Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind

by Carla Kelly

  She was left to descend by herself, relieved to see another carriage in front of the house. Thank goodness the doctor is here, she thought. Mr. Butterworth may have sung my praises to his family, but I do not know that my talents as a house guest extend as far as assisting in childbirth.

  As it was, she found herself seated cross-legged in the nursery, entertaining Lucy with stories while Amanda fretted and stewed and paced the floor enough for both of them. As Jane watched Amanda, she thought of the hours before Andrew’s birth, when she had done that very thing. When the little girl finally rested her head against Jane’s leg and closed her eyes, she thought of Blair in Ireland during Lucinda’s confinement and delivery, and her own anxiety that he was not there.

  “Blame the Irish,” he had told her a month later when he returned from garrison duty in Dublin to see his son. And so she had, even as she wondered why he had not moved heaven and earth to be present when Lucinda needed him the most.

  Sitting in the nursery with the winter sun weakly warm on her face, she couldn’t help rehearsing in her mind Blair’s reaction to his son. Almost as though he knew Andrew wasn’t really his, she thought suddenly, and then startled herself so much that she sat upright and woke Lucy.

  “I’m sorry, my dear,” she said, and patted Lucy’s back until the child curled up against her and resumed her nap. Jane, what are you thinking? she asked herself. You know, even if no one else will consider it, that Andrew is Blair’s son. And yet. She closed her eyes, too, remembering Lucinda’s terrible death, Blair’s obvious sorrow, and then his return to Ireland, where he stayed until the army sent him to the Peninsula. And then it was only short furloughs home—a Christmas here, an Easter there—all the way up to Waterloo.

  Perhaps that is how the Stovers were raised, she thought, excusing them, and then saw in her mind Emma Newton so pregnant, and still getting down on her knees to look into Andrew’s face and touch him as a mother would, and all on their first meeting only yesterday. Oh, Blair, she thought, did you believe the rumors, too? Or are members of the peerage just less generous with their affections than mill owners and their wives, those people you hold in such disdain?

  “Oh, I do not understand,” she said out loud, then looked at Amanda, who was making her circuit in front of the window. “ … I do not understand how these matters can take so long,” she amended, when Amanda stopped. And I do not understand why after all these years I am becoming suspicious, as well, she considered, as shame warmed her face, along with the afternoon sun.

  She was spared the unpleasantry of further introspection by Richard’s appearance in the doorway, his normally cheerful face accessorized by a huge smile. “Amanda, you have another sister,” he said, when she hurried to him. He winked at Jane. “Emma is fine and already apologizing to you for her continuing neglect of a perfectly good house guest.”

  Jane laughed, and woke Lucy with the news. “I knew it would be this way,” the girl told her father as he held her on his lap. “Mama couldn’t really mean to have another pesky boy!”

  Mr. Butterworth soon returned to the house with Andrew and his nephew, declaring that the boys had eaten enough cream cakes at the Bell and Clapper to bring the cook out to watch. “I thought we would have to find her a chair and burn some feathers under her nose when she saw it was only two rather small boys,” he said, handing his overcoat to the butler. “Tell me, Miss Mitten: am I an aunt or an uncle this time?”

  After dinner, which no one ate except Mr. Butterworth, they were allowed into Emma’s chamber for a glimpse at the latest Newton, a dark-haired daughter with solemn eyes. When the baby crossed her eyes, Lucy looked at her mother, who was watching her with a smile of her own. “She’s not really finished out yet, is she, Mama?”

  Emma laughed, and snuggled her smallest production tighter between her armpit and her breast. “Spoken like a mill owner’s daughter! Lucy, she will improve vastly in a matter of days.” She touched Lucy’s face. “I assure you that she will hang straight on the bolt.” She looked at Jane, more apology in her eyes. “And now my husband tells me that you have all decided among yourselves to divide up the night so that I will get some rest. Oh, Jane! What must you think of us!”

  “I think you are all wonderful,” she said promptly. “Now let me put her in her cradle.” Carefully, she picked up the baby, who made mewing sounds and pulled herself into a tighter bundle as Jane held her close. “I suggest we all leave Emma in peace.”

  She carried the baby to the small nursery that adjoined the dressing room and smiled at her own reluctance to put her in the cradle. “Do let me hold her, Miss Mitten, or I will think you a tyrant,” the mill owner insisted, reaching for his niece. Jane placed the baby in his arms, and he carried the child to his shoulder, where she settled her head against his neck as though she belonged there. “They certainly do meld into one, don’t they?” he commented.

  “Particularly if the person holding the baby seems to know what he is doing, Mr. Butterworth,” she said. “You are an excellent uncle.”

  “I wonder if I would be an excellent father,” he said, his voice soft, as he put his niece in her cradle.

  “It is certainly high time you considered such a step,” she said, her own heart sinking, “especially if you are contemplating a move back to your estate.”

  “You don’t think I am too old?” he asked, as he straightened up.

  I wish you would not ask me, she thought, hoping that her complexion was not turning as rosy as it felt. He seemed to realize that it was an impertinent question, and he turned again to regard his niece. “Lady Carruthers is right,” he said finally, not looking at her. “A gentleman would never ask a question like that. She would say that only a mill owner would be so crass. I suppose it is so.”

  It took all her will not to stare at him, because he sounded so upset. Poor Mr. Butterworth, she thought suddenly. And poor me, when you leave Denby. “I think it is a wonderful idea for you to return here, marry, and have a family of your own,” she said, hoping that she was not sounding as wistful as she felt.

  “You’ll miss me then?” he asked.

  “I will miss you,” she assured him, the pleasure of the baby replaced by a dreariness that made her tired all of a sudden. “Yes, I am certain of it,” she said, turning away because she did not trust herself to look at him. “Please excuse me.”

  After Andrew and Jacob were reconciled to bed, if not to sleep, she sat dry-eyed in her room, unable to focus on the book in her hands. I wish I had not come here, she thought, and put the book down. People in unhappy households should remain in them, Jane, she told herself. That way, they would never know what they are missing.

  She knew she would stay awake until it was her turn to return to the nursery, but she woke hours later to murmured words and a steady pressure on her shoulder. For one terrible moment as she struggled to get up, she was back in Denby. “I cannot face it,” she said, her voice loud to her ears in the quiet of the room, panicky even.

  “I can understand that,” Mr. Butterworth was saying. “Pound for pound, babies are a fearsome lot, indeed. I wonder that anyone tolerates them.” He chuckled. “It’s all right to open your eyes, my dear.”

  She did, steeling herself as she always did, and then sighing with relief. “Oh, Mr. Butterworth, it is you!” she exclaimed, clutching his arm.

  He sat on the edge of her chair, and did not remove his hand from her shoulder. “Who were you expecting?” he asked, when she released him.

  “I’m not sure,” she said before she thought. “Oh! Excuse me, sir. You must think me an idiot.”

  “Never have yet,” he commented cheerfully. “My dear, it is your turn in the nursery.” He helped her to her feet, and before she could stop him, tucked a loose curl under her cap. “I will escort you, Miss Mitten.”

  “You needn’t …”

  “… for there is no telling what dangers lurk below.”

  He was never a man to argue with, she decided, as he walked her down the
flight of stairs and into the baby nursery. Her heart lightened for a moment, as she gazed at the baby. “She has been sleeping all this time?”

  He nodded, and put his hand on her shoulder to pull her closer as he whispered, “I suppose she is exhausted from the rigors of making her first appearance.” He gave Jane’s shoulder a little shake. “Which means that she will wake up on your watch, I am certain. My good luck continues! You need merely change her nappy and carry her to her mother, while I retire to my bed for a peaceful night. My felicitations, Miss Milton!”

  He left the room, closing the door behind him quietly, and she stood there as her stomach tightened into a sour ball and her fingernails dug into her palms. I cannot do this, she thought in panic. I can do anything for everyone, but I cannot do this. You have to, she told herself, but the terror would not stop this time. She took a deep breath, and then another, waiting for her usual good sense to take over, but it did not. Two more quick breaths, and she was light-headed. I must fetch Mr. Butterworth back, she thought. I will give him any excuse.

  She wrenched open the door, ready to run after him, then looked across the hall, and blinked her eyes in amazement. He sat there watching her, calm and composed as though he were double-checking invoices at his desk. “Ah, my dear, have you decided that babies are cute, but slow company?” he said, patting the space beside him on the settee. “Do join me.”

  She shook her head, unable to stop staring at him, and gulping in air until she felt her knees start to buckle. Mr. Butterworth was at her side immediately, his voice as calm as ever, as he put his arm firmly around her waist and made her walk on rubbery legs to the settee, where he sat her down.

  “Just one deep breath, Jane,” he commanded, in a voice far from his usual complacent tone. “Hold it a moment, then take another.”

  She did as he said, struggling against the little points of light that flickered around the edge of her vision. When she released that breath and finally took another, they went away. When she started to shiver, Mr. Butterworth let go of her and removed his coat, which he draped over her shoulders. “I need to tell my brother-in-law to be less stingy with coal at night,” he murmured as he put his arm around her again.

  She shook her head and tugged his coat tight about her shoulders until the shivers passed. In another moment she relaxed and leaned against the settee back, and Mr. Butterworth released his grip on her. “Thank you,” she murmured. “I don’t know what happened to me.” It didn’t sound convincing to her ears. She knew without looking that the mill owner would not be so easily led off the trail, but she was struck by another thought. “Mr. Butterworth, why were you sitting there?”

  “Why, indeed?” he whispered back, sitting a little sideways so he could see her better. “My dear Miss Milton, in the spirit of bon ami that appears to be a particular province of Christmas, I thought I would be the first person in the history of the world to do something kind for you.”

  “I’m quite all right now,” she assured him, unable to summon enough courage to look him in the eyes. “Really I am.”

  He did not answer her for a long moment, but gently took hold of her chin and forced her to look at him. Her eyes welled with tears, but he would not allow her to turn away. “Jane, may I tell you that the single most frightening moment of my life was when I shook you awake upstairs and you opened your eyes.”

  “Oh. I couldn’t … the light … mistaken,” she mumbled. She pushed his hand away from her face, unable to look at him. “I am quite fine now.”

  “Jane, pay attention!” he said, his voice not loud, but sharp.

  “There was such a look in your eyes that I thought I was looking at someone who was staring into hell.” He shifted on the settee. “I must admit that just thinking about it now makes me shiver.”

  She could think of nothing to say, so she focused her gaze on his waistcoat, a garment so colorful that its hues were still visible, even in the hall that was lit only by a sconce on the table. When her tears started to fall, he gave her his handkerchief. In another moment, his arm was around her shoulder.

  He let her sob into the handkerchief, then turn her face into his chest to muffle the sound. “I don’t pretend to know what is going through your mind, my dear,” he said finally, his voice low but conversational again, “but I am curious about one thing: Is it that you are afraid to go to sleep, or afraid to wake up?”

  “It is both, sir,” she admitted, and felt the breath go out of him.

  “My God, Jane,” he said, “my God.” He put his other arm around her until she was almost dissolved into him. She cried again, wishing that she did not sound so useless, but unable to remedy the matter.

  Mr. Butterworth held a corner of the handkerchief to his eyes, then returned it to her. “The matter is this then? If you go to sleep, something will happen to that baby. And if you wake up, you will be too late.”

  It sounded absurd as he said it, but she nodded. “I cannot stay in there, Mr. Butterworth. I should never have agreed to but …”

  “… but it is always expected of you, isn’t it?”

  She nodded. “I suppose I could learn to say no.”

  “I don’t think you can, my dear Miss Milton. It’s not in you to say no.”

  She sighed. “Then I am foolish, just as Lady Carruthers says.”

  She didn’t think he could hold her any tighter, but he did. “No, my dear, you are not foolish! You are just more kind than nine-tenths of the population.” He gave her a sudden hug that made her gasp for breath, then released her. “And I don’t know that I would ever want you to change. Perhaps I have been in the world too long, but there is something so refreshing about goodness.” He smiled at her. “This is certainly no reflection on my own life, is it?”

  It was her turn to feel surprise. “Mr. Butterworth, you are everything that is kind, so how can you ….”

  But he wasn’t paying attention to her. “My dear, I think my newest niece is tuning up. Can you hear her?”

  She could, and was unable to suppress her sigh of relief. She rose to her feet, but Mr. Butterworth did not release her hand. “Sir, I think I can manage now,” she told him.

  “I daresay you can,” he stated, rising with her, but letting go of her hand. “My brother informed me last night that the nursemaid has been summoned and will be here today, thus ending any need for family—and house guest—vigils.”

  He followed her to the nursery and watched as she changed the baby. “Considering that it has been … oh, what …? twelve years since Andrew was small, you’re quite good at that, Miss Mitten,” he whispered. He held out his arms for his niece, red-faced now and waving her fists. “Or does a woman not forget?”

  “I am certain that is it, Mr. Butterworth,” she replied, grateful for ordinary conversation again as she tidied up. “Now if you will hand her over, I will take her to her mother, and you can retire for what remains of this night.”

  “You’ll be all right?” he asked, as he returned his niece to her. “I had rather thought to remain here. Perhaps we could talk.”

  There must have been a thousand reasons she could give him why that would not be a good idea, each more logical than the one before, but she could not think of one. “You would not like what you hear, Mr. Butterworth,” Jane said, and then from nowhere, “I am not what I seem.”

  “Who of us is, ma’am?” he answered. To her eyes and ears, his equanimity appeared as unruffled as if she had just told him that violets were purple. “I am a good listener, though.”

  “And a busy man,” she replied. “I doubt that Richard will be much use to you at the mills for the next few days! Good night, Mr. Butterworth.”

  She wondered in the next few days if her dismissal had been too abrupt. No doubt he was busy, dividing his time between the woolen mill in Huddersfield and the new cotton mill where Andrew and Jacob hurried every morning to watch the slum being torn down to make way for new housing. The boys—a stranger would have thought them friends for years—were fi
lled with reports each evening at dinner, but Mr. Butterworth was conspicuous by his absence.

  Emma, absorbed in her new daughter, only laughed when Jane expressed her worry about her brother overworking himself. “It is what he enjoys the most, my dear,” she said, easing herself into a comfortable position as the baby—named Olivia Rose by Amanda and Lucy, after considerable discussion—began to nurse. “Give him a problem, and he can hardly wait to solve it. Olivia, do have a care! They are attached to me, after all!”

  Jane smiled as she watched the nursing mother. Obviously he has decided that he does not relish my problems, she thought, as the baby settled down to long, steady pulls. I cannot blame him; I do not relish them, either.

  She knew that he came home at night because she heard him talking to Richard, and laughing at this or that, as the two of them sat in the breakfast room and rehashed the day. He came into the boys’ room one night as she was reading the nightly chapter of The Children of New Forest, and stood leaning against the door frame until she finished. “Well read, Miss Milton,” he declared. “You could probably make a factory invoice interesting, suspenseful, even.”

  How does he do that, she thought, dispensing compliments as easily as some people breathe? He came closer; she wished he would put his hand on her shoulder in that careless way of his, but he did not.

  “Andrew and Jacob, come with me to the woolen mill tomorrow,” he told the boys, sitting on their bed. “Christmas is nearly upon us and I have dismissed the workers so we can break down the machinery and make a few improvements before we begin work again.”

  “Dirty work, sir?” Andrew asked, even as he looked at Jane for permission.

  “Oh, yes. The worst kind. Jacob’s mother will cringe when we come home.”

  “Mr. Butterworth, are you remembering that tomorrow night is the Board of Directors dinner here?”

  “How could I forget, with so many females to remind me?” he replied cheerfully. “Amanda is wandering around in a distracted fashion, mumbling to herself about ironing tablecloths and polishing silver.” He laughed. “She is usually more concerned with slippers and matching ribbons. And I suppose my sister is just calmly watching it all.”