by Carla Kelly
Lady Carruthers flashed a triumphant smile at her. “My brother has given me leave to move Cecil into the family house in town! He even speaks of deeding it to Cecil, particularly since my dear one’s landlord is so unfeeling about overdue rent.”
Oh, Cecil, you are worming your way into Lord Denby’s estate, aren’t you? Jane thought with dismay. But I will be dipped in honey and lowered onto an anthill before I give my odious cousin even the slightest hint that it bothers me. “Indeed, Lady Carruthers, landlords who must toil for a living do like to be paid. I am certain it is a weakness of the lower classes.”
“You would know about that, Jane,” Lady Carruthers replied, “considering your own low connections of the past month.”
“Yes, I would,” she answered back without hesitation, enjoying the look of surprise on her cousin’s face when she did not stammer, or look away, or shrink into her chair. “And do you know, cousin, I’ve discovered that the smell of the shop is the smell of money earned honestly by hardworking people, who never stoop to wheedling their way into fortunes they never earned. Good night, Lady Carruthers.”
“I gave you no leave to go from this room!” Lady Carruthers declared, rising in all her awfulness.
“No, you did not,” Jane said in calm agreement as her heart pounded in her breast. “And for the life of me, I cannot imagine why I thought I needed your permission all these years.” She paused in the doorway. “Andrew will be returning to Mr. Butterworth’s estate tomorrow for Latin lessons.”
“You cannot do that without my permission!” Lady Carruthers was shouting now, her face red.
“I can and will,” Jane said quietly. “And you have my permission to spread around the district any rumors about me that you choose. If you think for a moment that I care, you are mistaken.”
She left the room with what she hoped was a certain flare, but was grateful only that her dress did not catch in the door, or she did not stumble over the threshold. Stanton stood in the hallway, his expression inscrutable, as long as she did not look at his eyes. He shook his head. “Poor woman,” he murmured. “Our chimneys have been drawing poorly for a month and more. Too much tepid water and lukewarm tea seem to have taken a toll upon the less stable among us.”
Jane covered her hand with her mouth to quiet her laughter. “Stanton, do have a little charity!”
He nodded his head in complete agreement. “Of course, miss, there will be hot water and instant service now. My only … regret is that this might send Lady Carruthers even higher in the boughs to sense for even a moment that conditions have improved because you have returned.”
“Oh, do you think so?” Jane asked in mock amazement, her eyes wide. “I don’t know what to say to that.”
“Say to what, Miss Milton?” the butler asked in studied surprise.
With a laugh, she nodded to Stanton and took herself upstairs, stopping in Andrew’s room to quietly take the book from the sleeping boy’s chest, kiss him, and snuff the candles. She stood a moment looking down at him, knowing how acutely she would miss him when he left for school in the fall. We have only this spring and summer, she thought, as she closed the door.
It was late, and she hesitated before Lord Denby’s door. She thought she could detect a light, so she opened it quietly.
“The wanderer has returned,” she said softly. She perched herself upon the edge of Lord Denby’s bed and took his hand in hers. He squeezed it, but to her dismay, there was little strength in his fingers.
“Oh ho, miss,” he said, opening his eyes. “We were beginning to wonder if you had decided to throw over the peerage for the petty genteels and mushrooms of Huddersfield.”
“I was tempted,” she replied, putting a laugh in her voice so he would think she was joking. “And what does Stanton do but write to me that the ceiling fell on Cecil, and I knew I had to hurry home to see that spectacle.”
Lord Denby raised up on one elbow and gestured to her to lean closer. “Aren’t they gone yet?” he asked in a whisper. “I know Agnes is my sister, but who among us is entitled to choose his relatives? And Cecil?” He lay back down again, as if the very subject exhausted him. “He is as useful as tits on a boar, and what is worse, I despair of any improvement.”
His words hung in the air like a bad smell. I could labor mightily to change the subject, Jane thought. I used to do that. I could try to cajole him into better humor, but that never earned me more than a sour look. “He will always be Cecil,” she said. “Thank God that he is not your heir, Lord Denby.”
He gave her a long look, but for once did not challenge her. When she tried to add another pillow behind his head, Lord Denby waved her off. “Can I get you anything, my lord?” she asked.
Lord Denby said nothing and she began to wonder how long he would be irritated with her. “It was a long month,” he said finally, making no attempt to hide his ill-usage. “You were unfeeling to abandon me to my sister and nephew.”
“I suppose I was,” Jane agreed, with enough equanimity to make him scowl at her. “Christmas is a time for families, my lord, and I thought you would be content enough here with your closest relatives.”
She waited for another scowl, but Lord Denby merely sighed and closed his eyes. “I think we have not been a family for a long time, Jane,” he said finally, when she had almost thought him sleeping. “Have we ever been a family?”
“I … I don’t know the answer to that, sir,” she said quietly, touched by the sadness in his voice.
He watched her face and she said nothing. “You’re different somehow, Jane,” he said at last.
“I stood up to your sister in the breakfast room,” she told him. “She will likely be in here in the morning with all kinds of tales to tell, and I am sorry for that, but I am quite weary with attempting to find her good side.”
“That is blunt enough,” he commented. “Did Butterworth return with you? I am hoping for some cribbage tomorrow.”
She shook her head, then crossed her fingers so that she would speak calmly. “Mr. Butterworth has purchased another mill and he told me that it would keep him away from our district. I do not believe that we will see him this spring.”
“No cribbage?” he repeated, and the disappointment in his voice smote her like a fist to her back.
No cribbage, she thought, and no more kindnesses, or bits of wisdom delivered in his salty Yorkshire way. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said. “He will be selling his estate, and has left Mr. Singletary here to make the arrangements.” She rose to go, simply because she found that she could no longer sit still and discuss the mill owner. “Sir, you must look about this as good fortune indeed. It is your opportunity to buy the property and have the lake at last.”
If she thought the idea would please him, she was mistaken. ‘That will be tame, indeed, my dear,” he murmured.
More than tame, she thought. It will be devastating. She went to the door, then stopped on impulse, hurried back to Lord Denby’s bed, and kissed his forehead. “Good night, sir,” she said softly.
She knew she had startled him, but she was not prepared for the sudden tears in his eyes. He took her hand. “Do you know, Jane, since that book came out, I have been reconsidering my life,” he said, the words coming from him with some difficulty. “I do not like what I see.”
“Then you are alone in that opinion,” she replied quickly.
He shook his head. “I fear not, my dear. There are some who wish me ill, of this I am certain.”
She sat on his bed again and took his hand, but could think of nothing to say. Andrew does not wish you ill, she thought, but could you actually be his grandfather? Cecil does not count. “I think, rather, that many are in your debt, my lord,” she said finally. “You have served as such an example to the officer corps throughout your career.”
“Jane, would you recognize a hypocrite if you saw him?” he asked.
“Oh, sir,” she said, and kissed his hand. “I wish you would tell me what is troubling you.”
Watching the indecision cross his face, she almost thought he would. Mr. Butterworth, the only way I can repay you for your unexampled kindnesses is to do the same for someone else, she decided, as she sat by Lord Denby and held his hand. “Please, sir.”
But the moment was gone. He sighed and took his hand from her loose grasp. “It is not a pleasant tale, and surely not for a lady,” he replied. “Good night, my dear. Let us hope for better things tomorrow.”
I wonder if there is anyone in this house without a secret, Jane thought as she snuffed the candles, remained there a moment in the darkness, and then left Lord Denby’s chamber. She stood in the hall, nerving herself, and then started down the stairs.
Stanton stood at the bottom of them, looking up at her. “Oh, I do not mean to keep you up,” she said with contrition. “It must be nearly midnight, Stanton.”
“And then some, Miss Milton,” he answered. “You know that a good butler never retires until all his charges are safely to bed.”
“I should know it,” she said, content to stand next to him. Thank goodness this man has no subterfuge or secrets, she thought. “Since you insist on being so useful, even at this ridiculous hour, I have one more thing to do tonight,” she said. “Stanton, would you help me remove the wreath from the front door?”
The words were harder to get out than she would have thought. She swallowed several times, and then could only look away and close her eyes. “I have resolved … she began, and could not finish.
The butler put his hand on her arm, which should have startled her, but somehow did not. “You are certain?” he asked.
After another hesitation, she nodded. “I promised Mr. Butterworth that I would remove it.”
“Of course I will help you. I will take it down myself, if you wish.”
She shook her head. “No, Stanton. I want it to be my doing. Is there a ladder?”
There was, a stepladder lodged in one of the servants’ closets by the entrance, which he removed and opened. “It’s cold,” he warned as he opened the door wide.
The January wind blew in, raw and biting, and pulling sleet with it. She gritted her teeth against more than the cold. It is a new year, she thought as Stanton moved the ladder to the door and steadied it for her. He held her hand as she climbed the two steps and unhooked the wreath. She was going to let it drop to the floor, but instead, she gripped it carefully around the center. Hanging on to Stanton’s hand, she leaned away from the ladder and heaved the wreath through the front door and into the darkness. Ugly black streaks remained on the door, but the wreath was gone. Thank God, she thought. Thank God.
Without a word, she let him help her from the ladder, and made no objection when she just stood there in the circle of his arms, part of her empty, now that the wreath was gone, and part of her relieved. He must have pushed the door closed with his foot, because the sound of wind and rain grew faint. She thought it especially kind of him to pat her back, and then just hold her.
“I suppose I have used a butler for every possible purpose now,” she said finally with a faint laugh as she stepped back. “Thank you, Oliver.”
He merely nodded, and she thought it prudent not to comment on the tears in his own eyes. “I have certainly had my fill of war, and wounds, and death, and unkindness,” she said.
“We all have, Miss Milton,” he said, not moving from her side. He hesitated.
“Please speak, sir,” she said.
“I have taken the liberty of arranging for a plasterer to fix the ceiling in Mr. Carruthers’ room,” he said, all business again. “I can as easily contact a painter for the front door.”
She nodded. “And the trim around the windows, as well, Stanton.” She looked around her at the entrance hall, as though seeing it for the first time. “We have gotten shabby this year, haven’t we?”
He looked around, too, a smile on his face now. “We can change that.”
As they started toward the stairs together, she remembered Mr. Butterworth’s promise. “Stanton, Mr. Butterworth said that as soon as he can, he will send us a handyman from Huddersfield. There are so many little things that need to be done to prepare for the reunion.”
“There are,” he agreed. “We will find a place for him belowstairs when he arrives.” He paused then, at the foot of the stairs. “February and March, Miss Milton, and then spring will be here.”
“I am counting on it! I have so many plans.”
He stepped back to observe her. “Then this is a different Miss Milton, indeed.”
“Why, yes,” she replied, surprised. “I suppose it is.”
Chapter Sixteen
The plasterer arrived in the morning about the same time that Cecil, pale and on a stretcher, was quitting his room. I am continually amazed at the power of suggestion, Jane thought as she walked beside the stretcher, holding Cecil’s limp hand in her own. Because Lady Carruthers appeared more intent upon arranging her luggage in the cart to follow, Jane saw that he was comfortably seated in Lord Denby’s carriage with a shawl around his shoulders and a warming pan at his feet. I should own to a twinge of conscience, she thought, as she looked at her cousin’s drawn expression and his body as limp as the lace on his nightshirt. Ah, well, no one is perfect.
“Did Mr. Lowe send you with more medicinal powders?” she asked, determined not to go into whoops before the carriage was out of earshot.
He nodded. “I am to take a diminishing dose over the next two days and check my piss carefully, cousin,” he said, his voice hard to hear with Lady Carruthers booming out her orders regarding the stowage of bags and boxes.
“I am certain you will see a remarkable improvement by the end of the week, Cecil,” she assured him without a qualm. Now, if Stanton will not look at me until the carriage is out of sight, I think I will manage, she told herself.
To her relief, she noticed that Stanton was avoiding her eyes, as well, turning his full attention to Lady Carruthers as she worked herself into minor hysteria until the luggage was tied down to her complete satisfaction. He helped her into the carriage, nodding as she ordered him to have the chimneys checked before her return. “Stanton, there is something wrong when a person cannot have a hot bath for a month! And so I have been telling you! For a youngish man, you are remarkably deaf!”
“I am certain you are right, Lady Carruthers,” he said. “How fortunate then, that the chimneys began to draw so well last night. One could almost call it providential.”
She gave him a furious glance. “One could call it a lot of things!”
“Indeed, yes. Will we see you soon, my lady?”
“As soon as I recover from your mismanagement, Stanton!” she declared. “Oh, do hush, Cecil! You cannot be sick yet because we have not even started moving!”
Jane stepped forward. “Lady Carruthers, there is so much work to do here to prepare for the reunion that we will be glad of your prompt return.”
“I will come when I have recovered, Jane, and not a moment sooner,” she said, each word as sharp as icicles.
And that will be as soon as the work is done, Jane thought in triumph. “Very well, ma’am. Do have a pleasant journey with Cecil. Cecil, do you wish that basin closer to your mouth? Lady Carruthers, pardon my blushes, but I believe his urinal is handy so you can help him.”
“Jane, you are a scoundrel beyond my wildest imagining,” the butler murmured. They watched as the coachman shook his head and then climbed onto the carriage box.
“I confess it, Oliver. Not another word from you or I will disgrace myself.”
“We could not have that.” He nodded toward the baggage cart, which began to move behind the carriage. “Miss Milton, is that back wheel wobbling excessively? I would hate to have it fall off any sooner than … what do you say? Ten or fifteen miles?”
Thanks to Stanton, in the week that followed and the one after, Jane found herself too busy to repine much upon her own state of affairs. The painter had followed the plasterer, and when he was done with the front d
oor, the trim, and a room or two, Jane could not overlook the general shabbiness of the entire estate. “Which means a return of the plasterer, the painter again, and then a visit to the cloth warehouse for new draperies and bed coverings in those chambers we are preparing for reunion guests,” Jane wrote to Emma Newton. “I suppose all this effort would distress me, except that I seem to have no qualms about spending someone else’s money!”
Indeed I do not, she thought, flexing her fingers and drawing her shawl closer about her as she sat in the bookroom at the end of the day. She added another paragraph about Andrew’s progress through Gaul with Julius Caesar and Joe Singletary, but did not ask Emma if her brother had begun measures to sell his property near Denby. And I do not ask how he does, or if he seems tired, or what are his own plans, she thought. She read the letter again, wished she could say more without saying more, then sealed it.
She began her letters to Mr. Butterworth—the ones she never mailed—after she wrote that first letter to Emma. Her mind on Rumsey and the mill owner, it had been so simple to take out another sheet of paper and write him a letter. In the first letter, she assured him that she was sleeping well now, with the nightmare scarcely troubling her. Since she knew the letter was going nowhere, it was also simple to tell him how much she loved him, and then sign her name. That is what I would write if you were my husband and away from me, Mr. B, she thought as she folded the note and then dropped it in the waste basket. I would tell you what we did during the day, and how I missed you. She shook her head. No, it’s more than merely missing you; I long for you.
This is probably not a good idea, she told herself as she wrote a similar letter the next night, and then the night after. Writing to Mr. Butterworth is fast becoming the best part of my day, which doesn’t speak well to my state of mind, she thought the next day, when she should have been concentrating on the linen inventory. And yet, it is harmless, she decided, after the thought of no letter to write at day’s end cast her into such glooms that even Stanton remarked on her low state.
