Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind by Carla Kelly

difficult?” she asked, and then the words seemed to tumble out. “Blair is six months dead and Lord Denby is hovering on the brink of … of … I have no idea what! We’re trying to arrange a simple reunion of his brother officers, and Lady Carruthers is making things so hard. She insists that if I am to actually win a point for a change and hold this reunion—which she is opposed to because it sounds like exertion—then I must give up something else, which, in this case, happens to be Andrew.”
    She glanced at him, alarmed at her hemorrhage of words, but his expression did not change. “To hold this reunion, apparently I must sacrifice Andrew to the vicar’s Latin School, which is inhabited entirely by twerpy little heathens who only want to tease him about his dead mama, even though so many years have passed. Oh! It is all so impossible!”
    Her voice rang in the tidy apartment, and she opened her eyes wide in amazement. “Did all of that just come out of my mouth?” she asked.
    Mr. Butterworth nodded. “I believe it did.” To her heart’s relief, he sheltered her dignity by taking off his spectacles to clean them. He directed all his attention to this homely detail, and even hummed under his breath. “Do you feel better?” he asked after he replaced his spectacles. “If it will help I will challenge Lady Carruthers to a duel and shoot her dead. Ah, I was waiting for that smile.”
    He rose to stand by the window, rocking back and forth on his heels. She finished the pastry, wondering how low her credit was now, after such an outburst. Lady Carruthers is right, she thought mournfully; I have no countenance. “I know I have agitated you and I apologize,” she said, her voice quiet. “Thank you for listening, though.”
    â€œ Pretty petty of me,” he murmured. “You and Andrew suffer, and I listen and offer pastry.”
    Surprised, Jane looked at him. I should leave, she thought, but joined him at the window. “I didn’t mean to give you a fit of the megrims, too,” she said.
    â€œ Just a little one, Miss Milton,” he said after a long moment. “So there is to be a reunion?”
    She knew a change of subject when she heard one, and grasped at it with both hands. “Yes! We—Stanton and I—did anyone ever have a better confederate?—are conspiring to draw together next spring Lord Denby’s comrades from the American War.”
    â€œ For the purpose of ….” Mr. Butterworth began.
    â€œâ€¦ of … of … oh, I suppose we want to blast Lord Denby out of bed, and into taking more of an interest in things again,” she said. “After all, it was in America that he began focusing his thoughts on the conduct of soldiers in wartime occupation that have so signally affected all levels of military life.”
    Mr. Butterworth made a noncommittal sound in his throat. “So you feel that something extra is needed to prop up Lord Denby?”
    â€œ It is our hope,” she said simply.
    â€œ But what if he really wishes to die?” he asked her. “A man ought to have some say in the matter, wouldn’t you agree?”
    Trust a mill owner to find the practical warp in this weaving, she thought. “Sir, he is only sixty!” she protested.
    He smiled at her. “Cheer up, Jane Milton!” he said. “I think it is a wonderful idea, and I await the day … no, the very moment … when Lord Denby will throw back his covers, storm over to whatever social gathering where I am to be found, and assure me that a proper survey of my estate would return my lake to Stover Hall, once and for all!”
    â€œ It has been a while since he has bothered you about that, hasn’t it?” she said. “It used to be his chiefest amusement.” She shook her head. “You see how low we have fallen.”
    Mr. Butterworth was silent for another