Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind (34 page)

“
Never,” the mill owner said. “In the press of everything, I forgot to send Jonathan.”

“
Dale.”

They stared at each other.

“
Good God,” she exclaimed. “Who is upstairs?”

Her mind on Lord Denby, she picked up her skirts and ran down the hall, taking the stairs two at a time, to the astonishment of the upstairs maids. She heard Mr. Butterworth right behind her, shouting for Stanton in that factory voice of his.

“
For the last week, he has been sitting with Lord Denby in the afternoons,” she called over her shoulder as she ran to the chamber and threw open the door.

He sat there now, rising in surprise from the chair by the bed when the door banged against the wall. “Miss Milton!” he exclaimed, his voice filled with alarm. “Is something wrong?”

Staring at him, unable to say anything because of her exertions, Jane shook her head. Never taking her eyes from his face, she sat on Lord Denby's bed and took his hand in hers. The mill owner, breathing heavily, hurried to her side, his eyes on the handyman as well. “Should I throw him out, Jane?” he asked. “Say the word.”

She almost did not hear him, but she shook her head, puzzled by the slight smile on Lord Denby's face.

“
Sit down, Dale,” the old man said. “She's not slow, lad, although she has been preoccupied of late.”

The handyman did as he was told. Jane looked from one to the other, and then back again, her eyes wide in amazement. “I do not understand,” she said finally, and reached behind her to touch the mill owner, who sat beside her, leaning forward and intent.

“
I think you do, Jane,” Lord Denby said. “Hand her the book, Dale.”

The handyman picked up the essays from the bedside table and turned to the first one, holding it out to her, and then placing it on her lap when she made no move to take it. Without a word and scarcely breathing, she looked down at the familiar essay about Lieutenant Jeremy Dill and his lusty New York landlady.

“
Jane, how good of you to come just now,” Lord Denby said, his lips quivering. “I have only just been properly introduced to someone I would like you to meet.”

“
Good God,” Mr. Butterworth whispered, looking over her shoulder at the essay, and then from Lord Denby to the handyman. “Jane, you did not notice the resemblance? Jane?”

“
Jane!”

She wondered why he kept calling her name, and then she realized that for the first time in her life, she must have fainted. She opened her eyes to find herself lying on Lord Denby's bed and staring at the plaster cherubs in the ceiling. She could not have been unconscious long, because Mr. Butterworth was still unbuttoning her bodice and the handyman was fanning her with the book. She started to breathe again, and put up her hand to stop the mill owner. “I think I am all right, sir,” she said, her face flaming with embarrassment. “Do help me up.”

“
No,” said the mill owner firmly. “You will stay right where you are, Jane.”

“
At least button me again,” she ordered, then put up her hand to stop him when he obliged her, his fingers warm against her chemise. “No! I will do it.”

She lay there with her eyes closed and her mind whirling about, waiting for the room to quit dipping and revolving. When her breathing returned to normal again, the mill owner lifted her into a sitting position. “I have never fainted before,” she assured Lord Denby. “Truly I have not.”

No one said anything as she looked from Lord Denby to the handyman. Why did I not notice, she asked herself in astonishment. True, Lord Denby's hair is long past auburn, but that portrait from his younger days hangs in the gallery, and his hair is glorious and abundant like Dale's, with just that same curl to it. Discounting the years, I have never seen two men who look so much alike. “I must be an idiot,” she admitted finally.

“
Not at all,” Dale said, putting down the book. “Why would you look for a resemblance where none was even dreamt of? And tell me truly: have you been this close to both of us at the same time?”

He was right, of course. She shook her head, and regretted the sudden motion. “I only looked in on you each afternoon, when I wondered where you were,” she told him, her fingers pressed to her temple. “Dale, who are you? And how could I be so dense?”

“
I am Dale Bingham, and you're not dense.”

“
Bingham.” She looked at the mill owner for confirmation. “Mr. Butterworth, Edward Bingham of Connecticut!” she said slowly, fixing her gaze again upon the handyman. “The name on the list. He is your ….”

“
My stepfather,” the handyman said. “Along with Lord Denby here, he served on Sir Henry Clinton's staff in New York City during the rebellion.”

She looked at the book. “And Edward Bingham was quartered in the same house with Lord … with Lieutenant Dill?” she asked. “But you say you are from Ohio.”

“
I didn't lie to you, Miss Milton,” he said. “I
am
from Ohio. I live in the Western Reserve and Kirtland. I was in Connecticut visiting my parents when your letter arrived.”

“
And you came all this way?” she asked.

He nodded, and looked at his father. “I was on my way to Scotland anyway to buy surveyor's transits. Miss Milton, I am a land agent in the Western Reserve. The best surveying supplies and transits in the world come from Abercrombie and Mackey in Edinburgh and I am chary about spending that much money sight unseen.”

“
You said you were a handyman,” she accused him.

Patiently he shook his head. “No, Miss Milton,
you
asked me if I could fix things. I happen to be good at fixing things.”

“
But why didn't you tell me who you were?” she persisted.

“
You didn't give me a chance.” He smiled at her indignation. “To be honest, Miss Milton—are we cousins of some sort?—I was not so sure that I wanted anyone to know who I was anyway.” He seemed to lose his confidence for a moment. “You can appreciate the … the delicacy of this situation.”

She considered his artless statement and could not disagree. “I suppose I can,” she murmured. She touched Lord Denby's hand. “Can I assume that you did not part on precisely good terms with Edward Bingham, all those years ago?”

“
He was in New York, and by the time Dale was born, I was in Yorktown with Cornwallis, ready to be shipped back to England.” He looked at Dale, a long, hungry look that brought sudden tears to Jane's eyes. “Edward wrote me a scathing letter and demanded to know what I was going to do about this situation of my own creation.” He sighed. “I ignored his letter and left Dale's mother to suffer considerable abuse, taunts, and mistreatments from her neighbors and relatives. When I speak of regret, Jane ….” He could not finish.

Still pressing her hand to her temple, she leaned forward and kissed him. “You don't need to say any more, my lord.”

“
But I do,” he insisted. “Edward Bingham—the second son of an earl, I might add—evacuated New York after the Treaty of Paris, returned to England, and resigned his commission immediately.”

“
And returned to New York?” she asked.

“
By way of Canada, where I was then on duty. He gave me a tongue lashing for deserting a good woman, called me out, and nearly killed me in a duel,” he said. His face grew red. “It was long before you came here. You know my war wounds that Blair liked to tease about? He had no idea. In all my years of active duty in India, Canada, America, and the Caribbean, I was only wounded in a duel instigated by an outraged man in love with the mother of my American son. A pretty picture, eh, Jane? Any wonder it never came up in conversation over whist or cigars?”

She was silent then, leaning back against Mr. Butterworth, who put his arm around her. “I'm sorry for both of you,” she said at last.

“
No need,” Dale said, “at least on my part. I realize that now.” It was his turn to look away, but she could still see the struggle on his face. “Pa married Mama and adopted me, and we moved to Connecticut where no one knew us. He's a farmer, and a good one, I might add. I have five brothers and two sisters. My little sister and her family live in Ohio, and I stay with her when I am not surveying.”

“
Your parents?” she asked gently.

“
Mama has never regretted my birth, and Pa loves me,” he replied simply. “I have a good life.” He looked at his father. “I wouldn't change it, but I think I needed to know that there wasn't any point in hating you, sir.” He took the old man's hand and kissed it, then twined his fingers through Lord Denby's. “On the voyage over here, I rehearsed what I was going to say at that reunion banquet. I was all ready to stand up tomorrow night and expose you as a hypocrite and a fraud.”

“
I would not blame you if you did,” Lord Denby said.

The handyman shrugged. “What would be the point? My stepfather knows, and he chose not to say anything. Lord Ware—they have been corresponding for years—seems to suspect, but he is a gentleman. And if your essays have served a useful purpose ….” He looked down at his father's hand in his. “I can forgive. If there is anything to forgive.”

She sat up suddenly, as another thought occurred to her. “Will you … can you make Dale your heir, my lord? And what about Andrew? I
know
he is Blair's son.”

“
I know he is not. Miss Milton, although you are too kind to consider it, sometimes rumors are true.”

Jane gasped and turned around to stare at Stanton, who stood in the doorway. She held her breath, and wondered if everyone else in the room was doing the same thing. The silence seemed to thunder in her ears.

“
I … do not think we need you now, Stanton,” Mr. Butterworth said slowly, intruding upon the quiet. “There really wasn't an emergency after all.”

“
I believe there is, sir, if you will excuse me,” the butler said, as imperturbable as usual.

“
I will not!” the mill owner exclaimed. “Damn you, Stanton. I did not ask for this!”

“
No, you didn't,” he replied, all serenity. “I have taken it entirely upon myself.” He turned to Jane. “I should have done so years ago.” He gave an apologetic look to Dale Bingham, who was glancing from the mill owner to the butler, his eyes lively with interest. “Dale, this is what comes of too many tales belowstairs of initiative and Yankee know-how. I shall blame you.”

“
Go right ahead, Oliver,” Dale said, grinning.

“
Since everyone else is free enough with the truth this afternoon, I intend to speak my mind, Miss Milton,” the butler said. “It is a long time overdue, wouldn't you say, Mr. Butterworth?” Without a word, the mill owner got up from the bed and sat himself in the window seat, looking no one in the face. “Does it matter what I think?” he said finally.

“
Right now? Probably not, sir,” Stanton replied. “I like you too well to see you flog yourself one more minute. Shall I tell these good people, or will you do it, sir? It would come better from you, I believe.”

He is so alone there, Jane thought. Quietly she got to her feet, swayed a little, and sat beside Mr. Butterworth. “I can return a favor,” she said simply, taking his hand onto her lap. “Andrew is your son, is he not?” She looked at Lord Denby and Dale. “God help me, Mr. Butterworth, but that afternoon at Rumsey when you and Andrew and Jacob—oh, heavens, Jacob is his cousin!—came back from the factory with grease on your faces and identical smiles!” She pressed his hand. “But Dale would only say I was not looking for a resemblance, and therefore saw none.”

When he still said nothing, she nudged his shoulder gently. “The empty miniature frame on your desk, Mr. Butterworth. Was it Lucinda?”

To her horror, he began to cry, gulping sobs that came from a place she had no idea existed in the mill owner, that man of competence and ability. Without a word, she wrapped her arms around him and held him while he cried. “Oh, sir,” she murmured as she ran her hand over his back. “Rumor said he was an older man and a ne'er-do-well. None of us ever actually knew who she loved before she married Blair,” Jane said, when he was silent in her arms. “It was you, wasn't it?”

He nodded, taking out his handkerchief and then blowing his nose. “I loved her too much, obviously.” He still could not look at anyone. “These things happen, don't they, Lord Denby?” he said, with just a touch of his old humor.

“
It seems to be the way of the world, Mr. Butterworth,” the marquis replied. “Why didn't you marry Lucinda? You are certainly a man of principle, even if you will not sell me your lake.”

He Mr. Butterworth looked at them then, and Jane could only bite her lip at the sight of so much anguish in one man's eyes. “She wrote a note telling me that I had got her with child. I came right there and proposed.” He tightened his grip on Jane's hand. “I was not a scoundrel, Jane, not precisely.”

“
Of course you were not. She … she did not accept?”

His eyes grew bewildered, as though he were going through the experience all over again. “Turned me down flat.” He released her hand and got to his feet, unable to keep still. “My God, I wanted to do the right thing! I was on my knees before her! There she was, pale as whey and worn from puking, and all she could say was that I was a mill owner and my father had come from a pig farm! Even in that extremity, she would not marry me.” He walked over to the bed. “She chose to dupe your son instead, my lord.” He leaned closer and touched the old man's shoulder. “I think he knew, but he loved her and thought that would be enough. I think it might have been enough, too, if she had not died.”