Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind (16 page)

“
Why?” Jacob asked.

Andrew shook his head, as though he had never considered the matter in that light. “I really don't know.”

“
How fortunate that she is not here then,” Jane replied, then smiled as she thought about Cecil.

“
You look like the cat with the canary,” Mr. Butterworth commented on her other side.

“
I was merely wondering if Cecil has decided to whom to bequeath his debts,” she said, “or even if he is still among the living.”

“
One can't be too careful with epizootic fever,” the mill owner said seriously, which further tried her dignity. “Do have another bun, Miss Mitten.”

“
You call her Miss Mitten?” Lucy asked, looking at her uncle with big eyes.

“
Yes, Lucy pet,” he replied. “It is her nickname.” He winked at her. “Even your old uncle can quiz pretty ladies.”

“
She is pretty,” Lucy agreed. She looked at Jane. “What do you call my uncle?”

“
Mr. Butterworth, of course,” she replied, amused. “What else?”

Lucy frowned. “I should think maybe Uncle.”

“
He's not my uncle,” Jane said.

“
Then what
is
he?” Lucy persisted, with the understanding of a four-year-old.

“
What, indeed?” she quizzed.

“
The best friend she will ever have, Lucy,” he assured her without hesitation or embarrassment. “On that note, Richard, let us shoo away your offspring, detach the females to supervise them, clear off this table, and spread out those blueprints I saw you bringing home. Are they the plans for the mill workers' quarters?”

Richard helped his wife from her chair. Mr. Butterworth blew Lucy a kiss, then swatted her with the blueprints he picked up from the sideboard. “Is it business, Uncle Scipio?” she asked with a frown.

“
Most assuredly, Lucy,” he told her, tapping the blueprints. “It keeps butter on your bread.”

“
And on other people's bread as well,” Jane said, moving Lucy along. From the corner of her eye she could see Mr. Butterworth pulling back the blueprints to take a swat at her, too, so she stepped out of range, feeling only the breeze as he missed. Lucy laughed. “Uncle Scipio! You are worse than I am,” she scolded.

Emma was laughing as they followed the children to the sitting room. She took Jane's hand. “I want to call you Jane, even if Scipio cannot. Or will not!”

“
Jane it is, Emma,” she said simply. “Now how can I best help you this evening? I don't imagine you are too comfortable these days.”

“
I am not,” she agreed. She stopped and squeezed Jane's hand. “Do you know, that is what Scipio writes about you!”

“
He writes about me?” Jane asked, surprised.

“
Oh, yes. You and Andrew,” she confided. “He says that you are always studying people's comfort, and that he wonders if you have a thought for yourself ever.”

I have many thoughts for myself, she told herself, and none of them productive lately. “He is the one who is all kindness,” she said after a pause that felt awkward to her own ears.

If it was awkward, Emma chose not to notice. “No, my dear,” she contradicted with that serenity that Jane was finding so appealing about her. “I know my brother far better than that.” She hesitated, and Jane was struck by her sudden seriousness. The moment passed, and she smiled again. “Come, Lucy, and let us impose upon Miss Mitten to give you a bath, so Mama is not forced to bend where she does not bend anymore!”

This is far more fun than soothing Cecil's crochets, Jane decided as she knelt beside the tub.

“
You have the touch, Jane,” Emma said as she reclined on Lucy's bed, her shoes off.

“
Or at least I have not completely forgotten,” Jane replied as she gave Lucy a hand up, then lifted her onto a towel. “Andrew has been in my charge since he was an infant. Here now, Lucy, do hold still so I can wrap you up.” She picked up the child and sat with her close to the fire. “What beautiful golden curls you have,” she told Lucy as she dried her hair.

“
Uncle Scipio says I will break hearts someday,” she announced, then wrinkled her nose. “I do not know what he means, and Mama won't tell me.”

Jane laughed. “Then I shall not, either! Be assured that it is a fine thing for uncles to say.”

Lucy sighed dramatically and threw herself back against Jane, who breathed in the fragrance of clean-washed hair and tightened the towel around the little girl. I think I could sit like this forever, she thought. “Do you ever wonder at your own good fortune?” she asked Emma.

When there was no answer, she looked around to see Emma asleep. Jane smiled and put her finger to her lips. “I think your mother is quite worn out,” she told the child on her lap.

Lucy nodded and turned Jane's head until she could speak into her ear. “She is going to have a baby, you know,” she confided in a breathy voice that tickled Jane's ear.

“
I thought as much,” Jane said. “If we are very quiet, I am certain that you can find your nightgown, and we will not even have to disturb her.” She draped the towel around Lucy; to her amusement, the little girl grabbed the long end and swirled it over her shoulder. “Such a flair,” she murmured, as Lucy stalked into the dressing room, one arm extended, as though she intended an oration.

“
Oh, indeed,” said Mr. Butterworth from the doorway. He looked over his shoulder. “Richard, come do the honors here for Em, and Miss Mitten and I will manage your dramatic daughter.”

Both men were in shirtsleeves, and Mr. Butterworth's fingers were ink-stained. “I can't leave blueprints alone,” he confessed. He washed his hands in Lucy's bath water while his brother-in-law carefully picked up his wife. Emma opened her eyes long enough to blow a kiss to Jane. “Thank you, my dear,” she murmured. “This is a fine start to your holiday with us.” She rested her head against her husband's arm as he carried her from the room.

“
Isn't there a nursemaid?” Jane asked, handing him the towel she had used on Lucy's hair.

“
Oh, yes, but my little sister is far too good-hearted, and let her go home for Christmas,” he said. He dried his hands. “And here you thought you were going to have peace and quiet in Rumsey, Miss Mitten. Mill owners are notorious users of people, or don't you read the penny post?”

She scooped up Lucy and whirled her around. “At least I do not have Cecil,” she exclaimed. She took the towel from him. “Or even Lord Denby, although he is the dearest man.”

“
Could it be … a revolt by the perfect poor relation?” Mr. Butterworth teased.

“
Possibly,” she said. “During my visit I intend to deal with problems no greater than what book to read to Lucy, and how she likes her porridge. Climb up, love.”

“
I don't like porridge,” Lucy confided as she got into bed.

“
Of course you do not!” Jane sat down beside her. “Shall we dismiss your uncle?”

“
First he will give me a kiss,” Lucy commanded, holding up her arms to Mr. Butterworth, who sat on the bed and kissed her on the forehead with a loud smack. “Then he usually gives my mama a kiss, but you will do, Miss Mitten.”

“
She will, indeed,” Mr. Butterworth agreed and kissed Jane's forehead with another loud smack. To her astonishment, he took her face in his hands and kissed her lips. “That's to pay you back,” he said softly.

Lucy clapped her hands. “Now you may leave, Uncle Scipio.”

Yes, do, Jane thought, her mind in a jumble. Give me a chance to calm down the color in my cheeks now. With real relief, she watched him blow another kiss to Lucy and then go to the door. “Good night, my dears,” he said. “Jane, would you like me to hunt down the boys and subdue them?”

So I am Jane, she thought, and she could think of no objection. “If you would, sir,” she replied.

Jane knew that she read to Lucy, but for the life of her, she couldn't make sense of the words. No matter; Lucy's eyes were drooping, and she closed them completely before Jane finished the chapter. “And I am certain they lived happily ever after, little one,” she whispered. “That's how it is with fiction.” She kissed Lucy, and left the room on tiptoe.

It was just a matter of following the sounds to locate Jacob and Andrew, but she stood for a moment outside their room, convincing herself that she was silly to make much of Mr. Butterworth's actions. Jane, he could be your uncle, she told herself, as she opened the door. No, he couldn't, she decided as she watched the boys look at each other, grab their pillows, and start toward Mr. Butterworth. He stood with his back to them, staring out the window. No, he could not be my uncle, she decided.

It was the perfect moment to close the door and retreat, but she stepped inside. “Mr. Butterworth, do beware,” she said, then shut it, and leaned against it, laughing as he turned around to roar at the boys, who shrieked and dived for the bed.

“
Now I am to expect you to settle down to sleep,” he said, standing over them as they scrambled under the covers. “Although I cannot imagine how you will, after that kind of treatment. I never could.” He glanced over his shoulder at her. “I was that young once, my dear. Can you credit it?”

“
Oh, yes,” she replied. “Looking at you now, your board of directors would probably say you have not aged a day!”

He laughed and sat on the bed. “Go away, Miss Mitten,” he ordered her cheerfully. “If I can summon the strength to leave this room eventually, you should speak for tea in the sitting room.”

She closed the door. She asked a servant in the hall where the sitting room was, and seated herself beside Amanda, who was attempting to separate a jumble of embroidery threads.

“
Did Lucy get into these?” she asked.

Amanda shook her head. “I am completely to blame,” she confessed as she tugged apart a green and a blue strand. “I do so dislike embroidery, and am trying so hard to convince Papa that I would rather take Italian than embroidery.”

Jane reached for the threads, which Amanda gladly relinquished. “Let me try for a while. You can order tea for us and your uncle, should he emerge unscathed from Jacob's room.”

“
I will escape with relief,” Amanda said as she leaped to her feet. She was back soon and seated herself again. “Oh, you are good at that!” she declared with some feeling. “I need some patience quickly, don't I?” she asked, to Jane's amusement.

“
Immediately, my dear,” she said, enjoying Amanda's laughter. “I don't think it comes like that, however.”

The girl picked up a smaller clump of thread. “Is my mother all right?” she asked, her voice low. “I saw Papa carry her down the hall.”

“
She is tired, Amanda,” Jane said. “What would you think if you and I took over the household duties for her?”

“
I would like that, but I have never done it before,” Amanda replied. “There, two strands!”

“
Bravo! I am quite good at running a household,” Jane said. “A few days of bed rest will be my Christmas gift to your mama, and I can help you run things.”

Amanda nodded, then leaned close to Jane. “I think Mama is due to be confined quite soon,” she whispered. “I mean, Papa is already bringing work home early, and pacing around.” She giggled. “I recognize the signs!”

In a few minutes they were joined by Richard Newton. The tea tray arrived, followed shortly by Mr. Butterworth, who stood in the doorway tucking in his shirttails. He sat next to Jane and picked up a handful of thread while Amanda poured the tea in her mother's place.

“
Get Andrew away from Stover, and he is quite another child,” he commented, draping several untangled threads on his leg.

“
Second thoughts about inviting us, Mr. Butterworth?” Jane teased.

He shook his head. “Not even one. You are the one who will be inconvenienced, Miss Mitten.” He looked at his brother-in-law. “I predict that you may become quite busy here! Richard, I must be an idiot, but I was not aware that Em was so far along.”

“
You
have
had your head in a cupboard lately,” Richard commented with a smile of his own. “I think I know why now.”

My, but this is a long silence, Jane thought, as quiet descended on the room.

“
Yes, indeed, Richard, running two mills is a greater challenge than one, especially at long distance,” he said at last. “Perhaps I should think about moving back to Rumsey permanently.”

“
Excellent!” Richard said, with a clap of his hands. “I must warn you that Em has her eye on the Fabersham estate, which will come vacant in six months or so. By June we could return your house to you.”

I could not bear it, Jane thought suddenly. The ball of thread in her hands grew blurry. Who on earth would I turn to, when life is unbearable at Stover?

“
My removal from the district would certainly fill your cousin Lady Carruthers with considerable relief, wouldn't it, Miss Milton?” the mill owner was saying to her. His tone of voice no different than it ever was, to both her chagrin and her relief.