Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind (23 page)

“
If he should die before I wake.” She stared into the darkness that wasn't dark enough to suit her, hardly daring to think what forms the room would take on when she opened her eyes into the terror that always came first, just before it turned into morning.

I
t was the same dream as always, with the sounds that were impossible to ignore, but ones which had not the power to wake her until the book in her lap slid to the floor and landed with a splash at her feet.

She was awake then, and out of her chair, and staring into the wide eyes of a man drowning in his own blood. With a cry of her own, she reached for his neck to stop the gush, but he was just out of her grasp. She tried again; even though her arm stretched longer and longer in her dream, he was farther away. She reached again, crying for help. There was Mr. Lowe as always, standing on the other side of the bed and shaking his head at her. “I told you it would be like this. Weren't you listening?” She pleaded with him to help her, and then began to cry when he turned around and left the room after a wink and a thumbs-up sign.

“
Don't leave me!” she cried. “Oh, please, not this time!”

“
I wouldn't dream of it, Jane. Move over.”

Fogged with sleep, drugged by her dream, she slid over, and then gasped when she opened her eyes. “Mr. Butterworth?” she managed to say, even as she made no objection when he gathered her into his arms and pulled the blankets around both of them.

“
The very same. A little more casually dressed perhaps, but then, I have never been a fashion plate, dear Jane.”

She shivered and let him pull her so close that she felt like part of him. “You shouldn't be here,” she said, even as she clasped her hands tighter around his back.

“
I disagree,” he said. “I can't think of a single other place where I should be, more than right here. Your feet are cold!” Still she shivered. “Turn around, my dear,” said the mill owner finally. “Like spoons. Perfect,” he said in her ear as he clasped his hands over her stomach and pulled her against him. “I defy you to be cold now. I am certain that I have sufficient avoir dupois for both of us.”

Too weary to argue, Jane put her hands over his and pillowed her head on his arm. She had the vaguest memory of being clasped like this by her father years ago, before he left them. “You won't leave?” she asked, caught in that memory that flared up like a struck match, and then snuffed out. “I mean ….”

“
No, I won't,” he said, resting his cheek against her hair. “Go to sleep, Jane.”

Disinclined to argue, she did as he said, relaxing with a sigh. “Won't the maid be surprised when she comes in to start the fire?” she asked, as she gave up the struggle to keep her eyes open.

“
My dear Jane, it is only three in the morning,” the mill owner replied, his own voice drowsy. “None of the Newtons' servants are that ambitious. Just turn your worries over to me for a while.”

“
Can't … you have … big meeting today,” she managed.

“
Hush.”

She slept then, unable to do anything else, because she was tired and warm, and the beating of the mill owner's heart was steady against her back. His arm will grow numb if I lean on it like this, was her last thought before she surrendered herself to sleep.

He was gone when she woke up, and the room was bright with that peculiar light of sun reflecting off snow. I wonder what time it is, she thought, as she sat up and looked around the room. The maid had already lit the fire, and the room was warm enough to tell her that she hadn't done it recently. And there was a can of water with a towel over it, everything as orderly and tidy as though nothing was different about this day.

Jane stretched and put her hands behind her head, relishing the pleasure of waking so peacefully. How long has it been that I have bounded awake, and practically on my feet? she asked herself as she let herself be absorbed into the mattress again. “Jane, you have had a good night's sleep,” she announced to herself.

She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, she could tell that the sun was much higher overhead. Still she remained where she was, breathing deep of Christmas smells that had a way of drifting up several flights of stairs, no matter whose house. Gingerbread, she thought, and something with cinnamon. She sat up and glanced at the empty pillow beside her own, almost ready to believe that she had dreamed Mr. Butterworth's presence in her bed last night. She frowned; there was no indent in the pillow. I am balmy, indeed, she thought, doubtful until she took a careful look at her own pillow. She leaned over to sniff it, and was rewarded with the faintest fragrance from the cologne that the mill owner liked. He was that close, she mused, her mind quiet and at peace. No wonder I slept so well; there wasn't room in my bed for a nightmare.

She dressed thoughtfully, after a glance at the clock to confirm the fact that her stomach was growling for a reason. Here it is the noon hour, and I am actually hungry, she acknowledged, with a feeling of surprise. Will wonders never cease?

The house was silent, and she had no qualms about encountering the mill owner in the breakfast room. It is not that I am shy about any of this, she told herself as she opened the door. “Well, yes it is,” she murmured, her hand poised on the doorknob. “I do not very often allow men into my bed in the wee hours of the morning.” She paused and leaned her forehead against the paneling of the door. Thank God he was there, she thought. Is there not to be an end to what I owe this kind man?

She opened the door, agreeably surprised to see Emma seated at the table, buttering a muffin. “My dear, shouldn't you be in bed?” Jane asked, as she smiled at the footman and allowed him to seat her.

“
I am tired of being in bed,” Emma announced. “Thank you; that will do.” When the door closed, she leaned toward Jane. “My dear, I find myself at that condition which Richard delicately refers to as my mother wolf phase: if it moves, I will eat it. No sudden motions, Jane!”

Jane laughed and took a muffin from the basket, as Emma poured her some tea. “You are kindness itself to allow me to sleep so late,” she said. “I suppose I should apologize for being such a slug, and on Christmas Eve, too, but I would be a hypocrite if I did.”

Emma nodded. “Amanda only just woke up a short time ago. Scipio and Richard assured me that the two of you had worked hard enough over last night's dinner to allow for a late morning.” She touched Jane's hand. “Thank you again for helping my darling negotiate the fearsome shoals of a dinner party! Scipio assures me that you are happiest when you are busiest, but I cannot help think that this holiday has been rather more work than pleasure for you.”

“
I have never enjoyed one more,” she said. “Your brother certainly has my measure. Has he always been such a judge of character?”

She knew it was a joking question, so she was not prepared for Emma's expression. The woman held the muffin in midair, a look of such sadness on her face that Jane could feel her own heart sinking. “Emma?” she whispered.

She might as well have said nothing. The woman stared at her, seeming to contemplate a distance far beyond the little stretch of table that separated them. “Everyone's character except his own,” she said, her voice low, the words coming spontaneously to Jane's ear. “Why,
why
are people hardest on themselves?”

It wasn't a question to answer, because Jane couldn't be sure Emma was aware she was asking one. As she watched, Emma sighed and her eyes focused again, this time on the muffin she still held. Jane slowly let out her breath, wondering what glimpse she had seen of Mr. Butterworth that only a sister, and a loving one at that, was privy to.

And then Emma was Emma again. “What were you saying, my dear?” she asked, as she dabbed marmalade on the muffin. “I seem to be woolgathering, and this is hardly the season for it.”

“
Nothing at all,” Jane said, striving for calm again, when her mind was suddenly so full of questions. None of this is my business, she told herself. I am in no one's confidence. “Actually, I was hoping that you would give me a task before I turn into a total vegetable and end up as tonight's table arrangement.”

Emma laughed, and Jane let her breath out slowly. “Nothing could be easier,” she said, and pointed to a box on the sideboard. “Scipio brought that dreadful thing in here this morning and asked me to put you to work when you woke up.”

“
Dreadful?” Jane asked.

“
Oh, it is full of invoices and receipts that need to be divided between the two mills. Usually the task is Richard's but he was busy this week, wringing his hands and then pacing up and down!” Emma said, then sighed. “Jane, never, never arrange your amusements so that a baby falls due on Christmas.”

“
I wouldn't dream of it,” Jane teased, “considering that I do not have the means to produce such an event!” She picked up the box and returned with it to the table. “Just separate them? Oh, I see. Each mill has a different name. Emma?” She looked at Emma, who was gazing into the distance again. “My dear?”

“
You heard her, didn't you?” Emma asked, her hand going to her breast. “No? Jane, I do believe Olivia is awake. Give me a hand up, please. If I hurry, I won't leave a trail of milk all down the hall. Happy Christmas, indeed!”

Jane smiled to herself as she finished her luncheon, returned the dishes to the sideboard, and took the papers from the box. This will not keep me busy enough, Mr. Butterworth, she thought, as she sorted the invoices and bills of lading into separate piles on the table. It was mindless work, however, and just the sort of thing to keep her brain empty of anxiety. She welcomed it, sitting there in the breakfast room with the sun beginning its afternoon slant through the house, and winter birds chattering around a suet ball.

She was halfway down the pile when she picked up a folded sheet with her name on it. The handwriting was Mr. Butterworth's and she opened the note, spreading it out before her on the invoices, knowing almost before she read a word what it would say, and for the first time in months, not dreading it.

“
My dear Miss Mitten
,” she read, her lips moving but no sound coming out. “I do believe that earlier this week in a moment of fun, you told me that you wanted a red cloak for Christmas. I told you that in return, I wanted all your secrets. Do you know now that I am perfectly serious?”

“
You do not know what you are asking,” she murmured, as she put down the note. “You have no idea.”

“ ‘
Let us talk tonight. Miss Milton,' ” she continued, reading out loud now. “ ‘Be so kind, please. If you do not find a way to a good night's sleep, then I do not think I will, either. And what use have I for a red cloak? Scipio.' ”

She read the note again, then folded it and tucked it up her sleeve. She sat perfectly still in the quiet room, thinking to herself that she should remove the mousetraps that she and Amanda had placed in Mr. Butterworth's office. Those were never mice, were they, sir? she thought. I have been keeping you awake, have I not? And you want this burden? She sat in silence until the footman surprised her an hour later, bringing in a new tablecloth to lay for dinner.

Not wishing to face the mill owner yet, she carried the box upstairs to his office and placed it on his desk with the invoices for each mill labeled separately. She sat in his chair, smiling to herself as she started to straighten the papers on his desk, then thought better of it. I am certain there is a system here, she imagined, and I would only disrupt it. She sat still, oddly at peace with herself, as she looked at the miniatures on his desk. Emma as a young woman was easy enough to identify, and there were a much-younger Jacob and Amanda. “No Lucy, sir,” she said out loud. “You are getting behind, what with Olivia to account for now.”

Behind the others and turned sideways was a gilt-edged frame which should have contained a miniature. She picked it up, wondering at an empty frame on his desk, and turned it over. ‘To my darling, Scipio,” she read out loud. “Love forever.”

She held the frame in her hand for a long moment, then returned it to its position behind the other miniatures. Secrets, secrets, we all have secrets, she told herself. Poor Mr. Butterworth. Did a lovely lady change her mind? She could not have been so bright, if she threw you over for another. She looked at the empty frame again, then left the office on tiptoe, even though the hallway was empty. Why do we always leave so much unsaid?

They opened presents after dinner that night, grouped around Emma in her bed while Olivia, her belly full, slumbered on her mother's knees. Mr. Butterworth, full of apology for missing dinner, came in with his overcoat still on, bringing in the cold air with him. Jane was almost too shy to smile at him, but she did anyway, finding a small satisfaction that he looked slightly at odds himself.

It was a very small exchange of gifts, which relieved Jane of any embarrassment over having nothing to give. Before she could even stammer a single apology, Emma took her hand in a firm clasp. “Jane, what would Richard and I have done without you this week?” she said simply. “I cannot fathom a finer gift from you than yourself.”

“
See there, Jane?” Mr. Butterworth said as he took off his overcoat. “Once in a while, virtue
is
its own reward.” He sat on the foot of the bed and put his arm around Andrew. “In this age of cynicism, laddie, who would have thought it?” He hugged Andrew, and Jane smiled as they grinned at each other.