Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind (6 page)

That Mr. Butterworth proved to be a tremendous asset to the board only increased Lady Carruthers' determination never to allow him to set one foot over the threshold of Stover. Their equals made up for her stricture, allowing the mill owner entrance into Denby society, or at least enough of it to suit themselves, and flatter the prevailing mood of equality that sometimes surfaced, even so far removed as they were from actual London politics. He came to christenings, kissed babies, donated generously to the parish at Christmas, let fox hunters ride over his extensive acres, and sponsored the annual hunt dinner.

She smiled, thinking of the innumerable times at those dinners and assemblies where Lord Denby would take Mr. Butterworth aside and argue that the lake on Mr. Butterworth's estate had been surveyed improperly and really belonged to Denby. It would do him good to argue with Mr. Butterworth again, she thought.

The lane was not long, and she wished it were longer, as she relished every step of the way to the door. For years she had admired the pleasant overhang of leaf and tree which was far more elegant than Stover Hall's approach, even if much shorter. The leaves were turning color now, and the whole picture lifted her heart. “I could never tire of this,” she said simply, as she walked beside Mr. Butterworth. She could not help noticing that he had shortened his rather daunting stride to match her steps. “Do you know, sir, that Blair used to get so impatient with me when I had to skip to keep up with him?”

“
Silly chuff,” he said, with his usual air of complacency. “Why on earth would a man want to hurry along a woman of good sense? Savor the moment, I say.”

She smiled at him, but he only sighed and tucked her arm deeper within the crook of his own. “Was a time, Miss Milton, that you would have laughed at a statement like that,” he admonished.

“
Nothing seems so funny anymore,” she said finally, as she walked up the steps with him, comfortable in the thought that he would not scold her for melancholy, or command her to buck up and think of others. Thank goodness you saw me from the window, she thought.

And now Jane stood in front of his door, which was opened magically, as she had known somehow it would be, by a butler who must have had hearing acuity exceeding that of gossips or Springer spaniels. “Excellent, excellent, Marsh,” Mr. Butterworth was saying. “We'll be having tea, if you will be so kind.”

She sighed and pulled her cloak tighter around her. “… I had tea at the vicar's, and ….”

“…
and then you have not had tea … he interrupted. “Tea and cakes, Miss Milton, the gooier the better, and you can tell me why you were pacing in front of my property ….”

“…
Oh, I couldn't have been actually
pacing
,” she interrupted, exasperated with herself.

“
You were,” he said firmly, “… talking only to yourself, when surely you must have some inkling that I have always shown myself willing to listen.”

She stood there in the doorway, neither in nor out, struck by the truth of what he had just said. While he took her arm and encouraged her over the threshold, and then lifted her sopping cloak from her shoulders and handed it to the butler, she thought about all the times he had approached her at one village gathering or another. He was always willing to let her chat about Andrew, and never seemed bored by what Lady Carruthers sniffed at as her totally inadequate social sense. And always there were his wonderful brown eyes, and the excitement that seemed to jump from him like little sparks.

I have been missing you, she thought suddenly as she took his proffered arm again and let him lead her toward the sitting room. All the months of Blair's illness, then mourning, came to her now in a rush of feeling that brought unexpected tears to her eyes. She looked away in embarrassment.

“
You may find a dry place in the laundry for Miss Milton's cloak,” he was saying smoothly, as though she had turned away to admire his wallpaper.

“
I'm not staying long,” she told the butler, who only smiled and nodded and bore off her cloak anyway. “Even the butler does not listen to me,” she said as Mr. Butterworth showed her upstairs and into the sitting room that overlooked the front entrance. She went directly to the window, hoping to give herself a moment to regain her composure. It would be dark soon, she thought, but with only a little sadness. Another year has turned. She heard someone open the door. “And when I turn around, I will see the footman bearing irresistibles. Ah, yes. Not a moment too soon.”

With a smile, she allowed Mr. Butterworth to direct her to a chair and preside over the pouring of the tea, as though the house were hers. She knew his sugar requirements from the long practice of watching him at other gatherings, and added three lumps before handing over the cup and saucer. “Lovely china, Mr. Butterworth,” she commented.

He accepted the cup from her. “It is nice, isn't it?” he agreed, then smiled at her. “Those of us who smell of the shop are conspicuous consumers.”

It was their little joke through the years. She sipped her tea, savoring it before she even tasted it, because she knew from the servants that Mr. Butterworth only bought the best. She thought of Andrew, who, when he was five and introduced to Mr. Butterworth for the first time, sniffed the air around the man and announced to his astounded aunt, “He smells just fine. Far better than Lord Marchant.”

“
You're thinking of Andrew,” Mr. Butterworth said, offering her a plateful of pastries which she had no intention of refusing.

“
I am,” she agreed, slipping off her wet shoes, which the footman promptly placed before the fireplace. She looked at her friend, admiring the tapestry of his waistcoat, and for the millionth time the wonderful scent of the lavender-noted cologne he wore. She had never imagined another man could have carried off that fragrance, but it never failed with Mr. Butterworth. She doubted he had ever smelled of the shop. “I suppose I always am thinking of Andrew, am I not, sir? Does this make me boring?”

He smiled and shook his head. “Only think how many times I have been diverted at Denby's social events by your breathless tales of teeth falling out, and limbs abused by tumbles from trees!” He leaned toward her, and she was struck all over again by his grace, despite his size. “If I were to have a wish, Miss Milton, it would be that you thought a little more of yourself, oh, just every now and then.”

“
That has never been a habit of mine,” she reminded him. “You are kind to give me tea, Mr. Butterworth.”

She was sure she would not have said anything more than that, if he had not looked at her in that interested way of his. If there was a kindlier expression on the planet, she did not know of it. His spectacles were slightly askew, as usual, and his eyes behind them invited disclosure. She had seen that expression at any number of gatherings, but there was something about it this time that was taxing her to her heart's limit.

She set down her cup, and thought of all the times she had almost told him everything in her heart. Eat something, Jane, she thought in desperation. It is what you always do at gatherings when you invariably find him at your elbow, and then have to pry yourself away after an hour's conversation, before Lady Carruthers notices, and you know you have a scolding in store.

She reached for a pastry, determined to keep her own counsel, as she always did. Instead, she clasped her hands in her lap and took a deep breath, even as the more reluctant side of her nature tugged at her to stop. She cleared her throat.

“
Mr. Butterworth, why must things be so difficult?” she asked, and then the words seemed to tumble out. “Blair is six months dead and Lord Denby is hovering on the brink of … of … I have no idea what! We're trying to arrange a simple reunion of his brother officers, and Lady Carruthers is making things so hard. She insists that if I am to actually win a point for a change and hold this reunion—which she is opposed to because it sounds like exertion—then I must give up something else, which, in this case, happens to be Andrew.”

She glanced at him, alarmed at her hemorrhage of words, but his expression did not change. “To hold this reunion, apparently I must sacrifice Andrew to the vicar's Latin School, which is inhabited entirely by twerpy little heathens who only want to tease him about his dead mama, even though so many years have passed. Oh! It is all so impossible!”

Her voice rang in the tidy apartment, and she opened her eyes wide in amazement. “Did all of that just come out of my mouth?” she asked.

Mr. Butterworth nodded. “I believe it did.” To her heart's relief, he sheltered her dignity by taking off his spectacles to clean them. He directed all his attention to this homely detail, and even hummed under his breath. “Do you feel better?” he asked after he replaced his spectacles. “If it will help I will challenge Lady Carruthers to a duel and shoot her dead. Ah, I was waiting for that smile.”

He rose to stand by the window, rocking back and forth on his heels. She finished the pastry, wondering how low her credit was now, after such an outburst. Lady Carruthers is right, she thought mournfully; I have no countenance. “I know I have agitated you and I apologize,” she said, her voice quiet. “Thank you for listening, though.”

“
Pretty petty of me,” he murmured. “You and Andrew suffer, and I listen and offer pastry.”

Surprised, Jane looked at him. I should leave, she thought, but joined him at the window. “I didn't mean to give you a fit of the megrims, too,” she said.

“
Just a little one, Miss Milton,” he said after a long moment. “So there is to be a reunion?”

She knew a change of subject when she heard one, and grasped at it with both hands. “Yes! We—Stanton and I—did anyone ever have a better confederate?—are conspiring to draw together next spring Lord Denby's comrades from the American War.”

“
For the purpose of ….” Mr. Butterworth began.

“…
of … of … oh, I suppose we want to blast Lord Denby out of bed, and into taking more of an interest in things again,” she said. “After all, it was in America that he began focusing his thoughts on the conduct of soldiers in wartime occupation that have so signally affected all levels of military life.”

Mr. Butterworth made a noncommittal sound in his throat. “So you feel that something extra is needed to prop up Lord Denby?”

“
It is our hope,” she said simply.

“
But what if he really wishes to die?” he asked her. “A man ought to have some say in the matter, wouldn't you agree?”

Trust a mill owner to find the practical warp in this weaving, she thought. “Sir, he is only sixty!” she protested.

He smiled at her. “Cheer up, Jane Milton!” he said. “I think it is a wonderful idea, and I await the day … no, the very moment … when Lord Denby will throw back his covers, storm over to whatever social gathering where I am to be found, and assure me that a proper survey of my estate would return my lake to Stover Hall, once and for all!”

“
It
has
been a while since he has bothered you about that, hasn't it?” she said. “It used to be his chiefest amusement.” She shook her head. “You see how low we have fallen.”

Mr. Butterworth was silent for another long minute, and then he clapped his hands together. “A reunion it should be then, Miss Milton. If he is in a sufficiently weakened state, he will be indifferent if you bring over the invitations so I can help write them, too.” He touched her shoulder. “If you will not allow me to shoot Lady Carruthers, and the vicar, too, as well as all those pesky Latin scholars, we can at least gorge on pastry and umbrage!”

“
And plot revolutions of our own. Done, sir,” she replied, holding out her hand to him. He surprised her by kissing her fingers.

She had no time to be embarrassed, because then Marsh was there with her cloak, quite dry and even warm. She allowed the butler to swirl it around her shoulders, and then permitted Mr. Butterworth to escort her to the entrance. “I will be over soon then, once we have composed an invitation. At least one of the letters, maybe more, must go all the way to Canada, so we cannot waste a moment,” she said.

“
You know I would happily call for my carriage,” he told her as they stood at the open door. “It hardly seems sporting to rescue you on the road in front of my house and then send you out again.”

“
Of course you can, sir. It is only misting now, and I do not require an escort. She pointed to his feet. “I would not have you utterly destroying last year's Christmas present.”

He laughed in that hearty way of his that seemed to fill the room. “I forgot all about these!” He leaned closer, his finger to his lips. “Do not tell Lady Carruthers. She will have another charge about mill owners to lay at my door.”

“
That you are eccentric?” she teased, as the rain spotted his spectacles.

“
That will be the kindest thing she says.” He squinted into the rain, which was spotting his glasses. “Do tell Andrew that I will be happy to help him with his Latin, should he need some brushing up. Good night, Miss Milton, and thank you.”

She tugged her cloak tighter. “For what, sir? For letting me speak my mind?”

“
That is it, my dear Miss Milton. Someday—if you are really good—I will tell you what is on mine.”