Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind

by Carla Kelly

  He knew how to choose inns for luncheon, too, because the food was hot, and the service attentive. Even Andrew noticed. “Miss Mitten, when we go anywhere with Grandfather or Lady Carruthers, we never have food this fast,” he whispered, while Mr. Butterworth was busy praising a particularly fine leg of mutton and the footman, all smiles, who bore it in. “And we have a crest on the door, where Mr. Butterworth does not!”

  She smiled at Andrew and straightened the napkin tied around his neck. “But have you ever heard Lord Denby or your aunt show such appreciation? Have they ever complimented a waiter?”

  Andrew shook his head. “There is something to that, isn’t there?” he commented as he held out his plate for a slice of the mutton.

  Indeed there is, she thought, as the journey continued. If Mr. Butterworth runs his mills the way he treats people, then he ought to be declared a national treasure. I could tell him, she told herself, the way he tells others. She smiled to herself. After all, Mr. Butterworth, if I embarrass you, you can only blame yourself, as you are always admonishing me to speak my mind. She leaned closer to the mill owner, who was watching Andrew read, a smile on his face.

  “Mr. Butterworth, you are a remarkably kind man.”

  “Oh, I don’t ….”

  “Surely you are not going to become missish, as you accuse me!” She laughed. “Of course you are kind. Truly, sir, you are so good with people, and the wonder of it is, you mean every word of your kindness.”

  He continued to smile at her, but there was a wistfulness in his eyes she hadn’t noticed before. “Have you ever stopped to consider that I might be following your own example?”

  It was so preposterous that she laughed, then covered her mouth when Joe Singletary stirred and muttered something in his sleep. “You cannot escape a compliment so quickly, Mr. Butterworth!” she teased. “Some people are just born good, sir. The rest of us must have goodness thrust upon us by rigorous discipline!”

  “Precisely my point, Miss Mitten,” he murmured, then turned his attention to the scene outside the window. “And look now; it is beginning to snow.”

  Peaceful in her heart, she did not object to a change of subject. In his own way, I suppose Mr. Butterworth is like Lord Denby, she considered, looking at the mill owner’s profile as he gazed out the window. Lord Denby’s essays have done so much to reform the morals of an entire officers’ corps, and Mr. Butterworth works so hard to improve the lot of the oppressed. I suppose I am more fortunate than I know, to have the acquaintance of such men.

  They passed through Leeds as the afternoon sun lengthened, and she was glad when Mr. Butterworth said his home was just beyond in Rumsey, and there was no need to stop in the city. She knew they would pass down the High Street to Devon, where the workhouse stretched for two gray blocks. “There it is, sir,” she murmured into the mill owner’s sleeve, so Andrew would not hear. “My alma mater.”

  He looked for a long moment. “Snow does wonders for institutional buildings, Miss Mitten.”

  “I suppose it does,” she agreed.

  A few more blocks, and more silence, and they were in the country again. The snow was falling harder now, and she could feel the horses straining on the road. They topped a rise, and came down into Rumsey. Lights were coming on, a wink here, a wink there, and men bundled in overcoats and mufflers strode with purpose, leaning against the wind. In the distance she heard a factory whistle.

  Mr. Butterworth rubbed his hands together and chuckled. “Rumsey’s workers are going home to hearth and wife, and brown bread and chowder, Miss Mitten,” he said. “That whistle’s from Rumsey’s own mill, which I intend to own, when the present proprietor beats it into the ground.”

  She knew it was what a mill owner would say, but she had not heard him speak like that before. “I don’t understand.”

  “His own mismanagement and ill will toward the men, women, and little children who labor for him will close him down one day,” he said, his eyes on the mill as they passed it. “Ill treatment is not a cup which can be filled forever and ever, my dear, or have you noticed?”

  I have noticed, she thought, with a glance at Andrew. She didn’t mean to sigh, but she did. Mr. Butterworth took her hand and held it, and she had no desire to pull away. I still need a friend, she thought, returning his slight pressure on her fingers.

  After a moment’s silence, he patted her knuckles and released her hand. “And now, my dears, do brace yourselves. When you accepted a mill owner’s invitation home for Christmas, you agreed, in effect, to share his brown bread and chowder, did you not? Well, Andrew?”

  “Yes, sir,” Andrew said, his eyes serious.

  “Even if it means visiting with people whose style is not precisely your own? Rubbing shoulders with hoi polloi?”

  Andrew frowned, and put his finger in the book he was reading. “I don’t know any pollois, Mr. Butterworth, but Miss Mitten taught me manners, if that is what worries you.”

  The mill owner leaned forward across the carriage and rubbed Andrew’s head. “Of course Miss Mitten taught you,” he said with a laugh. “You would probably remember your manners in a teepee, eh? Or a mill owner’s tenement?”

  “You’re quizzing me, sir,” Andrew said. He came over and sat between Jane and Mr. Butterworth.

  “I am, indeed, laddie. Oh dear, the horses are slowing down now. If you don’t think you can bear with equanimity your first glance at your home for the few weeks, do look away,” Mr. Butterworth said.

  Jane smiled, relieved to hear Mr. Butterworth’s lighter tone again. No matter what his home is like, it will be more pleasant than Stover Hall for Christmas, she decided. I am determined to admire what I see.

  She stared out the window at the mill owner’s house. Thinking it a house is only another indication of my lack of imagination, she decided finally as she closed her mouth, and wondered at her own rag manners. At least you are not drooling, or making strange sounds, Jane Milton, she scolded herself. One would think you have never seen a mansion before.

  She had always thought that Mr. Butterworth’s estate near Denby was a fine affair, but this house in Rumsey eclipsed it, and put Stover Hall itself in some danger, she decided, as the carriage came closer. The style was Georgian, solid red brick, with its proportions totally symmetrical and agreeable in every way to someone yearning for order in the universe. It was a home built to last, with snow on the roof now, smoke curling from all the chimneys, and a wonderful wreath gracing the door.

  “Miss Mitten, you are holding my hand rather too tight,” Andrew said in protest.

  “Oh! I am sorry, my dear,” she exclaimed, releasing his fingers without even having been aware that she had grasped them in the first place.

  Mr. Butterworth sighed and nudged her shoulder. “I know it is lacking a Greek temple or two, and a maze out back, but what is a mill owner to do, Miss Mitten? Miss Mitten? Are we still on speaking terms?”

  “ ‘Sharing your brown bread and chowder,’ indeed!” she said with some feeling.

  “I suppose that was a little strong,” he admitted when the carriage stopped in front of the mansion and the postilions dismounted. “But are you woman enough to admit to just the tiniest fear that you were careering toward vulgarity of unimagined depths when you accepted a mill owner’s invitation?”

  “I am woman enough,” she said simply. “It is beautiful, Mr. Butterworth.”

  “In a word, Miss Milton, muslin,” he said. “Bolts and bolts of it, and wool, too, in the other factory. Enough wool to put a uniform on the back of every soldier in England. Muslin for children, schoolroom misses, shy damsels at come-outs, brazen opera dancers—excuse me, Andrew—and summer shirts for gentlemen.”

  “All this goes on in your factories?” Andrew asked.

  “That and more, lad,” Mr. Butterworth said.

  “I want to see it.”

  “And so you shall, lad,” he replied. “Here we are.”

  The mansion was as beautiful up close as it was from the d
istance, with the setting sun outlining all the symmetry. Lights shone from the windows, and Jane could smell the balsam from the Christmas wreath even as she stood beside the carriage. “Lovely, just lovely,” she murmured, as Mr. Butterworth took her arm.

  “My father built the house, and it is mine,” the mill owner said, steering her through the snow that was starting to drift as the wind rose. “Because I live in Denby, my little sister Emma and her husband Richard Newton reside here with their three”—he smiled as the door opened and children came out—“their three and a half offspring. Richard handles the day-to-day operations of both mills.”

  You are a favorite, sir, Jane thought, as the mill owner was accosted by children. She released his arm and rested her hand on Andrew’s shoulder instead as they watched Mr. Butterworth hug them all in turn.

  Mr. Butterworth clapped his hands to get their attention. “Curtsies and bows now,” he ordered. “Let me introduce Miss Jane Milton and … and Andrew Stover from Denby, who have consented to spend Christmas here with us.” He leaned close to Andrew and whispered, “Am I guessing, or would you rather just be Andrew Stover, rather than Lord Canfield?”

  Andrew grinned at him. “Much rather, Mr. Butterworth!”

  “Very well, then. Jacob, this is Andrew. I expect the two of you to fetch the Christmas presents from the postilion over there and take them to my sister.” He glanced down at the little girl who was tugging on his pant leg. “You, too, Lucy.” He put his arm around a young girl who was almost as tall as Jane. “Miss Mitten, this is Amanda. He kissed her cheek. Amanda smiled at Jane, then turned to help Lucy, who was holding out both arms for a package far too large.

  “I wonder that you want to be away from them for three weeks out of every month,” Jane murmured as he took her arm again and led her up the steps. She looked around at the children. “I would rather be here.”

  “Would you?” he asked. She could tell he was going to say something else, but the door opened again upon a woman far gone with child. “Ah, my dear Emma. How you’ve grown!”

  Jane smiled as the mill owner carefully hugged his sister, who kissed him and then gave him a little push. “He is a dreadful tease,” the woman said to her, as she held out her hand. “He will be making jokes at my expense through this entire visit.” She belied her words by standing on tiptoe to give him another kiss. “But he will tell you that is what brothers are for, Miss Milton. You are Miss Milton?”

  “She is in very deed,” Mr. Butterworth agreed. “Andrew is somewhere down there, running with the pack already. Miss Milton, this is my little—well, my not-so-little—sister, Emma Newton.”

  The woman made a face at her brother and held out her hand to Jane. “Wretched brother! My dear Miss Milton, I trust you will not object if my Jacob takes over your charge? They appear to be somewhat the same age, and Jacob had been pining to play with boys, instead of pesky sisters.”

  “I have no objections whatever,” Jane said, admiring the handsome woman and looking for some resemblance between her and the mill owner. She saw it in their height, and the easy way they had with each other. “Come, Andrew,” she called, looking behind her. “Make yourself known to your hostess.”

  She admitted privately to her own pride when Andrew came up the steps, Jacob hot on his heels, and bowed neatly in front of Emma Newton. “This is my cousin Andrew Stover,” she said. “Andrew, this is Mrs. Newton.”

  To her surprise, the smile left Emma’s face. She looked at Andrew seriously, and then knelt awkwardly in front of him, until they were on eye level. She put both of her hands against his face, and then her cheek as well. “You are so welcome, my dear,” she murmured. “I am so glad to meet the Latin scholar I have heard so much about.”

  Oh, she is wonderful with children, Jane thought, as tears came to her eyes. I am so glad Mr. Butterworth let us tag along to Rumsey and the cotton mills. She leaned close to the mill owner and he obligingly bent down so she could whisper in his ear. “It seems that Andrew and I have come up in the world, wouldn’t you say? Such a lovely welcome from your sister.”

  “She is a lovely woman,” he replied.

  He seemed so scarcely to be in command of his own voice that Jane looked at him in surprise. “Mr. Butterworth, you really ought to abandon Denby and come back to live with your own relatives,” she whispered.

  He turned to look at her, his face so close. “I am just speaking my mind, sir,” she said softly, and surprised herself further by kissing him. Oh dear, she thought as she pulled away quickly and Mr. Butterworth straightened up. Put me around a little family feeling and I get sillier than usual. What possessed me? “Well, you advised me to speak my mind,” she reminded him. Embarrassed, she glanced at Emma Newton to see if she had noticed her own lapse in manners, but the woman was still regarding Andrew.

  “You won’t mind if, during your visit here, Jacob tags after you, or if Lucy gets sticky fingers on you,” she was saying to Andrew.

  “Oh, no, mum, I won’t mind a bit,” he told her earnestly.

  Jane smiled and looked away. “Your sister has made a conquest,” she said to Mr. Butterworth.

  “She does that regularly,” he replied. He took her hand and patted it in that brusque way she was familiar with. “Now, ladies and gentlemen, let us go inside. Emma, may I help you up, or should we find a block and tackle?”

  Dinner with Mr. Butterworth and the Newtons was so wonderful that Jane wanted to pinch herself. I wonder if these people have even the slightest idea how lucky they are, she thought, as she enjoyed the flow of conversation around her. Mr. Butterworth nudged her every now and then to remind her to eat, but she found herself filled with satisfaction by the company she kept.

  Emma and Richard Newton presided at the head and foot of the table in the breakfast room, with Amanda to supervise her little sister Lucy, and then remind her mama that they did have an actual dining room. Emma Newton had only laughed and patted her brother’s arm. “Yes, Amanda, but then we would have to shout to be heard and send messages by carrier pigeon,” she said. She looked around her, and then at Jane. “I like this, Miss Milton, even if we are a bit like whelks in a basket.”

  So do I, Jane thought, as she wondered again how Mr. Butterworth could bear to spend time away from the Newtons. I do not know that I would ever let them out of my sight, she told herself. I cannot imagine what the attraction is at Denby, and so I shall remind him.

  The only crisis came when Lucy knocked her milk over while reaching for another bun. Jane could almost feel Andrew tense and suck in his breath, and then relax almost palpably when everyone in the family threw their napkins toward Amanda, who dabbed up the milk for her little sister. As though nothing had happened, Amanda continued her conversation with her father on the merits of studying Italian instead of needlework at Miss Finch’s Day School.

  Jane watched as Andrew leaned toward Jacob. “Aunt Carruthers would have scolded me until bedtime,” he whispered.

  “Why?” Jacob asked.

  Andrew shook his head, as though he had never considered the matter in that light. “I really don’t know.”

  “How fortunate that she is not here then,” Jane replied, then smiled as she thought about Cecil.

  “You look like the cat with the canary,” Mr. Butterworth commented on her other side.

  “I was merely wondering if Cecil has decided to whom to bequeath his debts,” she said, “or even if he is still among the living.”

  “One can’t be too careful with epizootic fever,” the mill owner said seriously, which further tried her dignity. “Do have another bun, Miss Mitten.”

  “You call her Miss Mitten?” Lucy asked, looking at her uncle with big eyes.

  “Yes, Lucy pet,” he replied. “It is her nickname.” He winked at her. “Even your old uncle can quiz pretty ladies.”

  “She is pretty,” Lucy agreed. She looked at Jane. “What do you call my uncle?”

  “Mr. Butterworth, of course,” she replied, amused. “What else
?”

  Lucy frowned. “I should think maybe Uncle.”

  “He’s not my uncle,” Jane said.

  “Then what is he?” Lucy persisted, with the understanding of a four-year-old.

  “What, indeed?” she quizzed.

  “The best friend she will ever have, Lucy,” he assured her without hesitation or embarrassment. “On that note, Richard, let us shoo away your offspring, detach the females to supervise them, clear off this table, and spread out those blueprints I saw you bringing home. Are they the plans for the mill workers’ quarters?”

  Richard helped his wife from her chair. Mr. Butterworth blew Lucy a kiss, then swatted her with the blueprints he picked up from the sideboard. “Is it business, Uncle Scipio?” she asked with a frown.

  “Most assuredly, Lucy,” he told her, tapping the blueprints. “It keeps butter on your bread.”

  “And on other people’s bread as well,” Jane said, moving Lucy along. From the corner of her eye she could see Mr. Butterworth pulling back the blueprints to take a swat at her, too, so she stepped out of range, feeling only the breeze as he missed. Lucy laughed. “Uncle Scipio! You are worse than I am,” she scolded.

  Emma was laughing as they followed the children to the sitting room. She took Jane’s hand. “I want to call you Jane, even if Scipio cannot. Or will not!”

  “Jane it is, Emma,” she said simply. “Now how can I best help you this evening? I don’t imagine you are too comfortable these days.”

  “I am not,” she agreed. She stopped and squeezed Jane’s hand. “Do you know, that is what Scipio writes about you!”

  “He writes about me?” Jane asked, surprised.

  “Oh, yes. You and Andrew,” she confided. “He says that you are always studying people’s comfort, and that he wonders if you have a thought for yourself ever.”

  I have many thoughts for myself, she told herself, and none of them productive lately. “He is the one who is all kindness,” she said after a pause that felt awkward to her own ears.

  If it was awkward, Emma chose not to notice. “No, my dear,” she contradicted with that serenity that Jane was finding so appealing about her. “I know my brother far better than that.” She hesitated, and Jane was struck by her sudden seriousness. The moment passed, and she smiled again. “Come, Lucy, and let us impose upon Miss Mitten to give you a bath, so Mama is not forced to bend where she does not bend anymore!”