Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind (17 page)

Oh, he expects a quizzing answer, she thought, as she pressed her finger to the side of her nose to stop the tears. Something light and frivolous that I have always been incapable of, and drat him for not knowing me better, even after all these years. Please God, let me say something unexceptionable.

“
I would miss you,” she said simply. “There would go my only friend.”

The room was still silent. Carefully Jane returned the embroidery to the basket, too irritated with herself to look anyone in the eye. That was the wrong thing, Jane, you goose, she scolded herself. Do better!

“
Oh, I am silly,” she said. “I blame your brother-in-law entirely. He has been advising me to speak my mind lately.” She attempted what she hoped was an elaborate sigh, the kind that Lucy was so expert in delivering. She must have been successful, because Amanda laughed. “I suppose he will force me to cultivate new friends, if he moves, and so I shall. Do excuse me, please.”

S
he spent a perfectly miserable night, the dream returning in full force to wake her in tears. She stared at her hands, holding them up to the moonlight that streamed in the window. After the first moment of terror, she knew she would find nothing on them, and this night was no different. She wiped them on the sheet anyway.

The only relief she felt was in knowing that no one in the Newton household could have heard her cry out. Amanda had apologized for the pretty room, tucked as it was next to Mr. Butterworth's office. “Mama wanted me to tell you that we do not consign all our guests to outer darkness, but she thought it might be a good, quiet place!” Amanda had told her, when the footman set down her traveling case. “Uncle Scipio says his office is the only place where Lucy cannot find him.”

And so it was quiet, except that she could have sworn she heard someone in the office anyway. As she wearily wished the night away, she thought she heard various creaks and scratches. I am certain Mr. Butterworth has far better things to do at three in the morning than pore over blueprints, she told herself.

And then she was thinking about the mill owner, and wondering if this was what love felt like. Oh, I hope not, she decided at last. I am miserable.

No, it is not precisely misery, she told herself, after a moment's consideration. She gave up on sleep and seated herself on the chair in front of the cold hearth, doubling her legs under her and reaching for a blanket at the bed's foot. It is as though I am on edge for no reason. That is it. My senses all feel as though they are humming. She rested her head against the back of the chair. Mr. Butterworth has never given any indication that I am more than a friend. True, he kissed me, but he was teasing. Wasn't he?

There was one thing to do, and she did it, thinking through all the reasons that she could not be in love with Mr. Scipio Africanus Butterworth. First, there is that stupid name, she told herself, then smiled, despite her misery. But it suits him somehow, in the same way that those outrageous waistcoats do, the ones that scream out that he is not, and never will be, gentry.

Lady Carruthers is right; he does smell of the shop, she thought. What he is, and always will be, is a mill owner, a man of wealth and property with his eye on the ledger. If by some wild leap he actually married you, Jane, he would always be bringing home blueprints, or spending too long at the factory to work on the machinery, for all you know. There would never be the worry of another woman, because that is not in him. He is a man of business.

She paused, and waited for this thought to disgust her, but to her further irritation, it did not. “Trust you, Jane, to look over his shoulder at the blueprints and offer your opinions!” she accused herself.

Well, then, if his mill owner status does not repel you as it should, she told herself, begin with the essential difficulty: He is too old for you. She sighed and wrapped the blanket tighter about her shoulders, listening for the mice next door. Except that he is enthusiastic, and he has not put on too many pounds to render him fit only for an invalid's chair at Bath.

The thought of Mr. Butterworth, busy as he was, even approaching Bath to drink the water made her laugh. She covered her mouth with her hand when the mice became silent. Oh, I hope they do not come in here now to forage, she thought, pulling her feet in closer to her body. No, we cannot argue that his years have rendered Mr. Butterworth fit for the boneyard, she conceded.

The thought made her smile. Good, Jane; you are moving in the right direction now, she congratulated herself. Toss this into the pot until your cup runneth over: he is already talking about buying another mill, and moving back here to oversee them more closely, and you announced to him in a burst of inanity that you were looking for a husband who would devote much attention to you. He would never have the time.

It was easy to think, but even as the notion passed through her brain, she knew in her heart that he would always find the time for her, if he loved her. Jane, this is an organized man, used to juggling numerous enterprises, she reminded herself. He would make every moment count with you. Face it, Jane; you cannot think of a single reason why Mr. Butterworth is not the best idea you ever had.

This is not working, she thought, as she threw off the blanket that was suddenly stifling her. She went to the window and dragged open the draperies, letting the colder air wrap around her neck and shoulders like fingers on her windpipe. She closed her eyes in utter despair and forced her mind into calmness.

Maybe it was the cold air that did it, or the deliberate wrench of her thoughts. As she stood at the window, her irritation with herself turned to sorrow. You have no objections to marriage to Mr. Butterworth, but oh, my dear, he has far too many against you to ever consider a proposal.

It was a splash of icy water on her mind, one that made her shiver and get back into bed. He knows better than anyone
your
status, never mind his own. He knows that you are an old maid every other man has overlooked, you are too thin because you forget to eat, and you are cowed by your relatives to such an extent that he must brace you by telling you to speak your mind. You have no clever repartee. Beyond a little native cheery temperament that not even Lady Carruthers could harrow out of you, you have nothing to recommend you except a capacity for hard work on behalf of others. Servants are paid for that.

Her thoughts were so harsh that she blinked in surprise, then sank lower in the bed, until she had enveloped herself into a tight ball. She cried then, sobs that she muffled as best she could, and which finally sent her to sleep. When she woke, she was herself again.

Over breakfast, Mr. Butterworth proposed a visit to the mill, which Andrew seconded almost before the suggestion was entirely out of his mouth. “It is crass commerce, Andrew,” he warned. “The sort of thing your relatives—Miss Mitten included—should steer you far away from.”

“
Of course I want to see it,” Andrew insisted. He looked at Jacob, as though seeking encouragement. “Jacob tells me there is machinery, and lots of it. I
have
to see that!”

Mr. Butterworth laughed with such heartiness that Jane felt an absurd urge to join in. “Andrew, you are a child after my own heart!” he declared finally. “Noisy machinery, eh? And you
must
see it?”

“
I, too,” Jane spoke up. She dabbed the porridge from Lucy's face and lifted her from her chair. “That is, if you can wait for a little while until Amanda and I discuss household management belowstairs, now that your sister has agreed to rest in bed.”

Mr. Butterworth wiped his eyes and beamed at Amanda. “My dear niece, did you ever think your Uncle Scipio was so clever? A useful house guest has to be the eighth wonder of the world.” He touched Andrew's arm when the boy passed his chair. “You, my young friend, will do as your … Jacob says and find some cotton wadding for your ears. It is all noise and movement in my factory.” He nodded to Jane. “As for you, Miss Mitten, manage away! I will visit with Emma and assure her that we are in excellent hands.”

Oh, my hands
are
excellent, Jane thought; I contemplate them half the night. “Very well, sir,” she said, getting up from the table. “Come, my dear, and let us discuss menus.”

Mr. Butterworth surprised her by rising, too, then putting his hand firmly on her shoulder until she had no choice but to sit again. “Go ahead, Amanda,” he instructed, “and take Lucy with you. Miss Mitten sometimes forgets to eat, although I cannot imagine such a thing.”

Embarrassed, she looked at her plate to see it still full of bacon, eggs, and toast. “Now, how did that get there?” she murmured as she picked up her fork. Mr. Butterworth sat beside her this time, and she felt a sudden flash of anger. “I know how busy you are, Mr. Butterworth. I
will
eat,” she informed him.

“
And I
will
watch,” he replied, obviously unruffled by her clipped words.

He is only being kind, she thought, as she ate and he finished perusing the morning newspaper, with the occasional glance in her direction. She put down her fork finally and he folded the paper. “A little more, Jane?” he coaxed.

“
Very well, sir! If you will finish the bacon, I will finish the eggs.”

“
And the toast?”

She tried not to frown, but could not help herself. “You are a trial, Mr. B,” she told him finally, when he continued to regard her.

“ ‘
Mr. B,' ” was his only comment. “I like that.”

She sighed and bit into the toast, then smiled at his own over-dramatic sigh. “Miss Mitten, it is only toast. Not a penance!” She knew she should have been uncomfortable when he moved closer and draped his arm across the back of her chair, but she reminded herself that he was filching bacon from her plate. And it should have surprised her when he finally put his arm around her shoulders and gave her arm a squeeze.

“
Did you have a bad night, Jane?” he asked quietly.

She didn't mean to shiver at his words, and she hoped he did not notice. “I … a strange bed is always difficult the first night,” she said, wondering why she was whispering and then wondering why she allowed him to rest his cheek against hers and keep it there.

“
Maybe we should talk, my dear,” he said finally, when she made no comment, nor any movement away from him.

I hope Mr. Butterworth's cologne is found in heaven, she thought, forgetful of the rest of her toast. I could breathe it forever. “I will remind you that I
have
been speaking my mind, sir,” she told him.

“
Not enough, Jane, not enough,” he said, his voice low, as he rose from the table. “Ah, Lucy! Did you think I was planning to keep her all to myself this entire day? Miss Mitten, to the kitchen, please. It is where we Butterworths send all our house guests!”

Don't think about him, she told herself as she sat belowstairs with Amanda, the cook, and the butler, discussing the week's menus. He is solicitous of everyone's welfare; you know that from your years of acquaintance. If I am the perfect poor relation, then he is the perfect host. Still, I wonder if he would understand, she thought, as the cook explained to Amanda the merits of lady fingers and bonbons in the same course, preceded by a sultana roll with claret sauce.

“
What do you think, Miss Milton?” Amanda asked.

“
I promised I would never tell,” she said, then put her hand to her mouth.

Amanda laughed. “You are such a tease, especially when I crave your advice!”

“
I think it is an excellent combination, my dear,” she replied automatically. She thought a moment, and wished she had been paying attention. “Heavens, but isn't that rather a heavy-duty course for family dinner?”

“
Miss Milton, we are planning the Board of Directors banquet for this Friday night!” she exclaimed. “Don't you remember? Mama wanted to call it off, but Uncle Scipio says you are a prime organizer. Say it is all right, Miss Milton, or I will worry in earnest.”

Mind yourself, Jane, she ordered herself. Kingdoms have probably fallen through half this much inattention. “My dear, fifteen is not a year too young to give a dinner for a Board of Directors,” she said firmly. “I will be there to help you every moment of the way.”

“
Miss Mitten, my uncle is right,” Amanda said, her glance so warm that Jane could almost feel it. “He has told us in so many letters that you are a treasure.” She looked at the cook. “That will be our menu.”

I am no treasure, Jane thought. I am a keeper of secrets and I am weary with it. She rose from the table. “I believe your uncle is waiting for us upstairs. Mrs. Hinchcliff, you are a wonderful cook, and we repose all our confidence in you.”

“
My uncle does that, too, Miss Mitten,” Amanda confided after they left the kitchen. She giggled. “He calls compliments the ‘First Rule of Management'! Mama laughs at him, but we always have the best service.”

“
He is completely right,” Jane agreed. “Amanda, that is a lovely ribbon in your hair!”

“
And you have such beautiful eyes, Miss Mitten!” Amanda teased in turn.

They were still laughing when they reached the foyer. Andrew and Jacob fidgeted in the entrance, but Mr. Butterworth had assumed his lately typical pose of staring out the window with his hands behind his back. He must have heard them because he turned around with a smile of his own. “General merriment belowstairs, eh?” he asked. “If I were a cynic, I could not live in this disjointed house!”