by Carla Kelly
“Then let us do it, Miss Mitten,” Andrew said. He raised up on his elbow to look at her. “I do not think we have enough friends to waste one, do you?”
“I do not think so, either,” she said. “I will do it tonight.”
It is a simple thing, she told herself as she went back downstairs to the bookroom. The main floor was dark, and she knew that Stanton must consider his charges safely abed now, so he could sleep. She moved quietly, sure of herself in the house she knew so well, letting herself into the bookroom and closing the door without a sound. “Thanks to Dale,” she said. “Nothing in this house creaks now.” She sat a moment at the desk, mentally going down her list of reasons why it was perfectly unobjectionable to mail a letter to the mill owner. The list was short; nothing in her upbringing advised her to write even the briefest note, thanking him for the handyman.
“I will do it anyway,” she said out loud, as she reached for the sulphurs and stood up to light the other branch of candles on the desk. “I told Andrew that I would and Stanton seems to expect it.” She thought about Lady Carruthers, who had already announced her arrival in a day. “I will invite him to the reunion, as well.”
It was a short note, unlike the long letters she wrote and never mailed, businesslike even, thanking him for sending Dale to make the place right and tight before the reunion. Writing faster, before she lost all her nerve, she invited him to the reunion dinner. I can hope that Lady Carruthers will not be rude if he appears, although there is no guarantee, she thought. She sealed the letter and backed it, carrying it carefully to the table in the front hallway, as though it were eggs balanced on top of each other.
You are being foolish, Jane, she told herself. It is merely a note of thanks for the handyman, and you are enlarging upon it in the same way that you imagined that he cared for you. I suppose this is the fantasy of old maids.
Deep in reflection, she walked down the hall again, touching the familiar tables, running her hand along the leather-tooled wallcovering which had seemed so grand when she came from the workhouse years ago, but which was stained now, and old. She knew that Stover Hall had gone to seed as surely as the formal garden was now a mass of weeds and choked plants, and it pained her heart. She knew also that Lady Carruthers was right. Stanton and I should never have planned a reunion, she thought. I wonder if it is not too late to call it off.
She sat on the stairs, chin in hand, to think about the matter, and realized with a chill that she was not alone. She couldn’t help herself; she thought first of Blair. When that panic passed, she forced herself to stand up and listen. Someone was humming.
On silent feet, she moved back down the hall until she stood outside the sitting room. She pressed her ear against the door. I know that tune, she thought, and whispered, “ ‘If buttercups buzzed after the bee, If boats were on land, churches on sea ….’ Oh, my dear Lord Denby.”
She opened the door, careful not to make sudden noises, and stood there. Her eyes were already accustomed to the darkness, and she had no trouble seeing Lord Denby seated in a chair that was pulled up to the open window. You’ll be cold, she almost told him, and then she just stood there, enjoying the blessed fragrance, so delicate, of lilacs. I would have planted those in the front of Mr. Butterworth’s house in Rumsey, she thought, closing her eyes and breathing deep.
“ ‘If summer were spring, and the other way round, then all the world would be upside down.’ ’Tis a sad little tune, Jane,” Lord Denby said without turning around. “It isn’t supposed to be.”
“How do you know it is I?” she countered, coming closer, relieved to see that he had covered his legs with a blanket, even though the air was mild.
“Who else?” he asked simply. He pushed out the footstool. “Sit down, my dear.”
She did as he said, and made no objection when he raised the blanket to cover her lap as well as he could. She leaned against his knees, something she had never done before, and sighed when he rested his hand on her head.
“The fifers played that tune when we surrendered at Yorktown to Washington and Rochambeau,” he murmured. “No one sang, Jane, because the heart was ripped from our bodies. We were the best in the world, and we surrendered to rabble! What a damnable business.”
She nodded, unable to think of anything to say. He was silent for a long moment, and she heard him humming again. “I am reminded of defeat, Jane,” he said, when he finished.
“I should not have organized a reunion, should I?” she asked. “Say the word, my lord, and I will call it off.” She felt the pressure of his hand increase on her head, but it was not unpleasant.
“No, my dear, it is precisely right,” he replied. “I only wish all of my comrades in arms could be here next week. Oh, Jane!” The words seemed torn from him. “Lord Cornwallis is dead in India these twelve years. Henry Clinton gone; Reich, that dreadful Hessian who could beat us all to flinders at whist, drowned off Malta; Palmerton and Riggs carried off by Caribbean fevers. We were young once together, and it pains me, Jane.”
“You know Lord Ware will come,” she reminded him, “and I have heard from Banastre Tarleton, who said he would not miss this opportunity. And the others: I do not remember their names, but you know them well. Oh, Lord Denby, what can I do for you?”
She raised up to look at him, and to her surprise, he was smiling. But such an odd smile, she thought, feeling again the same little chill.
“When I told you and Mr. Lowe that I wanted to die, I meant it, Jane,” he told her, and then put his finger to her lips when she tried to speak. “But that is the coward’s way, and I do not choose it now. I have something to tell my brother officers, and with this gathering, you have given me the opportunity.”
“What, sir?” she asked, thoroughly alarmed now by the oddness of his smile, which was no smile.
He shook his head. “It will keep awhile longer, my dear, and so will your regard for me, I trust.”
“Long after,” she insisted.
“I fear not,” he said. “But it will keep a few more days.” He sighed then, and shifted his weight, and his mood seemed to change. “Do you know what it is to regret something with all your heart, and to know that there is nothing you can ever do to make amends?”
Oh, I do, she thought. Mr. Butterworth may excuse me, and I have made my peace, but there will always be that moment—maybe when I am tired, or disappointed, or in some low state—when I will wonder if I could have saved Blair’s life. I deeply regret that Mr. Butterworth decided that someone with my background just wouldn’t do. “I … I have some little idea of what it means to regret, my dear Lord Denby,” she whispered.
“Well, then, we understand each other,” he said. He shifted his legs. “I am certain it is late, but stay here with me awhile longer.”
She nodded, and he patted her head. “I am glad you are not wearing those frumpy old caps anymore,” he told her.
“I don’t need them. There is nothing wrong with my hair,” she said, smiling into the dark. “Maybe I even think it is beautiful.”
“Just stay awhile longer,” he repeated, even as she heard a drowsy tone to his words. “Do you know, that handyman just came and sat by my bed this afternoon.”
“How odd,” she murmured. “He said nothing?”
“Well, he told me he was Dale, and that he wanted to tell me about America, if I felt like it.” He chuckled. “According to Stanton, this handyman is fixing everything in sight, so I decided, in fairness to all your efforts, to humor a lunatic.” He touched her head again. “Truth to tell I liked having him there, and so I want you here for a moment more.”
“And so I shall be,” she said, her voice low.
He was quiet a long time, and his hand grew heavier on her head. Her eyes were starting to close when he began to hum again. “I regret,” he whispered, when he finished the tune.
So do I, she thought. Is there a worse taskmaster than regret?
After another long period of silence, she sat up. “Lord Denby, ma
y I help you back to your room?”
“No, my dear,” he said. “I can find my way. Good night now.” He sighed. “If my sister is returning tomorrow, we will both need all our energy.”
She stood for a moment with her hands on his shoulders. “I hope you will not take to your bed again because Lady Carruthers will be here.”
“I think not,” he replied. “Of course, it is one thing to face Mahrattas in India and rabble in America, and quite another to deal with one’s relatives.”
Jane smiled into the darkness and kissed his cheek. “Good night, my lord.” She left the room and paused at the entrance foyer, wondering if she should retrieve the letter to Mr. Butterworth. There is nothing in it but a thank you, and yet I am reluctant to intrude where I obviously have no place, she thought. Life would be so easy if I did not care.
She stood a moment in great indecision, then left the letter where it was. She started for the stairs, then turned in surprise when the front door opened. She knew it was Stanton by his silhouette, even though she could not see his face in the dark. She walked toward him and he waited at the door.
“It is a lovely night, Stanton,” she said, standing with him in the doorway.
“Indeed, Miss Mitten,” he replied.
She could sense his hesitation more than hear it, and put her hand on his arm. “We have been through a great deal together, sir,” she said.
“We have,” he agreed. “Miss Milton, despite all of it, I would miss this place.”
“You do not plan to leave, do you?” she asked, startled.
“I would hope not,” he said.
It was not an answer that satisfied her. She waited for him to say more, but he did not. “Stanton, do you have any regrets?” she asked on impulse.
He considered the question at length. “Fewer than I did last week, Miss Milton,” was all he said.
“Then you are among the lucky.”
Chapter Seventeen
She waited, half in hope, and half in dread, for a response to her letter, but none came. Her heart leaped when Stanton delivered a letter to her at the breakfast table two days later, but it was just a letter from Emma, recounting the latest exploits of her brood, and stating that Olivia was now laughing.
She was returning the letter to its envelope when she noted a postscript on the back of the last page. “Jane, I have been forwarding your letters to Scotland, where my brother is at present visiting Robert Owen in New Lanark,” she read.
And so I shall not hear from him, she thought, frowning at the letter. But I only sent one letter, unless Andrew has been writing as well, and that is entirely possible. I shall ask him when he returns from Joe Singletary’s tutelage today. Better still, I will meet him at the lake and walk him home. It has been so long since I have done even that. Surely I can bear to walk that close to Mr. Butterworth’s home now, after this much time.
She wandered Stover Hall that afternoon, noticing with pleasure all the final touches administered by the handyman, from the gleaming wall of paint in the entrance, Wedgwood blue as he suggested, to the new hinges on the French doors that opened onto the terrace, with its view of Mr. Butterworth’s lake. Content despite her qualms about the guests due to arrive tomorrow, she went belowstairs, where the cook pronounced everything ready, and the footman polished silver as though kingdoms would fall if he did not. She chose not to disturb Stanton, who was in deep conversation with the upstairs maids, and went back to the terrace.
She smiled to see the ’tween stairs maid and the groundsmen weeding diligently in the formal garden, and watched as Andrew, coming up from the mill owner’s house, dropped his books on the flagstone path, waved to her and started pulling weeds, too. I should help, she thought, but was content to sit where she was, the sun on her face. Tomorrow there will be reunion guests, and Lady Carruthers will have arrived to preside and claim all my own hard work as her own. I need to marshal my forces for this ordeal of my own creation.
She could not have closed her eyes for long, but when she opened them, there was Mr. Butterworth approaching the terrace, his arm around Andrew. She passed her hand before her eyes, sure that he would disappear, but he did not. You have returned, you dear man, she thought, as she straightened her dress and rose to greet him. She looked closer. It would be good if you were smiling, she told herself. Or if you did not look thinner, somehow.
“Hello, sir,” she said, putting out her hand and having the pleasure of finding it grasped in both of his. “You have been long away.”
“Aye, Miss Milton, I have.”
He seemed content to stand there and hold her hand, and she could not think of a single reason to distract him from such a pleasant occupation.
“See here, Mr. Butterworth, you are to shake her hand and then let it go,” Andrew said with a laugh. “Besides, sir, I have much to tell you.”
The mill owner released her hand, his face serious. Think of all the conversation I should be making, she thought in confusion, as she merely stood and admired him. No question that he was thinner; his collar was loose, and his coat seemed to hang a little off his tall frame. He wore a terribly ordinary waistcoat, which told her more about him than words could ever convey. Perhaps he does not care anymore, she thought.
“Mr. Butterworth, I think you must be far too busy with your mills,” she scolded, seeking for the right tone, and wondering if she was even close.
“Em calls me a skeleton,” he said, then turned to Andrew. “Lad, I think it would be sporting if you would continue helping that charming little lady in the rose patch”—he looked at Jane, with the first actual hint of a smile in his eyes—“the formal gardens. We can talk later.” He watched Andrew return to the garden, then turned his attention to her again. “You may say those things about me, but I have to ask in turn if you need to be reminded to eat.”
“Sometimes,” she said. “Stanton reminds me.”
“Not enough, I should think.” He indicated the chair she had vacated. “Could we talk a moment, my dear?”
She sat, and after another moment spent watching Andrew, he joined her. He started to speak, and then stared at his hands. “I do not know how to say this, Miss Milton, but it needs saying, before much more time has passed.”
She waited, a cold coming into her bones that she would not have expected, considering that it was April now. “Perhaps it can keep.”
“No, it cannot,” he declared with some force. “I would not for the world mislead you.”
“You never have, sir,” she interrupted. Say no more, sir, she thought, not while you look so sad.
“Your letters were forwarded to me in Scotland,” he began finally, the words pulled from him by pincers it seemed.
“It was just one letter, Mr. Butterworth, and totally unobjectionable,” she said in apology. “I cannot believe there was anything in it to cause distress on your part or warrant a visit! I merely wanted to thank you for sending us the handyman.” How low I must be in his estimation now, she reflected, when he never asked for correspondence from me. He must think I have no more propriety than an opera dancer.
When she nerved herself to look at his face again, she could see nothing but perplexity there. “The handyman,” she repeated, wondering why he stared at her.
The mill owner strode to the French doors, flinging them open. “Miss Milton, I sent no handyman,” he said.
“Of course you did,” she argued, propelled from her chair by a sense of urgency, even as she strove to keep her voice calm. “He said he came from you ….” She stopped and stared at him. “No, he never said anything of the sort! I assumed …. You did not send a man of about thirty-seven or thirty-eight? He is from Ohio. He has fixed everything on my list, just as you said he would.”
“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?”