Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind (20 page)

It sounded absurd as he said it, but she nodded. “I cannot stay in there, Mr. Butterworth. I should never have agreed to but …”

“…
but it is always expected of you, isn't it?”

She nodded. “I suppose I could learn to say no.”

“
I don't think you can, my dear Miss Milton. It's not in you to say no.”

She sighed. “Then I am foolish, just as Lady Carruthers says.”

She didn't think he could hold her any tighter, but he did. “No, my dear, you are not foolish! You are just more kind than nine-tenths of the population.” He gave her a sudden hug that made her gasp for breath, then released her. “And I don't know that I would ever want you to change. Perhaps I have been in the world too long, but there is something so refreshing about goodness.” He smiled at her. “This is certainly no reflection on my own life, is it?”

It was her turn to feel surprise. “Mr. Butterworth, you are everything that is kind, so how can you ….”

But he wasn't paying attention to her. “My dear, I think my newest niece is tuning up. Can you hear her?”

She could, and was unable to suppress her sigh of relief. She rose to her feet, but Mr. Butterworth did not release her hand. “Sir, I think I can manage now,” she told him.

“
I daresay you can,” he stated, rising with her, but letting go of her hand. “My brother informed me last night that the nursemaid has been summoned and will be here today, thus ending any need for family—and house guest—vigils.”

He followed her to the nursery and watched as she changed the baby. “Considering that it has been … oh, what …? twelve years since Andrew was small, you're quite good at that, Miss Mitten,” he whispered. He held out his arms for his niece, red-faced now and waving her fists. “Or does a woman not forget?”

“
I am certain that is it, Mr. Butterworth,” she replied, grateful for ordinary conversation again as she tidied up. “Now if you will hand her over, I will take her to her mother, and you can retire for what remains of this night.”

“
You'll be all right?” he asked, as he returned his niece to her. “I had rather thought to remain here. Perhaps we could talk.”

There must have been a thousand reasons she could give him why that would not be a good idea, each more logical than the one before, but she could not think of one. “You would not like what you hear, Mr. Butterworth,” Jane said, and then from nowhere, “I am not what I seem.”

“
Who of us is, ma'am?” he answered. To her eyes and ears, his equanimity appeared as unruffled as if she had just told him that violets were purple. “I am a good listener, though.”

“
And a busy man,” she replied. “I doubt that Richard will be much use to you at the mills for the next few days! Good night, Mr. Butterworth.”

She wondered in the next few days if her dismissal had been too abrupt. No doubt he was busy, dividing his time between the woolen mill in Huddersfield and the new cotton mill where Andrew and Jacob hurried every morning to watch the slum being torn down to make way for new housing. The boys—a stranger would have thought them friends for years—were filled with reports each evening at dinner, but Mr. Butterworth was conspicuous by his absence.

Emma, absorbed in her new daughter, only laughed when Jane expressed her worry about her brother overworking himself. “It is what he enjoys the most, my dear,” she said, easing herself into a comfortable position as the baby—named Olivia Rose by Amanda and Lucy, after considerable discussion—began to nurse. “Give him a problem, and he can hardly wait to solve it. Olivia, do have a care! They are attached to me, after all!”

Jane smiled as she watched the nursing mother. Obviously he has decided that he does not relish my problems, she thought, as the baby settled down to long, steady pulls. I cannot blame him; I do not relish them, either.

She knew that he came home at night because she heard him talking to Richard, and laughing at this or that, as the two of them sat in the breakfast room and rehashed the day. He came into the boys' room one night as she was reading the nightly chapter of
The Children of New Forest
, and stood leaning against the door frame until she finished. “Well read, Miss Milton,” he declared. “You could probably make a factory invoice interesting, suspenseful, even.”

How does he do that, she thought, dispensing compliments as easily as some people breathe? He came closer; she wished he would put his hand on her shoulder in that careless way of his, but he did not.

“
Andrew and Jacob, come with me to the woolen mill tomorrow,” he told the boys, sitting on their bed. “Christmas is nearly upon us and I have dismissed the workers so we can break down the machinery and make a few improvements before we begin work again.”

“
Dirty work, sir?” Andrew asked, even as he looked at Jane for permission.

“
Oh, yes. The worst kind. Jacob's mother will cringe when we come home.”

“
Mr. Butterworth, are you remembering that tomorrow night is the Board of Directors dinner here?”

“
How could I forget, with so many females to remind me?” he replied cheerfully. “Amanda is wandering around in a distracted fashion, mumbling to herself about ironing tablecloths and polishing silver.” He laughed. “She is usually more concerned with slippers and matching ribbons. And I suppose my sister is just calmly watching it all.”

“
Oh, yes,” Jane agreed, relieved at his light touch. “She tells me that nothing could be better for Amanda than to be overworked.”

“
And you, Miss Mitten?” he asked. “Does all this rushing about, settling cooks' quarrels, and wrangling with fishmongers give you a sound night's sleep?”

“
She could hardly finish this chapter, Mr. Butterworth,” Andrew confided, as she looked away from him in embarrassment.

“
Very good!” he announced, and gave each boy a resounding smack of a kiss. ‘Tomorrow morning, seven o'clock sharp, gentlemen!” he told them as he pulled up the covers and pinched out the candle.

“
The boys will not be underfoot tomorrow,” he told her as they left the room. “What a good fellow I am.”

“
You are indeed, sir,” she said. “I am sleeping well, so you needn't concern yourself about me.”

He widened his eyes and stepped back as though she had struck him, and she could not help but laugh. ‘That is better, my dear,” he told her. “Dependable, competent, useful Miss Milton!”

She did not know if he was aware that his words had a slight edge to them. She may have been mistaken, because he seemed his usual, expansive self. “I … I try to be, sir,” she said, not sure how to answer him.

He stopped in the hall and turned to face her, so she had no choice but to stop, too. “Probably this is academic, Miss Milton, but what happens to you after the Board of Directors' dinner is over, and you are less busy, or when the reunion for Lord Denby finishes this spring, or when Andrew goes away to school in the fall?”

She could not answer him.

“
Of course it is not my business,” he continued. “Perhaps if I were a gentleman, I would be attuned to the niceties of the situation, but, Miss Milton, I am not a gentleman.”

He bowed and walked away, and she could only stand there and watch him go, more alone than she had ever felt in her life. “Mr. Butterworth,” she called after him.

He turned to look at her, his eyes hopeful. “Yes, my dear? You know how I advise you to speak your mind.”

“
You would not like me very much, if I did,” she said softly, not even sure if he could hear her, because they stood so far apart.

He opened his mouth to reply, but Amanda bounded into the hall, the picture of distraction. “Uncle Scipio, I am in desperate need of Miss Milton,” she exclaimed, breathless.

“
Everyone is in desperate need of Miss Milton,” he said with a half smile that went nowhere near his eyes, as far as Jane could see. “Well, look behind you. We tend to carry on long-distance conversations, so it is no wonder you missed her.”

“
Amanda, whatever is the matter?” Jane said, with a last glance at Mr. Butterworth, who stood watching them both before he turned on his heel and took the stairs two at a time.

Amanda hurried to her side, holding out her hands. “Miss Milton, our cook is not speaking to our housekeeper and the scullery maid is throwing out spots!” She dabbed at her eyes. “Don't you think this is the wrong time to get sick? What are we to do?”

“
There is never a good time to get sick, Amanda,” she said, striving for soothing tones when she wanted to stamp her feet in frustration. “Let us see to her first, and then rehearse a little kitchen diplomacy for Cook. Courage, Amanda! Things are seldom as bad as they seem.”

There is never a good time for anything, she told herself as she followed the girl belowstairs. Life is all interruption and commotion, untidy in the extreme, with enough loose ends to trip up a trout. She took Amanda's arm at the foot of the stairs, and was rewarded with a glance of combined relief and gratitude.

“
Miss Milton, are you ever at a loss?” she whispered as they entered the servants' hall.

“
All the time, my dear,” she replied.

Amanda smiled and Jane could almost see her relax. “Miss Milton, you are so good at restoring my peace of mind!”

Too bad I cannot do the same thing for myself, she thought, as the housekeeper bore down on them and the cook, her arms folded, took up a defensive position in front of the unlit stove. Jane took a deep breath and flashed what she hoped was a confident smile. “Amanda, you need merely to listen to Cook, and nod whenever she pauses, and I will deal with the housekeeper.”

An hour later, a truce had been declared in the servants' hall. With a flourish, Cook lit the stove again and was soon heard humming over the vegetable soup and looking about for a sieve, while the housekeeper returned to her knitting by the fireplace. The scullery maid—who confessed to eating strawberries meant for the fifth course, even though she knew strawberries gave her hives—was sent to bed with an all-purpose dose of both tonic and an admonition from the butler.

“
Miss Milton, I have been thinking lately that it would be great fun to marry and run my own household, but now I think I will not rush it,” Amanda told Jane as they climbed the stairs.

Jane smiled and kissed her good night. She could think of nothing except her own bed, but as she passed the Newtons' chamber, she noticed a light on. She knocked on the door.

Emma was just handing Olivia Rose to the nursemaid. She patted the bed and Jane sat. “Richard and Scipio were last sighted heading for the breakfast room with more blueprints,” Emma said. “I hear that you and Manda have been quelling domestic disturbances.” She reached for Jane's hand. “And tomorrow is the Board of Directors dinner, and then there is Christmas.” She put her hands together in a prayerful gesture. “If I am very good, perhaps I can talk Richard into carrying me downstairs to the sitting room after dinner. I know these directors' wives, and I can spare you that much!”

“
I am certain you can talk him into anything,” Jane said. “You must excuse me, but my pillow has been calling to me for some time now, possibly ever since your housekeeper told me for the fourteenth time—I counted—‘I does wot I can, but Cook is haggravatin,' ” she mimicked.

Emma laughed and clapped her hands. “After this circus, Stover Hall will seem like a haven to you, won't it?”

“
I will miss you all,” she said simply. “Good night, my dear.”

“
Good night to you,” Emma replied. “Just think, Jane. After tomorrow night, you will be quite at your leisure, with nothing more to occupy your mind beyond whether you prefer white meat or dark! Won't that be a relief?”

It is my greatest nightmare, she thought, as she nodded, smiled, and left the room.

J
ane had not planned to attend the Board of Directors' dinner, but the matter was decided for her by Amanda and Emma, and seconded by Mr. Butterworth that morning. “I cannot manage if you are not there to prop me up,” Amanda claimed, overriding Jane's own attempt to assist belowstairs by keeping Cook and housekeeper far apart. “How am I to know what goes on in the dining room?” Emma asked. “Richard will only grunt about it, Amanda will never see what you will see, and Scipio will be far too technical. I insist, Jane, I simply insist. Am I not right, Scipio?”

“
Of course, my dear sister,” Mr. Butterworth replied promptly. “Jane, Jane! Never discommode a lactating female! Do you want Olivia to have a prune face tonight, if my sister is unhappy?”

It was so outrageous that she could only blush, and allow herself to be led by the mill owner to Emma's ample wardrobe. “You have no excuse of nothing to wear,” Emma called from her bed. “There are times when I have a waist, and when I do, I think we are much the same size.”

“
Except that Miss Milton will need to take a quick hem, considering that she is not a Long Meg, like those of Butterworth origin. Ah, this is the dress I like the most,” he said, gesturing to a pale blue sarcenet in the clothespress. “I gave it to Emma for Christmas last year. Wouldn't you say I have excellent taste?”