by Carla Kelly
Embarrassed, she looked at her plate to see it still full of bacon, eggs, and toast. “Now, how did that get there?” she murmured as she picked up her fork. Mr. Butterworth sat beside her this time, and she felt a sudden flash of anger. “I know how busy you are, Mr. Butterworth. I will eat,” she informed him.
“And I will watch,” he replied, obviously unruffled by her clipped words.
He is only being kind, she thought, as she ate and he finished perusing the morning newspaper, with the occasional glance in her direction. She put down her fork finally and he folded the paper. “A little more, Jane?” he coaxed.
“Very well, sir! If you will finish the bacon, I will finish the eggs.”
“And the toast?”
She tried not to frown, but could not help herself. “You are a trial, Mr. B,” she told him finally, when he continued to regard her.
“ ‘Mr. B,’ ” was his only comment. “I like that.”
She sighed and bit into the toast, then smiled at his own over-dramatic sigh. “Miss Mitten, it is only toast. Not a penance!” She knew she should have been uncomfortable when he moved closer and draped his arm across the back of her chair, but she reminded herself that he was filching bacon from her plate. And it should have surprised her when he finally put his arm around her shoulders and gave her arm a squeeze.
“Did you have a bad night, Jane?” he asked quietly.
She didn’t mean to shiver at his words, and she hoped he did not notice. “I … a strange bed is always difficult the first night,” she said, wondering why she was whispering and then wondering why she allowed him to rest his cheek against hers and keep it there.
“Maybe we should talk, my dear,” he said finally, when she made no comment, nor any movement away from him.
I hope Mr. Butterworth’s cologne is found in heaven, she thought, forgetful of the rest of her toast. I could breathe it forever. “I will remind you that I have been speaking my mind, sir,” she told him.
“Not enough, Jane, not enough,” he said, his voice low, as he rose from the table. “Ah, Lucy! Did you think I was planning to keep her all to myself this entire day? Miss Mitten, to the kitchen, please. It is where we Butterworths send all our house guests!”
Don’t think about him, she told herself as she sat belowstairs with Amanda, the cook, and the butler, discussing the week’s menus. He is solicitous of everyone’s welfare; you know that from your years of acquaintance. If I am the perfect poor relation, then he is the perfect host. Still, I wonder if he would understand, she thought, as the cook explained to Amanda the merits of lady fingers and bonbons in the same course, preceded by a sultana roll with claret sauce.
“What do you think, Miss Milton?” Amanda asked.
“I promised I would never tell,” she said, then put her hand to her mouth.
Amanda laughed. “You are such a tease, especially when I crave your advice!”
“I think it is an excellent combination, my dear,” she replied automatically. She thought a moment, and wished she had been paying attention. “Heavens, but isn’t that rather a heavy-duty course for family dinner?”
“Miss Milton, we are planning the Board of Directors banquet for this Friday night!” she exclaimed. “Don’t you remember? Mama wanted to call it off, but Uncle Scipio says you are a prime organizer. Say it is all right, Miss Milton, or I will worry in earnest.”
Mind yourself, Jane, she ordered herself. Kingdoms have probably fallen through half this much inattention. “My dear, fifteen is not a year too young to give a dinner for a Board of Directors,” she said firmly. “I will be there to help you every moment of the way.”
“Miss Mitten, my uncle is right,” Amanda said, her glance so warm that Jane could almost feel it. “He has told us in so many letters that you are a treasure.” She looked at the cook. “That will be our menu.”
I am no treasure, Jane thought. I am a keeper of secrets and I am weary with it. She rose from the table. “I believe your uncle is waiting for us upstairs. Mrs. Hinchcliff, you are a wonderful cook, and we repose all our confidence in you.”
“My uncle does that, too, Miss Mitten,” Amanda confided after they left the kitchen. She giggled. “He calls compliments the ‘First Rule of Management’! Mama laughs at him, but we always have the best service.”
“He is completely right,” Jane agreed. “Amanda, that is a lovely ribbon in your hair!”
“And you have such beautiful eyes, Miss Mitten!” Amanda teased in turn.
They were still laughing when they reached the foyer. Andrew and Jacob fidgeted in the entrance, but Mr. Butterworth had assumed his lately typical pose of staring out the window with his hands behind his back. He must have heard them because he turned around with a smile of his own. “General merriment belowstairs, eh?” he asked. “If I were a cynic, I could not live in this disjointed house!”
“Uncle Scipio, you could never be a cynic,” Amanda said. “Here is Miss Mitten, and I will go to the nursery to watch Lucy. Mama is well?”
“She is fine, niece.” Mr. Butterworth held out his arm to Jane. “Come, my dear Miss Mitten, and you can take the final plunge into the shop.” He looked around elaborately. “We will never tell Lady Carruthers our dreadful secret.”
She didn’t mean to pull away from him when he said that, but she could not help herself. Mr. Butterworth took a long look at her, but she knew it was beyond her just then to hide the bleakness in her eyes. I simply must sleep tonight, she thought in desperation as he took her cloak from the butler and put it around her shoulders without making further comment.
The carriage took them quickly to Huddersfield, Mr. Butterworth keeping up the conversation with Andrew and not forcing any participation from her. She was grateful for his command of the situation. She even dozed a little, too exhausted to stay awake, even though what he was telling them about spinning cotton was fascinating in its detail.
She woke up when the carriage stopped, hopeful that no one had noticed her lapse, except that she was leaning against Mr. Butterworth, and his arm was around her, and around Andrew on his other side. “It is water-powered, Andrew,” he was saying. “You see how the mill sits directly next to the river?”
“And there is the waterwheel,” Andrew said.
“Precisely. In fact, there are two. We use the river and send it on its way. Clever of us, eh, Miss Mitten? We used to give the cotton fibers to workers in their homes to spin by hand. Now machines do it.” He clapped both their shoulders. “My dears, you are looking at the modern age.”
When the carriage stopped, Mr. Butterworth took Jacob’s hand. “You two rascals stop in the office. Mr. Singletary will show us around.” The boys were gone with a bound, not even waiting for the steps to be lowered, and slamming the door behind them. Jane rested her head against the cushion and closed her eyes. “Forgive my inattention,” she murmured.
“Done, madam,” he said, and gave her shoulder another squeeze. He wouldn’t look at her then, but at the floor. “Miss Milton, how long have we known each other?”
“Years and years, sir,” she replied.
“How many more years must we know each other before you will trust me totally?”
It didn’t sound like a question requiring an answer, so she did nothing beyond lean her cheek against his arm, and then straighten up. He looked at her. She must have been far too tired, because she thought she saw something in them even beyond their usual kindness. “I don’t know, Mr. Butterworth,” she said frankly, when she wanted to knock his hand away from the carriage door where it rested and talk until she was empty. “But now there are little boys probably driving Joe to distraction, so we must follow.”
He opened the door and helped her from the carriage. “Breathe deep, my dear,” he said, his voice normal again. “I know that some are experimenting with generators which will be powered by coal. When that is perfected, we will not require clean rivers to run our mills. This valley will stink and everything will turn black.”
> “It sounds daunting, sir,” she said.
“It is,” he agreed, as they crossed the footbridge. “The machinery will turn faster and we will make more cotton cloth, and far more money, but something will be gone.” He pointed to a line of row houses in imminent state of collapse. “Those blueprints last night? Richard and I are tearing down this slum to build better workers’ quarters.” He pointed to the end of the row. “There will sit a school for the mill workers’ children.”
“Why are you doing this?” she asked as he opened the door to the factory for her. She grimaced at the noise inside, and he closed the door again and leaned against the outside wall.
“Let us just say that I have pulled too many children from the machinery, Miss Milton, and I have listened to the gospel preached by Robert Owen. Workers—adult workers—can be treated well, and they will still produce.” He pointed across the valley. “That mill over there and that one beyond it use children as young as five to crawl under the equipment and straighten tangles in the warp and woof. I cannot do it. We start no child younger than twelve here. I know this makes me the laughingstock of other mill owners, but I do not give a damn, Miss Milton. It is that simple.”
“Robert Owen and his socialism,” she murmured.
“You read the penny post,” he said as he opened the door again. “Bravo, Miss Milton. Mostly we are ignored by the gentry, who would not soil themselves with commerce.” He leaned close to whisper in her ear. “May I tell you a secret?”
I have far too many of my own, she thought. “Of course,” she said, speaking up because the machinery was loud.
“The Lord Denbys of the country who choose not to notice what is happening in England are going to dwindle and blow away like chaff. And the wonder of it is, they will be clueless.”
“Sir, you are a radical!”
“Guilty as charged,” he said promptly, then grinned. “Miss Milton, what would I do without your plain speaking?”
She was content to follow Andrew and Jacob, who were held in check by the admirable Joe Singletary, and watch the mill owner, when she hoped he wasn’t aware. Besides being noisy with the clack of looms, the mill was warm. In a few minutes, Mr. Butterworth had removed his coat, and carried it draped over one shoulder. In a few minutes more, he had handed it to her and rolled up his sleeves. She watched, amused, as he walked behind one of the looms, squatted there, and gestured for a wrench. In another moment, he was deep in the machinery. She was smiling when Richard came up beside her.
“My brother-in-law has forgotten more about running a cotton mill than I will ever know,” he said, admiration evident in his voice. “He knows the business from the seed to the bolt in the warehouse.”
“How on earth did he acquire an education like that?” she asked, speaking up to be heard.
He shrugged. “I have never been given leave to talk about that.” Mr. Butterworth called to him; in a moment they were both involved under the silent loom.
So you have secrets, too, Mr. Butterworth? she reflected. Thoughtfully, she smoothed down his coat and continued after the boys. The clacking behind her started up again, and Mr. Butterworth soon joined her, wiping his hands on a totally inadequate fabric scrap. “Sir, I understand why you have never taken the time to acquire a wife,” she told him, standing on tiptoe to get close to his ear, in the noisy room.
“Oh, you do?” he asked, bending down to oblige her.
“You are far too much trouble for any woman,” she said with a smile. “If you came home to my house wearing a year’s supply of grease, I would change the locks!”
“No you wouldn’t, Miss Mitten,” he said, then winked at her and strolled ahead to talk to Joe Singletary.
“No, I probably would not,” she said in a normal voice, knowing that nothing could be heard over the machinery. “I probably would not.”
She nearly bumped into the little troupe of spectators, who had stopped before another loom, also silent. “Miss Milton, do you see that wrench behind you?” Mr. Butterworth asked.
She did, laughed, and brought it to him.
“Well-trained already,” he commented as he took it from her. “Andrew, are you interested in ….”
“Oh, I am!” he exclaimed, and handed his jacket to Jane.
Boys and toys, she thought, watching them together under the loom. She held her breath when Andrew crawled inside the loom, then let it out slowly, knowing that Mr. Butterworth would never be careless with a child.
“He has an aptitude that you must work hard to stifle now,” Richard was saying to her. “Andrew has a good wrist with that wrench.”
“And who would ever have known it?” she said.
“Scipio has an eye for these things.”
“Indeed he does,” she agreed. “I continue to wonder that he lives in Denby instead of here, where he is obviously so at home.”
“It is not such a mystery,” was all Richard said. In another moment, a clerk from the office called him away.
Well it is to me, Jane thought. She applauded when Andrew, under Mr. Butterworth’s direction, started the loom in motion again. She waited for them to rejoin her, but when Mr. Butterworth launched into what looked like a pantomime of the loom operation, she continued by herself, admiring the magnitude of the operation, and the graceful way the workers, men and women, moved in and out among the looms. Someone was always ready with another large spool of thread to attach in time to keep the weaving regular. The motion and the sound thrilled her, and she was not amazed at the interest of small boys, when it captured her, too. I wonder if Mr. Butterworth requires a teacher at his mill school, she thought, as she watched one of the younger workers direct the fabric around a bolt as it came off the loom. Andrew will be away at school next year, and I will need employment of my own.
“It has a hypnotic effect, hasn’t it?” Mr. Butterworth said when he and the boys rejoined her.
She nodded, knowing the difficulty of being heard, and continued her stroll through the factory, noting that Mr. Butterworth’s waistcoat by now was hanging open and one of the buttons looked ready to come off. No woman would wish the management of this mill owner, she told herself.
“You look as though you are having a pleasant thought,” he said in her ear.
She nodded, in perfect charity with him. “It is completely at your expense,” she said, speaking up to be heard.
“My blushes, Jane,” he said in return.
“No, sir, actually, it is the grease there on your collar and that smudge by your nose,” she said, taking a corner of his already deckled neckcloth to dab at his face. “You are worse than ten little boys.”
“Far worse,” he agreed. “And do you know ….”
Know what, she never knew. Out of the corner of her eye she watched Richard hurrying toward them, pulling on his own coat. He took her arm. “Miss Milton, I have a message from home that tells me they have sent for the doctor.” He looked at Mr. Butterworth. “You, sir, are in charge of two boys. I am taking Miss Milton back to Rumsey. Emma needs her far more than you do, at the moment.”
“Unlikely,” Mr. Butterworth said quickly, and then to her surprise, blushed. “Especially if you ask me to manage these two hell-born heathens. So Emma has chosen this moment to increase the population?”
They were all hurrying toward the main office now. “I don’t know that it is a matter of choice,” Jane said, when she could be heard better. She handed Mr. Butterworth’s coat to him in the office, then tugged off the button on his waistcoat, and put it in the watch pocket. “I will sew it on later with double thread.”
He smiled at her. “Better hurry along now. I will take the boys shopping.” He took her hand, bowed elaborately over it, and kissed her fingers, while Andrew and Jacob laughed. “Miss Mitten, you are the year’s most put-upon guest. Other company is treated to good food, pleasant surroundings, a ball here, an assembly there. We Butterworths send you to the kitchens, drag you to factories, and now expect you to attend our confinements.”
He covered her hand with his other one. “And the wonder of it is, I don’t believe you mind a bit. Is that your secret, my dear?”
Standing there in the mill office with the owner holding her hand, and Richard impatient to be off, it occurred to Jane that Mr. Butterworth had hit upon something she had never really considered before. She squeezed his hand. “If that is so, sir, then you must stop calling me the perfect poor relation,” she said, her voice soft. “Maybe there are some of us who do things out of other motivations.”
“Love, Miss Milton?” he asked.
“Yes, I believe so, sir.” She looked him in the eye. “I suppose that is one of my secrets.”
To her surprise, he hugged her, then released her just as quickly. “I would have all your secrets for Christmas, my dear,” he said.
“That would be a terrible present,” she said before she thought. Oh, Jane, do lighten this! She looked at her dress. “And now you have gotten grease on me, as well!”
“It washes off,” he said, following her to Richard’s carriage, where he waited impatiently. “Everything washes off, Jane.”
Does it? she asked herself, as the door closed and the carriage started. Does it?
Chapter Ten
Jane was certain that Richard Newton broke records on the drive from Huddersfield to Rumsey, but she was prudent enough not to comment. Not that a comment would have registered, anyway. Richard spent the entire drive leaning forward in the carriage, his elbows resting on his knees, staring at something fascinating on the floorboards that she could not see. He only acknowledged her as the carriage slowed to take the turn into the lane before the Butterworth mansion.
He looked at her and managed a smile. “I suppose you are wondering why a veteran of these matters should be so anxious, Miss Milton,” he began.
“I don’t wonder at all,” she replied. “I would wonder more if you weren’t up in the trees.”
“I care for her so much,” he said simply, and then tore from the carriage before it even came to a stop.
