Miss Milton Speaks Her Mind Read Free Page A

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?”
    â€œ 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.
    â€œ Do you know, Stanton, she almost smiled,” Lord Denby said.
    â€œ 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.
    â€œ 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.

Chapter Two
    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