice muffled against her breast. “I just want to learn my Latin, then go to school someplace where no one teases me.” He pulled away from her. “That’s not too much to ask, is it?” he questioned her, his voice anxious.
“No, it is not, my dear,” she answered. There was nothing more to say. She held Andrew as the afternoon dragged on. His stomach began to growl, with the coming of dusk, but he made no move to leave her lap, or ask about dinner. I cannot bear one more meal in that dining room, Jane thought, as she tightened her grip. I think I would rather starve.
She could feel Andrew jump a little when the footman rang the first bell for dinner. “Don’t you wish that Mr. Butterworth would invite us to eat with him?” he asked finally.
“That would solve our problem,” she told him, keeping her voice light. “Actually, Andrew, he sent a letter to your grandfather last night, inviting us to spend Christmas at his sister’s house in Huddersfield.”
He sat up on her lap, his eyes wide. “Please tell me that you accepted!” he demanded, reminding her forcefully of his grandfather.
She shook her head. “It probably isn’t proper, my dear, so I am afraid I will have to turn him down.”
“Miss Mitten!” he exclaimed, and if she had not been so miserable, Jane would have been amused by the exasperation in his voice. “This would solve our entire problem!”
I wish it were so easily solved, she thought. I wish a visit to Mr. Butterworth’s would brush away years and years of suspicion and dislike and terrible storytelling. “I don’t think it would help us much, Andrew.” She sighed and lifted him from her lap, going to stand by the window. “I doubt that we are very high on Mr. Butterworth’s list of Christmas charities right now, considering the way Lady Carruthers treated him after church today. Andrew?”
While she was talking, he had seated himself at her desk, and then arranged the paper and pen in front of him. “Oh, Andrew, we dare not write Mr. Butterworth,” she said.
He wasn’t listening to her, but staring in front of him. In another moment, he nodded and began to write. “Miss Mitten, you always tell me that I should persist, when faced with a dilemma,” he told her as he wrote. “It’s true, isn’t it?”
“Well, yes, but …. Oh, Andrew ….”
He finished the line, then put down the pen. “Miss Mitten, you’ve been teaching me the truth all these years, haven’t you?” he asked.
“Of course I have,” she replied, stung by the implication. She smiled again, when she realized what he was doing. “I suppose this is called being hoist on my own petard, isn’t it?”
He looked at her doubtfully. “I … I hope not, Miss Mitten!”
She laughed and hugged him. “Very well, then, write away. We’ll face the dragon over dinner, and then smuggle this note to Stanton in a bottle.”
His expression of doubt remained. “I … I had rather planned just to hand it to him, Miss Mitten,” he said.
“Andrew, you have no more imagination than your father!”
He observed her with a smile that relieved her heart as nothing else could have. “Miss Mitten, this is the first time you have mentioned Father without tears in your eyes or a glum look.”
“I suppose it is,” she said slowly. “But own it, Andrew. There were times when he was such a … a ….”
“Slowtop?” Andrew offered, his eyes lively.
“Exactly. Now do hurry or we shall be late for dinner, which will only disgrace us further.”
It was an easy matter to slip the note to Stanton, and then hurriedly take their seats in the dining room before Lady Carruthers had time to look around more than once or twice at the expanse of empty chairs. She cleared her throat with a sound that startled Cecil, slumped as he was over the consommé in front of him. “For what we are about to receive, may the Lord make us truly thankful,” Lady Carruthers said, and then picked up her spoon and glared at Jane.
I dare the Lord to call that grace, Jane thought. She folded her hands in her lap, unable to even contemplate the thought of eating. If I cannot eat, I can at least take her attention away from Andrew, and his various crimes and misdemeanors, she told herself. Heaven knows I have given her enough amusement at my expense to keep her occupied for an entire holiday season of meals, and off Andrew’s back. But why should either of us suffer? she thought suddenly. Possibly it is time I abdicated my tide of perfect poor relation.
She looked at her cousin Cecil, who was drinking his soup with that air he wore of perpetual injury. How someone so languid can sit up all night at a card table and play away his entire quarterly allowance, I cannot fathom, she thought. She glanced at Andrew, who was making himself small in his chair, as he usually did during meals. We deserve far better, even if we are a poor relation and an unwanted child.
Jane put down her spoon and took a deep breath that came from somewhere deep inside her. I am depending upon you to be rig
ht, Mr. Butterworth, she thought, as she pushed back her chair and went to Cecil’s side. Willing her hand not to shake, she rested it against his forehead as he stared at her in open-mouthed surprise.
“Dear me, cousin, you are brave to have left your bed,” she murmured, hoping for that right touch between concern and humility. She crossed her fingers behind her back and looked at Lady Carruthers. “Is his skin always this color?” She rested her cheek against her cousin’s forehead now. “Cecil, you are so brave to come to the country. I doubt that many would have gone through such exertions to see an aging relative. I had no idea.”
“There is nothing wrong with his color,” Lady Carruthers snapped.
“Perhaps not,” Jane said with what she hoped was serenity. “My mistake, Cecil.” She picked up her spoon and calmly sipped her soup while Andrew stared at her.
It is not working, she thought in quiet desperation as she forced herself to eat. After what seemed like years, Cecil slowly rose from the table and stood looking into the mirror over the sideboard. Yes! she thought, as he touched his cheek with his fingertips. Yes!
He had difficulty moving toward the sideboard for a better look, so she rose quickly to help him. “There, there, cousin,” she whispered. “Don’t exert yourself if you do not feel up to it. We know how brave you have been.”
To her intense delight, Cecil was trembling now, and patting his face with both hands, turning his head from side to side to catch all the light. “What do you think it is, cousin?” he asked her at last, in a voice that sounded weak to her ears.
More hypochondria than exists in small countries, she thought, praying that her lips would not start to twitch. “I am certain that Mr. Lowe could be here in an hour or so to tell you,” she said, “if, indeed, you have an hour to … to ….”
Lady Carruthers was on her feet by now, and grasping her son by his shoulders. “I would be extremely careful of him, Lady Carruthers,” Jane murmured. “Do let me summon Mr. Lowe.”
“Do that, Jane,” the woman said as she helped her son back to the table. “Rest your head there, my little love, and I will tell Stanton to hurry with that dratted tisane he promised hours ago.”
I am certain that tisane is on its way to Cecil from the kitchen by way of Madrid, Jane thought. She leaned close to Lady Carruthers to whisper, “I wouldn’t leave Cecil alone, cousin.” Cecil whimpered, and Jane bit her lip until she could go on. “I’ll mention the tisane again to Stanton, and write a note for the doctor, mum. Come, Andrew, and let us search for smelling salts. Oh, Cecil, do be brave!”
Once in the hall, it was a simple matter to tell Andrew to run upstairs and pack a bag, and then to find Stanton belowstairs. When he stopped laughing, she wrote a note to Mr. Lowe, urging him to come quickly and find something seriously wrong with her cousin. “I depend upon you, sir, for you owe me a great deal,” she concluded, writing fast, and then blotting the note, which she handed to the footman, who grinned and pulled on his overcoat over his livery.
“I’m sorry to do this to you, Stanton,” she said as they went upstairs together. “I promise to write to Lord Denby, and can only hope that he will forgive me for deserting him, but Andrew and I are running away for the holidays.”
“To Huddersfield, Miss Milton?” he asked, his smile broad.
“If Mr. Butterfield has not changed his mind, Oliver, and I do wish you would call me Jane occasionally. In fact, make it a New Year’s resolution, if you would.” She touched his arm. “It’s long overdue, Oliver, as are a number of things around here. See you in January.”
“And not a moment before, Jane.”
Chapter Eight
The ease of their escape from Stover Hall for the holidays she could only credit to Mr. Lowe, who, when he arrived, took one look at Cecil, by now in bed and truly pale, and ordered total bed rest and complete quiet.
“I suggest a change of scenery for Andrew during the holidays, Lady Carruthers,” he told her in all seriousness. “Cecil must have total silence, and we know how rambunctious small boys can be.”
One would think you had no idea how quiet Andrew already is about this place, Jane thought, as she listened and marveled. Have a care here, Mr. Lowe, or my cousin will try to palm her responsibilities off on me. I know this from vast experience.
“I shall take Andrew to London with me, and leave Jane in charge,” Lady Carruthers said. “She is such an expert with invalids.”
Mr. Lowe exceeded Jane’s wildest flights of imagination as he shook his head sorrowfully. “No, Lady Carruthers, this illness requires a mother’s presence. Suppose, just suppose, that you were far away when Cecil here ….”
Cecil whimpered on cue, and Jane dug deep within herself when Mr. Lowe turned away and coughed long and hard.
“… when Cecil took a sudden turn,” the good doctor concluded, when he found the means of speech again. He leaned closer to Lady Carruthers. “Madam, it is epizootic fever, and one never knows.”
Jane gasped. “But … but Lord Denby? Is he safe here with Cecil in the house?” she asked, hoping for the proper quaver without overwhelming the situation.
The look Mr. Lowe fixed upon her suggested forcefully that he was at his outer limit. “Lord Denby must be left strictly alone, Lady Carruthers. Stanton is quite capable of relieving you of all duties on that head.” Mr. Lowe rested his hand on Cecil’s arm. “I’ll give him a draft that will allow sleep, and return to my office and mix up powders, which you will administer every four hours until the crisis is past. Come, Jane, and let us leave these two alone.”
“The … crisis?” Cecil asked, his eyes wide.
“No one has a carte blanche on life, Cecil,” he replied. He bent over Cecil, his lips close to her cousin’s ear. “I trust your affairs are in order. Come, Jane. I must prepare those powders without another moment’s delay.”
The hallway was too close, so the doctor took her by the arm and hurried her to the bookroom, where he sat down, rested his head on his arms, and muffled his howls of merriment against the desk.
“Epizootic fever?” Jane asked, making no attempt to disguise her skepticism.
“I believe it is a condition of horses,” he managed before he had to retreat to his handkerchief again for another round of mirth.
“And these powders you are going to prepare?”
“… will do nothing worse than turn his piss bright blue, my dear,” he concluded, with another swipe at his eyes. “Will that do, or am I still in your debt?”
She nodded. “It will do, sir, but you know that you will always be a debtor.”
Without a word he reached across the desk and took her hand. “I know, Jane, I know,” he said, his voice soft now. He kissed her fingers, then released her hand. “Do you tire of doing everyone’s dirty work? Mine, as well?”
In the morning they were ready, bags packed, when Mr. Butterworth’s carriage rolled to a stop at the front entrance. “Ready, my dears?” the mill owner asked when the footman opened the door.
“Andrew, you help Reeves with my bag, there’s a good lad,” she said, pulling Mr. Butterworth inside. When Andrew had left the house, she leaned close to whisper, “Sir, we must wait just one minute. Carlton took a urinal upstairs a moment ago, and I must listen.”
“Mr. Lowe paid me a visit last night, so I know the whole of it,” he said with a grin. “You are a rascal, Miss Milton.”
“I suppose I am,” she agreed. “Who would have thought it?”
Mr. Butterworth’s grin grew wider as they stood together in the hall. He laughed out loud when an anguished yell split the morning quiet. He laughed louder when Jane tugged on his muffler. “I cannot take you anywhere, sir,” she said, pushing him toward the door.
“Take me? Take me?” he protested. “You and the doctor are the ones who have conspired to ruin Cecil’s manly dignity.” He offered her his arm, which she took. “Remind me never to get on your cranky side, if you have one.” He helped her into the carriage.
“Everyone has a
cranky side,” she told him as she seated herself and made room for him to sit beside her. “Even you, I suppose, Mr. Butterworth.”
“Especially me, my dear,” he replied, and she was struck by the seriousness in his voice. “Repenting at leisure is not the sole purview of gentry. Even mill owners have been known to do it.”
He said nothing more to her, but directed a remark about the horses to Andrew that led to a discussion on a bit of bone and blood that Mr. Butterworth had his eye on in the spring’s Newmarket trials. They returned briefly to Mr. Butterworth’s home where Joe Singletary, out of breath and stuffing papers into a briefcase, joined them. Jane watched the secretary, remorse on her mind. “I fear that Andrew and I have forced you to leave a few days earlier than you would have wished,” she said, helping Joe retrieve stray papers as the postilion closed the door.
“No matter, Miss Milton, no matter,” the mill owner said. “This just gets Joe home a day or two sooner to his sweetie, eh, Joe?”
The secretary nodded and blushed, but made no comment. In another moment, he and Andrew continued the discussion on horses that Mr. Butterworth had begun. Jane leaned back and closed her eyes, relishing the warmth of the sun through the glass.
She must have slept then, because when she woke, her head was resting on Mr. Butterworth’s thigh, and someone had covered her with a traveling blanket. The mill owner’s hand was heavy against her waist, and she suspected that he slept, too. Across from her, Andrew was curled into a ball. Mr. Singletary looked up from the papers in his lap. He nodded when she mouthed, “Is he asleep?” So she closed her eyes again, content to remain where she was. Mr. Butterworth, she thought, you are a comfortable man. Such a pity that you are wasting your comfort on Jane Milton.
