by Carla Kelly
“Of course it was not,” he replied, and then touched her face with the back of his hand. “I just wanted you to realize it.”
She leaned forward then to rest her chin on her palms and stare at the outline of the altar. A great wave of exhaustion poured over her and she closed her eyes. “He was going to die, wasn’t he?” she asked.
“Most certainly.”
“There wasn’t anything I could have done.”
“No.” He rested his hand on her back. “You were given the impossible task.”
“I wish I could have done better, sir,” she confessed.
He rose and pulled her up, too, then stood contemplating the altar with her. “My dear, you bore it all with uncommon grace,” he said at last, and she was touched by his words, which seemed to come out of him with such effort. “I wish that you would tell Andrew the full nature of his … of Lord Canfield’s wounds.”
Jane shook her head. “I swore to Blair that I would spare him that much, and I must keep my word. Mr. Butterworth, he is too young for such details.”
“I contend that he is not,” the mill owner replied, “but it is not my business, is it?”
“I think not,” she replied gently. “I made a promise. Leave Andrew to me, sir, and I will do my best.”
“My every dependence is on that, my dear,” he said.
It sounded so formal to her ears, so strange that she looked at him, and found, to her surprise, a man looking supremely uncomfortable. How odd this is, she thought. “You needn’t worry about Andrew and me, sir, especially when you have so many concerns that pull you in such different directions,” she said, suddenly unsure of herself. After a moment’s hesitation, she rested her hand on his arm. “Especially do not worry about me.”
“Not even a little?” he asked with his old familiar tone.
“Not even a little,” she assured him. “I have already forgiven them all.”
“That is the wonder of it, my dear. I believe you mean it.”
Oh, I do, she thought. She paused, then stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. “I suppose it remains for me to forgive myself, aren’t you telling me?”
He smiled. “I was never known for my subtlety, Miss Mitten.”
“Just your kindness, then,” she murmured. He flinched, and she looked at him in surprise.
“Not even that,” he said. “Miss Mitten, I … I have my own regrets.”
Standing there in the cold chapel, Jane realized with a start that he had never said anything so personal to her before. It has always been about others, hasn’t it, sir? she asked herself, wanting to speak out loud, but deciding against it when a wintry look crossed his face. You have an empty picture frame on your desk, and your own troubles which you will not share. I think you are a kind man, but you only deny it. I have no claim on you that entitles me to pry.
She held out her hand to the mill owner and he took it. ‘Thank you, Mr. Butterworth, for hearing me out. It really wasn’t much of a Christmas present, was it?”
“It was what I asked for,” he said as he shook her hand.
“Perhaps someday you will speak as candidly to me,” she said simply. Her words sounded so bold to her ears that she blushed, and then was grateful for the darkness.
“You are too young for that,” he said quickly, and she knew he regretted his words the instant they were spoken because he turned his head away.
“And you are not so old, Mr. Butterworth,” she replied, wondering at her own temerity. I suppose if animals talk to each other on the night of Christ’s birth, than even timid women can speak their mind, she told herself. “Go ahead, sir,” she said. “I believe I will remain here a while longer and make some attempt to reacquaint myself with the Almighty.”
He offered no objection, and even seemed relieved, in Jane’s estimation, to face a solitary walk home. “Don’t stay away too long, my dear,” he said. “Soon my nieces and nephew will be waking to see what else is theirs this day, and your approbation will be required in the sitting room, no matter how bloodshot your eyes.”
“I shan’t be long, sir,” she said quietly. “Thank you again.”
Her mind at peace, she listened to the mill owner walk from the church. She did not hear his footsteps in the snow, and wondered for the longest moment if he was going to return to the chapel. “I wish you would, sir,” she whispered. “Tell me what is troubling you.” She was on the verge of going outside herself when she heard the crunch of footsteps on dry snow. The sound brought tears to her eyes, and she felt an absurd desire to rush after him. And what would you say to him, Jane? she asked herself. For some reason he has not minded your messy troubles, but he has given you no leave to examine his own.
“Ah well, some other time, Mr. B,” she said. She wrapped her new cloak tighter around her shoulders again and sat in the pew closest to the altar. “I have done endless penance, Father,” she said out loud, “and now I have confessed in the presence of a very good man. Help me, Lord, to forgive myself.”
Sitting by herself in the chapel, she wasn’t aware of the passage of time. It rested lightly on her shoulders as she thought through the year past as though it had happened to someone else, then quietly closed the door on it. I must think of Andrew, she told herself, and find some way to shield him from Lady Carruthers, who ought to be his friend, but who is not. I know that the reunion will work wonders for Lord Denby; a man cannot mourn forever. When Andrew is safely in school somewhere, and everyone else is taken care of, I will leave. She held her breath, waiting for fear to set in, but there was no fear this time. “Thank you for that, Mr. Butterworth,” she murmured, “among the many things I have to thank you for.”
The night was absolutely still as she started back to the mill owner’s home. The snow must have stopped hours ago, because she could see Mr. Butterworth’s footprints. She followed them, stopping once, her eyes filling with tears, when she noticed them turn and start back in the direction of the church. “Dear Mr. Butterworth,” she whispered. “Is there no one to listen to you? Oh, sir, I would listen, if you would ask me.”
She waited, felt foolish for doing so, and hurried the rest of the way. Soon she was in the lane, where she walked slower, allowing herself for a small moment to pretend that it was hers. I wonder what the spring flowers are like here, she thought. I would plant lilacs all along the front of the house and open all the windows. And if the blossoms blow into the house, what of it?
She hurried up the few steps to the front door and then stared down at the stoop. Someone had obviously sat there in the snow and the cold. Her heart pounding, she sat down carefully beside the space where the mill owner must have waited for her. “Mr. Butterworth,” she said, “I think I love you.”
Her own voice sounded loud to her ears, so she looked around quickly, and then touched the spot next to her. “Actually, Mr. Butterworth, I am certain that I love you.” After a moment’s reflection that had nothing to do with the Almighty, Jane went into the house and up the stairs, sure of herself in the dark.
The door to her room was open, the bedcovers turned back, a fire in the hearth, small but glowing warm with coals that winked in the darkness. Thoughtfully she removed her cloak and draped it over the back of the chair, then went to the door and listened. In a moment she heard the chair creak in Mr. Butterworth’s office. Now I am to sleep and you are to be vigilant, sir? she thought. I only told you my troubles; I never expected you to assume them. “Go to bed, Mr. Butterworth,” she whispered, then closed her door just loud enough so that he would know she was back.
With nothing more on her mind than the perplexity that seemed to be—she was discovering—an unexpected byproduct of love, she lay down to sleep. As she was closing her eyes, it occurred to her that her mind was on nothing but the mill owner. Drowsy now, with no tension beyond a tingling in her toes because she had sat too long on the stoop, she heard the door to the office open and then close.
I wish you would come in here, she thought, then waited to feel the
blush of shame that she would even think something like that. Nothing. Her face felt the same as always, and there was no rush of heat to her bosom. I have become so matter-of-fact, she thought, as his steps receded down the hall. All I am feeling right now is disappointment. Oh, this is a new Miss Mitten, indeed. I wonder if I will like her?
She woke by degrees in the morning, lying peacefully on her back and listening to doors opening and closing, and children running down the hall. In another moment she heard Richard laughing, and then Emma’s calm voice over Olivia’s mewing cry. She lay where she was, observing that she had not started awake, bolt upright with all her nerves on edge. She lay there, her body relaxed, her mind in that disengaged somnolence she had almost forgotten.
With a yawn that seemed to swell up from her toes, she turned onto her side. The fire was out, so she knew the maid had not yet arrived, but something was different. She sat up and leaned on her elbow, looking around the room. The cloak she had placed over the chair was at the foot of her bed now, and the chair had been pulled up closer to the fireplace, almost as though someone had sat there and propped his feet on the coal fender.
I must be mistaken, she thought, as she got out of bed. She sat in the chair, closed her eyes, and breathed in the faintest odor of the mill owner’s cologne. She could not be sure, but the chair even seemed to be warm. Just when I imagine that nothing on earth can surprise me, she thought, allowing the notion to drift, unfinished, through her mind. She was still sitting there when Lucy burst into the room, Amanda close behind, and tugged at her arm.
“Miss Mitten, we are supposed to be in the sitting room now, and here you are, just … just sitting!” the child said, as Amanda laughed.
“Let me get dressed, my dear,” Jane said. “I will join you.”
Lucy stomped her foot. “That is not the way we do it here!” she insisted, as Jane tried hard not to laugh.
“What I am supposed to do, then?” she asked.
“Find a robe and slippers, Miss Milton,” said the mill owner from the doorway. “If Lucy is not happy, then no one is happy on Christmas morning, or so I have discovered.”
“Very well, sir,” she said quietly. “I would never disregard a summons.” While he stood in the doorway, she went to the dressing room, wishing all the while that her nightgown was not the most-washed and worn piece of flannel in the district. The robe is not much better, she thought in dismay as she put it on and belted the waist. I never met a shabbier woman than Jane Milton at—she glanced at the clock—seven of the clock in the morning. And why did I not think to bring slippers here? Barefoot I will be, then.
“Miss Milton! I cannot wait much longer!”
Mr. Butterworth laughed and leaned himself away from the door frame. “Lucy, you have all the manners of a road mender! Amanda, be a good niece and take this bundle of impatience back to the sitting room. Lucy, I will have her there as quick as I can.”
Amanda nodded, then pointed at the mill owner. “Uncle Scipio, you are already dressed! That is not one of the rules.” She peered closer. “Well, you have no neckcloth, and you are wrinkled, so I suppose I should not object.”
“Good of you, Amanda. Now get Lucy to the sitting room.”
Oh, Amanda, he is already dressed because he never undressed last night, Jane thought in dismay. For all I know his neckcloth is still at the church, and probably a frozen lump. He sat beside my bed half the night, ready in case I should wake in a nightmare. I doubt there is a woman alive who deserves such attention. I am certain I do not.
Andrew stuck his head in the doorway. “Miss Mitten, Happy Christmas!”
“And to you, my dear. Have you seen my hairbrush?” she asked as she looked at her dressing table.
“It is right in front of you. Sit down, Jane,” the mill owner said, indicating the dressing table stool. “A couple of quick strokes will do it, and I am, as ever, the soul of efficiency. It is a virtue bred into those of us who must toil for a living.”
She made no objection as he brushed her hair, enjoying instead the steady pull of the brush, done with more firmness than she ever managed. In a moment her hair was crackling.
“Nice color,” he said as he set down the brush.
“It is just black, Mr. Butterworth!”
“It is interesting,” he told her. “Sort of un-English. Now, where is a ribbon?”
“I don’t use ribbons,” she said, feeling a little flame in her cheeks.
“You should.” He went next door to his office and returned with a length of package twine. “Here, now. Lucy hasn’t time to wait for you to poke pins here and there! Jane, were you never four?”
She laughed and turned to look at him as he tried to tie her hair back. “Of course I was four!”
“Hold still!”
Smiling, she did as he said, taking care not to move as he gathered her hair in his hands and tied a bow low on the back of her neck. “There!” he exclaimed, and rested his hands on her shoulders. “I pronounce you entirely …”
“… adequate,” she finished, enjoying the sound of his laughter.
“No, no,” he declared, not letting go of her shoulders. “I had in mind, uh …”
“… Suitable? Satisfactory? Unexceptionable?” she teased.
“No, actually. Quite, quite lovely,” he said, his voice low. He rested his cheek next to hers for the briefest moment. “Especially dressed in flannel that I think used to be blue. Miss Milton, you are all amazement at seven in the morning.”
And you are all amazement any time of the day or night, she thought. She looked at him in the mirror, and he gazed back, his glance as unwavering as hers. “Mr. Butterworth, I wish you would ….” She stopped. What do you wish, Jane? That he would stand back? Move closer? Touch you again? Kiss you? Oh, Jane, lighten the moment, she thought. That is, if you want to.
She decided that she did not, but Mr. Butterworth stepped back and indicated the door. “If we do not hurry, your stock—which had been recently soaring among the infantry—will sink to new lows on ’Change, my dear lady.”
Now it is “my dear lady,” she thought as she allowed the mill owner to take her hand and hurry her along to the sitting room. I believe there is enough complexity in this man to fill a medium-sized room.
It was a relief to smile to the assembled Newtons, wish them Happy Christmas, tuck her bare feet under her, and watch the children open presents. Mr. Butterworth settled himself in an armchair and promptly fell asleep. Jane managed to intercept Lucy and prevent her from climbing on her sleeping uncle. “We should never have sent Scipio to midnight Mass,” was Richard’s only comment as he helped his younger daughter arrange a sofa and wing chair in her Christmas dollhouse.
Emma sat beside Jane and opened her gown to nurse Olivia. “Scipio did not think you would object if Richard bought Andrew the same gifts we had arranged for Jacob.”
“It was so kind of you,” she said, pressing her little finger against Olivia’s hand and enjoying the strength of the infant’s grasp. “This has been quite the most wonderful Christmas.”
“For me, as well,” Emma said. She looked at her sleeping brother. “And for Scipio, I think.” She hesitated. “Jane, he is not a happy man, for all that he would like everyone to think otherwise.”
Jane nodded. “He keeps himself quite busy, tending to other’s welfare, doesn’t he? I know that Andrew and I have been grateful recipients of his many kindnesses.”
“The busier he is, the better he likes it,” Emma stated. “We have introduced him to any number of ladies from his own class and background, and he is the soul of courtesy, but nothing ever comes of it.” She sighed, and raised Olivia to her shoulder to pat her back. “In fact, a few years ago, he told me not to bother anymore. Excellent, Olivia! And so I have not.” She placed the baby against her other breast, tickling her cheek with the nipple until the baby began to suck again. “I tell him there must be someone in the world for him, and he just laughs and changes the subject. Ah, me.”
&n
bsp; She fell silent then, watching her baby nurse. Jane looked at Andrew, who was playing jackstraws with Jacob. With a pang, she remembered last Christmas at Denby, spent seated beside Blair, ever watchful of him. When she emerged from the sickroom long enough to ask Andrew how the day had gone for him, he had only shrugged, mumbled something that she hadn’t the energy to ask him to repeat, and vanished into his book again. This is far better, she told herself, as Emma coaxed a burp from the sleeping baby.
“Hold her, my dear?” she asked, handing the baby to Jane. “We do have our family rituals.”
Jane watched as Amanda handed a sprig of mistletoe to her mother. Carefully, Emma knelt beside her husband, who was rearranging the servants’ quarters of the dollhouse, and held it over his head. With a growl that made Lucy shriek and then clap her hands, Richard grabbed his wife and kissed her soundly. Mr. Butterworth sat bolt upright, blinking his eyes in surprise. He laughed when Amanda held the mistletoe over his head and kissed him. “That’s for the bonnet, Uncle Scipio,” she said.
“And not because I am irresistible?” he teased, grabbing Lucy as she tried to run by. He kissed her while she struggled, then whispered in her ear. In another moment, she was holding the bedraggled bit of greenery over Jane’s head.
Andrew leaped up from his game of jackstraws and kissed her cheek. Her arms went around him and she held him close. “This is the best Christmas ever,” he told her. “I only wish …”
“… that your father were here?” she said softly.
He looked at her in surprise. “Well, yes, that, too, but I was thinking how nice it would be to have a Christmas just as good next year.”
“We will,” she declared, releasing him. “I know we will.”
“Not if we are at Stover,” he said, his face serious again.
And that is food for thought, she told herself as she settled Olivia against her legs. She watched, delighted, as the baby stretched, then drew herself into a ball again. “She is so economical,” Jane said.
“She is used to a confined space,” Mr. Butterworth said as he perched on the end of the sofa. “Em, just think: In fifteen years she will be making demands on everyone and wheedling any number of commodities out of her old Uncle Scipio.”
