Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind Page 6

  “Have you ever been in a workhouse, Mr. Butterworth?” she asked suddenly.

  “No,” he said, and he looked at her in that kindly way that had sparked her earlier truth telling. “I cannot imagine that it was a place for children. Were you separated from your mother?”

  She nodded, and found herself hardly able to speak of it, even after so long. “I suppose that is one reason I have coddled Andrew all these years,” she said finally. “Every child needs a mother. I saw her once a week.” She paused a moment, then spoke when he looked at her. “She died there when she was 27. Her grave is number 248.”

  “I do not understand,” he said.

  “No one gets an actual headstone, Mr. Butterworth,” she explained, pleased with her control. “That would be an expense.”

  Mr. Butterworth nodded, in a way that she found most sympathetic, and yet without embarrassing her, then turned his attention to the window, where he had taken himself. “But why the scullery, Miss Milton?” he asked.

  I shall pick my way delicately here, she thought, and I have no actual proof that Lady Carruthers meant harm. “Lord Denby was away with his regiment in Canada when he heard the news of my mother’s death. He has always taken seriously his duties as head of the family.” Jane sighed, joining him at the window. “I do not believe his sister precisely understood his orders about retrieving me from the workhouse, and so I went to the scullery.”

  She allowed herself a glance at his face, and was surprised to see such an expression of dismay. “Mr. Butterworth, it was not onerous, not after a workhouse!” Jane you silly, she scolded herself, that bit of artless conversation did nothing to brighten Mr. Butterworth’s day. “This will amuse you, sir,” she added. “That first night when I scraped the pots, I saved the burned-on bits to eat later.” She stopped as his expression of dismay deepened. “I … I only meant it to amuse you, sir,” she concluded.

  She stared out the window, too, remembering how Stanton, the footman then, had pitched into the other maids when they found her little stash of leavings and teased her. I have never thanked him for that, she thought. He would only be embarrassed if I reminded him now.

  “Damn,” Mr. Butterworth said.

  She had never heard him swear. Startled, she looked where he pointed. Andrew came up the lane from the high road, head down, eyes on the gravel bits that he kicked along in front of him. “I don’t think he had a good day,” she said softly. “Oh, Mr. Butterworth!”

  He said nothing, but put his hand on her shoulder and kept it there as they stood in the late-afternoon shadow at the window and watched. I wonder what taunts he has endured today, she thought, inclining her head toward Mr. Butterworth’s hand until she remembered. I think I know how cruel children can be.

  She knew that Andrew must not see her own distress, and steeled herself to greet him cheerfully. “I will not be a ninny about this,” she murmured.

  Mr. Butterworth tightened his grip on her shoulder. “Good show, miss—have I heard him call you Miss Mitten?”

  She nodded. “You have,” she replied, her voice soft. She looked out the window again. “Oh, Mr. Butterworth, I think I am going to cry!”

  “Mustn’t do that, Miss Mitten,” Mr. Butterworth said. She didn’t look at him, because to her ears, his voice didn’t sound all that calm either. He removed his hand from her shoulder, his hesitation almost palpable to her. “What … what would Lord Denby do if you refused to return Andrew to Latin School?”

  She stared at him, her tears forgotten. “I dare not disobey!” she declared. She heard the front door open, and then close quietly. “Lord Denby would … would ….”

  “Would what, Miss Mitten?” the mill owner asked as he crossed to the sitting room door. “With your skills, you could easily find other employment, should he ask you to leave.” He looked at her, his hand on the knob. “Someplace where you needn’t keep wearing black, and where there isn’t still a black wreath on the door, six months after the fact.”

  She could think of nothing to say, and still he regarded her. “Or perhaps you prefer this, Miss Milton.”

  “Actually, I have never thought of it that way,” she said, when he appeared to expect some conversation from her, even as his hand rested on the knob and she could hear Andrew’s footsteps on the parquet. “I could never leave Andrew!” she burst out, then put her hand to her mouth.

  If the mill owner was surprised at her outburst, he didn’t show it. “Take him with you,” was his mild comment as he opened the door. “Andrew, come in! From the looks of things, your day has been a grind. Oh, laddie, no tears now!”

  After a silent dinner that evening with no company but Andrew, who wouldn’t even look up from his plate, Jane continued to sit at the dining table. She knew Andrew was watching her, but to her further dismay, he did not fidget. He sat as quietly as she, resignation announcing itself in every line of his body.

  “What happened, my dear?” she asked finally. She was not sure that he would answer. After his tears in Mr. Butterworth’s sitting room, they had walked home in silence. “I want to know,” she said, and folded her hands in front of her on the table. “In fact, I insist upon it.”

  He looked at her, and she could tell she had surprised him by the unexpected iron in her voice. “I didn’t do too badly, Miss Mitten,” he said, his voice so low that she had to lean forward to hear him across the table. “I think I could almost like Latin.”

  “Mr. Butterworth does,” she said, striving for calmness in her voice. “He claims to still have his Latin texts and glosses from his grammar school days.”

  Andrew got up from his chair and came to sit beside her. Wordlessly, she put out both her hands to him and he grasped them. “Miss Mitten, I was afraid at first, but nothing happened.” He shuddered, and tightened his grip on her hands. “Really, I did, and then when I went to the door to leave, Lord Kettering’s son—the one with spots and bad teeth—told me to look both ways when I crossed the street so I wouldn’t get squashed flat like my mother.”

  He started to cry and Jane pulled him onto her lap, holding him close to her. “Everyone laughed,” he said when he could speak again.

  “The vicar did nothing?”

  Andrew shook his head. “He even smiled before he turned his head away and pretended it didn’t happen.” He sighed and leaned against her. “Miss Mitten, do you ever hear people laugh, long after they have stopped laughing?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said, remembering all over again the event in the scullery she had described only that afternoon to Mr. Butterworth: the maids’ laughter as they uncovered her pitiful handkerchief of scraps. She thought of the butler as well, and kissed the top of Andrew’s head. “But I had a champion, my dear, and he made them stop.”

  “I wish I had a champion, Miss Mitten.”

  My dear, you do, she thought, although I have been too timid by half. She kissed Andrew again and then pulled him gently away from her so she could see into his eyes. “Andrew, you are not returning to the vicar’s Latin School,” she said. “I will arrange something else. Wash your face now and get into your nightshirt, and I will come up and read to you.”

  She could almost feel the weight lift from him and sink onto her own shoulders. “I will blame you entirely, Mr. Butterworth,” she murmured out loud as Andrew left the room. “And if I lose whatever standing I have in this house, you will have to find me a situation elsewhere.”

  She sat another quarter hour in the dining room, watching the hands of the clock and wondering why she had promised any such thing to Andrew. She rose finally, and then sat back down again because her ankles seemed weak. “It is merely your spine, Jane Milton,” she told herself. “Push off now.” She walked slowly upstairs to Lord Denby’s room.

  Stanton answered her knock. “Is something wrong, Miss Mitten?” he asked, and she knew that even the slow walk from the dining table to Lord Denby’s chambers had not erased the unease on her face.

  “No, Stanton, nothing is wrong,” she replie
d. “Well, there is a small matter, but it is something I have determined to ask … no, to tell … Lord Denby, and it will only take a moment. Is he still awake?”

  The butler nodded. “He was looking at the book again.” He shook his head. “Do you know, he reads that first essay over and over. You know, the silly story about Lieutenant Jeremy Dill and the amorous landlady. I wonder why?”

  “I cannot imagine, Stanton, particularly since his own life is so spotless of moral wrong,” she replied. “Except ….” She could not finish, wondering what to make of a man who believed rumors about his own grandson.

  She took her accustomed place beside Lord Denby’s bed, grateful again that his sister had gone to London. If only she will stay away until Christmas, Jane thought, as she watched Lord Denby, who lay before her with his eyes closed. She could not help but think of Blair, and the days and nights she had sat at his bedside. I do not care for deathbed watches, she decided.

  “Lord Denby?” she began. “I have something particular to say to you.”

  She did not know if he slept, so she kept her voice low. He opened his eyes immediately.

  “You don’t have to shout, Jane,” he said.

  “I’m not shouting, my lord,” she replied, almost more amused than afraid. “I am merely speaking firmly.”

  “Well, you don’t do that very often,” he retorted.

  She took a deep breath. “Lord Denby, I have decided that Andrew is not returning to the vicar’s Latin School. The other boys were rude to him about his mother, and I do not care if you think I am coddling him, but he will not be sent back for more abuse, not from little twerps who only repeat the gossip their parents inflict upon them.” She would have said more, except that she was out of breath. She sat back, amazed at herself and afraid to look at Lord Denby.

  When a minute passed and he said nothing, she looked at him and braced herself. To her further amazement, his eyes were closed and there was even a peaceful expression on his face. Dear God, I have killed him, she thought in horror as she reached for his wrist to take his pulse.

  To her relief, it beat quite steadily. She cleared her throat. “I thought you might have some commentary on the matter, Lord Denby,” she said at last, when he seemed disinclined to contribute anything.

  He opened his eyes again. “I don’t know why you should expect such a thing, Jane, since you appear to have reached a decision and have only come to inform me of it.”

  She glanced at Stanton, who appeared as surprised as she was. “You’re not going to insist that I send Andrew back?” she asked, when she could not contain herself.

  Lord Denby shrugged. “You would probably only remove Andrew again, and then march in here with another ultimatum. Do as you wish, Jane, but I do expect Andrew to be ready for Harrow in a year or two.”

  Don’t stop now, Jane, she thought. “I do not think it will be Harrow, my lord,” she said. “Lord Kettering’s horrid sons are going there soon enough. Imagine the tales that would precede Andrew’s entrance! We will think of something else, my lord.”

  “You will,” he said in that tone of voice she recalled from better times, then closed his eyes again with a finality that she could not ignore, not even in her present state of command.

  I suppose I will, she thought, as she smiled at Stanton’s wide-open eyes and let herself quietly from the room. And now I must write a letter to Mr. Butterworth, telling him that I have taken his advice and done something different, and as a consequence, he should drag down his Latin glosses from the attic. “After all, Mr. Butterworth,” she said as she pulled her chair up to her writing desk and straightened the sheet of paper in front of her, “you have far too much leisure for a man your age.”

  Because it was only nine o’clock, she summoned the footman and directed him to take the letter next door. “You needn’t wait for a reply,” she told him, smiling to herself.

  All this decision in one day has quite worn me out she thought later, after listening to Andrew read, and then hearing his prayers, which included Mr. Butterworth this night.

  “I don’t have to go back?” he asked her, anxious, as she closed the draperies.

  “No. We will continue at Sunday services, of course, but you needn’t have another thing to do with the vicar,” she said. She paused at his bedside. “I do want you to keep it firmly in your mind that what happened to your mother was a terrible accident, and nothing more. If you are teased, you will have to learn to bear it.”

  She kissed him good night and went to her room. There now, Mr. Butterworth, she thought, I have done some different things today. I do not know how pleased you will be that I have all but ordered you into being Andrew’s Latin teacher. See what happens when I speak my mind?

  Chapter Five

  If she had ever had any doubts, as she stood at Mr. Butterworth’s front door with Andrew the next morning, Jane knew that Lady Carruthers was entirely wrong about the mill owner. Sir, you are a wonderful gentleman, she thought as she looked at the white square of paper tacked to the door.

  “It is in Latin, Miss Mitten,” Andrew said. He looked at her with some uncertainty. “Do you think he means for me to translate it?”

  “I am certain that is what he means, my dear,” she replied. “Find your gloss.”

  She sat on the front step as Andrew thumbed through the book. She lifted her face to the wind that blew down off the Pennines behind them, scattering leaves along the immaculate lane. She thought of the invitations meant for Canada and the United States, sent on their way that morning with a frank from Lord Denby. She would compose the others during the remainder of the week; they had not so far to travel.

  Already she was pleased with herself over the invitations. When she went to see Lord Denby that morning, he was propped up in bed and reading the newspaper, something she had not seen him do in several months. She hoped he would ask her what arrangements she had made for Andrew, but he did not. His curiosity was directed toward her correspondence, and she told him of the letters going to his former companions now in North America.

  “Bingham, too?” he had murmured when she told him. “I doubt he will come.”

  He made no more comment, until she was ready to leave the room. “You’re returning to Butterworth’s today? And with Andrew?”

  There, sir, you are interested, she thought with a feeling close to triumph. “Yes, I am. He offered to teach Andrew Latin, and I know what an economy that is. Perhaps even Lady Carruthers will not object when she returns.”

  “Of course my sister will,” he had replied, and rattled the paper for emphasis. “If we choose to tell her.”

  Andrew chuckled, and she glanced at him over her shoulder. He gestured at the gloss, then tucked it under his arm with his other books. “Miss Mitten, it says we are to come right inside without waiting. “ ‘Sine esperando,’ or something like.”

  When they came inside, Mr. Butterworth’s butler bowed and handed Andrew a card on a silver salver. Mystified, he picked it up and then grinned. “Better hand me the gloss again, Miss Mitten,” he said as he opened the note. He was so intent on translating this next passage that he hardly noticed when she peeled his overcoat off him and handed it to Marsh with a smile. The butler unbent enough to remark, “I am not sure, Miss Milton, who is enjoying this more, Andrew or Mr. Butterworth.”

  Or me, she thought, as Andrew exclaimed in triumph and hurried to the library. She followed. Mr. Butterworth sat at the desk with a Latin book open in front of him. By the time she arrived, Andrew was already seated down in the chair opposite. The mill owner nodded to her and directed his pupil to open the book in front of him.

  “Miss Milton, we will dismiss you to the sitting room, where you can continue those invitations.” He smiled at Andrew. “Lord Canfield here and I have a rendezvous with Julius Caesar in Gaul. Do excuse us.”

  With a smile, she let herself out of the library and was soon seated in front of a pleasant fire, where the invitations awaited. She was deep into them an hour l
ater when Mr. Butterworth joined her.

  “I am nearly half done,” she announced, putting down the pen to flex her fingers. “Sir, I suspect you went to some trouble to find a dip pen. I hear they are all the rage in London.”

  Mr. Butterworth looked over her shoulder. “Writes well, doesn’t it? What a modern idea, and how smart I am. I shall order a dozen more for my mill offices.” He bowed. “Madam, I am a selfish beast. Feathers make me sneeze, and I am lazy enough to put you to work, testing the newfangled invention for me.”

  Jane touched his arm. “You are nothing but kindness, Mr. Butterworth.” She hesitated, then looked in his eyes. “I do not know how Andrew and I can intrude upon you like this for his education. I will simply have to think of something else.”

  He sat down in the chair that was pulled up beside the desk. “You will do nothing of the kind, Miss Milton. Actually, you have solved a dilemma of my own.”

  “That cannot possibly be the case, sir,” she protested. “We are nothing but a burden! I plop my troubles in a messy little pile at your feet, and you ply me with lemon curd pastries and tempt me with modern pens.”

  The mill owner smiled at her, and she wondered how Lady Carruthers could ever think him common. He did look especially fine in that plain dark suit. She wasn’t so sure about the waistcoat, but decided that bright green paisley may have been the exact touch. She took a deep breath; she could never fault his cologne.

  “My dear Miss Milton, I could not be more serious about this. I have recently purchased another mill and ….”

  “Mr. Butterworth, we are twice the burden then!” she exclaimed in dismay, her well-being gone as quickly as it had come.

  He laughed and took hold of her hand, giving it a slight tug before releasing it. “Miss Milton, the only thing that keeps you from being by far the prettiest woman in this district is your disturbing tendency to frown!”

  And my almost thirty years, she thought, pleased in spite of herself, and hoping that she was not so simple as to blush at compliments from a man almost fifteen years her senior. “Try as I might sir, I cannot think how the addition of another mill, plus a schoolboy needing the remedy of Latin can possibly lighten your work,” she said. “Perhaps I lack sufficient imagination.”