Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind

by Carla Kelly

  Too weary to argue, Jane put her hands over his and pillowed her head on his arm. She had the vaguest memory of being clasped like this by her father years ago, before he left them. “You won’t leave?” she asked, caught in that memory that flared up like a struck match, and then snuffed out. “I mean ….”

  “No, I won’t,” he said, resting his cheek against her hair. “Go to sleep, Jane.”

  Disinclined to argue, she did as he said, relaxing with a sigh. “Won’t the maid be surprised when she comes in to start the fire?” she asked, as she gave up the struggle to keep her eyes open.

  “My dear Jane, it is only three in the morning,” the mill owner replied, his own voice drowsy. “None of the Newtons’ servants are that ambitious. Just turn your worries over to me for a while.”

  “Can’t … you have … big meeting today,” she managed.

  “Hush.”

  She slept then, unable to do anything else, because she was tired and warm, and the beating of the mill owner’s heart was steady against her back. His arm will grow numb if I lean on it like this, was her last thought before she surrendered herself to sleep.

  He was gone when she woke up, and the room was bright with that peculiar light of sun reflecting off snow. I wonder what time it is, she thought, as she sat up and looked around the room. The maid had already lit the fire, and the room was warm enough to tell her that she hadn’t done it recently. And there was a can of water with a towel over it, everything as orderly and tidy as though nothing was different about this day.

  Jane stretched and put her hands behind her head, relishing the pleasure of waking so peacefully. How long has it been that I have bounded awake, and practically on my feet? she asked herself as she let herself be absorbed into the mattress again. “Jane, you have had a good night’s sleep,” she announced to herself.

  She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, she could tell that the sun was much higher overhead. Still she remained where she was, breathing deep of Christmas smells that had a way of drifting up several flights of stairs, no matter whose house. Gingerbread, she thought, and something with cinnamon. She sat up and glanced at the empty pillow beside her own, almost ready to believe that she had dreamed Mr. Butterworth’s presence in her bed last night. She frowned; there was no indent in the pillow. I am balmy, indeed, she thought, doubtful until she took a careful look at her own pillow. She leaned over to sniff it, and was rewarded with the faintest fragrance from the cologne that the mill owner liked. He was that close, she mused, her mind quiet and at peace. No wonder I slept so well; there wasn’t room in my bed for a nightmare.

  She dressed thoughtfully, after a glance at the clock to confirm the fact that her stomach was growling for a reason. Here it is the noon hour, and I am actually hungry, she acknowledged, with a feeling of surprise. Will wonders never cease?

  The house was silent, and she had no qualms about encountering the mill owner in the breakfast room. It is not that I am shy about any of this, she told herself as she opened the door. “Well, yes it is,” she murmured, her hand poised on the doorknob. “I do not very often allow men into my bed in the wee hours of the morning.” She paused and leaned her forehead against the paneling of the door. Thank God he was there, she thought. Is there not to be an end to what I owe this kind man?

  She opened the door, agreeably surprised to see Emma seated at the table, buttering a muffin. “My dear, shouldn’t you be in bed?” Jane asked, as she smiled at the footman and allowed him to seat her.

  “I am tired of being in bed,” Emma announced. “Thank you; that will do.” When the door closed, she leaned toward Jane. “My dear, I find myself at that condition which Richard delicately refers to as my mother wolf phase: if it moves, I will eat it. No sudden motions, Jane!”

  Jane laughed and took a muffin from the basket, as Emma poured her some tea. “You are kindness itself to allow me to sleep so late,” she said. “I suppose I should apologize for being such a slug, and on Christmas Eve, too, but I would be a hypocrite if I did.”

  Emma nodded. “Amanda only just woke up a short time ago. Scipio and Richard assured me that the two of you had worked hard enough over last night’s dinner to allow for a late morning.” She touched Jane’s hand. “Thank you again for helping my darling negotiate the fearsome shoals of a dinner party! Scipio assures me that you are happiest when you are busiest, but I cannot help think that this holiday has been rather more work than pleasure for you.”

  “I have never enjoyed one more,” she said. “Your brother certainly has my measure. Has he always been such a judge of character?”

  She knew it was a joking question, so she was not prepared for Emma’s expression. The woman held the muffin in midair, a look of such sadness on her face that Jane could feel her own heart sinking. “Emma?” she whispered.

  She might as well have said nothing. The woman stared at her, seeming to contemplate a distance far beyond the little stretch of table that separated them. “Everyone’s character except his own,” she said, her voice low, the words coming spontaneously to Jane’s ear. “Why, why are people hardest on themselves?”

  It wasn’t a question to answer, because Jane couldn’t be sure Emma was aware she was asking one. As she watched, Emma sighed and her eyes focused again, this time on the muffin she still held. Jane slowly let out her breath, wondering what glimpse she had seen of Mr. Butterworth that only a sister, and a loving one at that, was privy to.

  And then Emma was Emma again. “What were you saying, my dear?” she asked, as she dabbed marmalade on the muffin. “I seem to be woolgathering, and this is hardly the season for it.”

  “Nothing at all,” Jane said, striving for calm again, when her mind was suddenly so full of questions. None of this is my business, she told herself. I am in no one’s confidence. “Actually, I was hoping that you would give me a task before I turn into a total vegetable and end up as tonight’s table arrangement.”

  Emma laughed, and Jane let her breath out slowly. “Nothing could be easier,” she said, and pointed to a box on the sideboard. “Scipio brought that dreadful thing in here this morning and asked me to put you to work when you woke up.”

  “Dreadful?” Jane asked.

  “Oh, it is full of invoices and receipts that need to be divided between the two mills. Usually the task is Richard’s but he was busy this week, wringing his hands and then pacing up and down!” Emma said, then sighed. “Jane, never, never arrange your amusements so that a baby falls due on Christmas.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” Jane teased, “considering that I do not have the means to produce such an event!” She picked up the box and returned with it to the table. “Just separate them? Oh, I see. Each mill has a different name. Emma?” She looked at Emma, who was gazing into the distance again. “My dear?”

  “You heard her, didn’t you?” Emma asked, her hand going to her breast. “No? Jane, I do believe Olivia is awake. Give me a hand up, please. If I hurry, I won’t leave a trail of milk all down the hall. Happy Christmas, indeed!”

  Jane smiled to herself as she finished her luncheon, returned the dishes to the sideboard, and took the papers from the box. This will not keep me busy enough, Mr. Butterworth, she thought, as she sorted the invoices and bills of lading into separate piles on the table. It was mindless work, however, and just the sort of thing to keep her brain empty of anxiety. She welcomed it, sitting there in the breakfast room with the sun beginning its afternoon slant through the house, and winter birds chattering around a suet ball.

  She was halfway down the pile when she picked up a folded sheet with her name on it. The handwriting was Mr. Butterworth’s and she opened the note, spreading it out before her on the invoices, knowing almost before she read a word what it would say, and for the first time in months, not dreading it.

  “My dear Miss Mitten,” she read, her lips moving but no sound coming out. “I do believe that earlier this week in a moment of fun, you told me that you wanted a red cloak for Chr
istmas. I told you that in return, I wanted all your secrets. Do you know now that I am perfectly serious?”

  “You do not know what you are asking,” she murmured, as she put down the note. “You have no idea.”

  “ ‘Let us talk tonight. Miss Milton,’ ” she continued, reading out loud now. “ ‘Be so kind, please. If you do not find a way to a good night’s sleep, then I do not think I will, either. And what use have I for a red cloak? Scipio.’ ”

  She read the note again, then folded it and tucked it up her sleeve. She sat perfectly still in the quiet room, thinking to herself that she should remove the mousetraps that she and Amanda had placed in Mr. Butterworth’s office. Those were never mice, were they, sir? she thought. I have been keeping you awake, have I not? And you want this burden? She sat in silence until the footman surprised her an hour later, bringing in a new tablecloth to lay for dinner.

  Not wishing to face the mill owner yet, she carried the box upstairs to his office and placed it on his desk with the invoices for each mill labeled separately. She sat in his chair, smiling to herself as she started to straighten the papers on his desk, then thought better of it. I am certain there is a system here, she imagined, and I would only disrupt it. She sat still, oddly at peace with herself, as she looked at the miniatures on his desk. Emma as a young woman was easy enough to identify, and there were a much-younger Jacob and Amanda. “No Lucy, sir,” she said out loud. “You are getting behind, what with Olivia to account for now.”

  Behind the others and turned sideways was a gilt-edged frame which should have contained a miniature. She picked it up, wondering at an empty frame on his desk, and turned it over. ‘To my darling, Scipio,” she read out loud. “Love forever.”

  She held the frame in her hand for a long moment, then returned it to its position behind the other miniatures. Secrets, secrets, we all have secrets, she told herself. Poor Mr. Butterworth. Did a lovely lady change her mind? She could not have been so bright, if she threw you over for another. She looked at the empty frame again, then left the office on tiptoe, even though the hallway was empty. Why do we always leave so much unsaid?

  They opened presents after dinner that night, grouped around Emma in her bed while Olivia, her belly full, slumbered on her mother’s knees. Mr. Butterworth, full of apology for missing dinner, came in with his overcoat still on, bringing in the cold air with him. Jane was almost too shy to smile at him, but she did anyway, finding a small satisfaction that he looked slightly at odds himself.

  It was a very small exchange of gifts, which relieved Jane of any embarrassment over having nothing to give. Before she could even stammer a single apology, Emma took her hand in a firm clasp. “Jane, what would Richard and I have done without you this week?” she said simply. “I cannot fathom a finer gift from you than yourself.”

  “See there, Jane?” Mr. Butterworth said as he took off his overcoat. “Once in a while, virtue is its own reward.” He sat on the foot of the bed and put his arm around Andrew. “In this age of cynicism, laddie, who would have thought it?” He hugged Andrew, and Jane smiled as they grinned at each other.

  She glanced at Emma, and noticed tears in her eyes as she watched her brother. “Emma, we are surely wearing you down to a nub,” she said.

  Emma shook her head. “What is that to me, my dear?” she said. “I am happy.”

  It was said so simply that Jane felt her own eyes filling with tears. I am, too, she thought. Here I am, ready to confess the worst story imaginable to a kind man, and I am happy about it. Lady Carruthers is right; I am a perfect ninny.

  “We are almost waist deep in sensibility,” Mr. Butterworth was saying to Andrew. “Here, lad, have a gift from me. You’ll probably have to hide it when you return to Stover Hall, but I trust you are sufficiently resourceful.”

  Andrew unwrapped the package and pulled out a wrench. Everyone laughed as he stared at it, his eyes wide. “Mr. Butterworth! It is not a child’s wrench!” he declared.

  “Lord, no,” said the mill owner, with a wink at Jane. “In future if you ever tire of being a marquis, I can find something for you to do in Huddersfield.”

  “I would like that more,” Andrew said quietly as he rested the wrench in his lap, then ran his finger the length of it.

  Oh dear, Jane thought, as Emma blew her nose and picked up Olivia to hide her tears. This will never do. “I am certain we are tiring you, Emma,” she said. “What would you say that we adjourn and leave you and Richard in peace?”

  “Not yet,” the mill owner insisted. “Buck up, Em! Jane Milton, this is for you.” Over her protests, he handed her a large package still cold from the outdoors. “Oh, why must women object when someone gives them a little something, Richard?”

  “It’s part of their charm, Scipio,” his brother-in-law replied, as he sat closer to Emma, who was crying in earnest now. “My heart, what is the matter?”

  “I am happy! I told you!” Emma sobbed. She wiped her eyes. “Jane, do open it before I simply drown Olivia.”

  If I do not open it, the matter will end here, Jane thought as she looked at the box in her lap. I know what it is, and I know what I owe for it. I can tease and say that ladies don’t accept gifts beyond flowers and books, or I can give the man the terrible gift he wants in exchange. “Are you certain, Mr. Butterworth?” she asked, her voice low.

  “Positive,” he said. “Open it.”

  With Lucy to help, she took the ribbon off the box, then held her breath as she shook out a red cloak from the tissue that surrounded it.

  “Red?” Emma said dubiously. “Scipio?”

  “It’s dark enough red, so no one will doubt that she’s a complete lady. Try it on, Jane.”

  She did as he said, enjoying the warmth of the wool, and the weight of it on her shoulders. “Not exactly a cloak for a poor relation,” she said.

  “Far from it,” Mr. Butterworth agreed.

  Lucy tugged at her uncle’s coat and he obliged her by sitting down again and taking her on his lap. “Why did you give her a red cloak, Uncle Scipio?” she asked.

  He hugged her and smiled at Jane over Lucy’s head. “No reason, Lucy. The material caught my eye.”

  “Uncle Scipio, you would never go in a cloth warehouse,” Amanda began, then laughed when everyone else did. “You know! As a customer!”

  “My dear niece, what I do sometimes surprises even me. What do you think, Jane?”

  Lucy pulled away far enough to look up at him. “Mama says that we always have reasons for everything we do. And she is Miss Mitten, not Jane.”

  “Such a literal thing you are,” he said. “Well, let us say I gave it to Miss Mitten because I … I like the way she takes care of Andrew! Will that satisfy you?”

  “Lucy, you are a mystery,” Richard murmured, shaking his head. “Come now, all of you. Did I not hear your uncle say that he was taking you to midnight church tonight? Go get ready.”

  “Ah, the mill owner’s voice,” Mr. Butterworth said as the children hurried from the room. “When did I promise midnight church, Richard, eh?” He looked at Jane. “Will it do?”

  She nodded, too shy to speak. She draped the cloak carefully over her arm, smoothing down the fabric. “What have I done?” she asked.

  “Found the perfect color for a cloak,” Emma said, dabbing at her eyes and then putting the sleeping infant back across her knees. “It is amazing what that shade does to your skin, my dear.”

  Jane looked up from the fabric, and then realized that she had spoken aloud. “I’ll wear it to church tonight,” she said.

  “Jane, you needn’t go! I was only sending out Scipio on that errand of mercy. You know, wear out the children so they will sleep tonight and then open their other gifts in the morning,” Richard said.

  “No. I will go, too,” Jane said. She returned Mr. Butterworth’s faint smile, and hurried from the room. What better place than a church for the confession I must make tonight, she thought, even if there is no absolution.

  She was c
omposed and calm when he knocked softly on her door an hour later, the cloak warm about her shoulders and her bonnet precisely right.

  “That is a beautiful color,” he said, looking at her from head to toe. “And I was right about the length.” He offered her his arm and she took it. “I took the fabric to Em’s dressmaker and had her children stand next to me until I found the child whose head came just right below my shoulder, the way you do.”

  “You’re an observant man then,” she replied, for want of anything better to say.

  “I had better be,” he murmured. “And here are our charges! Courage, Miss Milton. I never blush for Andrew’s manners, thanks to his upbringing.” He gestured toward his nieces and nephew, standing by the front door. “And I can threaten these with half rations!”

  She smiled at him. “I am certain that your threats terrify no one, Mr. Butterworth.”

  “Not lately,” he agreed. “I’m getting soft.”

  She mulled that in her mind, content to walk in silence beside the mill owner who, obliging as always, matched his stride to hers. The children hurried on ahead, Andrew and Jacob holding Lucy’s hand, while Amanda walked behind them, as if undecided whether she belonged with the children or the adults. The mill owner finally called to her and offered her his other arm, which she accepted.

  “Amanda, you’re growing up too fast,” he said as they walked together toward the small church Jane had noticed on their drives to and from the mill. “I suppose I will be buying fabric for a wedding dress in a couple of years.”

  “I am only fifteen, Uncle,” she protested.

  “Time passes, love, until it is gone and we are old before we know it,” he said in a tone so final to Jane’s ears that Amanda said nothing more.

  He was silent through the midnight service, and Jane wondered if he was regretting his gift and what it meant. I cannot blame him, she thought, as she followed him back from the altar and knelt beside him again. It is a daunting thing to realize that at some point in our lives, we must stand alone. She looked at him. But surely you have already discovered this, Mr. Butterworth, she thought. I learned it, too, but you must know.