Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind (28 page)

She thought she slept well that night, but in the morning the armchair was close to the bed, with the footstool about as far away as a tall man could comfortably rest his feet. She lay in bed, her mind in a perfect jumble. He is watching over me, she thought, touched to her soul by his late-night solicitude, and also knowing somehow that he would not want her to make any comment on it.

There was nothing she needed to say, anyway. Each morning he was gone to the mills early, not returning until late at night, when there was no time to exchange conversation beyond the commonplace, in the company of his relatives. Night after night she sat in the parlor with all the others, chatting about nonsensicals when she wanted to say so much more.

She knew she should leave, but even the hint of such a thing brought more tears to Emma's eyes, and turned Andrew quiet. Lord Denby was no help, either. By letter he assured her that he and Stanton were soldiering on quite well, what with Cecil making a slow recovery and Lady Carruthers practically chained to his side by Mr. Lowe. “Make of it what you will, Jane, but I have never seen my sister so solicitous over anyone's welfare to such an extreme,” he wrote her. “She has no time to meddle with me, and I am as grateful as a man can be.” He made no inquiry after Andrew; she expected none.

Any attempt on her part to end the visit seemed to come up against overshadowing events. One night during supper she had worked up her nerve to announce their departure, when Richard and Scipio, late as usual, burst in with the announcement that yes, indeed, Jeremy Bentham had agreed to serve on the board of their mills. She was reluctant to disturb the good feeling of the occasion by the damper of her own resolve to quit the place. “Or perhaps I am still far too easily cowed,” she announced to her mirror that night.

Admit it, Jane, she thought the next morning, after another night of peaceful sleep and the now-expected sight of the chair and footstool pulled close to the bed, you are in need of Mr. Butterworth's solicitude, even if he will say nothing, and you have not the courage to press the matter. She thought each night that she would will herself to stay awake and tell him that he needn't ruin his own hours of sleep anymore, but she was unable to follow through with her good intentions. She kept busy enough in the Newton household to make it impossible for her to wake up in the middle of the night, where before, phantoms had been sufficient to send her gasping and staring into the dark. “Face it, Jane,” she told herself. “You do not wish to free yourself from a kind man's solicitude.”

Somehow they continued their visit in Rumsey far beyond New Year's Day and well into January. Her feeble arguments about Andrew's education turned moot when room was found for him to attend the vicar's school with Jacob. Emma came down with a slight cold and insisted that she would trust Olivia to no one but Jane. “Olivia, these are the flimsiest of reasons to keep me here,” Jane announced to the baby one morning as she prepared to bathe her. “I would suspect your dear mother of some conspiracy, except that I cannot imagine what would be its purpose. Oh, bother it.”

Again she resolved to announce their departure, and again the attempt was pushed into the background by the news this time that Mr. Butterworth's prediction about the mill in Rumsey had proved accurate: the owners wanted to sell. Amid the general rejoicing—which Andrew joined into with as much enthusiasm as the Newtons, much to her surprise—she knew she couldn't say anything.

Except that I must, she told herself the next morning as she pulled the armchair back to its usual place and repositioned the footstool. Andrew and I cannot become indefinite guests, as much as we would wish it. Lady Carruthers would call that rag manners, and for once, I would have to agree with her. She went into the breakfast room, hoping to find it unoccupied. She was not disappointed, and ate her breakfast in silence, doing her best to think up a plausible reason to leave, and coming up with nothing.

She was dabbing crumbs from her lips and thinking about one last cup of tea when the butler came in carrying a letter. She took it; the frank was Lord Denby, and her heart plummeted, as it always did. She stared at the note a moment, then took a deep breath and opened it.

To her surprise, it was from Stanton. She spread out the letter on the table, began to read, then shook her head. “Steel yourself for catastrophe, Miss Milton,” she read. “The ornamental plaster on the ceiling in Cecil's room right over the bed gave way last night and he went into impressive hysterics. Lady Carruthers joined him, and Lord Denby has no peace anymore.”

“
Oh, dear,” she said under her breath. “I wonder if we can blame the servants for this.”

“
Lord Denby swears the old place is falling down,” she read. “He has taken to his bed again, mainly because his sister is on a rampage and Cecil is certain that he is near death. Actually, he received no damage, except that he has a bump on his head and appears—to my mind—no more addled than usual. But who can tell? I am sorry to ruin your holiday, but we need you here, Jane. Yours respectfully, Oliver Stanton.”

Jane leaned back in her chair. Stanton has provided the perfect excuse, she thought. I wonder why I am not filled with relief? “All holidays end, Jane,” she told herself firmly as she left the breakfast room and went in search of the footman. “It is time to return to wary diplomacy.”

The coachman took her to the mill, driving slowly past the row of tenements that was only a pile of rubble now. She had seen the blueprints during many an evening in the parlor. By summer most of the block would be rebuilt and inhabited once more. She leaned forward for a better look at the corner that would house the new school. Mr. Butterworth had asked for her opinion on the design, and she had offered suggestions. The mill workers' children would be educated there until the age of twelve, and then allowed to choose between work in the factory or apprenticeship elsewhere. Staring at the leveled block, and contemplating the good things to come, it occurred to her that she had fewer choices than one of Mr. Butterworth's mill children.

I will have to change that, she thought, as the carriage slowed before the mill and then stopped. She could see her reflection in the carriage glass. I will have to change myself.

She located Richard in the mill office, intent upon the ledgers before him, and showed him the letter. He gestured toward the door that led to the mill floor. “Scipio is roaming the floor,” he said. “I can send someone to look for him.”

Jane shook her head, not wishing to distract him from his business. “I can find him, and tell him that Andrew and I must leave.”

“
We wish you did not have to go,” Richard said, as she left the office.

Not as much as I wish it, she thought. She had been to the mill several times since that first visit, and she looked around with pleasure at the motion and color. Where first she had seen only confusion, now she admired the economy of movement and the rhythm of the looms and the workers who fed them. The women, uniformed and tidy, smiled shyly as she passed. She noted with appreciation that their hair was confined under close-fitting caps, and their sleeves were narrow. The floors were smooth and even. There was nothing to catch on machinery or trip them, bringing sudden maiming or death. It is so simple to do the right thing, she thought. How ironic that virtue is often a last resort, in business and in life.

As she walked through the noisy mill, a whistle sounded. The looms slowed but did not stop as some of the workers left their positions to rest or seek the necessary. She found Mr. Butterworth seated on an upturned wooden spool, his shirtsleeves rolled up, and one brace broken from its mooring. I believe he is worse than a small boy, she thought with a smile as she noticed the grease on his long fingers and a corresponding smudge near his ear.

When he saw her, he rose and excused himself from the knot of workers seated nearby and came to her. She noticed his eyes on the letter in her hand. “I suppose that is bad news from Denby, which announces that you must return to mediate, or expedite, or placate,” he commented.

She handed him the letter, noting his frown as he read. “And what are you supposed to do, Miss Milton?” he asked as he handed back the letter. “Coddle Cecil into rational behavior, assure Lord Denby that he is not dying, and let Lady Carruthers trample up and down your spine? Repair that drafty old heap singlehandedly and offset years of neglect?”

She could not help but notice the irritation in his words. “I suppose that is it, sir,” she replied, stung by the tone of his voice.

“
Hold on, Jane, I didn't mean ….” He stopped and ran his hand across his forehead, leaving another greasy trail. “There … there is so much to do here.”

I could not stay angry with you for a moment, sir, she thought, especially when you are right. She said nothing, but took a handkerchief from her reticule and wiped the grease from his face, “I know how busy you are, sir. We have had a wonderful visit, Mr. Butterworth, but everything must end, mustn't it?”

“
I suppose it must,” he agreed, after a long moment staring at the looms. “I … I … have my own suggestion for you, Miss Milton.”

He hesitated, and she felt her heart beat harder in her breast. Tell me that you love me, and ask me to marry you, she thought, wanting so much to hear the words that she felt that she had spoken them. “And it is ….” she suggested, when he said nothing.

He opened his mouth to speak, and she waited, holding her breath. The whistle blew once more to signal a return to work, and it was as though someone suddenly drenched him in cold water. He blinked his eyes, then shook his head. “I am going to New Lanark at the end of the week to confer with Robert Owen. Shall I suggest to him that you are interested in a teaching position in his mill this fall when Andrew is away at school?”

That was it. Don't cry, Jane, she ordered herself. You've been so good at concealing your feelings all these years that you could give lessons. You may not have much of a spine, but you do have a little pride left. “I think that is an excellent idea, Mr. Butterworth,” she said, striving for the right tone and succeeding, at least to her ears.

“
I'm certain you will like New Lanark.”

“
I'm certain I will,” she agreed. Still, sir, it is a pity that we are not of the same class, she thought. I am so far below yours that I was an idiot to think you would want me as a wife. Let us pray that I will not prove so stupid again. Offer your hand, now, Jane, she told herself. Smile again and thank him for the visit. She extended her hand to the mill owner and he shook it. “Thank you again, Mr. Butterworth, for a most pleasant visit. I intend to ask Emma if she would wish to correspond with me.” Pause now, Jane, and if you think you can say any more without tears, ask the question you are most interested in. “Mr. Butterworth, with this third mill you will be so busy. Shall we see you at Denby again?”

There, I have asked it, she thought. My dearest Mr. Butterworth, I do not like that look in your eyes. She folded the letter and put it in her reticule, willing her hands not to shake.

“
I will be there from time to time, my dear,” he replied. “Joe Singletary will return with you and continue Andrew's lessons.”

“
You needn't go to that trouble,” she assured him.

“
It's no trouble. I have some business concerns in the area that he can wrap up for me. By the time Andrew is ready to leave for school, I am certain he will have organized matters to my satisfaction …” He hesitated.

“…
and sold the house?” she asked.

“
Yes.”

Well there it is, she thought. I told him my sordid story and he was kind enough to see that I have slept well since, but there is nothing more to it. Anything I have been dreaming of was probably my own imagination. I am on my own once again.

But he was still holding her hand. Mr. Butterworth, you are getting absentminded, she thought, as she managed a smile in his general direction and gently pulled her hand away. “I hope we hear from you occasionally, sir. I—that is, Andrew and I—will be disappointed if we do not.”

“
You will hear from me, Miss Milton,” he said. “I will want to know about the reunion.”

Reunion? What reunion? she thought wildly. Oh, yes, the reunion I have contrived to put heart back into Lord Denby, when all the time I have been losing mine. She closed her eyes against the pain of that thought.

He took her hand again. “Miss Milton?”

“
I am fine,” she replied. “This is certainly a noisy place, isn't it?”

“
No place for a lady,” he said. “Good day, Miss Milton. I'll try to get home in time to say good-bye to Andrew.”

“
He would appreciate that, I am certain,” she replied, removing her fingers from his grasp one more time.

She started when the whistle blew again and the looms picked up speed. She turned to go, but Mr. Butterworth took her by the arm and spoke into her ear so he could be heard. “Tell Lord Denby for me that I will send him a repairman for those odd jobs around the place that he requires. Can't have the entire ceiling falling in on Cecil, now, can we?”

It was a feeble joke for him, but she grasped at it with relief and nodded. “We would all appreciate someone with remodeling skills,” she said, her lips close to his ear now. What would you do if I kissed you right now? she thought. No worry, Mr. Butterworth; I won't. But what would you do?