Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind (35 page)

Jane nodded. “After she died, Blair seldom came home.” She leaped to her feet. “But why did you not say something then? It would have been a scandal, Mr. B., but people forget! You could have had your son all these years!”

He attempted a smile, but it barely crossed his lips before it vanished. “I thought about it, Jane, I really did, but as far as anyone knew, Andrew was Blair's son. I thought that my son's life as a marquis would be better than anything I could offer him. . Lucinda certainly thought so, anyway, because she rejected me. Why should I upset that apple cart, when no one had an inkling?”

“
Even after the rumors started?” Jane persisted.

Lord Denby chuckled. “Won't my sister be amazed to know that she was right after all? Oh, Lord, what webs we weave, Dale.”

“
I knew my son had a worthy advocate in you, Jane,” Mr. Butterworth said. “I put all my trust in you.” He smiled. “All those years ago, when I sought you out at town gatherings and … and parties when someone condescended to include me, I became such a master at monopolizing you and pulling the conversation around to my son. You were always so pleased to talk about him, and I thank you for that.” He took a deep and shaky breath. “It was all I lived for.”

Jane sat on the bed again, overwhelmed by the enormity of what she was hearing. “And Stanton?”

The mill owner looked at the butler, who had come into the room now. “Stanton's father was my father's partner in the pig farm, and that was all just good fortune, on my part. When I learned that he was footman here at Stover Hall and then butler, I knew that I could count on him to keep me totally informed about Andrew.” He touched her hair. “Between the two of you—one of you knowing, and the other totally convinced that Andrew was Blair's son—I managed.”

Jane took a deep breath, wondering for a moment if so much revelation had sucked the very air out of the room. She looked around at the others. How much time you have all wasted, she thought.

“
When you would do a kindness for me and then say you were only doing it to thank me for the way I was taking care of Andrew, you really meant it, didn't you?” she asked, her voice soft.

“
More than you know, my dear.” He chuckled. “Except that you
do
know now.”

“
And when you helped me through my own particular crisis?” she asked.

“
That was for you, alone,” he replied, his voice equally soft.

“
Thank you.”

And now comes the moment I am dreading, she thought. No sense in putting it off another second. “Mr. Butterworth, I am certain that Lord Derby and Dale will excuse us all. I know that you have a conversation in the formal garden that has been postponed far too long.”

He nodded. “It scares me a little bit.”

It kills me, she thought. You are taking the child I raised from infancy far out of my reach. “I do not doubt that you will find just the right touch.”

“
Come with me,” he asked, taking her hand.

She let him pull her from the room. Stanton closed the door and stood in the hall with them. “Miss Milton, I have one more confession.”

“
I am certain it cannot be any more difficult that anything we have heard yet,” she said. “And then I do insist that Mr. Butterworth tell me why he came back, if he has not yet received my letter about the handyman.”

“
Don't, Stanton,” Mr. Butterworth said.

“
I have to,” he said simply. “Miss Milton, I forwarded all of your letters—the ones you wrote late at night in the bookroom—to Mr. Butterworth at Rumsey. Mrs. Newton must have sent them on to Scotland.”

She stared at him, unable to speak. “Those were not meant for anyone's eyes,” she managed to say finally, not even daring to look at the mill owner.

“
You did not mean what you wrote?” Mr. Butterworth asked, his voice low.

“
Of course I did!” she exclaimed, stung to irritation. “I meant every word!”

“
That is what I came to speak to you about,” he said. “I suppose your thank you letter about the handyman is somewhere between Rumsey, Edinburgh, and here. It is not what brought me back.”

She closed her eyes, near to tears. “You needn't concern yourself about it now, Mr. Butterworth, especially since I think you owe your son a long conversation.”

“
Miss Milton ….”

“
It can keep, Mr. Butterworth. Excuse me, please, both of you.”

Shaking her head when Stanton called her name, she hurried down the hall to the sanctuary of her own room. Her head throbbing, she sank onto the window seat, fit for nothing more than to stare out at the trees. He has never recovered from his passion for Lucinda, she told herself, and thanks to Stanton, I have bombarded this intensely private soul with love letters he never wanted. “Dear me,” she said, resting her forehead against the cool glass of the window. “I know it's good to speak one's mind, but perhaps some things are better left unsaid.”

Her mind on her own misery, she stared out the window, then sat up straighter to watch as Mr. Butterworth walked across the terrace. He stood there so long, hands behind his back, rocking back and forth on his heels in that familiar manner, that she felt herself growing impatient. “Do not waste one more minute,” she told him firmly through the glass.

To her gratification, he left the terrace and walked with real purpose toward the formal garden. “The rose patch,” she said with her lips against the window. “Dear Mr. Butterworth, you are such a commoner. How I will miss you both.”

Andrew sat on his haunches, pulling weeds. “Sit down there next to him, Mr. Butterworth,” she whispered. “Ah, that is the way. Tell him everything; hold nothing back. He is my own dearest child—heaven knows I raised him—and he will make you … us … proud.”

She knew it was a long story, but she was patient to wait there at the window, watching their heads close together, and then the mill owner's arm around his son, and then their fierce embrace. “Oh, God, I would feel so good if this did not hurt so much,” she whispered against the glass as they rose, hugged again, and started arm in arm down to the lake, and then to the mill owner's house beyond.

She watched them until they were gone, and then sat there in the window seat until the room was dark. She was aware that Stanton knocked on her door once, and said he was leaving a tray outside. She was silent, and he went away. Dale came by later, but she had nothing to say to him, either.

Hours later, hollow-eyed with staring into the darkness and feeling far older than her years, she dragged herself to bed, only to spend the night staring at the ceiling and wishing for dawn. Dale, you would call this a fine how-de-do, she thought as the sun finally rose on the day of the reunion. I spoke my mind—we all did, for heaven's sake—and everyone is happy now, except me.

S
he sat in the window seat all night and watched the clouds blot out the stars. She flinched from the lightning, thinking of Andrew at Mr. Butterworth's home, and hoping that he would not mind if the boy came into his room and sat on his bed until the storm passed. You could sing, Mr. Butterworth, if you are so inclined. Andrew knows my entire repertory of rain songs.

The rain came as a relief, hurling itself against the panes until the storm moved away. Still she sat there, watching the rain slide down the panes now, a murmur instead of a threat, the thunder only a faint growl, nature's afterthought. A little while longer, and then dawn came, the sky clear and hopeful.

Breakfast interested her no more than dinner the night before, so she went onto the terrace instead, stepping around the pools of water to stand finally at the stone railing and gaze down on the formal garden and Mr. Butterworth's lake beyond. She discovered quickly that it was not a view she wanted anymore.

She turned to look at the house, thinking of all the times in her life that she would have left it willingly, if Andrew had not tied her there, and then Blair, with his final illness. Except that I never would have left Andrew, she told herself. Or Blair, even if that burden did prove too heavy. And if I did not acquit myself as I would have wished, I did my best. Some regrets just have to be borne.

It was a thought to console her, she decided, as she looked at the lake again. If you would ask me, Mr. Butterworth, I would tell you that at any point in our lives, we are only doing the best we can. I have become so wise this year. A pity no one ever wants advice.

“
Miss Milton, Stanton has sent me to find you and force you—with whips and cudgels if necessary—to the breakfast table.”

She turned around to see Dale Bingham standing by the French doors. “I don't know, sir, that anyone has the power to force me to do anything now. And please call me Jane, cousin.”

He laughed and joined her at the balustrade. “I suppose we are cousins,” he began.

“
Oh, why not?” she said. “I think I am cousin to half of England, Dale.” She touched his arm lightly. “I was asking myself earlier this morning—did someone think to move you upstairs to a guest room?”

“
Lord Denby offered me Blair's room, but I prefer belowstairs, Jane,” he replied, his eyes merry. “My dear, I have grown up in kitchens and nothing will change that now.” He was silent a long time, looking at the view. “A storm clears away a lot of things, doesn't it?”

More than you know, she thought.

Dale perched himself on the railing. “Jane, he has offered to make me his heir, if I will repudiate my adoption and remain here in England. What do you think of that?”

“
I think it would be a mistake for you,” she said. “And I am not so certain the law would allow it.”

He sighed. “And so I told him. I am an American, and I would miss my country and my family.” He shrugged. “Why would I want to be a marquis—if it were even possible—own extensive land, be richer than Croesus, and sit in the House of Lords? Not when I can have mud and mosquitoes and Indian alarms, no indeed!”

Lady Carruthers arrived from London first, barely acknowledging Jane and going right to her brother's room, to emerge all smiles a short time later. Jane stood by Stanton and watched her come down the hall, the picture of triumph. “Of all things, this is the worst,” she murmured to him.

“
Then thank Almighty Providence that you are not going through it alone, Miss Milton,” he replied as Lady Carruthers bore down on them. “Lovely day, isn't it, my lady?”

She ignored him as though he were a violet in the wallpaper and took Jane's arm, shaking her. “You were always so certain you were right!”

Before Jane could speak, Stanton stepped between them, forcing Lady Carruthers to let go. “My lady, Miss Milton was right up until yesterday afternoon when Mr. Butterworth's claims were made plain,” he said, each word distinct. “We could all wish for such a champion.”

“
But she was wrong!”

“
Wrong to believe the best and cherish the Canfields' son? You are mistaken, Lady Carruthers.”

Jane stared at the butler. “Bless you, Oliver,” she murmured.

Stanton glanced at her and she could not mistake the regard in his eyes, full of expression now, and not masked in the usual way of those who serve.

“
But she was wrong!” Lady Carruthers repeated, stamping her foot, as her turban quivered like a live thing.

“
She was kind,” he said, putting on his careful demeanor again as some men shrug into a coat. “Heaven knows how she became that way, considering her example in this household. It must have been her good training in the Leeds workhouse.”

Lady Carruthers gasped and her face took on a peculiar mottled color. “I will see that you are dismissed without a character!” she stormed.

“
Not in this lifetime,” he said simply. “Your brother has assured me that I have his entire confidence. And when you and your brainless boy assume control here someday, if you can, you will walk onto a totally deserted estate, Lady Carruthers.”

Her silence was terrible, and then she turned her attention to Jane. “I can ruin you,” she stated finally.

“
I do not see how,” Stanton said.

“
I am not talking to you! Jane, you aren't aware, but the night Blair died, I looked in the room and saw you sleeping in the chair. I call that gross neglect, and so I will tell anyone who will listen.”

Jane sucked in her breath and reached for Stanton, who grasped her hand. “Never mind it now,” he said softly, then as she watched, turned his full attention to Lady Carruthers.

“
I wouldn't do that,” he told her, his voice firm, but with an edge to it that Jane had never heard before. “The more gross neglect is yours, for not waking her.
She
was exhausted;
you
were cruel. Did that never occur to you, Lady Carruthers? I am surprised.”

Lady Carruthers could only gape like a fish, her mouth opening and closing with no sounds coming out. “Perhaps I should find her some smelling salts,” Jane whispered, her eyes on the woman.

The butler frowned. “My dear Miss Milton, are you doomed forever to be far too kind?”