Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind by Carla Kelly Read Free Book Online Page A

determination never to allow him to set one foot over the threshold of Stover. Their equals made up for her stricture, allowing the mill owner entrance into Denby society, or at least enough of it to suit themselves, and flatter the prevailing mood of equality that sometimes surfaced, even so far removed as they were from actual London politics. He came to christenings, kissed babies, donated generously to the parish at Christmas, let fox hunters ride over his extensive acres, and sponsored the annual hunt dinner.
    She smiled, thinking of the innumerable times at those dinners and assemblies where Lord Denby would take Mr. Butterworth aside and argue that the lake on Mr. Butterworth’s estate had been surveyed improperly and really belonged to Denby. It would do him good to argue with Mr. Butterworth again, she thought.
    The lane was not long, and she wished it were longer, as she relished every step of the way to the door. For years she had admired the pleasant overhang of leaf and tree which was far more elegant than Stover Hall’s approach, even if much shorter. The leaves were turning color now, and the whole picture lifted her heart. “I could never tire of this,” she said simply, as she walked beside Mr. Butterworth. She could not help noticing that he had shortened his rather daunting stride to match her steps. “Do you know, sir, that Blair used to get so impatient with me when I had to skip to keep up with him?”
    â€œ Silly chuff,” he said, with his usual air of complacency. “Why on earth would a man want to hurry along a woman of good sense? Savor the moment, I say.”
    She smiled at him, but he only sighed and tucked her arm deeper within the crook of his own. “Was a time, Miss Milton, that you would have laughed at a statement like that,” he admonished.
    â€œ Nothing seems so funny anymore,” she said finally, as she walked up the steps with him, comfortable in the thought that he would not scold her for melancholy, or command her to buck up and think of others. Thank goodness you saw me from the window, she thought.
    And now Jane stood in front of his door, which was opened magically, as she had known somehow it would be, by a butler who must have had hearing acuity exceeding that of gossips or Springer spaniels. “Excellent, excellent, Marsh,” Mr. Butterworth was saying. “We’ll be having tea, if you will be so kind.”
    She sighed and pulled her cloak tighter around her. “… I had tea at the vicar’s, and ….”
    â€œâ€¦ and then you have not had tea … he interrupted. “Tea and cakes, Miss Milton, the gooier the better, and you can tell me why you were pacing in front of my property ….”
    â€œâ€¦ Oh, I couldn't have been actually pacing ,” she interrupted, exasperated with herself.
    â€œ You were,” he said firmly, “… talking only to yourself, when surely you must have some inkling that I have always shown myself willing to listen.”
    She stood there in the doorway, neither in nor out, struck by the truth of what he had just said. While he took her arm and encouraged her over the threshold, and then lifted her sopping cloak from her shoulders and handed it to the butler, she thought about all the times he had approached her at one village gathering or another. He was always willing to let her chat about Andrew, and never seemed bored by what Lady Carruthers sniffed at as her totally inadequate social sense. And always there were his wonderful brown eyes, and the excitement that seemed to jump from him like little sparks.
    I have been missing you, she thought suddenly as she took his proffered arm again and let him lead her toward the sitting room. All the months of Blair’s illness, then mourning, came to her now in a rush of feeling that brought unexpected tears to her eyes. She looked away in embarrassment.
    â€œ You may find a dry place in the laundry for