Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind

by Carla Kelly

  She shivered as they knelt together, then moved closer to him as the children came back to kneel beside them. “What, Miss Mitten?” he whispered to her. “Are you cold? I had thought that cloak warm enough for Arctic winters.”

  He seemed to know she would not answer him, and returned his gaze to his own hands clasped in front of him. In another moment he closed his eyes. Impulsively, Jane leaned toward him. “Pray for me, Mr. Butterworth,” she whispered back. He nodded, and remained on his knees until the priest called on the congregation to rise.

  She had second and third thoughts as the mass ended, and wondered what Mr. Butterworth would think if she bolted from the church and packed her bags for Stover Hall. She could claim that Lord Denby needed her, or that Lady Carruthers was at her wit’s end with Cecil, and be gone by morning. A glance at Andrew, who stood outside stamping his feet and chatting with Jacob, calmed her. He would never forgive me for snatching him from his new friends, she thought. I will simply have to carry through with what Mr. Butterworth demands, even though I lose his friendship in the bargain. For someone who is such an observer rather than a partaker of events, I lead a complicated life. Who would have thought it?

  She wondered if Mr. Butterworth suspected her own vacillation. He clung rather tighter to her arm, once he had successfully navigated the shoals of best wishes to the priest, and Christmas greetings to numerous parishioners. She smiled and curtsied through any number of introductions, making no effort to free herself from his grasp. “I promise not to bolt,” she whispered, then stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “You shan’t lose a return on your investment.”

  With a smile he released her arm. “Miss Mitten, if I did not know you were a step or two higher than I on the social rung, I could accuse you of keeping an eye on that bottom line, yourself.”

  “I am no bookkeeper, sir,” she protested.

  “And so I remind myself,” he murmured, then turned his attention to the elderly gentleman who had shared their pew. “Mr. Walthorpe! Promise me that you will have the very best Christmas ever!”

  “Mama thinks that Uncle Scipio can charm roses off wallpaper,” Amanda told her as she joined the children.

  “I suppose he can,” Jane replied, watching Lucy stamp her feet and turn in circles. “Lucy, are you cold?”

  When Lucy nodded, Jane glanced at the mill owner, who appeared in no hurry to leave the church. Second thoughts of your own, sir? she thought. She turned to Amanda. “My dear, you and the children can go ahead. I will wait here for your uncle.”

  She stood where she was in the snow beside the chapel doors, the cloak warm around her shoulders. Snow was falling, and in the brief light from the lanterns, she watched the flakes fall against the dark material, burst with their own unique glory, and then melt into nothing. And so do we all, on a grander cosmic scale, she thought, watching the patterns so distinct and ephemeral—snowflake philosophy on early Christmas morning. If it is true that animals talk to one another in this hour of Our Lord’s birth, then I suppose I can gather some wisdom about me to keep me warm through the rest of life. She frowned. If only I can keep my friend, as well.

  She stared off into the beauty of the night, watching the snow all around her until she felt isolated even from the church, which was almost close enough to touch. The children were gone from her sight now, but through the peculiarity of atmosphere, she could still hear them laughing and talking. Andrew, I wish I could just leave you here with Richard and Emma, she thought. Then I would take the mail coach to New Lanark in Scotland and tell Mr. Robert Owen that I would be happy to teach in his school for the children of mill workers. Lady Carruthers could tell everyone who would listen in Denby that she knew nothing good would ever come of me. I would never again have to devise reasons to avoid walking past the door to Blair’s room, or drop what I was doing to listen to that fribble Cecil and his complaints. Lord Denby could die in peace, without me there to devise plans for reunions.

  “I would also never see you again,” she whispered as she turned to regard the mill owner, engaged now in conversation with the priest. Tears came to her eyes and she brushed them away. That would be the worst of all, she decided.

  As she watched, the mill owner gestured to her to join him. She hesitated, and he wasted not a moment in coming down the few steps to take her hand and tuck her arm in his. “Miss Milton, Father Nichols says that we are welcome to stay in the church and chat.”

  I hardly imagine my confessions can be classified as chat, she thought, but she nodded to the priest, and allowed the mill owner to lead her back inside the church. She sat where he indicated, pulled the red cloak tighter about her shoulders, and rested her feet on the prayer bench to keep them off the cold stone floor.

  Mr. Butterworth sat beside her and put his arm around her shoulders to pull her closer. He said nothing, but stared at the altar in front of them, a half smile on his face. Almost as though you are enjoying this, she thought in surprise. With a sigh, she nestled closer to him and rested her head in that comforting place between his armpit and his chest that she had discovered last night—was it just last night?—in her own bed.

  The chapel was so silent that she could hear the faint ticking of Mr. Butterworth’s watch in his vest pocket. The pleasant sound, so prosaic, calmed her heart. She relaxed finally, and closed her eyes when the mill owner removed her bonnet and then rested his chin on top of her head.

  He did not prod; he did not pry. She couldn’t have told anyone how much time passed, or even that it passed at all, except that the watch ticked so steadily. Where do I begin? she asked herself. “Hold my hand,” she said, not even opening her eyes as he covered her tightly knotted hands with his own. She took a deep breath.

  “Mr. Butterworth, what would you say if I told you I killed Blair?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  She held her breath then, waiting for him to flinch and draw away from her, but he did not. Instead, he kissed the top of her head, then rested his chin there again. “I suppose anyone’s instant reply would be to deny that such a thing was possible, and then change the subject with a vengeance,” he told her finally. “But I do not know that anything is impossible, even from the most improbable sources, Jane.”

  It was not the answer she expected, and she pulled away from him to look at his face. “What are you saying?” she asked.

  “I suppose I am suggesting that I am pretty hard to shock.” He chuckled and pulled her closer to him again. “Why don’t you just tell me what happened, instead of wasting one more minute blaming yourself?”

  “The blame is mine,” she insisted.

  “I suppose it is, if you like that kind of torture.” He shrugged. “And if we do not see eye to eye on the matter, what then, my dear?”

  She did not know what to say to the mill owner’s matter-of-fact comment. As she sat there, he put his hand between her clenched fists until she felt herself relax, and then twined his fingers into hers. “Perhaps you can answer a question of mine,” he said, after another long silence passed.

  She nodded, and he squeezed her hand. “My dear, when Blair was brought back from Belgium, were you aware that Andrew began to visit me?”

  “No!” she said in surprise. “He never said ….” She stopped, remembering that first month when she knew that nothing would ever be right again.

  “Perhaps you can begin there,” the mill owner suggested. “I found Andrew playing at the lake—well, more like just sitting there. He said that no one would let him see his father, and that you seldom left his room.” He paused, and then brought her hand up to his lips. “What did they make you do, Jane?” he asked, his lips against her fingers.

  “They made me take care of him!” she burst out, her words so loud and ugly that she winced at the sound of them in the quiet nave. “ ‘Let Jane do it!’ ” she said in perfect imitation of Lady Carruthers. “And Mr. Lowe was so happy to agree with her!”

  Mr. Butterworth did flinch then. “My God, Jane,” he said. “The
doctor! The whole neighborhood knew that Lord Canfield was seriously wounded but … what was wrong?”

  “Everything,” she replied, pulling her hands away to dab at her eyes. “Mr. Butterworth, he had been shot in the neck and the wound simply refused to heal.” She leaned forward to pound on the pew in front of her and stopped only when her hand began to ache. “It would not heal!” She grasped the front of his overcoat and stared into his eyes, which did not waver from her face. “Mr. Lowe said a musket ball had grazed his subclavian artery. In fact, it was still there under his collarbone. Blair could rub along for a week or even two weeks, and then that horrible wound would open and he would bleed. We never knew when it would happen.”

  She was silent then, and dropped her hands from his coat, embarrassed with herself. She leaned closer until her forehead rested against his chest. The mill owner pulled her close, his arms around her. “Let me guess,” he said finally, his voice muffled by her hair. “You were all afraid to let Andrew see him, for fear that he would begin to hemorrhage suddenly, and terrify the boy.”

  “That was it,” she told him. “Blair made Stanton and me swear that no one would know how bad it was … or would become, I suppose. He was adamant, and we obliged him.”

  “He wanted to spare everyone?”

  She nodded, too weary to speak. “It was a horrible sight,” she said finally. “Mr. Lowe showed me how to staunch the bleeding with styptic and then press the heel of my hand just so against his neck until the wound clotted.” She started to cry. “It took so long and my arm would get so tired. Oh, Mr. Butterworth, you can’t imagine!”

  “No, I can’t,” he murmured, pulling her onto his lap, and wrapping his overcoat around both of them. “Here I thought I could, but I can’t. For the love of God, why didn’t Lowe do this instead of you?” He gave her his handkerchief and she sobbed into it. “Jane, he was the physician!”

  She cried until she was almost nauseated with her tears. Mr. Butterworth held her close and rocked back and forth with her as though she were Lucy or Olivia. She was helpless to do anything except cry until his handkerchief was a useless, soggy ball. “Just a moment, my dear,” he said, pulling her away enough to undo his neckcloth. “We may have finally discovered a use for these silly things. Here.” She took his neckcloth and wiped her face, then dabbed at his shirtfront. “Oh, never mind that, Jane,” he said, holding her close again. “I know from our years of acquaintance that you are one to excuse all kinds of chicanery, but unless you can give me a reason for Mr. Lowe to continue drawing breath, I’m going to call him out.”

  She stared at him, her eyes wide. “You would never!” she exclaimed.

  “Miss Mitten, you underestimate this particular mill owner,” he replied grimly. “There are things about me that you would never believe. Come now, and give me a good reason for Lowe’s existence. I will settle for one.”

  You are serious, she thought, regarding the mill owner. With only the light of the perpetual flame behind the altar, and what moonlight filtered through the windows, she could barely see his face, but his words were so clipped and unfamiliar. “I can forgive him, Mr. Butterworth,” she said, after a moment’s contemplation of his face. “Blair was one of his best friends. Mr. Lowe could not bear to watch him die.”

  The mill owner sighed and tightened his grip around her. “Jane, I believe you would find excuse for Judas Iscariot himself. So Mr. Lowe couldn’t watch his friend die, but it was all right for you to bear the brunt?”

  “You know that I do all the tasks no one else wants at Stover,” she said simply.

  “You were forced to bear all this yourself,” said the mill owner, amazement unmistakable in his voice.

  “Stanton and I took turns caring for him. Not even the servants were allowed in the room to help. Even Lord Denby had no idea of the total complication because that was Blair’s wish.”

  “A damned selfish wish,” Mr. Butterworth said grimly. “I wonder that you are not angry with him still.”

  She released his lapels and stared at him. “Do you know, I think I am sometimes. I shouldn’t be, of course,” she added in a rush.

  “Of course you should be,” he insisted. “Say what you like about Lord Canfield, but I will contend that he treated you as poorly as the rest.” The mill owner was silent then.

  “I can forgive.”

  She felt her face go red as his silence continued. I am an idiot, she thought, too shy to look at him now. She rested her head against his chest again, drawing comfort from the steady beat of his heart. “Go ahead and say it,” she told him finally. “I am the most silly, compliant woman you ever met.”

  She was rewarded with a chuckle that she felt more than she heard, and then he gripped her even tighter. “No, Jane Milton,” he said, his voice so soft. “What you are is braver than most men, and more forgiving than most saints.” He sighed. “No wonder you have never married. You put us all to shame.”

  ‘The shame is mine, sir,” she replied, shaking her head. “I told you that I killed Blair.”

  “I think I understand, my dear Miss Mitten. In those—what was it: six or seven months?—did you actually leave the room once and Blair died? Was that how it was?”

  “No. I fell asleep,” she said quietly, pressing her fingers hard against the bridge of her nose so she would not cry. Without a word he took her hand away and she fell against him, sobbing.

  “Oh, my dear,” he crooned, rocking with her again. “Oh, my dear.”

  Her face pressed against his neckcloth, Jane cried until she was certain there were no tears left. It was a storm of tears, a rage of tears that startled her by their very intensity, even as they were muffled within the mill owner’s overcoat as he held her close.

  “Did no one allow you to cry?” he asked, his lips close to her ear, when she rested against him, exhausted.

  “There was no time for my tears,” she said, and shook her head. “Lord Denby was in ruin, and Andrew … I know that I failed him then.”

  “He spent time with me, my dear,” Mr. Butterworth said. “He was so certain that Lord Canfield was refusing to see him because he wasn’t his real father.”

  “Oh, no!” she exclaimed. “Stanton and I said nothing to him because of that awful promise.” She sat up. “That was the wrong thing, wasn’t it?”

  “You can undo it,” the mill owner assured her. “Just tell him the nature of the wound, and how much Lord Canfield wanted to shield him.” He put his hand on her neck and pulled her back to rest against him again. “Andrew will keep, Jane. You are not through yet, are you? Do you fear to go to sleep because of what happened?”

  She nodded. “I know it is perfectly nonsensical, but I will do almost anything to keep from falling asleep, no matter how tired I am.” She hesitated, and Mr. Butterworth peered at her expectantly. “I wish that were all,” she said finally, the words pulled from her like cockleburs from tangled hair. Must I tell you more? she pleaded silently. I cannot bear it. It is a pity that you are so intelligent, sir. I think you will figure it out.

  To her dismay, she was right. After a moment’s reflection, he spoke slowly, almost as hesitant as she, and her heart sank. “God bless you, Jane,” he said, his voice low. “It’s not so much the falling asleep as the waking up, is it, my dear? Blair wasn’t dead.”

  She shook her head and he drew his overcoat tighter about them both when she began to shiver. “He was bleeding to death before your eyes, wasn’t he?” Mr. Butterworth asked gently.

  She nodded, unable to find the words to convey the full horror. “It was … was like a fountain,” she managed to say finally, irritated with herself because she couldn’t stop trembling. “Mr. Lowe had warned me that the end would come that way when—not if—the artery burst, but not in my worst moment did I imagine it would be so terrible.”

  “Damn Mr. Lowe,” Mr. Butterworth muttered. “Jane, did you try to stop it?”

  She nodded again. “I must have packed a pound of alum against that artery, but noth
ing worked. I tried so hard,” she pleaded with him, “really I did!”

  “Jane, I know you did,” Mr. Butterworth said. “Was Blair … was he … conscious?”

  “Yes.” She felt the tears rising again. “He couldn’t speak, but he was begging me with his eyes to do something. I had to do something!” She took a deep breath, and then another quicker breath until her head felt light. “I put the heel of my hand against his neck and just held it there.”

  She winced as Mr. Butterworth sucked in his breath and sat back then. “My God,” he breathed. “Jane, are you telling me that as long as you held your hand there, he would live?”

  I knew I would repulse you, she thought in agony. “Yes,” she said, and it was the barest whisper. “I did not know what to do, Mr. Butterworth. I was so afraid. God forgive me.” She knew her voice was low, but the words seemed to carry on the cold air and circle around in the nave until she was weary with the sound of them.

  “I sat that way for at least an hour,” she continued, even though the mill owner had said nothing to urge any more of the story from her. ‘Through my negligence, he had bled open the artery entirely.” She sighed, got up from Mr. Butterworth’s lap, folded his damp neckcloth, and set it beside him on the pew. He did not move, but she knew his eyes were on her. “Mr. Butterworth, I told him I loved him, and took my hand away. Good night, sir. I will take the mailcoach back to Denby tomorrow. Forgive me for burdening you. I knew it would be more than you wanted.”

  She turned to go, but quicker than sight Mr. Butterworth grabbed her hand and pulled her back down beside him. “What did you do? Faint? Scream? Run from the room?”

  Shocked, she stared at him and tried to pull her hand away, but he would not allow it. “Of course not, Mr. Butterworth! I held his hand until he died. Why would you think ….” She sighed. “Mr. Butterworth, you know it was never in me to run away.”