Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind

by Carla Kelly

  “What did you do with Rudge ’s Medicament?” she asked suddenly.

  “Burned it, Miss Mitten,” he replied just as promptly. He coughed. “Your ... your fingerprints were all over it.”

  She nodded. Of course he had; she had even asked him about it before. How strange she must have looked when they found her there, Lord Canfield dead and her sitting there so calmly. She colored from the remembrance of her earlier panic that no one had seen, she who had not panicked for one moment when it mattered, especially when Mr. Lowe had told her exactly what would finally happen. He had been far too right, but this was nothing to be thinking of now.

  “And how is our difficult patient this morning?” she asked as she headed to the door, allowing the butler no choice but to follow.

  “Mr. Lowe is right now patting him here and there and checking for soundness of wind.”

  “It is so early!” she exclaimed. “We may have taken him on because of his enthusiasm for modern medicine, but I think Mr. Lowe tries too hard.”

  Stanton smiled, and she knew he appreciated her humor, especially when she knew how glum she must have looked sitting there on Blair’s old campaign chest. “He knocked at the servants’ entrance at an obscenely early hour and informed me that he had just seen the grocer’s wife through a tedious confinement and would I mind if he killed two birds with one stone before he went home.”

  “Mr. Lowe is such an economy,” she said with a smile of her own. “I cannot imagine that your master is being even slightly polite at this early hour.”

  “He is not,” Stanton agreed cheerfully. “When our good doctor is through prodding him, I will sweeten Lord Denby with an offering from the publisher.” He smiled. “It arrived last night, Miss Milton.”

  “Oh, that will be just the thing!”

  This is news indeed, she thought as she followed the butler to the breakfast room. A parcel wrapped in brown paper rested on the sideboard next to the bacon. She looked at it hopefully, noticing that the string was not bound tight. Drat, she thought, after another look. There is wax and a seal; we dare not.

  She carefully avoided looking at the package as she put together her breakfast from the sideboard and then smiled her thanks to Stanton, who pulled her chair out for her. She tinkered with the bacon, then cleared her throat. She was rewarded with an eager look from the butler.

  She selected her words carefully. “Do you know, Stanton, how disappointed Lord Denby would be if you took that package to him and it turned out to be the wrong book?” She knew better than to look him in the eye; they had conspired on too many previous occasions to have any scruples left. “These mistakes do happen, especially if it is a busy publishing house, I would suspect.”

  “It could send him into a deep decline from which he would never recover,” he said.

  Jane nodded. “And that would mean Cecil would encroach on the premises and likely go through all the silver drawers and get his slimy fingermarks on everything.” (This for the benefit of the footman who stood behind her, and who she knew took especial pride in the Denby silver.)

  Barnaby put down his napkin. “Reeves, I do believe we had better take a look at that package. If only someone here had a knife.”

  Reeves did. Two strides took the footman to the sideboard, and one quick motion from the knife that he always carried inside his livery rendered the package open. He handed the books to Jane. “Reeves, this is a relief to my heart,” she murmured, still not daring to look at her confederate, who had occupied himself with straightening the plates.

  She turned the pages, enjoying the fragrance of leather, and admiring the beautiful type. The backaches and eyestrain she had endured while copying the older essays weren’t even a memory any more, not with this volume before her. “This is an achievement, Stanton,” she said, handing him a copy. “Now officers everywhere can read about how to conduct themselves in foreign lands to the credit of the Empire. What a virtuous example for their men! I am proud to have been connected in some small way with its publication.” She picked up another copy. “Of course, Lady Carruthers will claim all the credit and tell her friends that the idea of compiling her brother’s essays was her idea, but we can still enjoy it right now.”

  After another moment admiring the book, and the reminder from Stanton that her egg was getting cold, Jane ate half of it. “Just think! This might be enough of a restorative to blast Lord Denby right out of that sickroom.”

  “And how would I earn a living then, Miss Milton?” said a voice behind her. “You know that my specialty of diseases of the rich enables me to labor among those not so blessed with the coin of the realm. Really, Miss Milton, where is your philanthropy?”

  She turned around to see Mr. Lowe, who set his black bag on a chair by the door, nodded to Reeves, and began his own assault upon the sideboard. “There is always Mr. Butterworth next door,” she reminded the physician as he sat next to her.

  “Far too healthy to suit a doctor. In all his years in this district he has never been a patient of mine,” Mr. Lowe said.

  “Sir, how does our Lord Denby do this morning?”

  The doctor made another face. “He is still determined to die, but I have yet to establish what his chief complaint is. Do pass the marmalade, Miss Milton.”

  She handed him the marmalade and another copy of the essays. The physician looked at the title on the spine. “On the Deportment of Officers in Foreign Lands. So there it is at last.” He spooned marmalade onto his toast. “How fitting that England’s most venerated warrior should pass on his advice to the officer corps.” He ate his toast with complete satisfaction and reached for his teacup. “Jane and Stanton, this is your work, of course.” He beamed at her. “My dear, if you even got one-tenth the credit for anything you have done around here ….” His voice trailed off. He shrugged and took a sip.

  “It is not credit we yearn for, Mr. Lowe,” she told him, picking up the book he had set down. “I wish I could think of some way to use this book to propel him from bed.”

  Jane expected no answer, and she was surprised when the butler cleared his throat. “Beg pardon, Miss Milton, but what would you think if the publisher were to hold a small party here for Lord Denby? You know, a little affair to introduce his book.”

  “Such things are done in London, I believe,” the doctor commented.

  “But not here in Yorkshire,” she suggested, her voice cautious enough to disgust her. Lord, I am sounding like my cousin Lady Carruthers, with a reason for every bit of laziness that afflicts her, she scolded herself. “And yet, we could probably do whatever we wanted to celebrate this publishing event,” she amended. “Who would stop us?”

  “It could be a reunion, Miss Milton,” Stanton said. “We could invite all his comrades in arms from the American war. There must be ten or twenty of them left.” He opened the book and thumbed to an early chapter. “Remember this essay, where he exhorts all young officers to remember their own mothers and wives, when quartering themselves in civilian homes?”

  She remembered it well from transcribing it last summer, and her own blushes of the story of Lieutenant Jeremy Dill, and his unfortunate encounter with tar and feathers, all because the mistress of the house where he was quartered had presented her twelve-months’ absent husband with a bawling, wriggling token of British affection. With a smile, she turned to the essay’s conclusion and cleared her throat: “ ‘And so, sirs, take advice from Lieutenant Dill’s cautionary tale and limit your interest in the local flora and fauna to an occasional walk in the woods to catalog the cedar waxwing, or hairy-beaked teal. Avoid, as you would the plague, the walk upstairs to admire the early rising buxom landlady!’ ” She looked at the physician. “Oh, dear, it does seem out of place among his serious essays, doesn’t it?”

  “And all the more delightful, Miss Milton,” said the doctor, as he stood up and reached for his bag. “Particularly when one considers Lord Denby’s own exemplary character, and the particularly hilarious contrast that this represen
ts. I think a reunion of those American war veterans on the occasion of this book’s release might be just the thing to interest Lord Denby in living again. They will at least have a laugh or two.” To Jane’s dismay, he put the back of his hand against her forehead and just as quickly withdrew it. “And so might you, my dear. Let me know what you decide.”

  The doctor nodded to them both and left. She finished her breakfast in silence, not without noticing the butler’s occasional glances in her direction, and his inclination to be on the verge of speech. “Do tell, Stanton,” she said at last, exasperated with him. “Am I becoming so forbidding that you cannot speak around me?”

  “You’ve been a trifle touchy for months on end now, miss,” he said, then wiped his hands with a napkin. “Not that I do not understand but ….” He sighed. “I think a reunion would be fun for all of us.”

  Jane regarded him in more silence, noticing how quiet the house was. With scarcely any effort, she could hear the clock ticking in the next room. “Perhaps you are right. Let us put it to Lord Denby this morning.” She grinned at him. “And his tart-tongued lazy relative!”

  Chapter Three

  “Lord Denby, we are the bearers of tea and toast and rather good news,” Stanton said as he set the breakfast tray beside the bed.

  To Jane’s amusement, Lord Denby opened one eye and then the other. “A delegation,” he murmured. “And of course, my own devoted sister.”

  Is there something dryer than usual in your voice, dear sir? Jane asked herself. Here Lady Carruthers sits, all solicitude, but how delicious it would be if you knew that she never exerts herself beyond arriving the moment before you wake up.

  Jane had to turn her head to hide her smile. “Agnes, the doctor beat you in here this morning!” Lord Denby was saying as Barnaby helped him into a sitting position and layered pillows behind him. “Possibly in future, since I know your early-morning habit, you can save yourself the trouble of trying to appear so interested in my welfare.”

  Lady Carruthers gasped, but maintained her calm. “My, but we are in a good mood this morning,” she managed to say.

  “You, too, my dear?” he said, accepting a napkin from his butler. “Ah, thank you, Stanton. Agnes, do you ever just long for horse meat some morning? Or something equally mystifying, cooked over a campfire? I do. But, sister, here we have lovely, lovely porridge.”

  “I was referring to you, Charles,” she said, with far less accommodation in her voice.

  “Oh,” he said. “I am never quite sure, what with we—this and we—that. My dear Jane, what is that book you have clutched to your bosom? Something I should see?”

  “Indeed it is, my lord,” she replied, handing it to him. “Stanton and I took the liberty of opening it.” Her smile deepened, “to spare you the pain of a misplaced address.”

  “Both of you are conniving rogues,” he said. To Jane’s pleasure, Lord Denby turned the pages slowly. “One of Blair’s better ideas, wouldn’t you say?” he asked as he set the book by his side.

  “He had them regularly,” Stanton replied. “Even up to the last, my lord.”

  “A number of good ideas,” she said.

  “We have an idea, sir,” Stanton began.

  “I trust it will be nothing strenuous,” Lady Carruthers said. She rose to fluff her brother’s pillows.

  “There is some exertion involved,” Jane said, “but it doesn’t follow that ….”

  “I am continually amazed that in all your years of service that you have never grasped the simplest notion of leaving people in peace,” Lady Carruthers declared, two spots of color rising in her cheeks as though slapped on by imps. “How dare you?”

  “Leave it alone, Agnes,” Lord Denby said.

  To her relief, the butler wedged in his conversation before Lady Carruthers could draw a deep breath. “My lord, we are suggesting a reunion of your brothers in arms from that American unpleasantness as a way to share the book with them, and renew old acquaintance.”

  Lady Carruthers gasped. “You have both lost your minds! I am still astounded that my dear brother did not perish from the exertion of compiling that book, and done while his son was dying!”

  Very well, cousin, take an agitated turn about the room and throw your arms about, and sigh two or three times, Jane thought. Excellent, excellent. And I am astounded how little you realize your brother’s disgust of theatrics. She looked at Lord Denby. “We could begin writing your old comrades now, and plan the reunion for spring.”

  “Only think how your brother officers would relish the opportunity to give proper attention to the one man in the entire army who has done more to improve the morals of the common soldier, than anyone since … since … oh, Hannibal at least,” the butler concluded, leaning forward and speaking softly as Lady Carruthers paced about, her own audience.

  Lord Denby laughed out loud, which caused his sister to stop in midstride and stare at him. “And who is so bold as to predict that I will still be alive when spring comes?”

  “I am,” Jane said. “You know it will be a treat to share this event with the men who helped you formulate your ideas that have since influenced an entire army. Only last night, Andrew was reading a reminiscence from ….” She stopped, but not in time. I am a blockhead, she scolded herself, as Lady Carruthers jumped in with both feet.

  “Andrew should be reading Greek and Latin with the other boys at the vicar’s school, and not lurid stories about wretched Americans,” Lady Carruthers snapped. “Jane refuses to listen, even though I have told her and told her.”

  “Jane, he is almost twelve and should have been at Latin School a year ago,” Lord Denby said.

  “My lord, the other boys are unkind. The rumors ….”

  “… are only that,” Lord Denby concluded, and his tone was final. “It will toughen him.”

  It would if he had another ally in this house besides someone of no consequence, she thought. “The term has already begun,” she began, knowing before she started how feeble her argument was, but unable to resist the attempt. “Would it not be better to wait until ….”

  “Now, Jane, now.”

  “Yes, my lord.” She rearranged the napkin to cover Lord Denby’s nightshirt. “Sir, about the reunion.”

  “Are you determined to put me in an early grave?” Lord Denby asked, but Jane could hear the humor in his voice.

  “The very idea!” Lady Carruthers said.

  Oh, we play a wily game, Jane told herself as she glanced at Stanton. Lady Carruthers would not know humor if it introduced itself and gave her references. How delicious that she is going to lose this round, and doesn’t even know it yet. “Actually, sir, I … we … thought rather to divert your mind from your ailments. And aren’t writers of books vain creatures, who like to share their words with captive audiences? A reunion will trap them here.”

  He laughed again, took a bite of porridge, and made a face at his butler. “Stanton, cold porridge is a nasty business.”

  “Indeed it is, sir. I will get you some horse meat instead,” the butler replied with a straight face, while Lady Carruthers gasped. “Cooked over a cedar chip fire. A reunion would be almost as good.”

  Lord Denby reached for his porridge again. “Very well, you two. I am convinced. Let us have a reunion.” He took another bite. “Oh, do not puff up so, Agnes! It could be fun!”

  Two steps forward, one step backward, Jane thought as she tightened her cloak around her. We will blast Lord Denby out of that bed yet, but Andrew must suffer the purgatory of Latin School among little boys full of their parents’ rumors.

  She had hoped for Andrew’s company on the walk into Denby, but she was not surprised that he declined. “You are a better teacher, Miss Mitten,” he said in protest when she gave him the bad news.

  “I cannot teach you Latin or Greek,” she had reminded him, “and you are nearly twelve.” And this is not the issue, but I will not trample your dignity into the ground by reminding you of it, she had promised herself.

/>   “Do you think ….” he began, then stopped to pick his words carefully. “Are Lord Kettering’s sons in that class?”

  “I believe so, my dear.”

  “And the Castlereagh twins?”

  “Probably. You are all of much the same age. Sir Harry’s sons, as well.”

  “I had thought them already at Eton or Harrow,” Andrew had said, after a long pause that she did not rush to fill.

  We are so polite! Jane told herself as she hurried toward the vicar’s house. Lady Carruthers is gloating over our discomfort, and we are trying so hard not to show it. And I am wondering, how many of those neighborhood rumors are ones that she sent spinning on their way around the district to damage the reputation of a poor woman long dead, and her child.

  The thought was so distasteful that she stopped walking. What is the fascination people have with gossiping about others? she asked herself, and not for the first time. Why are some so busily engaged in bringing others low? “And those who cannot defend themselves,” she said out loud, and quite unable to hide her disgust.

  She could never put her finger on the rumor—where it had started, and how it had grown into something so horrible that Andrew would all of his young life shy away from the neighbor boys who should have been his friends. Through the years, she wondered if she could have scotched it, but her own powerlessness made such an undertaking seem impossible. Had I said anything, no one would have believed me. There were enough rumors circulating about my own days in the workhouse, she thought.

  As it was, when Andrew was placed in her arms, and then remained there because of the events of that awful day in Leeds, she had been far too occupied with Andrew to listen to idle rumor. When she finally settled into a routine with her new charge, Jane could only wonder at the baseness of some people, and the things they gossiped about when boredom overtook them.

  She heard the rumor first from Stanton, who took her aside one afternoon while Andrew slept. His eyes averted, blushing with embarrassment, Stanton had stopped her on the landing and whispered what he had heard from the village of Denby, how word was out that dear Lady Canfield had run mad and stepped in front of the mailcoach to end her life. “That is absurd,” she had whispered back, appalled by the suggestion.