Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind by Carla Kelly Page A

for a few minutes. “This is not precisely good tidings of great joy, I gather,” he said when they reached the edge of the lake.
    â€œ Not at all,” Jane said, removing her arm from his grip and pulling her cloak tighter. “She will ride me unmercifully if I allow Andrew to continue Latin School at your home, and twit me day and night if she knows it was my idea that you visit Lord Denby.”
    â€œ Only if you allow her to trouble you, Miss Milton,” the mill owner said, as unperturbed as if she had told him that the leaves had left the trees. “Good day, now, my dear Miss Milton. I trust you can navigate the perimeter of my lake.”
    She did, walking slowly and leaning into the wind. You are right, of course, Mr. Butterworth, she decided as she rounded the lake and stood too soon before the side entrance to Stover again. I do allow people to trouble me, and I say nothing.
    The notion made her quiet through dinner. A couple of discreet coughs from Stanton reminded her to eat, and she smiled her thanks at him, secretly amused that he must dread as much as she did Cook’s fits of depression when he carried uneaten food belowstairs. “I do not believe that Lord Denby pays you enough,” she told him after Andrew excused himself. “You are the soul of diplomacy.”
    He bowed and then smiled at her, which delighted her because he so seldom unbent from his butler’s demeanor. “No, Miss Milton. I am merely a coward where Cook is concerned,” he said as he directed the footman to carry out the tray.
    I suppose we all suffer our tyrannies, she told herself as they walked upstairs to Lord Denby’s chamber. Except for you, sir, she thought, standing beside the bed and looking down on Lord Denby, who slept. Who could possibly ride roughshod over you?
    â€œ I am quite at leisure this evening,” she whispered to Stanton, “so you needn’t sit here with him.” She made herself comfortable and picked up her mending. The letters are mailed, the arrangements made—as far as we are able—for the events this spring. She looked up at the window, black now with night coming earlier and earlier. The more I plan, the closer spring will seem, she told herself.
    The butler did not leave, and Jane looked at him. “Is something wrong?” she whispered.
    He shook his head slowly, as though he was undecided how to answer her, then leaned closer to whisper in her ear. “He got another letter from Lady Carruthers this afternoon, reminding him that she and Cecil would be here soon.” He hesitated when Lord Denby stirred in his sleep. “I think it sets him off, Miss Milton, just thinking about her arrival.”
    It sets me off, too, she admitted to herself as Stanton let himself out of the room without a sound. She yanked one of Andrew’s socks over the darning egg and sewed vigorously, her lips set in a tight line. She sewed until the hole in the heel had far too many darning stitches to fit comfortably into any shoe Andrew owned. “Drat!” she said out loud.
    â€œ My dear cousin, we will have no wooden swearing.”
    Guilty, she looked at Lord Denby, who was watching her. “I didn’t mean to wake you, my lord,” she said.
    He closed his eyes again. “You didn’t really,” he murmured. “Don’t know why I feel so tired today.”
    It is because you cannot bear the thought of your sister back so soon, she told herself, or her son Cecil and the way he oozes around, taking inventory on everything he plans to inherit someday, if Andrew’s claims can be brushed aside. She thought of Mr. Butterworth and his truth telling. “Do you know, my lord, if you made it perfectly plain to Cecil that Andrew truly is your grandson and will be the next Lord Denby, I know he would not plague you further.”
    There, she had said it. Jane clipped the thread from the sock and kneaded the sock between suddenly