Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind by Carla Kelly Page A

long minute, and then he clapped his hands together. “A reunion it should be then, Miss Milton. If he is in a sufficiently weakened state, he will be indifferent if you bring over the invitations so I can help write them, too.” He touched her shoulder. “If you will not allow me to shoot Lady Carruthers, and the vicar, too, as well as all those pesky Latin scholars, we can at least gorge on pastry and umbrage!”
    â€œ And plot revolutions of our own. Done, sir,” she replied, holding out her hand to him. He surprised her by kissing her fingers.
    She had no time to be embarrassed, because then Marsh was there with her cloak, quite dry and even warm. She allowed the butler to swirl it around her shoulders, and then permitted Mr. Butterworth to escort her to the entrance. “I will be over soon then, once we have composed an invitation. At least one of the letters, maybe more, must go all the way to Canada, so we cannot waste a moment,” she said.
    â€œ You know I would happily call for my carriage,” he told her as they stood at the open door. “It hardly seems sporting to rescue you on the road in front of my house and then send you out again.”
    â€œ Of course you can, sir. It is only misting now, and I do not require an escort. She pointed to his feet. “I would not have you utterly destroying last year’s Christmas present.”
    He laughed in that hearty way of his that seemed to fill the room. “I forgot all about these!” He leaned closer, his finger to his lips. “Do not tell Lady Carruthers. She will have another charge about mill owners to lay at my door.”
    â€œ That you are eccentric?” she teased, as the rain spotted his spectacles.
    â€œ That will be the kindest thing she says.” He squinted into the rain, which was spotting his glasses. “Do tell Andrew that I will be happy to help him with his Latin, should he need some brushing up. Good night, Miss Milton, and thank you.”
    She tugged her cloak tighter. “For what, sir? For letting me speak my mind?”
    â€œ That is it, my dear Miss Milton. Someday—if you are really good—I will tell you what is on mine.”

Chapter Four
    T hey began the following Monday, after Andrew’s incarceration in the vicar’s Latin School. The way was paved by Lady Denby’s abrupt departure for London and a visit with her son. “Or ‘Cecil the Silly, the queerest leaf on anyone’s family tree,’ ” Jane told Mr. Butterworth as he sat her down at the desk, which he had moved to take advantage of the best morning light. “That was what Blair used to call him.”
    Mr. Butterworth stood over the wastebasket, shaving the last quill into a finer point. “I rejoice then, that my diminished status as mill owner in this fine neighborhood has kept me from claiming a closer acquaintance with so rara an avis .”
    She twinkled her eyes at him. “Oh, excellent, excellent man! We should have engaged you as Andrew’s Latin teacher.” She frowned. “I did hate to leave him there today.”
    â€œ Buck up, Miss Milton,” he said, his voice mild. “Growing up is difficult, but not impossible.”
    â€œ For him or me, sir?” she asked.
    He touched her shoulder. “Correct me if I am wrong, but since you have, in all but actual fact, been this lad’s mother since almost his birth, we will allow some misgivings on your part.” With their heads together, she and Mr. Butterworth composed an invitation that was more of a letter, informing Lord Denby’s former brothers-in-arms of the book, and his desire to see them all once more. “We don’t want to be too morbid,” Jane said. “They should be informed of his son’s death—those who do not know—and our ardent hope that such a reunion will bring Lord Denby the cheer so sadly lacking from his life, of late.” My life, too,