Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind (25 page)

It was not the answer she expected, and she pulled away from him to look at his face. “What are you saying?” she asked.

“
I suppose I am suggesting that I am pretty hard to shock.” He chuckled and pulled her closer to him again. “Why don't you just tell me what happened, instead of wasting one more minute blaming yourself?”

“
The blame
is
mine,” she insisted.

“
I suppose it is, if you like that kind of torture.” He shrugged. “And if we do not see eye to eye on the matter, what then, my dear?”

She did not know what to say to the mill owner's matter-of-fact comment. As she sat there, he put his hand between her clenched fists until she felt herself relax, and then twined his fingers into hers. “Perhaps you can answer a question of mine,” he said, after another long silence passed.

She nodded, and he squeezed her hand. “My dear, when Blair was brought back from Belgium, were you aware that Andrew began to visit me?”

“
No!” she said in surprise. “He never said ….” She stopped, remembering that first month when she knew that nothing would ever be right again.

“
Perhaps you can begin there,” the mill owner suggested. “I found Andrew playing at the lake—well, more like just sitting there. He said that no one would let him see his father, and that you seldom left his room.” He paused, and then brought her hand up to his lips. “What did they make you do, Jane?” he asked, his lips against her fingers.

“
They made me take care of him!” she burst out, her words so loud and ugly that she winced at the sound of them in the quiet nave. “ ‘Let Jane do it!' ” she said in perfect imitation of Lady Carruthers. “And Mr. Lowe was so happy to agree with her!”

Mr. Butterworth did flinch then. “My God, Jane,” he said. “The
doctor
! The whole neighborhood knew that Lord Canfield was seriously wounded but … what was wrong?”

“
Everything,” she replied, pulling her hands away to dab at her eyes. “Mr. Butterworth, he had been shot in the neck and the wound simply refused to heal.” She leaned forward to pound on the pew in front of her and stopped only when her hand began to ache. “It would not heal!” She grasped the front of his overcoat and stared into his eyes, which did not waver from her face. “Mr. Lowe said a musket ball had grazed his subclavian artery. In fact, it was still there under his collarbone. Blair could rub along for a week or even two weeks, and then that horrible wound would open and he would bleed. We never knew when it would happen.”

She was silent then, and dropped her hands from his coat, embarrassed with herself. She leaned closer until her forehead rested against his chest. The mill owner pulled her close, his arms around her. “Let me guess,” he said finally, his voice muffled by her hair. “You were all afraid to let Andrew see him, for fear that he would begin to hemorrhage suddenly, and terrify the boy.”

“
That was it,” she told him. “Blair made Stanton and me swear that no one would know how bad it was … or would become, I suppose. He was adamant, and we obliged him.”

“
He wanted to spare everyone?”

She nodded, too weary to speak. “It was a horrible sight,” she said finally. “Mr. Lowe showed me how to staunch the bleeding with styptic and then press the heel of my hand just so against his neck until the wound clotted.” She started to cry. “It took so long and my arm would get so tired. Oh, Mr. Butterworth, you can't imagine!”

“
No, I can't,” he murmured, pulling her onto his lap, and wrapping his overcoat around both of them. “Here I thought I could, but I can't. For the love of God, why didn't Lowe do this instead of you?” He gave her his handkerchief and she sobbed into it. “Jane, he was the physician!”

She cried until she was almost nauseated with her tears. Mr. Butterworth held her close and rocked back and forth with her as though she were Lucy or Olivia. She was helpless to do anything except cry until his handkerchief was a useless, soggy ball. “Just a moment, my dear,” he said, pulling her away enough to undo his neckcloth. “We may have finally discovered a use for these silly things. Here.” She took his neckcloth and wiped her face, then dabbed at his shirtfront. “Oh, never mind that, Jane,” he said, holding her close again. “I know from our years of acquaintance that you are one to excuse all kinds of chicanery, but unless you can give me a reason for Mr. Lowe to continue drawing breath, I'm going to call him out.”

She stared at him, her eyes wide. “You would never!” she exclaimed.

“
Miss Mitten, you underestimate this particular mill owner,” he replied grimly. “There are things about
me
that you would never believe. Come now, and give me a good reason for Lowe's existence. I will settle for one.”

You are serious, she thought, regarding the mill owner. With only the light of the perpetual flame behind the altar, and what moonlight filtered through the windows, she could barely see his face, but his words were so clipped and unfamiliar. “I can forgive him, Mr. Butterworth,” she said, after a moment's contemplation of his face. “Blair was one of his best friends. Mr. Lowe could not bear to watch him die.”

The mill owner sighed and tightened his grip around her. “Jane, I believe you would find excuse for Judas Iscariot himself. So Mr. Lowe couldn't watch his friend die, but it was all right for you to bear the brunt?”

“
You know that I do all the tasks no one else wants at Stover,” she said simply.

“
You were forced to bear all this yourself,” said the mill owner, amazement unmistakable in his voice.

“
Stanton and I took turns caring for him. Not even the servants were allowed in the room to help. Even Lord Denby had no idea of the total complication because that was Blair's wish.”

“
A damned selfish wish,” Mr. Butterworth said grimly. “I wonder that you are not angry with him still.”

She released his lapels and stared at him. “Do you know, I think I am sometimes. I shouldn't be, of course,” she added in a rush.

“
Of course you should be,” he insisted. “Say what you like about Lord Canfield, but I will contend that he treated you as poorly as the rest.” The mill owner was silent then.

“
I can forgive.”

She felt her face go red as his silence continued. I am an idiot, she thought, too shy to look at him now. She rested her head against his chest again, drawing comfort from the steady beat of his heart. “Go ahead and say it,” she told him finally. “I am the most silly, compliant woman you ever met.”

She was rewarded with a chuckle that she felt more than she heard, and then he gripped her even tighter. “No, Jane Milton,” he said, his voice so soft. “What you are is braver than most men, and more forgiving than most saints.” He sighed. “No wonder you have never married. You put us all to shame.”

‘
The shame is mine, sir,” she replied, shaking her head. “I told you that I killed Blair.”

“
I think I understand, my dear Miss Mitten. In those—what was it: six or seven months?—did you actually leave the room once and Blair died? Was that how it was?”

“
No. I fell asleep,” she said quietly, pressing her fingers hard against the bridge of her nose so she would not cry. Without a word he took her hand away and she fell against him, sobbing.

“
Oh, my dear,” he crooned, rocking with her again. “Oh, my dear.”

Her face pressed against his neckcloth, Jane cried until she was certain there were no tears left. It was a storm of tears, a rage of tears that startled her by their very intensity, even as they were muffled within the mill owner's overcoat as he held her close.

“
Did no one allow you to cry?” he asked, his lips close to her ear, when she rested against him, exhausted.

“
There was no time for my tears,” she said, and shook her head. “Lord Denby was in ruin, and Andrew … I know that I failed him then.”

“
He spent time with me, my dear,” Mr. Butterworth said. “He was so certain that Lord Canfield was refusing to see him because he wasn't his real father.”

“
Oh, no!” she exclaimed. “Stanton and I said nothing to him because of that awful promise.” She sat up. “That was the wrong thing, wasn't it?”

“
You can undo it,” the mill owner assured her. “Just tell him the nature of the wound, and how much Lord Canfield wanted to shield him.” He put his hand on her neck and pulled her back to rest against him again. “Andrew will keep, Jane. You are not through yet, are you? Do you fear to go to sleep because of what happened?”

She nodded. “I know it is perfectly nonsensical, but I will do almost anything to keep from falling asleep, no matter how tired I am.” She hesitated, and Mr. Butterworth peered at her expectantly. “I wish that were all,” she said finally, the words pulled from her like cockleburs from tangled hair. Must I tell you more? she pleaded silently. I cannot bear it. It is a pity that you are so intelligent, sir. I think you will figure it out.

To her dismay, she was right. After a moment's reflection, he spoke slowly, almost as hesitant as she, and her heart sank. “God bless you, Jane,” he said, his voice low. “It's not so much the falling asleep as the waking up, is it, my dear? Blair wasn't dead.”

She shook her head and he drew his overcoat tighter about them both when she began to shiver. “He was bleeding to death before your eyes, wasn't he?” Mr. Butterworth asked gently.

She nodded, unable to find the words to convey the full horror. “It was … was like a fountain,” she managed to say finally, irritated with herself because she couldn't stop trembling. “Mr. Lowe had warned me that the end would come that way when—not if—the artery burst, but not in my worst moment did I imagine it would be so terrible.”

“
Damn Mr. Lowe,” Mr. Butterworth muttered. “Jane, did you try to stop it?”

She nodded again. “I must have packed a pound of alum against that artery, but nothing worked. I tried so hard,” she pleaded with him, “really I did!”

“
Jane, I know you did,” Mr. Butterworth said. “Was Blair … was he … conscious?”

“
Yes.” She felt the tears rising again. “He couldn't speak, but he was begging me with his eyes to do something. I
had
to do something!” She took a deep breath, and then another quicker breath until her head felt light. “I put the heel of my hand against his neck and just held it there.”

She winced as Mr. Butterworth sucked in his breath and sat back then. “My God,” he breathed. “Jane, are you telling me that as long as you held your hand there, he would live?”

I knew I would repulse you, she thought in agony. “Yes,” she said, and it was the barest whisper. “I did not know what to do, Mr. Butterworth. I was so afraid. God forgive me.” She knew her voice was low, but the words seemed to carry on the cold air and circle around in the nave until she was weary with the sound of them.

“
I sat that way for at least an hour,” she continued, even though the mill owner had said nothing to urge any more of the story from her. ‘Through my negligence, he had bled open the artery entirely.” She sighed, got up from Mr. Butterworth's lap, folded his damp neckcloth, and set it beside him on the pew. He did not move, but she knew his eyes were on her. “Mr. Butterworth, I told him I loved him, and took my hand away. Good night, sir. I will take the mailcoach back to Denby tomorrow. Forgive me for burdening you. I knew it would be more than you wanted.”

She turned to go, but quicker than sight Mr. Butterworth grabbed her hand and pulled her back down beside him. “What did you do? Faint? Scream? Run from the room?”

Shocked, she stared at him and tried to pull her hand away, but he would not allow it. “Of course not, Mr. Butterworth! I held his hand until he died. Why would you think ….” She sighed. “Mr. Butterworth, you know it was never in me to run away.”

“
Of course it was not,” he replied, and then touched her face with the back of his hand. “I just wanted you to realize it.”

She leaned forward then to rest her chin on her palms and stare at the outline of the altar. A great wave of exhaustion poured over her and she closed her eyes. “He was going to die, wasn't he?” she asked.

“
Most certainly.”

“
There wasn't anything I could have done.”

“
No.” He rested his hand on her back. “You were given the impossible task.”

“
I wish I could have done better, sir,” she confessed.

He rose and pulled her up, too, then stood contemplating the altar with her. “My dear, you bore it all with uncommon grace,” he said at last, and she was touched by his words, which seemed to come out of him with such effort. “I wish that you would tell Andrew the full nature of his … of Lord Canfield's wounds.”

Jane shook her head. “I swore to Blair that I would spare him that much, and I must keep my word. Mr. Butterworth, he is too young for such details.”

“
I contend that he is not,” the mill owner replied, “but it is not my business, is it?”

“
I think not,” she replied gently. “I made a promise. Leave Andrew to me, sir, and I will do my best.”