Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind by Carla Kelly Page B

she thought, swallowing down an enormous lump.
    To her relief, Mr. Butterworth took the narrative from her. “We will invite them to spend a day or two here at Denby in … when do you think, Stanton?”
    â€œ The middle of April, sir,” he said after a moment’s thought, then looked at Jane. “What about it, Miss Milton?”
    Thank you both again for sparing me, she thought. “That would be good. By then some will be returning from the London Season, and others will be heading for their summer pursuits.” She glanced at the directions on the list. “And considering that this is October, it will provide adequate time for those far away to reply. Except possibly those here in Canada.” She looked closer. “My word, Connecticut, United States?”
    Stanton took the list from her and held it at arm’s length to read the name where she pointed. “Edward Bingham, Hartford, Connecticut.”
    â€œ After all these years, how on earth does Lord Denby have his direction?” Mr. Butterworth asked.
    â€œ Lord Ware—you remember Lord Ware from the funeral—has kept in touch with Bingham through the years,” Stanton explained, handing back the list. “I suppose that is why it is among Lord Denby’s directions. Apparently Ware, Lord Denby, and Bingham were lieutenants together before a change in orders sent Lord Denby as adjutant to Lord Cornwallis in Charleston. The other two sailed to New York to wait attendance on Lord Clinton.” He accepted the quills from Mr. Butterworth. “We can assume that Bingham preferred life among the rebels.”
    â€œ I don’t know that it’s worth the bother to write to him,” she said as she opened the bottle of ink before her.
    â€œ Oh, I would,” Stanton said. “He could be the most interesting participant of all, should he show up.”
    â€œ Which is unlikely,” Jane said. “Fresh ink, Mr. Butterworth? Lord Denby will have to repent some day of his constantly nagging about your lake, especially since you are treating us so well!”
    The first letter did not suit her. “I do not want them to think we are on our last legs, Mr. Butterworth,” she told him when she realized he was watching her hesitation. “I am determined that this is going to be a pleasant experience for Lord Denby. If only we did not have to keep reminding him how pleasant!”
    He wouldn’t hear of their return to Denby for lunch, cheerfully ignoring their protests at his efforts on their behalf. “Cook would be disappointed if I did not occasionally bring someone here to test a new receipt,” he said, when she attempted a halfhearted argument.
    Stanton did take his leave, but insisted that she remain. “Lord Denby expects me to serve him his gruel and tea, but you needn’t dance attendance,” he assured her.
    â€œ I could never protest too much,” she said as Mr. Butterworth seated her in the breakfast room. The draperies were open to the warmth of the October sun. She accepted the dish that he handed to her, reminding herself that while others in the district had welcomed this good man to meals, and probably dined here, those at Denby had not, on the poor excuse that he “smelled of the shop.”
    Chagrined at herself, she looked about her at the wonderful ivy wallpaper that pulled the outdoors inside, and the expanse of glass that warmed the room, even in mid-October. She was comfortable right down to her toes with a sense of well-being that startled her with its suddenness. This suits me far more than Stover Hall. She picked up her fork. No wonder it is so easy to speak my mind here.
    Mr. Butterworth lifted the lid from the soup tureen. “It is nothing more exciting than navy bean soup,” he admitted with a shake of his head, as he filled a bowl for her. “We mill owners are too commonplace for hummingbird tongue.”
    She breathed deep of