Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind

by Carla Kelly

  “Oh, yes,” Jane agreed, relieved at his light touch. “She tells me that nothing could be better for Amanda than to be overworked.”

  “And you, Miss Mitten?” he asked. “Does all this rushing about, settling cooks’ quarrels, and wrangling with fishmongers give you a sound night’s sleep?”

  “She could hardly finish this chapter, Mr. Butterworth,” Andrew confided, as she looked away from him in embarrassment.

  “Very good!” he announced, and gave each boy a resounding smack of a kiss. ‘Tomorrow morning, seven o’clock sharp, gentlemen!” he told them as he pulled up the covers and pinched out the candle.

  “The boys will not be underfoot tomorrow,” he told her as they left the room. “What a good fellow I am.”

  “You are indeed, sir,” she said. “I am sleeping well, so you needn’t concern yourself about me.”

  He widened his eyes and stepped back as though she had struck him, and she could not help but laugh. ‘That is better, my dear,” he told her. “Dependable, competent, useful Miss Milton!”

  She did not know if he was aware that his words had a slight edge to them. She may have been mistaken, because he seemed his usual, expansive self. “I … I try to be, sir,” she said, not sure how to answer him.

  He stopped in the hall and turned to face her, so she had no choice but to stop, too. “Probably this is academic, Miss Milton, but what happens to you after the Board of Directors’ dinner is over, and you are less busy, or when the reunion for Lord Denby finishes this spring, or when Andrew goes away to school in the fall?”

  She could not answer him.

  “Of course it is not my business,” he continued. “Perhaps if I were a gentleman, I would be attuned to the niceties of the situation, but, Miss Milton, I am not a gentleman.”

  He bowed and walked away, and she could only stand there and watch him go, more alone than she had ever felt in her life. “Mr. Butterworth,” she called after him.

  He turned to look at her, his eyes hopeful. “Yes, my dear? You know how I advise you to speak your mind.”

  “You would not like me very much, if I did,” she said softly, not even sure if he could hear her, because they stood so far apart.

  He opened his mouth to reply, but Amanda bounded into the hall, the picture of distraction. “Uncle Scipio, I am in desperate need of Miss Milton,” she exclaimed, breathless.

  “Everyone is in desperate need of Miss Milton,” he said with a half smile that went nowhere near his eyes, as far as Jane could see. “Well, look behind you. We tend to carry on long-distance conversations, so it is no wonder you missed her.”

  “Amanda, whatever is the matter?” Jane said, with a last glance at Mr. Butterworth, who stood watching them both before he turned on his heel and took the stairs two at a time.

  Amanda hurried to her side, holding out her hands. “Miss Milton, our cook is not speaking to our housekeeper and the scullery maid is throwing out spots!” She dabbed at her eyes. “Don’t you think this is the wrong time to get sick? What are we to do?”

  “There is never a good time to get sick, Amanda,” she said, striving for soothing tones when she wanted to stamp her feet in frustration. “Let us see to her first, and then rehearse a little kitchen diplomacy for Cook. Courage, Amanda! Things are seldom as bad as they seem.”

  There is never a good time for anything, she told herself as she followed the girl belowstairs. Life is all interruption and commotion, untidy in the extreme, with enough loose ends to trip up a trout. She took Amanda’s arm at the foot of the stairs, and was rewarded with a glance of combined relief and gratitude.

  “Miss Milton, are you ever at a loss?” she whispered as they entered the servants’ hall.

  “All the time, my dear,” she replied.

  Amanda smiled and Jane could almost see her relax. “Miss Milton, you are so good at restoring my peace of mind!”

  Too bad I cannot do the same thing for myself, she thought, as the housekeeper bore down on them and the cook, her arms folded, took up a defensive position in front of the unlit stove. Jane took a deep breath and flashed what she hoped was a confident smile. “Amanda, you need merely to listen to Cook, and nod whenever she pauses, and I will deal with the housekeeper.”

  An hour later, a truce had been declared in the servants’ hall. With a flourish, Cook lit the stove again and was soon heard humming over the vegetable soup and looking about for a sieve, while the housekeeper returned to her knitting by the fireplace. The scullery maid—who confessed to eating strawberries meant for the fifth course, even though she knew strawberries gave her hives—was sent to bed with an all-purpose dose of both tonic and an admonition from the butler.

  “Miss Milton, I have been thinking lately that it would be great fun to marry and run my own household, but now I think I will not rush it,” Amanda told Jane as they climbed the stairs.

  Jane smiled and kissed her good night. She could think of nothing except her own bed, but as she passed the Newtons’ chamber, she noticed a light on. She knocked on the door.

  Emma was just handing Olivia Rose to the nursemaid. She patted the bed and Jane sat. “Richard and Scipio were last sighted heading for the breakfast room with more blueprints,” Emma said. “I hear that you and Manda have been quelling domestic disturbances.” She reached for Jane’s hand. “And tomorrow is the Board of Directors dinner, and then there is Christmas.” She put her hands together in a prayerful gesture. “If I am very good, perhaps I can talk Richard into carrying me downstairs to the sitting room after dinner. I know these directors’ wives, and I can spare you that much!”

  “I am certain you can talk him into anything,” Jane said. “You must excuse me, but my pillow has been calling to me for some time now, possibly ever since your housekeeper told me for the fourteenth time—I counted—‘I does wot I can, but Cook is haggravatin,’ ” she mimicked.

  Emma laughed and clapped her hands. “After this circus, Stover Hall will seem like a haven to you, won’t it?”

  “I will miss you all,” she said simply. “Good night, my dear.”

  “Good night to you,” Emma replied. “Just think, Jane. After tomorrow night, you will be quite at your leisure, with nothing more to occupy your mind beyond whether you prefer white meat or dark! Won’t that be a relief?”

  It is my greatest nightmare, she thought, as she nodded, smiled, and left the room.

  Chapter Eleven

  Jane had not planned to attend the Board of Directors’ dinner, but the matter was decided for her by Amanda and Emma, and seconded by Mr. Butterworth that morning. “I cannot manage if you are not there to prop me up,” Amanda claimed, overriding Jane’s own attempt to assist belowstairs by keeping Cook and housekeeper far apart. “How am I to know what goes on in the dining room?” Emma asked. “Richard will only grunt about it, Amanda will never see what you will see, and Scipio will be far too technical. I insist, Jane, I simply insist. Am I not right, Scipio?”

  “Of course, my dear sister,” Mr. Butterworth replied promptly. “Jane, Jane! Never discommode a lactating female! Do you want Olivia to have a prune face tonight, if my sister is unhappy?”

  It was so outrageous that she could only blush, and allow herself to be led by the mill owner to Emma’s ample wardrobe. “You have no excuse of nothing to wear,” Emma called from her bed. “There are times when I have a waist, and when I do, I think we are much the same size.”

  “Except that Miss Milton will need to take a quick hem, considering that she is not a Long Meg, like those of Butterworth origin. Ah, this is the dress I like the most,” he said, gesturing to a pale blue sarcenet in the clothespress. “I gave it to Emma for Christmas last year. Wouldn’t you say I have excellent taste?”

  She would. She stood still while Mr. Butterworth held it up to her. “I don’t know that I possess enough”—she hunted for a word that would not turn her face even more red than it felt already—“enough amplitude to do it justice, sir.”

  “You do, Miss
Milton, you do,” he assured her, then winced when she looked at him. “If looks could slaughter ….”

  “You know, you are difficult to argue with,” she said, moving away from him.

  “Yes, I am,” he agreed, all complacence. “Em, can we borrow that cobwebby looking shawl with the silver threads? It won’t keep you warm, but in the ten years since we first met, I have never known you to be ill. Here it is, my dear.”

  With a wink and a bow, he left her, with the promise to return before the afternoon was too far advanced, and to keep Andrew out of the machine oil at the factory. Shaking her head, Jane came out of the dressing room with the dress over her arm. “Do you know, Emma, I thought I knew your brother,” she said. “Outside of a certain fondness for waistcoats that make me blink, I thought he was a normal fellow.”

  “No, he is not,” Emma replied.

  “Perhaps it’s just as well that he never married,” Jane mused. “He would come home with oil on his clothes, and ink stains up to his elbows from improving upon blueprints. That is, when he remembered to come home! Oh, Emma, I am depending upon him to be here this evening.”

  “He will be here,” Emma assured her.

  Between calming Amanda’s fears and setting her to work supervising the laying of the table in the dining room, Jane hemmed the dress and watched the clock. Two o’clock came and went, and she found herself pacing in front of the window. It was nearly three when the carriage returned from Huddersfield. Well, that is a relief, she thought, hurrying down the stairs. The butler was busy with the silverware so she opened the door and gasped at what stood before her. Words failed her. I do not know that there is enough soap and water in Yorkshire to make a dent, she thought.

  “Any chimneys need cleaning?” Mr. Butterworth asked, and the boys giggled. “Pots to mend? Barns to muck out?”

  “Don’t try me, Mr. Butterworth,” she told him, wondering for a moment which of the boys was Andrew. Douse them in grease and I defy any mother to know, she thought. And what identical smiles! Even yours, Mr. Butterworth. How good that I am a patient woman.

  They looked so pleased with themselves that she could only sigh. “I trust you got all the parts reassembled and there is nothing left over,” she said.

  Andrew nodded, his eyes bright in his oil-streaked face. “Mr. Butterworth added another cog and more belting and he says that it will spin even faster.”

  The mill owner shrugged. “What can I do, Miss Mitten? Nieces are a notorious expense, and I must assist Richard in keeping Olivia in dolls and sweets. Go on, boys, and I’ll catch up.” He watched them dart past her into the house. ‘That is, I will follow them if you let me inside, Miss Milton,” he teased.

  “I should not,” she told him as she still barred the door. “Emma said you would be clean and ready to greet the guests.”

  “Then she is doomed to disappointment,” he said, with no evidence of remorse. “Come here, my dear, and let me introduce some of our guests right now.”

  Not until he mentioned guests did she notice that another carriage had pulled up behind the Newton vehicle. “Please tell me that you met them on the road,” she began.

  “Oh, no! We’ve been enjoying a remarkable afternoon at the woolen mill,” he said. “I would take your arm, but I do not think it is a good idea. Miss Milton, may I present Robert Owen and Jeremy Bentham? Gentlemen, this is Miss Milton, that excellent teacher I was telling you about.”

  I have heard of these men, she thought. Oh, don’t stare, Jane. And close your mouth. Her mind in a muddle, she watched as the two men descended from their carriage. “Mr. Robert Owen?” she repeated, even as she mentally kicked herself for sounding like an Almack’s miss with more hair than wit.

  “It seems that you have heard of me,” he said, and she promptly decided that she loved the Welsh lilt to his speech.

  “I have, sir!” she exclaimed. “Every time my kinsman Lord Denby reads of you in the newspaper, he gives it a good rattle and calls you a damned scoundrel.” Oh, my Lord, what did I just say? she asked herself, putting her hand to her mouth. “I mean ….”

  To her incredible relief, the factory owner threw back his head and laughed. “No, Miss Milton, do not improve upon the text!” he exclaimed when he could talk. “It’s a high compliment, wouldn’t you agree, Jeremy?” And over his shoulder to Mr. Butterworth, “You were right; she is an original, Scipio.”

  All right, Jane, she told herself as she held out her hand to him, the least you say, the better. Oh, dear, I have offended him, she thought, when he did not extend his hand.

  “Miss Milton, better that you should shake Jeremy Bentham’s hand twice instead of mine once,” he was saying, when she gathered up her heart enough to listen. “I’m guilty of playing with the machinery, too.”

  She shook Jeremy Bentham’s hand and glared at Mr. Butterworth. “You were on your best behavior, sir, and now you have led a member of the Board of Directors astray,” she scolded.

  “No, my dear, he is blameless,” Mr. Bentham said. “Rob and I arrived at the factory first, and there was all this lovely machinery broken down and ready to reassemble. He could not restrain himself, and I am too old to either restrain or argue with a Welshman.”

  He was still holding her hand when it dawned on Jane who he was. “Jeremy Bentham!” she exclaimed. “Oh, my!”

  “Guilty as charged, Miss Milton,” he declared in turn, and released her hand. “What? You are amazed that an antiquarian such as I is still able to function under his own sail?”

  “I do not know what I am, sir, except amazed at the company I am keeping,” she said frankly.

  He twinkled his eyes at her, looking far younger than his obvious years. “The Damned Scoundrel and the Anti-Christ, too, eh?”

  When in Rome, she thought, and plunged ahead. “I must tell you, sir, that Lord Denby gets really out of trim when he reads that your utopian factories actually make money.”

  “Un-English, ain’t it, ma’am?” Robert Owen said. He nodded to her and bowed to Mr. Butterworth. “We will return for dinner with most of the grease removed, my dear. Scipio, I advise you to put her on the board! Plain speaking is refreshing in a female. Good day, Miss Milton.”

  “Plain speaking will be my ruin, Mr. B,” she said as she watched the carriage continue back down the lane.

  “No, Miss Mitten, it will not.” He came close to her and draped his arm over her shoulder in a manner so brotherlike that she thought of Blair with a pang. “I had no idea that Mr. Bentham was coming, but Robert apparently thought he might be interested to see what we are doing here in Huddersfield. Do you know that I keep a copy of his book A Fragment on Government on my bedside table?”

  “To impress the upstairs maid?” she teased, and laughed when he gave her neck a tweak. “And look, sir! You have smeared grease on me!”

  He released his hold on her. “It’s what you deserve, Miss Mitten. Now the servants will talk about you!” He clapped his hands then. “Well, hurry along now, my dear, and don’t make me dawdle. You are keeping me from my tin tub, or at least a wire brush.”

  Grease was harder to remove than Jane thought, and her neck was rosy before Emma pronounced her fit for society and turned her over to her own dresser. “Upshaw, under no circumstances is Miss Milton to wear a lace cap tonight,” she said, as she covered herself discreetly and burped Olivia.

  “Emma! I am nearly thirty,” Jane protested.

  “You are still unmarried and your hair is beautiful,” Emma replied serenely. “Well done, Olivia! You sound like your Uncle Scipio after a large meal.” She held her daughter away from her and looked into her eyes. “Olivia, at least I can depend upon you not to unbutton your top breeches button like your dear papa. No cap, Jane, or … or I will give sour milk!”

  “Tyrant!” Jane declared as she blew a kiss to Emma and left the room.

  An hour later, Jane could only smile at her reflection and then remember Mr. Butterworth’s secret weapon. “Lucy would say I am finished out, and I
have you to thank, Upshaw,” she said to the dresser.

  The dresser stepped back for another look, and then rearranged a tendril by her ear that needed no improvement. “I think you should burn all your caps,” the woman said. “Surely they weren’t your idea, Miss Milton.”

  No, they were Lady Carruthers’ idea, Jane thought, as the dresser left the room. She rested her hands in her lap and frowned at her reflection. I have been listening to her for years, and I wonder why? When Andrew goes away to school next year, there is no reason why I could not find a teaching position somewhere else. True, I will miss Lord Denby, but he is determined to die, and I am weary of death.

  “Jane?”

  She focused into the mirror and saw Mr. Butterworth standing in the doorway, dressed for dinner and looking far more elegant than she remembered from other functions at Denby. “Is that a new rig out?” she asked.

  “Heavens, no,” he replied. “You know how I hate to dress up for functions. You’ve seen this any number of times at those gatherings in Denby where my mill owner presence is not a hiss and a byword.”

  “Radical tonight, are we?” she murmured. “And what, sir, are you doing standing in my door?”

  “I knocked and called your name, but there you were, swooning over your face in the mirror and totally oblivious. May I come in? I know it’s improper but ….”

  “ ‘I … I am just a mill owner,’ ” she chimed in with him, and then laughed. “Of course you may come in! What you saw was not someone dreamy-eyed, but rather Jane Milton in all her calculation, sir.”

  “And?” he prompted, seating himself beside her dressing table.

  “I am tired of the crochets of old men who think they have a foot in the grave, and a cousin who delves into rumor and who schemes better than Lady Macbeth, and her son with nothing on his mind but his wardrobe.”