Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind

by Carla Kelly

  This is far more fun than soothing Cecil’s crochets, Jane decided as she knelt beside the tub.

  “You have the touch, Jane,” Emma said as she reclined on Lucy’s bed, her shoes off.

  “Or at least I have not completely forgotten,” Jane replied as she gave Lucy a hand up, then lifted her onto a towel. “Andrew has been in my charge since he was an infant. Here now, Lucy, do hold still so I can wrap you up.” She picked up the child and sat with her close to the fire. “What beautiful golden curls you have,” she told Lucy as she dried her hair.

  “Uncle Scipio says I will break hearts someday,” she announced, then wrinkled her nose. “I do not know what he means, and Mama won’t tell me.”

  Jane laughed. “Then I shall not, either! Be assured that it is a fine thing for uncles to say.”

  Lucy sighed dramatically and threw herself back against Jane, who breathed in the fragrance of clean-washed hair and tightened the towel around the little girl. I think I could sit like this forever, she thought. “Do you ever wonder at your own good fortune?” she asked Emma.

  When there was no answer, she looked around to see Emma asleep. Jane smiled and put her finger to her lips. “I think your mother is quite worn out,” she told the child on her lap.

  Lucy nodded and turned Jane’s head until she could speak into her ear. “She is going to have a baby, you know,” she confided in a breathy voice that tickled Jane’s ear.

  “I thought as much,” Jane said. “If we are very quiet, I am certain that you can find your nightgown, and we will not even have to disturb her.” She draped the towel around Lucy; to her amusement, the little girl grabbed the long end and swirled it over her shoulder. “Such a flair,” she murmured, as Lucy stalked into the dressing room, one arm extended, as though she intended an oration.

  “Oh, indeed,” said Mr. Butterworth from the doorway. He looked over his shoulder. “Richard, come do the honors here for Em, and Miss Mitten and I will manage your dramatic daughter.”

  Both men were in shirtsleeves, and Mr. Butterworth’s fingers were ink-stained. “I can’t leave blueprints alone,” he confessed. He washed his hands in Lucy’s bath water while his brother-in-law carefully picked up his wife. Emma opened her eyes long enough to blow a kiss to Jane. “Thank you, my dear,” she murmured. “This is a fine start to your holiday with us.” She rested her head against her husband’s arm as he carried her from the room.

  “Isn’t there a nursemaid?” Jane asked, handing him the towel she had used on Lucy’s hair.

  “Oh, yes, but my little sister is far too good-hearted, and let her go home for Christmas,” he said. He dried his hands. “And here you thought you were going to have peace and quiet in Rumsey, Miss Mitten. Mill owners are notorious users of people, or don’t you read the penny post?”

  She scooped up Lucy and whirled her around. “At least I do not have Cecil,” she exclaimed. She took the towel from him. “Or even Lord Denby, although he is the dearest man.”

  “Could it be … a revolt by the perfect poor relation?” Mr. Butterworth teased.

  “Possibly,” she said. “During my visit I intend to deal with problems no greater than what book to read to Lucy, and how she likes her porridge. Climb up, love.”

  “I don’t like porridge,” Lucy confided as she got into bed.

  “Of course you do not!” Jane sat down beside her. “Shall we dismiss your uncle?”

  “First he will give me a kiss,” Lucy commanded, holding up her arms to Mr. Butterworth, who sat on the bed and kissed her on the forehead with a loud smack. “Then he usually gives my mama a kiss, but you will do, Miss Mitten.”

  “She will, indeed,” Mr. Butterworth agreed and kissed Jane’s forehead with another loud smack. To her astonishment, he took her face in his hands and kissed her lips. “That’s to pay you back,” he said softly.

  Lucy clapped her hands. “Now you may leave, Uncle Scipio.”

  Yes, do, Jane thought, her mind in a jumble. Give me a chance to calm down the color in my cheeks now. With real relief, she watched him blow another kiss to Lucy and then go to the door. “Good night, my dears,” he said. “Jane, would you like me to hunt down the boys and subdue them?”

  So I am Jane, she thought, and she could think of no objection. “If you would, sir,” she replied.

  Jane knew that she read to Lucy, but for the life of her, she couldn’t make sense of the words. No matter; Lucy’s eyes were drooping, and she closed them completely before Jane finished the chapter. “And I am certain they lived happily ever after, little one,” she whispered. “That’s how it is with fiction.” She kissed Lucy, and left the room on tiptoe.

  It was just a matter of following the sounds to locate Jacob and Andrew, but she stood for a moment outside their room, convincing herself that she was silly to make much of Mr. Butterworth’s actions. Jane, he could be your uncle, she told herself, as she opened the door. No, he couldn’t, she decided as she watched the boys look at each other, grab their pillows, and start toward Mr. Butterworth. He stood with his back to them, staring out the window. No, he could not be my uncle, she decided.

  It was the perfect moment to close the door and retreat, but she stepped inside. “Mr. Butterworth, do beware,” she said, then shut it, and leaned against it, laughing as he turned around to roar at the boys, who shrieked and dived for the bed.

  “Now I am to expect you to settle down to sleep,” he said, standing over them as they scrambled under the covers. “Although I cannot imagine how you will, after that kind of treatment. I never could.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “I was that young once, my dear. Can you credit it?”

  “Oh, yes,” she replied. “Looking at you now, your board of directors would probably say you have not aged a day!”

  He laughed and sat on the bed. “Go away, Miss Mitten,” he ordered her cheerfully. “If I can summon the strength to leave this room eventually, you should speak for tea in the sitting room.”

  She closed the door. She asked a servant in the hall where the sitting room was, and seated herself beside Amanda, who was attempting to separate a jumble of embroidery threads.

  “Did Lucy get into these?” she asked.

  Amanda shook her head. “I am completely to blame,” she confessed as she tugged apart a green and a blue strand. “I do so dislike embroidery, and am trying so hard to convince Papa that I would rather take Italian than embroidery.”

  Jane reached for the threads, which Amanda gladly relinquished. “Let me try for a while. You can order tea for us and your uncle, should he emerge unscathed from Jacob’s room.”

  “I will escape with relief,” Amanda said as she leaped to her feet. She was back soon and seated herself again. “Oh, you are good at that!” she declared with some feeling. “I need some patience quickly, don’t I?” she asked, to Jane’s amusement.

  “Immediately, my dear,” she said, enjoying Amanda’s laughter. “I don’t think it comes like that, however.”

  The girl picked up a smaller clump of thread. “Is my mother all right?” she asked, her voice low. “I saw Papa carry her down the hall.”

  “She is tired, Amanda,” Jane said. “What would you think if you and I took over the household duties for her?”

  “I would like that, but I have never done it before,” Amanda replied. “There, two strands!”

  “Bravo! I am quite good at running a household,” Jane said. “A few days of bed rest will be my Christmas gift to your mama, and I can help you run things.”

  Amanda nodded, then leaned close to Jane. “I think Mama is due to be confined quite soon,” she whispered. “I mean, Papa is already bringing work home early, and pacing around.” She giggled. “I recognize the signs!”

  In a few minutes they were joined by Richard Newton. The tea tray arrived, followed shortly by Mr. Butterworth, who stood in the doorway tucking in his shirttails. He sat next to Jane and picked up a handful of thread while Amanda poured the tea in her mother’s place.

 
“Get Andrew away from Stover, and he is quite another child,” he commented, draping several untangled threads on his leg.

  “Second thoughts about inviting us, Mr. Butterworth?” Jane teased.

  He shook his head. “Not even one. You are the one who will be inconvenienced, Miss Mitten.” He looked at his brother-in-law. “I predict that you may become quite busy here! Richard, I must be an idiot, but I was not aware that Em was so far along.”

  “You have had your head in a cupboard lately,” Richard commented with a smile of his own. “I think I know why now.”

  My, but this is a long silence, Jane thought, as quiet descended on the room.

  “Yes, indeed, Richard, running two mills is a greater challenge than one, especially at long distance,” he said at last. “Perhaps I should think about moving back to Rumsey permanently.”

  “Excellent!” Richard said, with a clap of his hands. “I must warn you that Em has her eye on the Fabersham estate, which will come vacant in six months or so. By June we could return your house to you.”

  I could not bear it, Jane thought suddenly. The ball of thread in her hands grew blurry. Who on earth would I turn to, when life is unbearable at Stover?

  “My removal from the district would certainly fill your cousin Lady Carruthers with considerable relief, wouldn’t it, Miss Milton?” the mill owner was saying to her. His tone of voice no different than it ever was, to both her chagrin and her relief.

  Oh, he expects a quizzing answer, she thought, as she pressed her finger to the side of her nose to stop the tears. Something light and frivolous that I have always been incapable of, and drat him for not knowing me better, even after all these years. Please God, let me say something unexceptionable.

  “I would miss you,” she said simply. “There would go my only friend.”

  The room was still silent. Carefully Jane returned the embroidery to the basket, too irritated with herself to look anyone in the eye. That was the wrong thing, Jane, you goose, she scolded herself. Do better!

  “Oh, I am silly,” she said. “I blame your brother-in-law entirely. He has been advising me to speak my mind lately.” She attempted what she hoped was an elaborate sigh, the kind that Lucy was so expert in delivering. She must have been successful, because Amanda laughed. “I suppose he will force me to cultivate new friends, if he moves, and so I shall. Do excuse me, please.”

  Chapter Nine

  She spent a perfectly miserable night, the dream returning in full force to wake her in tears. She stared at her hands, holding them up to the moonlight that streamed in the window. After the first moment of terror, she knew she would find nothing on them, and this night was no different. She wiped them on the sheet anyway.

  The only relief she felt was in knowing that no one in the Newton household could have heard her cry out. Amanda had apologized for the pretty room, tucked as it was next to Mr. Butterworth’s office. “Mama wanted me to tell you that we do not consign all our guests to outer darkness, but she thought it might be a good, quiet place!” Amanda had told her, when the footman set down her traveling case. “Uncle Scipio says his office is the only place where Lucy cannot find him.”

  And so it was quiet, except that she could have sworn she heard someone in the office anyway. As she wearily wished the night away, she thought she heard various creaks and scratches. I am certain Mr. Butterworth has far better things to do at three in the morning than pore over blueprints, she told herself.

  And then she was thinking about the mill owner, and wondering if this was what love felt like. Oh, I hope not, she decided at last. I am miserable.

  No, it is not precisely misery, she told herself, after a moment’s consideration. She gave up on sleep and seated herself on the chair in front of the cold hearth, doubling her legs under her and reaching for a blanket at the bed’s foot. It is as though I am on edge for no reason. That is it. My senses all feel as though they are humming. She rested her head against the back of the chair. Mr. Butterworth has never given any indication that I am more than a friend. True, he kissed me, but he was teasing. Wasn’t he?

  There was one thing to do, and she did it, thinking through all the reasons that she could not be in love with Mr. Scipio Africanus Butterworth. First, there is that stupid name, she told herself, then smiled, despite her misery. But it suits him somehow, in the same way that those outrageous waistcoats do, the ones that scream out that he is not, and never will be, gentry.

  Lady Carruthers is right; he does smell of the shop, she thought. What he is, and always will be, is a mill owner, a man of wealth and property with his eye on the ledger. If by some wild leap he actually married you, Jane, he would always be bringing home blueprints, or spending too long at the factory to work on the machinery, for all you know. There would never be the worry of another woman, because that is not in him. He is a man of business.

  She paused, and waited for this thought to disgust her, but to her further irritation, it did not. “Trust you, Jane, to look over his shoulder at the blueprints and offer your opinions!” she accused herself.

  Well, then, if his mill owner status does not repel you as it should, she told herself, begin with the essential difficulty: He is too old for you. She sighed and wrapped the blanket tighter about her shoulders, listening for the mice next door. Except that he is enthusiastic, and he has not put on too many pounds to render him fit only for an invalid’s chair at Bath.

  The thought of Mr. Butterworth, busy as he was, even approaching Bath to drink the water made her laugh. She covered her mouth with her hand when the mice became silent. Oh, I hope they do not come in here now to forage, she thought, pulling her feet in closer to her body. No, we cannot argue that his years have rendered Mr. Butterworth fit for the boneyard, she conceded.

  The thought made her smile. Good, Jane; you are moving in the right direction now, she congratulated herself. Toss this into the pot until your cup runneth over: he is already talking about buying another mill, and moving back here to oversee them more closely, and you announced to him in a burst of inanity that you were looking for a husband who would devote much attention to you. He would never have the time.

  It was easy to think, but even as the notion passed through her brain, she knew in her heart that he would always find the time for her, if he loved her. Jane, this is an organized man, used to juggling numerous enterprises, she reminded herself. He would make every moment count with you. Face it, Jane; you cannot think of a single reason why Mr. Butterworth is not the best idea you ever had.

  This is not working, she thought, as she threw off the blanket that was suddenly stifling her. She went to the window and dragged open the draperies, letting the colder air wrap around her neck and shoulders like fingers on her windpipe. She closed her eyes in utter despair and forced her mind into calmness.

  Maybe it was the cold air that did it, or the deliberate wrench of her thoughts. As she stood at the window, her irritation with herself turned to sorrow. You have no objections to marriage to Mr. Butterworth, but oh, my dear, he has far too many against you to ever consider a proposal.

  It was a splash of icy water on her mind, one that made her shiver and get back into bed. He knows better than anyone your status, never mind his own. He knows that you are an old maid every other man has overlooked, you are too thin because you forget to eat, and you are cowed by your relatives to such an extent that he must brace you by telling you to speak your mind. You have no clever repartee. Beyond a little native cheery temperament that not even Lady Carruthers could harrow out of you, you have nothing to recommend you except a capacity for hard work on behalf of others. Servants are paid for that.

  Her thoughts were so harsh that she blinked in surprise, then sank lower in the bed, until she had enveloped herself into a tight ball. She cried then, sobs that she muffled as best she could, and which finally sent her to sleep. When she woke, she was herself again.

  Over breakfast, Mr. Butterworth proposed a visit to the mill, which Andrew seconded al
most before the suggestion was entirely out of his mouth. “It is crass commerce, Andrew,” he warned. “The sort of thing your relatives—Miss Mitten included—should steer you far away from.”

  “Of course I want to see it,” Andrew insisted. He looked at Jacob, as though seeking encouragement. “Jacob tells me there is machinery, and lots of it. I have to see that!”

  Mr. Butterworth laughed with such heartiness that Jane felt an absurd urge to join in. “Andrew, you are a child after my own heart!” he declared finally. “Noisy machinery, eh? And you must see it?”

  “I, too,” Jane spoke up. She dabbed the porridge from Lucy’s face and lifted her from her chair. “That is, if you can wait for a little while until Amanda and I discuss household management belowstairs, now that your sister has agreed to rest in bed.”

  Mr. Butterworth wiped his eyes and beamed at Amanda. “My dear niece, did you ever think your Uncle Scipio was so clever? A useful house guest has to be the eighth wonder of the world.” He touched Andrew’s arm when the boy passed his chair. “You, my young friend, will do as your … Jacob says and find some cotton wadding for your ears. It is all noise and movement in my factory.” He nodded to Jane. “As for you, Miss Mitten, manage away! I will visit with Emma and assure her that we are in excellent hands.”

  Oh, my hands are excellent, Jane thought; I contemplate them half the night. “Very well, sir,” she said, getting up from the table. “Come, my dear, and let us discuss menus.”

  Mr. Butterworth surprised her by rising, too, then putting his hand firmly on her shoulder until she had no choice but to sit again. “Go ahead, Amanda,” he instructed, “and take Lucy with you. Miss Mitten sometimes forgets to eat, although I cannot imagine such a thing.”