by Carla Kelly
The rain came as a relief, hurling itself against the panes until the storm moved away. Still she sat there, watching the rain slide down the panes now, a murmur instead of a threat, the thunder only a faint growl, nature’s afterthought. A little while longer, and then dawn came, the sky clear and hopeful.
Breakfast interested her no more than dinner the night before, so she went onto the terrace instead, stepping around the pools of water to stand finally at the stone railing and gaze down on the formal garden and Mr. Butterworth’s lake beyond. She discovered quickly that it was not a view she wanted anymore.
She turned to look at the house, thinking of all the times in her life that she would have left it willingly, if Andrew had not tied her there, and then Blair, with his final illness. Except that I never would have left Andrew, she told herself. Or Blair, even if that burden did prove too heavy. And if I did not acquit myself as I would have wished, I did my best. Some regrets just have to be borne.
It was a thought to console her, she decided, as she looked at the lake again. If you would ask me, Mr. Butterworth, I would tell you that at any point in our lives, we are only doing the best we can. I have become so wise this year. A pity no one ever wants advice.
“Miss Milton, Stanton has sent me to find you and force you—with whips and cudgels if necessary—to the breakfast table.”
She turned around to see Dale Bingham standing by the French doors. “I don’t know, sir, that anyone has the power to force me to do anything now. And please call me Jane, cousin.”
He laughed and joined her at the balustrade. “I suppose we are cousins,” he began.
“Oh, why not?” she said. “I think I am cousin to half of England, Dale.” She touched his arm lightly. “I was asking myself earlier this morning—did someone think to move you upstairs to a guest room?”
“Lord Denby offered me Blair’s room, but I prefer belowstairs, Jane,” he replied, his eyes merry. “My dear, I have grown up in kitchens and nothing will change that now.” He was silent a long time, looking at the view. “A storm clears away a lot of things, doesn’t it?”
More than you know, she thought.
Dale perched himself on the railing. “Jane, he has offered to make me his heir, if I will repudiate my adoption and remain here in England. What do you think of that?”
“I think it would be a mistake for you,” she said. “And I am not so certain the law would allow it.”
He sighed. “And so I told him. I am an American, and I would miss my country and my family.” He shrugged. “Why would I want to be a marquis—if it were even possible—own extensive land, be richer than Croesus, and sit in the House of Lords? Not when I can have mud and mosquitoes and Indian alarms, no indeed!”
Lady Carruthers arrived from London first, barely acknowledging Jane and going right to her brother’s room, to emerge all smiles a short time later. Jane stood by Stanton and watched her come down the hall, the picture of triumph. “Of all things, this is the worst,” she murmured to him.
“Then thank Almighty Providence that you are not going through it alone, Miss Milton,” he replied as Lady Carruthers bore down on them. “Lovely day, isn’t it, my lady?”
She ignored him as though he were a violet in the wallpaper and took Jane’s arm, shaking her. “You were always so certain you were right!”
Before Jane could speak, Stanton stepped between them, forcing Lady Carruthers to let go. “My lady, Miss Milton was right up until yesterday afternoon when Mr. Butterworth’s claims were made plain,” he said, each word distinct. “We could all wish for such a champion.”
“But she was wrong!”
“Wrong to believe the best and cherish the Canfields’ son? You are mistaken, Lady Carruthers.”
Jane stared at the butler. “Bless you, Oliver,” she murmured.
Stanton glanced at her and she could not mistake the regard in his eyes, full of expression now, and not masked in the usual way of those who serve.
“But she was wrong!” Lady Carruthers repeated, stamping her foot, as her turban quivered like a live thing.
“She was kind,” he said, putting on his careful demeanor again as some men shrug into a coat. “Heaven knows how she became that way, considering her example in this household. It must have been her good training in the Leeds workhouse.”
Lady Carruthers gasped and her face took on a peculiar mottled color. “I will see that you are dismissed without a character!” she stormed.
“Not in this lifetime,” he said simply. “Your brother has assured me that I have his entire confidence. And when you and your brainless boy assume control here someday, if you can, you will walk onto a totally deserted estate, Lady Carruthers.”
Her silence was terrible, and then she turned her attention to Jane. “I can ruin you,” she stated finally.
“I do not see how,” Stanton said.
“I am not talking to you! Jane, you aren’t aware, but the night Blair died, I looked in the room and saw you sleeping in the chair. I call that gross neglect, and so I will tell anyone who will listen.”
Jane sucked in her breath and reached for Stanton, who grasped her hand. “Never mind it now,” he said softly, then as she watched, turned his full attention to Lady Carruthers.
“I wouldn’t do that,” he told her, his voice firm, but with an edge to it that Jane had never heard before. “The more gross neglect is yours, for not waking her. She was exhausted; you were cruel. Did that never occur to you, Lady Carruthers? I am surprised.”
Lady Carruthers could only gape like a fish, her mouth opening and closing with no sounds coming out. “Perhaps I should find her some smelling salts,” Jane whispered, her eyes on the woman.
The butler frowned. “My dear Miss Milton, are you doomed forever to be far too kind?”
“I suppose I am,” she replied, totally in charity with him.
He took her arm and turned his back upon the woman, speechless with rage, who gasped for breath. “Jane, I have often wondered through the years why she was so unkind to you. I have a theory now.”
“I would be the last one to keep you from speaking your mind, Oliver,” Jane said.
“Some people are just unpleasant. Perhaps we must leave it at that. Do excuse us, Lady Carruthers, but I believe our guests are arriving. Could you take your spasms elsewhere? London would be nice; Venice even better. St. Petersburg?”
They came all morning, elderly men, some of them carrying parts of faded uniforms, most still erect with the military bearing that Jane admired. Dale helped his father down to the sitting room, made sure that Lord Denby was comfortable, and left him to the tender mercies of his comrades. “I think they are all growing younger by the minute,” he whispered to Jane later as he peered through the door.
Younger men came, too, the sons of officers unable by death or distance to attend. They introduced themselves, and then joined the others in the sitting room, content for the most part to listen, and whisper among themselves about the old warriors swapping reminiscences before them. Jane circulated among her guests until she noticed, to her amusement, Dale sitting by the door, staring at his hand.
“You look as though you have been bitten,” she declared, sitting next to him, happy for the moment to be off her feet.
“I don’t know what you would call it,” he said. “Jane, this will mean nothing to you, but this hand just shook the hand of Major Patrick Arnold. Great God Almighty, Lord of Battle!”
“I do not understand,” she replied, mystified. “Whoever he is, he cannot be contagious. Do you mean that rather handsome gentleman with the red hair?”
“His father’s name was Benedict, my dear,” Dale replied, his voice still faint. “Not a favorite colonial son, let me hasten to add.”
She recognized one of Lord Cornwallis’s sons, a thin, popeyed man who had not yet acquired his father’s full flesh, and pointed him out to Dale. The handyman’s eyes grew wider. “Dear Jane, these are the bogeymen who frighten American children int
o good behavior!” He managed a chuckle. “I suppose you will tell me next that Banastre Tarleton—damn his evil hide—is skulking in here somewhere.”
She leaned her face against his shoulder to hide her laughter. “Next to your father, my dear cousin!”
She felt him start in surprise. “Jane, he looks so ordinary. No horns, no fangs, no cloven hoof.” He managed a laugh of his own. “Am I foolish?”
“No! You’re just an American, Dale. Please don’t change.”
With a grin, he looked around and then kissed her quickly. “I wouldn’t dream of it, my dear.”
She spent the afternoon hovering about the edge of the gathering, unwilling to leave it, not because Lord Denby seemed in any danger of exhaustion, but because she had seen Marsh arrive from Mr. Butterworth’s and whisper a few words to Stanton. She knew he was collecting Andrew’s things; armies could not have dragged her to watch.
She went belowstairs finally, to put on an apron and blanch almonds until her face was rosy and her hair curling in tendrils around her face. I am comfortable in kitchens, too, she thought, with no feelings of pity or dismay. I will never tell her, but Lady Carruthers is more right than she knows: I have the common touch.
At peace with herself, she arranged almond crescents on a glass plate, then applied herself to the macaroons until Cook pronounced her efforts good enough. When she was sure Marsh must be gone, she went upstairs again. I will not look in the room, she told herself as she hurried upstairs to change for dinner. It will only be empty, with that look of total abandonment that all vacant rooms seem to have, whether the occupant has been gone fifteen minutes or five years.
She stuck to her resolution, dressing quickly, giving up on her hair because the steam from belowstairs had curled it beyond help, and then seating herself before the cold hearth. She thought of a little book she used to read to Andrew about an enchanted mole whose only solace was to pull the earth over himself when the day was gloomy. It was the wrong memory, bringing with it the vivid image of Andrew with a blanket over his shoulders, giggling and dropping down to cover himself like the mole, while she chased him around the lawn.
“Mr. Butterworth, you are taking my child,” she said out loud. “How can you be so cruel?”
She could only count her blessings that the banquet in Lord Denby’s honor exceeded her modest expectations to such an extent that no attention came her way. Lord Denby was the man she remembered, his dignity restored one hundredfold by the good wishes of his comrades. Once during the evening, she caught his eye on her, and it was easy to smile and blow him a kiss.
She was startled at first to see Mr. Butterworth, impeccable in evening clothes and brilliant waistcoat again, seated among the celebrants. He belongs here, she thought, after her first surprise. If ever a man was a good neighbor, he is, even if he has broken my heart in more ways than I would have thought possible. The wonder of it is that I love him still.
Despite the most acute misery that filled her whole body, she rejoiced in the tributes that came with each toast after dinner, as Lord Denby’s comrades rose to tell story after story of his qualities that made him such an example to the officer corps. I hope your regrets are gone, my lord, she thought, happy to rise and applaud with the others.
Then Dale rose, glass in hand. She held her breath for just a moment, then released it slowly when Lord Denby’s son spoke of his father Edward Bingham’s regard for the adjutant he had served with so many years before. “It is certainly my privilege to echo whatever sentiments my father would have expressed, had he been able to attend this reunion,” Dale said. “Lord Denby, long life and good health from America to you, still the best among us!”
He sat down and Jane smiled at him across the table. She watched Lord Denby, his eyes on his son, and she felt the familiar scratching in her throat, the dryness behind her eyelids. Dale, you could have said such terrible things, she thought. Thank goodness we have all spoken our minds—or nearly all of us. And thank you for keeping that one secret.
The thoughts were not out of her mind when Lord Denby rose, and looked at his guests. “Gentlemen,” he began, “and, lady,” he said, with a nod to her, “I could not finish this evening without a confession to you, who think you know me best.” He paused and gripped the table, and Jane held her breath. She watched Dale half rise from his chair, concern etched on his face, and then sit down again.
As she listened, scarcely breathing, Lord Denby told his guests his well-kept secret. His voice did not waver as he spoke of his own hypocrisy in ignoring a son of his body and leaving the mother to suffer shame. He expressed his own gratitude for Edward Bingham, “a far better man than I,” he said, “for he did the right thing, where I did not, and earned the loyalty of a son as truly his as those of his own making.” He paused, as if gathering strength, and looked down the length of the silent dining table. “Gentlemen, I aim to rewrite that story of Lieutenant Jeremy Dill, not as a joke this time, but as an honest reminder of the responsibility we bear for all our actions.”
He sat down to silence. “I can tell I have disappointed you, my brothers-in-arms and colleagues,” he said, his voice old again. “I suppose there is no remedy, but it was time to speak my mind, before night closes in and it is too late to make amends.”
She closed her eyes with relief when Dale stood up and began to applaud. In a moment the others were on their feet. She rose, too overwhelmed to applaud, her hands clasped together. She smiled at Dale, and then could not resist a glance at the mill owner, who applauded with the rest. To her surprise, he was looking at her, as though it were her tribute.
As the guests gathered around Lord Denby, it was an easy matter to excuse herself. With a sigh of relief, she hurried outside and away from the odor of food and gentlemen’s cologne. This day will end soon, she reminded herself, as she walked to Mr. Butterworth’s lake. She sat down on a bench, pressing her hands to her face to wish away the warmth. With any luck at all, I will find employment in Scotland, she reminded herself. And if I am really lucky, I will think of Andrew only on the stroke of every hour, and Mr. Butterworth on the half stroke.
“Pretty night, isn’t it?”
She recognized Dale’s voice, and patted the bench beside her. “You did the right thing,” she told him, as he took hold of her hand.
“I think so,” he agreed. Suddenly he pressed her fingers to his lips. “Jane, you can come to Ohio with me. In fact, I wish you would.”
“Mr. Bingham, do you love me?”
He grinned at her. “I like you quite a bit, and you are, after all, what my pa calls a ‘cuddlesome woman.’ ”
She laughed and pulled her hand away. “It’s a kind offer, and I shall think about it.” She nudged his shoulder. “Go on back to the party, sir.”
“You love that mill owner, don’t you?” he asked.
“With all my heart.”
“Damn the man,” he said with some feeling. “If I did not like him so well myself, I could grow weary right now! Ah, me.” He kissed her cheek with a loud smack, laughed, and strolled back inside.
Well, at least I can go to my grave knowing that I have been asked, Jane thought, even if he was not precisely serious. He does have the makings of an excellent husband. She smiled into the darkness. But probably not mine.
She heard footsteps on the terrace, familiar ones, but she did not turn around. I owe you such an apology, she thought. Please come sit by me, Mr. Butterworth. The wind was blowing against her back so she breathed the pleasant fragrance of his cologne before he sat down.
“Did Dale propose to you?” he asked without any preliminaries.
His question startled her, delivered as it was in that dry, matter-of-fact tone not even remotely sentimental, but dearer to her than anyone else’s voice. “Sort of,” she replied, after a pause to push her thoughts together.
“Miss Mitten, one does not ‘sort of’ propose,” he informed her. “One either does or doesn’t.” He stopped, and when he continued, his voice sounded l
ess confident. “At least, that is what I think, but my experience, as you know, is limited.”
“Less limited than mine, sir,” she said, in no rush to ease his path, and more concerned with her own train of thought. “Mr. Butterworth, please accept my apology for those dratted letters. I never intended them to be sent, even if Stanton thought he was doing you—or me—a favor.” Her hands felt cold all of a sudden, and she clasped them tightly together in her lap. “Since yesterday I … I think I understand better the depth of your love for Lucinda. Please forgive me for what happened.”
“You’re off the mark there, Miss Milton,” he said, moving closer. “Would you mind terribly if I put my arm around you? The benches on this side of my lake are somewhat stingy in length and my rump is hanging off the edge.”
She laughed and scooted over. “You could ask Dale to survey the property and determine once and for all whose lake this is, sir.”
“I could, but then, what would Lord Denby have to argue about?”
His arm was warm around her waist, and she felt herself relaxing against him. “That was my last confession to you, Mr. Butterworth,” she told him. “This may even be our last conversation, for all I know. I am so heartily sorry for any embarrassment I have caused you.”
He started to speak, but she put her fingers to his lips. “Hush now! It’s my turn. I have apologized to you now, I have told you awful truths and you have borne them. I suppose now that the payment is my own son. Andrew is mine, sir, in all ways but birth. I raised him; you did not.” She stopped, unable to say more on that subject. “I have an offer of Ohio now, which I might accept.”
“And do you know, I think that if Stanton can work up the nerve, you will have another offer there, Miss Milton,” Mr. Butterworth said, his voice as spare as ever. “He doesn’t appear to know his place any better than the rest of us. I blame it entirely on this modern age we live in.”
