Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind (29 page)

“
Do you know, sir, I nearly gave you up for Lent several years ago?” she said suddenly, not even giving herself time to think.

He laughed, as she had hoped he would. “You can't be serious, Miss Milton,” he said, not relinquishing his grip on her arm.

“
I found that I really couldn't face Stover Hall without your good cheer, sir, so I did not.” That is plainspoken enough, she thought, and far more than I ever intended to say.

“
Miss Milton,” he began, and he suddenly looked so uncomfortable that she regretted her words.

“
Never mind, Mr. Butterworth,” she said, stepping away from him and raising her voice to be heard. “I shall give up hot chocolate this year, as I usually do. Good day, sir, and thank you again for everything.”

She felt in control of herself again, and able to watch with equanimity as he turned away to answer a question from a worker. She stepped farther away and watched as they conferred, knowing that she should leave, but wanting one long last look at him to remember. “I will love you until I die,” she said, her voice loud and her words distinct, safe in the knowledge that he would never hear them over the thrum of the machinery.

To her horror, he turned around quickly and stared at her.

What have I done? she asked herself in panic, and then felt relief flood over her when he appeared to be looking over her shoulder at another worker, who was shouting something. Thank God for that, she thought. She managed a weak smile and left the mill floor.

She broke the news of their departure to Andrew that afternoon, and was not surprised at his tears. Cry for both of us, she thought, as he rested his head on her lap and she patted his back.

“
Can we return someday?” he asked finally, drying his eyes with his fingers.

“
I imagine that Jacob will invite you back,” she said. “But whether Lady Carruthers will allow it ….” She shook her head. “No! If the Newtons invite you back, by all means, you will go, no matter what Lady Carruthers says.” And I will continue my role as chief distractor, she thought. Mr. Butterworth's interest in me never went beyond a little mistletoe, and his own extreme good nature, and I have no other prospects.

Dinner was a melancholy meal, with no one eating much, and the children coming up with all the reasons why they should remain at least another month. Even patient Emma finally reached her limit and told Lucy to hush, please, before they all went into dithers. “We will invite them again when the crisis at Stover Hall is past,” Richard promised, when Lucy puckered up, and Jacob frowned.

Which crisis? Jane asked herself wearily as she prepared for bed. There will always be a commotion simmering somewhere. She sat in the armchair, which smelled so pleasantly of Mr. Butterworth's lively cologne and the pomade he used on his hair. Lord Denby hovers on the brink of who-knows-what, and Lady Carruthers is so determined to see that Cecil becomes the next Lord Denby. It is all too much. I doubt that even Stanton could contrive anything successful out of all this.

She climbed in bed and lay there for the longest time, unable to sleep. Her nerves on edge, she heard Mr. Butterworth's familiar footsteps walk past her door and then pause outside his office. She closed her eyes and turned her face to the wall when he went inside and shut the door.

Still sleep would not come, not with the mill owner in the next room. Jane thought of the empty miniature frame and felt tears prickle her eyes finally. Mr. Butterworth, your sister wishes that you would speak your mind, but that empty frame tells me more than words ever could, she reflected. Surely I am enough of an adult to know that I cannot defeat an empty frame with the words “Love forever” on it.

She closed her eyes then, worn out with speculation, but she was still awake hours later when her door opened and Mr. Butterworth came in. Lying so still, and attempting to breathe deep and even so he would think she slept, Jane watched as he quietly moved the chair and sat down beside her, close enough to touch. With a sigh of his own, he stretched out in the chair and propped up his feet on the stool. To her surprise, he promptly fell asleep, his own breathing relaxed and deep.

She lay there in amazement, wondering for the first time who was comforting whom.

R
ain was falling when they left the mill owner's house in Rumsey, the dreariest kind of rain because it seemed to fall in gray streaks from gray skies. Jane did not even need to glance at Andrew to know that the color matched his mood, too. After a long moment spent staring out the window, he burrowed into his book and kept his head down. He sniffed and swallowed several times, which she carefully overlooked. Joe Singletary attempted a little conversation, but not even horses could interest Andrew this time. When Joe looked at Jane and shrugged, she shook her head. The secretary subsided into his own corner, content to keep his own counsel.

At least until Leeds, when he leaned over and whispered to Andrew. The boy closed his book and turned his attention to the window again, with little glances at her. She was on the verge of hoping out loud that no one needed to stop in Leeds when the carriage slowed at the corner right before the workhouse and turned away from the main road.

“
I am certain this is not the right way,” Jane said to the secretary. “Do tell the coachman to turn back onto the High Street.”

To her surprise, Andrew pulled himself out of his leave-taking melancholy. “It is a surprise, Miss Mitten,” he said as the carriage moved slowly between the dismal workhouse buildings on either side of the road and then with a jingle of harness, turned into the pauper's cemetery.

If this is a joke, it is a bad one, she thought, wondering if Andrew and the secretary had taken leave of their senses. “It is not as though we need an additional dose of melancholy, Mr. Singletary,” she murmured.

“
Leave-taking is hard, isn't it, ma'am?” he said, sounding far too cheerful to suit her.

She remembered then that Mr. Butterworth had promised to take her to the cemetery to her mother's grave. “Oh, I think we can do this some other time,” she said, trying again.

No one is listening to me, she thought, as the carriage continued down a smaller row, and then stopped. With a smile, Mr. Singletary got himself from the carriage, and held his hand out for her. “Well, since we are here ….” she murmured under her breath.

Andrew took her hand as she opened her umbrella for both of them and started down the row. She paused, frowning. She thought Mama's grave was over by that scraggly tree, but something was different. “I think we are on the wrong row, Andrew,” she said, and started to turn back. “I disremember a regular grave marker in the row.”

He squeezed her hand. “Miss Mitten, do you recall when Mr. Butterworth and I went to Leeds on Christmas Day?”

Despite her own discomfort, she smiled at him. “When Mr. Butterworth required bicarbonate of soda?” And I was kissed so thoroughly by him, she thought. I will never forget it, even though I am certain that I should.

“
And there was a surprise?” he added.

“
I remember,” she said. “You were quite secretive.” She stopped and looked about. “This is the right row, except for that tombstone.” Unwilling to leave the path, she leaned closer, trying to peer through the curtain of rain. “Someone's fortunes must have improved enough to afford a real grave marker. I do not suppose that happens often.”

“
Maybe it is your fortune, Miss Mitten,” Andrew said. He took her hand and tugged her from the path.

She took a step and then stopped again, suddenly unmindful of the rain and the cold and the gray of the institutional buildings that seemed to loom like vultures over the little path in the cemetery. “Mother,” she said simply, and hurried past Andrew to the tombstone.

She knew the marker had not been in place long because there were none of the pits and scourings of time, or the streaks of grime from poorly drawing chimneys. She came closer, heedless now of the soggy earth, to kneel in front of the beautiful stone. “Oh, Andrew,” she said, scarcely breathing as she slowly reached out with her finger and traced her mother's name on the marker.

“
I mentioned it once, and he remembered,” she said, staring at the stone in wonder. “I do not know what to make of such a man, Andrew.”

“
He thought you would like it,” Andrew said. He stood beside her, his hand resting on her shoulder. “I told him to have a rose carved into the stone, like on Mama's grave.” He bent to whisper into her ear. “Mr. Butterworth looked quite serious when I mentioned Mama's grave, but I assured him it did not bother me. I mean, I never knew her.”

“
We know he is a kind man, my dear.” Jane stood up, her eyes still on the delicate tracery, so out of place among the stark crosses with their numbers and nothing more. “Madeleine Mariah Stover Milton, 1768 to 1795,” she whispered. She kissed Andrew. “Such a short life! And was it your idea to have these words carved there, too?”

He looked where she pointed. “ ‘Beloved Mother,' ” he read. “No. Mr. Butterworth insisted upon that.” He looked up at her, his face anxious suddenly. “Will it do, Miss Mitten?”

She nodded, for a moment unable to find words for the mill owner's curious generosity. “How can I ever repay him?” she asked finally.

“
I told him you would say that.”

“
My dear, you have no idea what these cost,” she replied, bending to touch the stone again, running her hand over the curve of it. “Unless I can marry a rich widower—which I don't see happening, do you?—I cannot possibly repay him for this.” Andrew shrugged. “I told him you would object, and he said what he always says, when he can't seem to think of anything else,” he told her. “ ‘Just tell Miss Mitten that I appreciate the care she is taking of you.' And then he looked at me over his spectacles, as though it was all a great joke.”

“
What will we ever do with him, Andrew?” she asked.

“
I don't know that there is anything we
can
do with him, Miss Mitten,” the boy replied.

Of that I am certain, she thought. She smiled at Andrew and felt her own spirits rise, despite the rain, and the place, and her own collection of megrims. “We will send him a letter of thanks, and I shall assure him that I will continue to take good care of you.”

Andrew laughed, and she could not help but join in. She hugged him there in the rain, the umbrella on its side, then slogged back to the carriage, where Joe Singletary waited. They rode on in silence again, but it was a different kind of quiet. She gazed out the window, content with herself and happy to be with Andrew. Mr. Butterworth, I remain so deep in debt to you, she thought without a pang. I would have wished for a different ending to the story of you and me, but I can manage.

While the sight of Stover Hall did not precisely warm her heart as it came into view that late evening, she found herself viewing it with less dread and more hope. And there was Stanton at the door, his smile not a butler's smile, but that of a friend.

“
Miss Milton, welcome home,” he said, helping her from the carriage. “Andrew, supper is waiting for you in the breakfast room.”

She looked at him in surprise. “We are far too late for supper, Stanton. How did you know that we would be arriving today, and at this time?” she inquired, taking his arm to negotiate the steps. “I did not write you.” She sensed his hesitation in the way his arm tensed under her hand, but the steps were icy.

“
Have a care now, Miss Milton,” he cautioned her. “I knew my letter would bring you soon; that is all.” He leaned closer. “I have every assurance that Mr. Lowe has convinced Lady Carruthers to take Cecil back to London. Who knows when the entire ceiling in that room might give way?”

“
Who, indeed?” she asked. “You continue to be England's most valuable butler.”

He held up his hands, as though to acquit himself. “Miss Milton, collapsing ceilings are beyond my purview! Possibly this comes under the realm of divine intervention.”

“
And who would have thought the Almighty to have a sense of humor?” she said with a smile of her own. In perfect charity with the butler, she nodded to him and went into the breakfast room.

Andrew had already excused himself and she was just beginning a bowl of rice pudding when she heard familiar steps in the hall. She winced in spite of her resolve. Steady, Jane, she told herself, taking a deep breath to calm the sudden turmoil in her stomach. Mr. Butterworth claims that she only upsets you because you allow it.

She eyed Lady Carruthers warily when her cousin entered the room, but managed a pleasant-enough smile. At least it must have been pleasant, because Lady Carruthers glared back.

“
How kind of you to honor us with your presence again,” the woman snapped.

“
Why, yes, cousin, Andrew and I did have a nice visit in Rumsey,” Jane said, striving for serenity she did not feel. “We hope your holiday was as pleasant, considering that you were able to devote your entire time to your son. I trust his maintenance was not too onerous for you, and that he is much recovered.” Oh, but I have a malicious streak, Jane decided as she watched Lady Carruthers. What can she say, without appearing to be an unfeeling parent?