Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind (2 page)

Through August, they had all shut their ears to the gaiety from neighboring estates when sons returned. The pain became fierce when friends looked away in church, or avoided their eyes at what few country gatherings they felt obligated to attend. She did not know how Andrew was absorbing all this misery; no one at Stover Hall ever disclosed much.

News came at the end of August. After the battle, Lieutenant Colonel Stover had been left in a farmhouse on the road to Wavre. They learned that he had been detached to Blücher's corps as liaison, and then wounded and left behind as the army moved. Not until two months later had the farmer thought him well enough to withstand the journey of sixty miles to allied headquarters in Ostend.

“
And then you came home to us,” she whispered. The wind did not pick up her words this time, but left them all around her like a shroud.

“
Miss Mitten, you are so easy to surprise!”

Andrew stood next to her, his hair smelling more of sunshine now, even though the October wind had a sharpish bite. “You did not even hear me,” he scolded, even as he leaned against her and her arm went around him automatically.

“
I suppose I did not hear you.”

“
Are you thinking of my father?” he asked.

“
I am.”

“
Do you miss him?”

“
I do.”

It was not something Jane could ever tell anyone, especially not over dinner that night, when Lady Denby stretched the outward boundaries of her patience with complaints over her missing sweets. She accused Andrew of stealing them, which he firmly denied, all the while not taking his eyes from his plate of ragout.

“
You see there, Jane, he will not even look at me when I accuse him!” she stated finally, the loose flesh under her chin wobbling in indignation. “That is the sign of a criminal mind!”

“
It is no such thing, Lady Denby,” Jane said calmly. “I wish that you would not accuse him.”

Andrew looked at his aunt then, narrowing his eyes and pursing his lips in a way that reminded her of his father. Oh, please do not, she told him silently. She held her breath then, knowing that Lady Denby's next comment would make Andrew return his gaze to the plate in front of him.

“
Cousin, why you persist in thinking that he is any relation at all to my late nephew I cannot fathom,” Lady Denby said, in a loud whisper, dabbing at her dry eyes.

“
Because he
is
Blair's son,” Jane said quietly, when she really wanted to fling a spoonful of that fricassee onto the bare expanse of Lady Carruthers' bosom that seemed such a mockery of the mourning she wore.

“
Some say,” the woman muttered, staring at the boy, who was looking at his plate again, his cheeks flushed.

Oh, cousin, you exasperate me, Jane thought as she rested her arm along the back of Andrew's chair, just barely touching his shoulders. Do you think he is deaf? Or as cotton-headed as your own son?

“
What a shame that the boy is too old to take his meals in the nursery anymore,” Lady Carruthers said. “He has no conversation, Jane. You could at least have been teaching him something, in all these years. I do not know why you have turned out so badly, considering that we have tried to give you every advantage.”

Jane sighed with relief. Thank thee, God, for turning the attack to me, she prayed silently, grateful for divine intervention. “I know I am a disappointment to you, Lady Carruthers,” she murmured. “I suppose things have turned out about how you have predicted, have they not?”

I am so good at this, Jane thought, as Lady Carruthers, like an old bloodhound on a new scent, went baying after her shortcomings, leaving Andrew alone to choke down the rest of dinner. I could not have borne this twelve years ago, Jane told herself as she calmly finished her own meal, nodded serenely for the footman to remove their plates, and then took herself and Andrew from the dining saloon with something close to grace. Of course, twelve years ago Andrew was a motherless infant. Who would have credited him with the audacity to thrive?

Her mental commentary took her through the remainder of Lady Carruthers' scold, and allowed Andrew to escape to his own room. She sat mending in silence while Lady Carruthers cheated at solitaire, and sighed her way through the weight of the world and the general unfairness of things and people. Her eyes on Lord Denby's nightshirt, Jane knew her cousin's complaint so well that she only had to nod once or twice in the right place and murmur an occasional apology. And when Lady Carruthers had finished cataloging her complaints, there would be only the indignant slap of cards on the table.

When Lady Denby was silent, Jane waited for that relief to settle on her as it always did. To her discomfort, this night was different; she felt only dissatisfaction that she was so compliant, and that Lady Denby had been so pointed in her attack of Andrew at the dinner table. I wonder if she is beginning to believe that her brother really does plan to die, she thought as she knotted the thread, cut it, and shook out the nightshirt in her lap. If my cousin is seriously listening to her brother, then she is plotting for Cecil, that blockhead. And if that is the case, then Andrew must be brought to ruin. Then what? Have we not endured enough trouble of late?

The thought propelled her to her feet, which caused Lady Carruthers to look up in surprise from her contemplation of the game spread out before her. “You have not even called for tea yet,” the woman said, turning even this simple request into an accusation.

“
No, I have not,” Jane said, stuffing her scissors into their case. “I leave that to you tonight, Lady Carruthers. I have not looked in on Lord Denby all day.”

Jane left the drawing room without saying good night, and, she realized as she hurried down the hall, without her usual solicitous inquiry after Lady Carruthers, and her final, “Is there anything I can do for you?” which always brought some last-minute request, generally of a picayune nature which did nothing beyond reinforcing that tyrant's supremacy. Please be better, Lord Denby, she said to herself as she knocked softly on the door and let herself into the bedchamber. I would like there to be some good reason for all the scolds I will get tomorrow morning because of my precipitate departure from your sister's presence.

Stanton sat beside the bed, impeccable as always, but with closed eyes. To her amusement, the man in the bed put his finger to his lips. I will take it as a good omen, my lord, that you have retained your sense of humor through another long day much like the one before it, Jane thought. She tiptoed forward and placed the nightshirt on Lord Denby's bed.

“
Shall I send Andrew in to wish you good night?” she asked as she always did, knowing the reply, but asking anyway.

“
No, Jane, no,” he replied as always. “You know my feelings on the subject.”

“
Yes, sir,” she whispered back, wishing as always that he would not be so unkind as to consider his grandson a “subject,” and not a little boy. “And how do you do, sir?”

He did as always, as far as she could tell, managing somehow to lie in bed straight like a soldier should, his bedclothes in order and not twisted about from the restlessness of disease or even discomfort. Blair had been like that, she thought suddenly, organized and military until the final month when he quit caring and gave his wounds permission to overrun his own superbly maintained defenses.

“
I am going to die,” Lord Denby told her, his voice less soft now and his eyes on the sleeping butler. “I wish you would believe me.”

“
We are all going to die, sir,” she replied, surprising herself for the second time this evening with a touch more asperity in her voice than customary. “Mr. Lowe is convinced that you will feel much better if you take an interest in your surroundings.”

I wish you would get angry enough at me to get out of bed, she thought, as the head of her family merely glared back. I can always rouse your sister to unimagined flights of fury with far less provocation.

“
An interest in my surroundings? Mr. Lowe would have us believe that is the height of medical achievement?”

Well, I will take that as a slight improvement, she thought. You almost sound jocular, Lord Denby. I'm certain the mood will pass. “I suppose we are lucky, my lord,” she replied, with just the hint of a smile. “Stanton, did we disturb you?”

The butler was awake now, and looking from her to his master. “Miss Milton, you don't disturb me,” he said, the lightness of his words telling her that he had been listening to their casual banter. “My lord, didn't you tell me only this morning that there is no pleasure greater than waking to the sight of a sweet-faced lady?”

“
It is merely Jane,” Lord Denby grumbled, but Jane could hear that same lighter tone. Or do I imagine it, she asked herself. No, I will be the optimist this evening. He is getting better. Maybe tomorrow he will be more charitable about his grandson. Maybe something will be different.

“
Do you know, Stanton, she almost smiled,” Lord Denby said.

“
I would smile more if you decided to throw back the covers tomorrow morning and send the footman running to the stable to call for your horse, sir,” she said.

He only fixed her with his usual eagle stare. “Jane, you are the silliest member of this family. Go away now.”

She left then, after a nod in the butler's direction, and the proper curtsy to the family head. I will try again tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow has to be different.

And if it is not? She stopped in the hall and leaned against the wall, closing her eyes against the pain of the regularity of her days. This is a strange night, she thought. One would think when I try to jolly Lord Denby that I am only trying to jolly myself. One would think.

Andrew was already asleep when she let herself into his room. A reminiscence of the American war by one of Lord Denby's old comrades was lying open on his chest. With a pang that she had been too late this night to read with him, Jane took it carefully from him, marked his place, and stood looking down.

“
I suppose you are too old to be read to,” she said softly, “but, my dear, if everyone else must suffer me in this household, so must you, as well.” She kissed him on the forehead, grateful that he was asleep and would take no exception to this small sign of her great affection. My dearest, have you any idea of the depths of my love? I scarcely do.

It was a thought she took to bed unwillingly, knowing that in the strange honesty of sleep and dreams, she would dream of his father with more regret than she knew she could ever acknowledge in the light of day. For all that it had been a good day—Lady Carruthers had been distracted from spending all evening complaining about Andrew, and Lord Denby seemed almost inclined to good cheer—she knew that she would awake far too early, and in tears.

She said her prayers on her knees as always, then laid herself down, already dreading the sorrow of her sleep and the pain each wakening brought, a private agony to be worked through before she dared show herself to anyone in the morning, a sweet-faced woman.

It is not winter I so much dread, she thought as her eyes closed in resignation more than sleep; it is every day.

S
he woke too early, jolted awake and staring at something that was not there, alert to the smallest sounds. There were none, of course. She tried to relax, remembering a time—it had been years—when she could roll over, snuggle down deeper in the mattress, and return herself to slumber. As she lay there in the dark, Jane tried to remember just how long ago that had been. She thought first of the workhouse, something she never cared to reflect on, but which occasionally surfaced like a piece of shrapnel embedded deep in flesh that works its way to the top of the skin.

No, it was not the workhouse. She never woke there one second sooner than needed, mainly because even at age eight or nine—was it twenty years ago now?—she went to sleep exhausted and clung to every particle of sleep grudged to her.

The years in Dame Chaffee's School for Young Ladies? Jane almost smiled into the darkness, remembering her years of growth and how hungry she always was, even though Eliza Chaffee could never be accused of setting a stingy table. I have never wanted for appetite, she thought, though Lady Carruthers scolds when I take second helpings. It must be a particular trial to her that I never put on weight.

“
No, indeed, not at the Dame's school,” she said as she sat up in bed. “You were hungry, Jane, but you slept well.” She never woke early at school, especially after she was seventeen and put in charge of the littlest girls who boarded there. She did smile then, remembering her cherubs, who were probably even now preparing for come-outs in London. Has it been so long? she asked herself with a pang. My dears, you all ran me ragged at Dame Chaffee's. Now I suppose you will dance merry tunes for husbands or lovers—perhaps both. I wonder, do you ever think of me?

Jane knew that no one did, and there was nothing in her thoughts of ill-use or self pity. Lady Carruthers had been telling her for years that she had nothing to recommend herself, and Jane could find no argument.

“
Except for Andrew,” she amended, as she always did. “Andrew would miss me.” She sighed and closed her eyes as she wrapped her arms around her knees, perfectly comfortable, even if the sun was not up. That was it; from the moment Andrew had been put in her arms when she was almost eighteen, she never slept soundly again. It has been nearly twelve years, she told herself in dismay. Am I so old? Better still, was I ever young?