Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind (21 page)

She would. She stood still while Mr. Butterworth held it up to her. “I don't know that I possess enough”—she hunted for a word that would not turn her face even more red than it felt already—“enough amplitude to do it justice, sir.”

“
You do, Miss Milton, you do,” he assured her, then winced when she looked at him. “If looks could slaughter ….”

“
You know, you are difficult to argue with,” she said, moving away from him.

“
Yes, I am,” he agreed, all complacence. “Em, can we borrow that cobwebby looking shawl with the silver threads? It won't keep you warm, but in the ten years since we first met, I have never known you to be ill. Here it is, my dear.”

With a wink and a bow, he left her, with the promise to return before the afternoon was too far advanced, and to keep Andrew out of the machine oil at the factory. Shaking her head, Jane came out of the dressing room with the dress over her arm. “Do you know, Emma, I thought I knew your brother,” she said. “Outside of a certain fondness for waistcoats that make me blink, I thought he was a normal fellow.”

“
No, he is not,” Emma replied.

“
Perhaps it's just as well that he never married,” Jane mused. “He would come home with oil on his clothes, and ink stains up to his elbows from improving upon blueprints. That is,
when
he remembered to come home! Oh, Emma, I am depending upon him to be here this evening.”

“
He will be here,” Emma assured her.

Between calming Amanda's fears and setting her to work supervising the laying of the table in the dining room, Jane hemmed the dress and watched the clock. Two o'clock came and went, and she found herself pacing in front of the window. It was nearly three when the carriage returned from Huddersfield. Well, that is a relief, she thought, hurrying down the stairs. The butler was busy with the silverware so she opened the door and gasped at what stood before her. Words failed her. I do not know that there is enough soap and water in Yorkshire to make a dent, she thought.

“
Any chimneys need cleaning?” Mr. Butterworth asked, and the boys giggled. “Pots to mend? Barns to muck out?”

“
Don't try me, Mr. Butterworth,” she told him, wondering for a moment which of the boys was Andrew. Douse them in grease and I defy any mother to know, she thought. And what identical smiles! Even yours, Mr. Butterworth. How good that I am a patient woman.

They looked so pleased with themselves that she could only sigh. “I trust you got all the parts reassembled and there is nothing left over,” she said.

Andrew nodded, his eyes bright in his oil-streaked face. “Mr. Butterworth added another cog and more belting and he says that it will spin even faster.”

The mill owner shrugged. “What can I do, Miss Mitten? Nieces are a notorious expense, and I must assist Richard in keeping Olivia in dolls and sweets. Go on, boys, and I'll catch up.” He watched them dart past her into the house. ‘That is, I will follow them if you let me inside, Miss Milton,” he teased.

“
I should not,” she told him as she still barred the door. “Emma said you would be clean and ready to greet the guests.”

“
Then she is doomed to disappointment,” he said, with no evidence of remorse. “Come here, my dear, and let me introduce some of our guests right now.”

Not until he mentioned guests did she notice that another carriage had pulled up behind the Newton vehicle. “Please tell me that you met them on the road,” she began.

“
Oh, no! We've been enjoying a remarkable afternoon at the woolen mill,” he said. “I would take your arm, but I do not think it is a good idea. Miss Milton, may I present Robert Owen and Jeremy Bentham? Gentlemen, this is Miss Milton, that excellent teacher I was telling you about.”

I have heard of these men, she thought. Oh, don't stare, Jane. And close your mouth. Her mind in a muddle, she watched as the two men descended from their carriage. “Mr. Robert Owen?” she repeated, even as she mentally kicked herself for sounding like an Almack's miss with more hair than wit.

“
It seems that you have heard of me,” he said, and she promptly decided that she loved the Welsh lilt to his speech.

“
I have, sir!” she exclaimed. “Every time my kinsman Lord Denby reads of you in the newspaper, he gives it a good rattle and calls you a damned scoundrel.” Oh, my Lord, what did I just say? she asked herself, putting her hand to her mouth. “I mean ….”

To her incredible relief, the factory owner threw back his head and laughed. “No, Miss Milton, do not improve upon the text!” he exclaimed when he could talk. “It's a high compliment, wouldn't you agree, Jeremy?” And over his shoulder to Mr. Butterworth, “You were right; she
is
an original, Scipio.”

All right, Jane, she told herself as she held out her hand to him, the least you say, the better. Oh, dear, I have offended him, she thought, when he did not extend his hand.

“
Miss Milton, better that you should shake Jeremy Bentham's hand twice instead of mine once,” he was saying, when she gathered up her heart enough to listen. “I'm guilty of playing with the machinery, too.”

She shook Jeremy Bentham's hand and glared at Mr. Butterworth. “You were on your best behavior, sir, and now you have led a member of the Board of Directors astray,” she scolded.

“
No, my dear, he is blameless,” Mr. Bentham said. “Rob and I arrived at the factory first, and there was all this lovely machinery broken down and ready to reassemble. He could not restrain himself, and I am too old to either restrain or argue with a Welshman.”

He was still holding her hand when it dawned on Jane who he was. “Jeremy Bentham!” she exclaimed. “Oh, my!”

“
Guilty as charged, Miss Milton,” he declared in turn, and released her hand. “What? You are amazed that an antiquarian such as I is still able to function under his own sail?”

“
I do not know
what
I am, sir, except amazed at the company I am keeping,” she said frankly.

He twinkled his eyes at her, looking far younger than his obvious years. “The Damned Scoundrel and the Anti-Christ, too, eh?”

When in Rome, she thought, and plunged ahead. “I must tell you, sir, that Lord Denby gets
really
out of trim when he reads that your utopian factories actually make money.”

“
Un-English, ain't it, ma'am?” Robert Owen said. He nodded to her and bowed to Mr. Butterworth. “We will return for dinner with most of the grease removed, my dear. Scipio, I advise you to put
her
on the board! Plain speaking is refreshing in a female. Good day, Miss Milton.”

“
Plain speaking will be my ruin, Mr. B,” she said as she watched the carriage continue back down the lane.

“
No, Miss Mitten, it will not.” He came close to her and draped his arm over her shoulder in a manner so brotherlike that she thought of Blair with a pang. “I had no idea that Mr. Bentham was coming, but Robert apparently thought he might be interested to see what we are doing here in Huddersfield. Do you know that I keep a copy of his book
A Fragment on Government
on my bedside table?”

“
To impress the upstairs maid?” she teased, and laughed when he gave her neck a tweak. “And look, sir! You have smeared grease on me!”

He released his hold on her. “It's what you deserve, Miss Mitten. Now the servants will talk about you!” He clapped his hands then. “Well, hurry along now, my dear, and don't make me dawdle. You are keeping me from my tin tub, or at least a wire brush.”

Grease was harder to remove than Jane thought, and her neck was rosy before Emma pronounced her fit for society and turned her over to her own dresser. “Upshaw, under no circumstances is Miss Milton to wear a lace cap tonight,” she said, as she covered herself discreetly and burped Olivia.

“
Emma! I am nearly thirty,” Jane protested.

“
You are still unmarried and your hair is beautiful,” Emma replied serenely. “Well done, Olivia! You sound like your Uncle Scipio after a large meal.” She held her daughter away from her and looked into her eyes. “Olivia, at least I can depend upon you not to unbutton your top breeches button like your dear papa. No cap, Jane, or … or I will give sour milk!”

“
Tyrant!” Jane declared as she blew a kiss to Emma and left the room.

An hour later, Jane could only smile at her reflection and then remember Mr. Butterworth's secret weapon. “Lucy would say I am finished out, and I have you to thank, Upshaw,” she said to the dresser.

The dresser stepped back for another look, and then rearranged a tendril by her ear that needed no improvement. “I think you should burn all your caps,” the woman said. “Surely they weren't your idea, Miss Milton.”

No, they were Lady Carruthers' idea, Jane thought, as the dresser left the room. She rested her hands in her lap and frowned at her reflection. I have been listening to her for years, and I wonder why? When Andrew goes away to school next year, there is no reason why I could not find a teaching position somewhere else. True, I will miss Lord Denby, but he is determined to die, and I am weary of death.

“
Jane?”

She focused into the mirror and saw Mr. Butterworth standing in the doorway, dressed for dinner and looking far more elegant than she remembered from other functions at Denby. “Is that a new rig out?” she asked.

“
Heavens, no,” he replied. “You know how I hate to dress up for functions. You've seen this any number of times at those gatherings in Denby where my mill owner presence is not a hiss and a byword.”

“
Radical tonight, are we?” she murmured. “And what, sir, are you doing standing in my door?”

“
I knocked and called your name, but there you were, swooning over your face in the mirror and totally oblivious. May I come in? I know it's improper but ….”

“ ‘
I … I am just a mill owner,' ” she chimed in with him, and then laughed. “Of course you may come in! What you saw was not someone dreamy-eyed, but rather Jane Milton in all her calculation, sir.”

“
And?” he prompted, seating himself beside her dressing table.

“
I am tired of the crochets of old men who think they have a foot in the grave, and a cousin who delves into rumor and who schemes better than Lady Macbeth, and her son with nothing on his mind but his wardrobe.”

The mill owner smiled at her. “And all this from a new hair arrangement?” he asked.

“
Perhaps,” she considered. “I am not so old, sir, that I cannot make my way in the world.”

“
No, my dear, you are not.”

She waited for him to laugh, but he gazed at her reflection in the mirror instead, as though unable to look at her directly. I am being rude, she thought suddenly. “Mr. Butterworth, I do not mean to imply …”

“…
that I am old? Well, I am not, Miss Milton,” he said. “I will be forty-five next year, and most days, the years do sit lightly on me.”

She turned to face him. “They have been good years, have they not, sir? When I think of all that you have accomplished, and the influence you are even now exerting ….”

“
That accounts for ten years only, madam,” he interrupted, and the anger in his voice made her shiver, even more because it seemed to be directed inward. “Even a jackass like Cecil would call that a poor return on investment.”

She put her hand on his arm. “Mr. Butterworth, I do not understand you.”

“
No, you do not, my dear Miss Mitten.” As she watched in consternation, he made a visible effort to collect his emotions. He patted her hand. “Ah! Put it down to nerves, dear lady. If
the
Jeremy Bentham likes what we are doing here and comes onto the board, that will be worth the addition of ten or twelve ordinary mortals.”

He sat back in the chair and was silent a long minute. She knew his habits and did not interrupt his thoughts, but tucked in a stray hairpin, and wondered if a little lavender behind her ears would not war with the fish course that she and Amanda were in high hopes about. “I must go downstairs,” she said, rising from the dressing table. “Amanda will be in a stew, and here I sit.”

“
Listening to an old man rave,” he finished for her.

“
Never that,” she said firmly. “You are not old and you do not rave.”

“
And you are invariably kind.” He reached inside his coat and pulled out a slim box. “Would you
kindly
wear this necklace tonight? It belonged to my mother, and would look especially fine against that blue fabric.”

She opened the box and smiled to see a sapphire on a silver chain. “It's beautiful and I will borrow it happily,” she said.

He took the necklace from the box and put it around her neck, fiddling a moment with the clasp. “I have larger sapphires that he gave her later—it was his favorite jewel—but this little stone was the first gift from his first quarter profits on his first mill. A self-made man right out of a pig farm in the Yorkshire Dales, ma'am.” He rested his hands on her shoulders. “Even the other factory owners would sniff when he walked through the Exchange, but by God, Jane, he could spin straw into gold, and he bought
their
mills.”