Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind (8 page)

“
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 replied. “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?

I
f 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.