Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind

by Carla Kelly

  When it was nearly March and the promised handyman had not materialized, she mentioned that fact in one of her late-night letters. “Mr. B, I will begin to think you do not care for me, because you have forgotten that one essential to a woman’s total happiness: a handyman for the little jobs she cannot do herself,” she wrote, when it was far too late and she was feeling both silly and ill-used. “One can always find a physician, and there are poulterers and solicitors aplenty, but a handyman? My dearest love, a handyman is a pearl beyond price, more essential (discounting the necessaries) than a husband. I am desperate for a man who can hang a picture straight or level a table leg without turning it into furniture fit only for Lilliputians.”

  She read the letter and deposited it where all the others went. In the press of three mills to run, Mr. Butterworth has put you out of his mind, she told herself. For all you know, Jane Milton, he probably congratulated himself on helping a woman oppressed with excessive blame, and then moved on to another project. That would be entirely like him. Or so she told herself, but still she hoped for a letter.

  None came, but then one day, long beyond when she had told herself not to look anymore, the handyman arrived.

  It was one of those impossible days toward the end of March when the weather was so beautiful that she knew she could not bear to be indoors for one more linen inventory or silverware count. “Stanton, if I am virtuous and continue to count pillow covers on the assumption that tomorrow will be equally warm and sunny, I know that I am doomed to disappointment,” she told the butler as she put down her list.

  It was on the tip of her tongue to invite the butler to join her out-of-doors, but she resisted the impulse. There is no telling what additional rumors Lady Carruthers would circulate about me, if she knew that I already spend a large portion of my evenings belowstairs after Lord Denby is asleep, drinking tea with Stanton and the cook while Andrew does his Latin homework on the table, she told herself. She folded the last pillow cover, tossed in a handful of lavender, and shut the drawer with a finality that made the butler laugh.

  She left Stover Hall with relief, walking first to the apple orchard to stare at the lower branches, and with squinting eyes, threaten the buds to hurry up and bloom. Enjoying the sun on her back, she strolled to the formal gardens that sloped away toward the lake. It is shabby here, too, she thought, itching to kneel down right then and pull weeds until dark. She could see the mill owner’s house because the trees were still bare of leaves, and briefly considered releasing both Andrew and his teacher from its confines. This is no day to conjugate, she told herself. I cannot see Joe objecting if I were to spring into the room and demand Andrew’s release.

  She was walking toward the house when she noticed a gig slowing on the road. She stopped to watch as a man jumped down, then went around to pull out a traveling case. He stood a moment in conversation with the driver, who gestured toward Stover Hall, tipped his hat, and then continued down the road.

  I wonder if this is Mr. Butterworth’s handyman, Jane thought, hurrying back toward the estate. The man seemed in no hurry to walk any closer to the house, but remained where he was, as though he were taking the measure of the place. “I certainly know already that you do not rush into things,” she murmured under her breath, “considering how long you have been getting here from Rumsey. Gawk a moment more, Mr. Handyman, and I will think you have never seen a great estate!”

  She noticed that his clothes were plain, and looked much abused, as though he had traveled too long in them. She came closer and cleared her throat.

  “This is Stover Hall,” she said.

  The man turned around at Jane’s words and favored her with a wonderful smile. “Stover Hall?” he repeated.

  “The very same,” she answered. “I thought you would never get here.”

  If she thought the handyman would tug at his forelock and stumble through some apology, she was mistaken. “Came as fast as I could, considering,” he replied, unruffled by her tone of voice. “So this is it?”

  “Yes, indeed,” she said, knowing it was best to be firm with the help, but quite unable to resist that smile. “I am Jane Milton, Lord Denby’s relative, and I have such a list of things for you to repair. You are ….”

  “Dale,” he said, holding out his hand. “Pleased to know you, Miss Milton.”

  She stared at his hand, wondering why on earth a handyman would think she would ever shake it. When he did not withdraw his hand, she extended her own and let him give it a good shake. Mr. Butterworth has sent me an eccentric, she thought.

  He picked up his traveling case and started toward Stover Hall. Jane watched him, a frown on her face. “See here, sir. You do repair things, do you not?”

  He gave her a quizzical look. “I’ve been known to. Got something that needs doing here?”

  “Of course I do!” she said, resisting the urge to stamp her foot. “Why do you think you were sent for?”

  She could tell that he was paying no attention to her, but looking over her shoulder. His eyes widened and then he shook his head in amazement. “Miss Milton, that is the strangest chicken coop I have ever seen. And maybe the ugliest.”

  Mystified, she looked over her shoulder at Lady Carruthers’ dreadful Greek temple. “It is a ruin,” she explained.

  “That’s obvious. Probably pretty high on your repair list?” he suggested.

  “It is supposed to look like that!” She took another look at the ruin, even worse than usual without the full leaf of ivy to offer merciful cover. “It is awful, isn’t it?” she found herself saying, and added on impulse, “What would you do with it?”

  “Burn it right down and build a proper coop,” he said immediately. “I’ll bet you can’t keep a single chicken in there very long.” He grinned at her with that same irresistible expression. “Bet they just stagger around, then flop over, dead with embarrassment.”

  Jane laughed and the handyman joined in. How I would love to replace that horrid Greek temple with a chicken coop, she thought. Lady Carruthers would go into spasms from which she would never recover. “It may go on my list of things to do. Shall we?”

  They started for the house again. Where is this man from? Jane asked herself in amazement. I have never heard such an accent, and he is so droll. It was impolite to ask personal questions of a servant, so she knew there was no way to relieve her curiosity. Still … she did not know what Mr. Butterworth had told him.

  “This is Lord Denby’s estate,” she explained as they walked up the lane. “I have been planning a reunion of his brother officers from the American Rebellion, and Mr. Butterworth—that is his house next door by that lake—promised to send me a handyman for those frustrating little odd jobs that need doing, but which always seem to be put off. I will pay you whatever Mr. Butterworth ordinarily pays you, and Stanton will find room for you belowstairs. Is that agreeable?”

  He made no comment, but looked about him with a mild expression in his quite blue eyes.

  “Well?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “It never entered my mind that I would be making money here.”

  “We do not engage in slave labor!” she declared. “No matter what Mr. Butterworth with his republican ideas may have told you about us.”

  “Butterworth told me nothing. Don’t you know when your leg is being pulled, Miss Milton?”

  She had never heard that expression before, but the meaning was quickly obvious. “Perhaps I do not,” she said. She stopped this time, even though Stanton—who possessed that butler’s sixth sense—had already opened the front door. “Botheration, Dale, but I have gotten us off on the wrong foot.” She simply could not resist smiling into his pleasant face. “It must have been the very leg you were pulling.”

  “You are quick, Miss Milton,” he observed.

  And you are surprisingly forward, she thought, but said nothing. And I need a good handyman too much to put you in your place. “There is a great deal to be done—just small things—and I need your help right
now.”

  “I’m early for the reunion, though,” he said.

  “Well, yes,” she replied, puzzled. “That’s the whole point: that you would be here soon enough to get those things done before the guests arrive.” Patience, Jane, she advised herself. Not everyone has prompt understanding.

  She was rewarded with another dazzling smile. “I think I understand now,” he said.

  She started up the front steps. “Stanton, this is Dale. He has come from Mr. Butterworth to help us.”

  To her utter mystification, the handyman went through the handshaking ritual with Stanton, who seemed, despite his butler’s demeanor, as puzzled as she was. Oh, Stanton, she thought, at least your manners are far better than mine. You don’t look as totally dumbfounded as I felt.

  “Stanton, is it?” Dale said, setting down his traveling case in the front entrance. “Do you have a first name?”

  “Why, yes. It is Oliver.”

  “Oliver, then,” the man said cheerfully. “I never can quite see calling someone by his last name without saying ‘Mister.’ Whoa there!” He looked over his shoulder at the footman, who had picked up the traveling case. “I can carry that. Just show me where.”

  “Follow me, uh, Dale,” said the butler, his voice rather faint. Jane looked away to hide her smile. “We have a room belowstairs.”

  “Fine,” he declared, looking around with pleasure. “Miss Milton, you could use a spot of paint on that wall to liven up things in here. Wouldn’t a contrasting sort of Wedgwood blue be just right?”

  She blinked and looked where he pointed. “I … I believe you’re right,” she said, after a moment’s struggle within herself. “I didn’t have that on my list but ….”

  To her further amazement, he set down the case and patted her shoulder. “Don’t stew over that pot, Miss Milton. How about I just take your list and then look over the place, too?”

  “If … if you wish,” she replied.

  “Two weeks until the reunion?”

  She nodded.

  “You’ll be amazed what I can do in two weeks.”

  By the next afternoon she should have corrected him: she was amazed what he could do in one twenty-four-hour period. By the time she came downstairs in the morning, the treads that had squeaked since Andrew was a baby had been subdued somehow into silence, and the spot on the wall where a footman from years past had accidentally shoved a table corner was puttied now and waiting for paint. The author of all this magnificence was seated at the top of a tall ladder, casually inserting glazier’s points into the frame where he had replaced a pane of glass. He had removed the draperies and bestowed them over the stair railing, and the ’tween stairs maid, seated on the floor, was rubbing soap over the curtain pole.

  “Dale says it will make the draperies slide easier,” she said as Jane knelt beside her to admire her work.

  “I am certain he is right,” Jane replied. “That has been rather a problem with these poles.” She looked up at the handyman. “And here I thought I was the early riser.”

  “You have a long list of things for me to do before that reunion,” he reminded her. “Hand me that putty, will you?”

  She did as he said, reaching up with the can, and then standing back to watch him work. Now admit it, Jane, she told herself; you are admiring the handyman. She admired him without compunction, holding her breath at the casual way he leaned away from the ladder to apply the glazier points, and then smooth the putty on top. He had a handsome profile, with as straight a nose as a person could wish, and auburn hair somewhat the color of Blair’s, but with a little curl to it. He needs a haircut, she thought, but possibly that is the fashion where he is from. He worked swiftly and with the assurance of the born handyman, whistling tunelessly under his breath, the picture of contentment on a tall ladder.

  “I think that Mr. Butterworth has amply fulfilled his promise.”

  She jumped a little and then blushed to see Stanton at her side, looking up even as she was. “And more,” she assured him. She lowered her voice. “Stanton, did you find out anything about him last night?”

  “A very little,” the butler replied in the same quiet voice. “Only that he is from Ohio, United States of America, not married, thirty-seven years old, and that he is in England visiting relatives.”

  “What is his connection with the factory at Rumsey?” she whispered back.

  The butler shrugged. “We never got that far. Do you know, he has the most amazing stories about the wilderness and Indians, Miss Milton, and everything seems to remind him of something else. I believe we were all quite enthralled last night.” He looked at her with a frown. “Now that I think of it, whenever I tried to bring the conversation round to Mr. Butterworth, it seemed to remind him of another story.”

  “Odd,” she said, and returned her attention to the man on top of the ladder.

  “Perhaps you could write a letter of thanks to Mr. Butterworth,” the butler suggested.

  I write a letter every night, she thought, and nearly said so, but stopped herself in time. No sense in advertising to the world what a ninny she was. “I could do that,” she said softly.

  And she would have, she told herself before she climbed in bed that night, except that it was far too late. She and Andrew had allowed themselves to be lured belowstairs, where they both listened with wide-open eyes to stories of Indians, and forest fires, and traveling by flatboat down the Ohio River. She could not deny that the handyman had a flair for a well-told tale, delivered in his peculiar flat American accent while he whittled a peg to repair a chair in the dining room. She wondered if he was ever idle, and decided that he was not.

  After a moment’s concentration, he gestured to Andrew. “All right, lad, pull that chair closer, and let us see if the peg fits.”

  It did. In another minute, Andrew had closed Caesar’s Commentaries, and tongue out in concentration, was whittling a peg of his own while the handyman watched in that relaxed way of his. She could not help put compare him to Mr. Butterworth, who could look almost as casual, but who always seemed ready to move. Not Dale; she never saw a man relax so completely, and she envied him.

  “Andrew, you can take it to the dining room,” he said. Andrew picked up the chair, and Stanton opened the door for him. The handyman held up the peg. “He did a good job on this one, Miss Milton. You may have it as a spare.”

  She put the peg in her apron pocket, wishing there were some way she could bring the conversation around to Mr. Butterworth. For no more reason than I long to hear him spoken of, she thought. Nothing occurred to her, so she closed Andrew’s Latin book and rose. She was ready to say good night, when the handyman patted the space beside him that Andrew had vacated. “Sit a spell, Miss Milton. I have a confession.”

  This is different, she thought. Most of us here are so reluctant to say anything. She sat.

  “I … I looked in on Lord Denby this afternoon. I hope you don’t mind.”

  He looked so earnest that she decided she didn’t mind at all. “We do talk about him in somewhat hushed tones, don’t we?” she asked, wanting to put him at ease.

  “Maybe that was it,” he decided. “I guess I was curious.”

  “Did he invite you in?” she asked. “He spends so much time sleeping that I worry about him.”

  “He was awake. I sat down and told him I was the handyman.” He chuckled, and started whittling again. “I think he was surprised, but too polite to admit that he was.” He leaned toward her. “I gather that here in England, handymen don’t generally sit down and jaw with the lord.”

  “It is not precisely typical,” she said, unable to resist a smile.

  He whittled in silence, concentrating on the little circle he was carving, as though it demanded all his attention. She knew it did not, considering how free he had been with information about the United States when Andrew was sitting with him. If Mr. Butterworth were here, he would merely wait for the man to speak, she thought. I shall do the same.

  “Lor
d Denby was not what I expected,” the handyman said after he finished carving out the center of the wooden disk. He held up the disk, evening the sides, and then set it on the table and picked up a slender strip of wood. “I thought he would be imperious and rude; at least that is what I have imagined”—he hesitated—“a lord to be.”

  “He is kindness itself,” she assured him. Except where he doubts, she added to herself, thinking of Andrew.

  “I didn’t expect that,” he repeated, and then was silent. In a moment he finished shaping the skewer, then handed it to her with the disk. “For your hair,” he said, then took it back. “I’ll put some stain on it, and then give it to you again.”

  “Thank you,” she said, suddenly shy. “Good night. Dale.”

  He winked at her and turned his attention to Stanton, who was coming toward him with a teapot and cups. “Oliver! Did I tell you last night how I watched the Battle of Lake Erie from the deck of Captain Perry’s flagship? His name was Oliver, too.”

  So it is “Oliver” and “Dale,” Jane thought as she went upstairs. Lord Denby would call that far more democracy than the law permits. She went to Andrew’s room, thinking to see him asleep with a book on his chest. Instead, she found him sitting cross-legged on his bed with shavings all around him, carving a small block of wood. “Did Dale loan you a knife?” she asked.

  Andrew nodded, his eyes on the wood. “It will be a bird,” he announced.

  “Eventually,” she agreed.

  “And I will send it to Mr. Butterworth, along with a letter, telling him that I miss him,” he continued.

  You, too? she thought in dismay. Oh, we are a sad lot, if we cannot manage without the mill owner. “I do, as well,” she said after a moment’s consideration.

  “Stanton thought I should write him a letter,” Andrew said, putting down the knife and getting into bed when she pulled back the covers. “We could both do it.”

  “Stanton seems determined that we write to Mr. Butterworth,” she told him as she pulled up the covers, and shook off some of the wood shavings onto the floor.