Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind (24 page)

She glanced at Emma, and noticed tears in her eyes as she watched her brother. “Emma, we are surely wearing you down to a nub,” she said.

Emma shook her head. “What is that to me, my dear?” she said. “I am happy.”

It was said so simply that Jane felt her own eyes filling with tears. I am, too, she thought. Here I am, ready to confess the worst story imaginable to a kind man, and I am happy about it. Lady Carruthers is right; I am a perfect ninny.

“
We are almost waist deep in sensibility,” Mr. Butterworth was saying to Andrew. “Here, lad, have a gift from me. You'll probably have to hide it when you return to Stover Hall, but I trust you are sufficiently resourceful.”

Andrew unwrapped the package and pulled out a wrench. Everyone laughed as he stared at it, his eyes wide. “Mr. Butterworth! It is not a
child's
wrench!” he declared.

“
Lord, no,” said the mill owner, with a wink at Jane. “In future if you ever tire of being a marquis, I can find something for you to do in Huddersfield.”

“
I would like that more,” Andrew said quietly as he rested the wrench in his lap, then ran his finger the length of it.

Oh dear, Jane thought, as Emma blew her nose and picked up Olivia to hide her tears. This will never do. “I am certain we are tiring you, Emma,” she said. “What would you say that we adjourn and leave you and Richard in peace?”

“
Not yet,” the mill owner insisted. “Buck up, Em! Jane Milton, this is for you.” Over her protests, he handed her a large package still cold from the outdoors. “Oh, why must women object when someone gives them a little something, Richard?”

“
It's part of their charm, Scipio,” his brother-in-law replied, as he sat closer to Emma, who was crying in earnest now. “My heart, what
is
the matter?”

“
I am happy! I told you!” Emma sobbed. She wiped her eyes. “Jane, do open it before I simply drown Olivia.”

If I do not open it, the matter will end here, Jane thought as she looked at the box in her lap. I know what it is, and I know what I owe for it. I can tease and say that ladies don't accept gifts beyond flowers and books, or I can give the man the terrible gift he wants in exchange. “Are you certain, Mr. Butterworth?” she asked, her voice low.

“
Positive,” he said. “Open it.”

With Lucy to help, she took the ribbon off the box, then held her breath as she shook out a red cloak from the tissue that surrounded it.

“
Red?” Emma said dubiously. “Scipio?”

“
It's dark enough red, so no one will doubt that she's a complete lady. Try it on, Jane.”

She did as he said, enjoying the warmth of the wool, and the weight of it on her shoulders. “Not exactly a cloak for a poor relation,” she said.

“
Far from it,” Mr. Butterworth agreed.

Lucy tugged at her uncle's coat and he obliged her by sitting down again and taking her on his lap. “Why did you give her a red cloak, Uncle Scipio?” she asked.

He hugged her and smiled at Jane over Lucy's head. “No reason, Lucy. The material caught my eye.”

“
Uncle Scipio, you would never go in a cloth warehouse,” Amanda began, then laughed when everyone else did. “You know! As a customer!”

“
My dear niece, what I do sometimes surprises even me. What do you think, Jane?”

Lucy pulled away far enough to look up at him. “Mama says that we always have reasons for everything we do. And she is Miss Mitten, not Jane.”

“
Such a literal thing you are,” he said. “Well, let us say I gave it to Miss Mitten because I … I like the way she takes care of Andrew! Will that satisfy you?”

“
Lucy, you are a mystery,” Richard murmured, shaking his head. “Come now, all of you. Did I not hear your uncle say that he was taking you to midnight church tonight? Go get ready.”

“
Ah, the mill owner's voice,” Mr. Butterworth said as the children hurried from the room. “When did I promise midnight church, Richard, eh?” He looked at Jane. “Will it do?”

She nodded, too shy to speak. She draped the cloak carefully over her arm, smoothing down the fabric. “What have I done?” she asked.

“
Found the perfect color for a cloak,” Emma said, dabbing at her eyes and then putting the sleeping infant back across her knees. “It is amazing what that shade does to your skin, my dear.”

Jane looked up from the fabric, and then realized that she had spoken aloud. “I'll wear it to church tonight,” she said.

“
Jane, you needn't go! I was only sending out Scipio on that errand of mercy. You know, wear out the children so they will sleep tonight and then open their other gifts in the morning,” Richard said.

“
No. I will go, too,” Jane said. She returned Mr. Butterworth's faint smile, and hurried from the room. What better place than a church for the confession I must make tonight, she thought, even if there is no absolution.

She was composed and calm when he knocked softly on her door an hour later, the cloak warm about her shoulders and her bonnet precisely right.

“
That
is
a beautiful color,” he said, looking at her from head to toe. “And I was right about the length.” He offered her his arm and she took it. “I took the fabric to Em's dressmaker and had her children stand next to me until I found the child whose head came just right below my shoulder, the way you do.”

“
You're an observant man then,” she replied, for want of anything better to say.

“
I had better be,” he murmured. “And here are our charges! Courage, Miss Milton. I never blush for Andrew's manners, thanks to his upbringing.” He gestured toward his nieces and nephew, standing by the front door. “And I can threaten these with half rations!”

She smiled at him. “I am certain that your threats terrify no one, Mr. Butterworth.”

“
Not lately,” he agreed. “I'm getting soft.”

She mulled that in her mind, content to walk in silence beside the mill owner who, obliging as always, matched his stride to hers. The children hurried on ahead, Andrew and Jacob holding Lucy's hand, while Amanda walked behind them, as if undecided whether she belonged with the children or the adults. The mill owner finally called to her and offered her his other arm, which she accepted.

“
Amanda, you're growing up too fast,” he said as they walked together toward the small church Jane had noticed on their drives to and from the mill. “I suppose I will be buying fabric for a wedding dress in a couple of years.”

“
I am only fifteen, Uncle,” she protested.

“
Time passes, love, until it is gone and we are old before we know it,” he said in a tone so final to Jane's ears that Amanda said nothing more.

He was silent through the midnight service, and Jane wondered if he was regretting his gift and what it meant. I cannot blame him, she thought, as she followed him back from the altar and knelt beside him again. It
is
a daunting thing to realize that at some point in our lives, we must stand alone. She looked at him. But surely you have already discovered this, Mr. Butterworth, she thought. I learned it, too, but you must know.

She shivered as they knelt together, then moved closer to him as the children came back to kneel beside them. “What, Miss Mitten?” he whispered to her. “Are you cold? I had thought that cloak warm enough for Arctic winters.”

He seemed to know she would not answer him, and returned his gaze to his own hands clasped in front of him. In another moment he closed his eyes. Impulsively, Jane leaned toward him. “Pray for me, Mr. Butterworth,” she whispered back. He nodded, and remained on his knees until the priest called on the congregation to rise.

She had second and third thoughts as the mass ended, and wondered what Mr. Butterworth would think if she bolted from the church and packed her bags for Stover Hall. She could claim that Lord Denby needed her, or that Lady Carruthers was at her wit's end with Cecil, and be gone by morning. A glance at Andrew, who stood outside stamping his feet and chatting with Jacob, calmed her. He would never forgive me for snatching him from his new friends, she thought. I will simply have to carry through with what Mr. Butterworth demands, even though I lose his friendship in the bargain. For someone who is such an observer rather than a partaker of events, I lead a complicated life. Who would have thought it?

She wondered if Mr. Butterworth suspected her own vacillation. He clung rather tighter to her arm, once he had successfully navigated the shoals of best wishes to the priest, and Christmas greetings to numerous parishioners. She smiled and curtsied through any number of introductions, making no effort to free herself from his grasp. “I promise not to bolt,” she whispered, then stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “You shan't lose a return on your investment.”

With a smile he released her arm. “Miss Mitten, if I did not know you were a step or two higher than I on the social rung, I could accuse you of keeping an eye on that bottom line, yourself.”

“
I am no bookkeeper, sir,” she protested.

“
And so I remind myself,” he murmured, then turned his attention to the elderly gentleman who had shared their pew. “Mr. Walthorpe! Promise me that you will have the very best Christmas ever!”

“
Mama thinks that Uncle Scipio can charm roses off wallpaper,” Amanda told her as she joined the children.

“
I suppose he can,” Jane replied, watching Lucy stamp her feet and turn in circles. “Lucy, are you cold?”

When Lucy nodded, Jane glanced at the mill owner, who appeared in no hurry to leave the church. Second thoughts of your own, sir? she thought. She turned to Amanda. “My dear, you and the children can go ahead. I will wait here for your uncle.”

She stood where she was in the snow beside the chapel doors, the cloak warm around her shoulders. Snow was falling, and in the brief light from the lanterns, she watched the flakes fall against the dark material, burst with their own unique glory, and then melt into nothing. And so do we all, on a grander cosmic scale, she thought, watching the patterns so distinct and ephemeral—snowflake philosophy on early Christmas morning. If it is true that animals talk to one another in this hour of Our Lord's birth, then I suppose I can gather some wisdom about me to keep me warm through the rest of life. She frowned. If only I can keep my friend, as well.

She stared off into the beauty of the night, watching the snow all around her until she felt isolated even from the church, which was almost close enough to touch. The children were gone from her sight now, but through the peculiarity of atmosphere, she could still hear them laughing and talking. Andrew, I wish I could just leave you here with Richard and Emma, she thought. Then I would take the mail coach to New Lanark in Scotland and tell Mr. Robert Owen that I would be happy to teach in his school for the children of mill workers. Lady Carruthers could tell everyone who would listen in Denby that she knew nothing good would ever come of me. I would never again have to devise reasons to avoid walking past the door to Blair's room, or drop what I was doing to listen to that fribble Cecil and his complaints. Lord Denby could die in peace, without me there to devise plans for reunions.

“
I would also never see you again,” she whispered as she turned to regard the mill owner, engaged now in conversation with the priest. Tears came to her eyes and she brushed them away. That would be the worst of all, she decided.

As she watched, the mill owner gestured to her to join him. She hesitated, and he wasted not a moment in coming down the few steps to take her hand and tuck her arm in his. “Miss Milton, Father Nichols says that we are welcome to stay in the church and chat.”

I hardly imagine my confessions can be classified as chat, she thought, but she nodded to the priest, and allowed the mill owner to lead her back inside the church. She sat where he indicated, pulled the red cloak tighter about her shoulders, and rested her feet on the prayer bench to keep them off the cold stone floor.

Mr. Butterworth sat beside her and put his arm around her shoulders to pull her closer. He said nothing, but stared at the altar in front of them, a half smile on his face. Almost as though you are enjoying this, she thought in surprise. With a sigh, she nestled closer to him and rested her head in that comforting place between his armpit and his chest that she had discovered last night—was it just last night?—in her own bed.

The chapel was so silent that she could hear the faint ticking of Mr. Butterworth's watch in his vest pocket. The pleasant sound, so prosaic, calmed her heart. She relaxed finally, and closed her eyes when the mill owner removed her bonnet and then rested his chin on top of her head.

He did not prod; he did not pry. She couldn't have told anyone how much time passed, or even that it passed at all, except that the watch ticked so steadily. Where do I begin? she asked herself. “Hold my hand,” she said, not even opening her eyes as he covered her tightly knotted hands with his own. She took a deep breath.

“
Mr. Butterworth, what would you say if I told you I killed Blair?”

S
he held her breath then, waiting for him to flinch and draw away from her, but he did not. Instead, he kissed the top of her head, then rested his chin there again. “I suppose anyone's instant reply would be to deny that such a thing was possible, and then change the subject with a vengeance,” he told her finally. “But I do not know that anything is impossible, even from the most improbable sources, Jane.”