Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind (31 page)

T
he plasterer arrived in the morning about the same time that Cecil, pale and on a stretcher, was quitting his room. I am continually amazed at the power of suggestion, Jane thought as she walked beside the stretcher, holding Cecil's limp hand in her own. Because Lady Carruthers appeared more intent upon arranging her luggage in the cart to follow, Jane saw that he was comfortably seated in Lord Denby's carriage with a shawl around his shoulders and a warming pan at his feet. I should own to a twinge of conscience, she thought, as she looked at her cousin's drawn expression and his body as limp as the lace on his nightshirt. Ah, well, no one is perfect.

“
Did Mr. Lowe send you with more medicinal powders?” she asked, determined not to go into whoops before the carriage was out of earshot.

He nodded. “I am to take a diminishing dose over the next two days and check my piss carefully, cousin,” he said, his voice hard to hear with Lady Carruthers booming out her orders regarding the stowage of bags and boxes.

“
I am certain you will see a remarkable improvement by the end of the week, Cecil,” she assured him without a qualm. Now, if Stanton will not look at me until the carriage is out of sight, I think I will manage, she told herself.

To her relief, she noticed that Stanton was avoiding her eyes, as well, turning his full attention to Lady Carruthers as she worked herself into minor hysteria until the luggage was tied down to her complete satisfaction. He helped her into the carriage, nodding as she ordered him to have the chimneys checked before her return. “Stanton, there is something wrong when a person cannot have a hot bath for a month! And so I have been telling you! For a youngish man, you are remarkably deaf!”

“
I am certain you are right, Lady Carruthers,” he said. “How fortunate then, that the chimneys began to draw so well last night. One could almost call it providential.”

She gave him a furious glance. “One could call it a lot of things!”

“
Indeed, yes. Will we see you soon, my lady?”

“
As soon as I recover from your mismanagement, Stanton!” she declared. “Oh, do hush, Cecil! You cannot be sick yet because we have not even started moving!”

Jane stepped forward. “Lady Carruthers, there is so much work to do here to prepare for the reunion that we will be glad of your prompt return.”

“
I will come when I have recovered, Jane, and not a moment sooner,” she said, each word as sharp as icicles.

And that will be as soon as the work is done, Jane thought in triumph. “Very well, ma'am. Do have a pleasant journey with Cecil. Cecil, do you wish that basin closer to your mouth? Lady Carruthers, pardon my blushes, but I believe his urinal is handy so you can help him.”

“
Jane, you are a scoundrel beyond my wildest imagining,” the butler murmured. They watched as the coachman shook his head and then climbed onto the carriage box.

“
I confess it, Oliver. Not another word from you or I will disgrace myself.”

“
We could not have that.” He nodded toward the baggage cart, which began to move behind the carriage. “Miss Milton, is that back wheel wobbling excessively? I would hate to have it fall off any sooner than … what do you say? Ten or fifteen miles?”

Thanks to Stanton, in the week that followed and the one after, Jane found herself too busy to repine much upon her own state of affairs. The painter had followed the plasterer, and when he was done with the front door, the trim, and a room or two, Jane could not overlook the general shabbiness of the entire estate. “Which means a return of the plasterer, the painter again, and then a visit to the cloth warehouse for new draperies and bed coverings in those chambers we are preparing for reunion guests,” Jane wrote to Emma Newton. “I suppose all this effort would distress me, except that I seem to have no qualms about spending someone else's money!”

Indeed I do not, she thought, flexing her fingers and drawing her shawl closer about her as she sat in the bookroom at the end of the day. She added another paragraph about Andrew's progress through Gaul with Julius Caesar and Joe Singletary, but did not ask Emma if her brother had begun measures to sell his property near Denby. And I do not ask how he does, or if he seems tired, or what are his own plans, she thought. She read the letter again, wished she could say more without saying more, then sealed it.

She began her letters to Mr. Butterworth—the ones she never mailed—after she wrote that first letter to Emma. Her mind on Rumsey and the mill owner, it had been so simple to take out another sheet of paper and write him a letter. In the first letter, she assured him that she was sleeping well now, with the nightmare scarcely troubling her. Since she knew the letter was going nowhere, it was also simple to tell him how much she loved him, and then sign her name. That is what I would write if you were my husband and away from me, Mr. B, she thought as she folded the note and then dropped it in the waste basket. I would tell you what we did during the day, and how I missed you. She shook her head. No, it's more than merely missing you; I long for you.

This is probably not a good idea, she told herself as she wrote a similar letter the next night, and then the night after. Writing to Mr. Butterworth is fast becoming the best part of my day, which doesn't speak well to my state of mind, she thought the next day, when she should have been concentrating on the linen inventory. And yet, it is harmless, she decided, after the thought of no letter to write at day's end cast her into such glooms that even Stanton remarked on her low state.

When it was nearly March and the promised handyman had not materialized, she mentioned that fact in one of her late-night letters. “Mr. B, I will begin to think you do not care for me, because you have forgotten that one essential to a woman's total happiness: a handyman for the little jobs she cannot do herself,” she wrote, when it was far too late and she was feeling both silly and ill-used. “One can always find a physician, and there are poulterers and solicitors aplenty, but a handyman? My dearest love, a handyman is a pearl beyond price, more essential (discounting the necessaries) than a husband. I am desperate for a man who can hang a picture straight or level a table leg without turning it into furniture fit only for Lilliputians.”

She read the letter and deposited it where all the others went. In the press of three mills to run, Mr. Butterworth has put you out of his mind, she told herself. For all you know, Jane Milton, he probably congratulated himself on helping a woman oppressed with excessive blame, and then moved on to another project. That would be entirely like him. Or so she told herself, but still she hoped for a letter.

None came, but then one day, long beyond when she had told herself not to look anymore, the handyman arrived.

It was one of those impossible days toward the end of March when the weather was so beautiful that she knew she could not bear to be indoors for one more linen inventory or silverware count. “Stanton, if I am virtuous and continue to count pillow covers on the assumption that tomorrow will be equally warm and sunny, I know that I am doomed to disappointment,” she told the butler as she put down her list.

It was on the tip of her tongue to invite the butler to join her out-of-doors, but she resisted the impulse. There is no telling what additional rumors Lady Carruthers would circulate about me, if she knew that I already spend a large portion of my evenings belowstairs after Lord Denby is asleep, drinking tea with Stanton and the cook while Andrew does his Latin homework on the table, she told herself. She folded the last pillow cover, tossed in a handful of lavender, and shut the drawer with a finality that made the butler laugh.

She left Stover Hall with relief, walking first to the apple orchard to stare at the lower branches, and with squinting eyes, threaten the buds to hurry up and bloom. Enjoying the sun on her back, she strolled to the formal gardens that sloped away toward the lake. It is shabby here, too, she thought, itching to kneel down right then and pull weeds until dark. She could see the mill owner's house because the trees were still bare of leaves, and briefly considered releasing both Andrew and his teacher from its confines. This is no day to conjugate, she told herself. I cannot see Joe objecting if I were to spring into the room and demand Andrew's release.

She was walking toward the house when she noticed a gig slowing on the road. She stopped to watch as a man jumped down, then went around to pull out a traveling case. He stood a moment in conversation with the driver, who gestured toward Stover Hall, tipped his hat, and then continued down the road.

I wonder if this is Mr. Butterworth's handyman, Jane thought, hurrying back toward the estate. The man seemed in no hurry to walk any closer to the house, but remained where he was, as though he were taking the measure of the place. “I certainly know already that you do not rush into things,” she murmured under her breath, “considering how long you have been getting here from Rumsey. Gawk a moment more, Mr. Handyman, and I will think you have never seen a great estate!”

She noticed that his clothes were plain, and looked much abused, as though he had traveled too long in them. She came closer and cleared her throat.

“
This is Stover Hall,” she said.

The man turned around at Jane's words and favored her with a wonderful smile. “Stover Hall?” he repeated.

“
The very same,” she answered. “I thought you would never get here.”

If she thought the handyman would tug at his forelock and stumble through some apology, she was mistaken. “Came as fast as I could, considering,” he replied, unruffled by her tone of voice. “So this is it?”

“
Yes, indeed,” she said, knowing it was best to be firm with the help, but quite unable to resist that smile. “I am Jane Milton, Lord Denby's relative, and I have such a list of things for you to repair. You are ….”

“
Dale,” he said, holding out his hand. “Pleased to know you, Miss Milton.”

She stared at his hand, wondering why on earth a handyman would think she would ever shake it. When he did not withdraw his hand, she extended her own and let him give it a good shake. Mr. Butterworth has sent me an eccentric, she thought.

He picked up his traveling case and started toward Stover Hall. Jane watched him, a frown on her face. “See here, sir. You
do
repair things, do you not?”

He gave her a quizzical look. “I've been known to. Got something that needs doing here?”

“
Of course I do!” she said, resisting the urge to stamp her foot. “Why do you think you were sent for?”

She could tell that he was paying no attention to her, but looking over her shoulder. His eyes widened and then he shook his head in amazement. “Miss Milton, that is the strangest chicken coop I have ever seen. And maybe the ugliest.”

Mystified, she looked over her shoulder at Lady Carruthers' dreadful Greek temple. “It is a ruin,” she explained.

“
That's obvious. Probably pretty high on your repair list?” he suggested.

“
It is supposed to look like that!” She took another look at the ruin, even worse than usual without the full leaf of ivy to offer merciful cover. “It
is
awful, isn't it?” she found herself saying, and added on impulse, “What would
you
do with it?”

“
Burn it right down and build a proper coop,” he said immediately. “I'll bet you can't keep a single chicken in there very long.” He grinned at her with that same irresistible expression. “Bet they just stagger around, then flop over, dead with embarrassment.”

Jane laughed and the handyman joined in. How I would love to replace that horrid Greek temple with a chicken coop, she thought. Lady Carruthers would go into spasms from which she would never recover. “It may go on my list of things to do. Shall we?”

They started for the house again. Where is this man from? Jane asked herself in amazement. I have never heard such an accent, and he is so droll. It was impolite to ask personal questions of a servant, so she knew there was no way to relieve her curiosity. Still … she did not know what Mr. Butterworth had told him.

“
This is Lord Denby's estate,” she explained as they walked up the lane. “I have been planning a reunion of his brother officers from the American Rebellion, and Mr. Butterworth—that is his house next door by that lake—promised to send me a handyman for those frustrating little odd jobs that need doing, but which always seem to be put off. I will pay you whatever Mr. Butterworth ordinarily pays you, and Stanton will find room for you belowstairs. Is that agreeable?”

He made no comment, but looked about him with a mild expression in his quite blue eyes.

“
Well?” she asked.

He shrugged. “It never entered my mind that I would be making money here.”

“
We do not engage in slave labor!” she declared. “No matter what Mr. Butterworth with his republican ideas may have told you about us.”

“
Butterworth told me nothing. Don't you know when your leg is being pulled, Miss Milton?”

She had never heard that expression before, but the meaning was quickly obvious. “Perhaps I do not,” she said. She stopped this time, even though Stanton—who possessed that butler's sixth sense—had already opened the front door. “Botheration, Dale, but I have gotten us off on the wrong foot.” She simply could not resist smiling into his pleasant face. “It must have been the very leg you were pulling.”