Nannyland

by Jane Elizabeth Hughes

  The next evening I explained to the children that I had a PowerPoint presentation for them and ushered them into the library. Henry asked Jane what PowerPoint was and she said, “Umm . . .” Katherine said hopefully, “I think it’s pictures on a computer, maybe like a video,” and Henry’s little face lit up. Mary looked doubtful but held her tongue.

  I seated the children on the leather couches and powered up my computer. “Household Management,” the first slide proclaimed. Henry’s face fell, but then I clicked the button that added in the animation sequence—small children cheerfully racing about putting dishes in a dishwasher, collecting their backpacks, and crowding out the door in an eager rush for school—and he laughed. Even Jane looked as if she were thinking about smiling.

  The next slides focused on the morning routine. A Mickey Mouse alarm clock sang out, “Rise and shine,” at seven A.M., the animated children ate a (healthy) breakfast while chatting pleasantly about the coming day, and the caretaker (me) bustled about smoothing down school uniforms and packing (healthy) snacks.

  Then came the Excel checklist, and my audience stared in befuddled, dismayed silence. “This is just a checklist of daily chores,” I explained. “See, the first set checks off what you need to do in the mornings—”

  “I don’t have time to make my bed!” protested Katherine.

  “—and the second list is everything that needs to go into your backpacks—”

  “Granola isn’t a proper snack,” grumbled Jane, and the always hungry Henry looked horrified.

  “—and the third list is after-school chores. If we turn to the final slide, that shows us our daily schedule.” I was particularly proud of the schedule, for which I had adapted an Excel template decorated with some clip art of happy children playing soccer.

  The children stared, speechless. Finally, Jane said cautiously, “I don’t think I can remember all this.”

  “And if she can’t, then I certainly can’t!” declared Katherine.

  Mary said timorously, “I can’t play soccer. I have asthma.”

  Poor Henry said, “I’m confused.”

  “Don’t worry!” I said cheerfully. “I printed up smaller-scale schedules for you and had them laminated”—I handed around copies—“and we can evaluate after a few days and make midcourse revisions if needed. Now, let’s get busy! According to the schedule, we should already have finished dinner and homework and be on to baths.”

  — – — – —

  Things did not go exactly according to schedule over the next few days. I lay awake at night, listening to the ominous rustling within the old walls of the house and worrying about getting the children out of bed in time for the morning’s chores. Katherine teased “Jordy fumble-fingers” when I burned the last two slices of toast; Jane quietly reminded me (when we were at the school gates) that I had forgotten Henry’s football gear once more; and Henry helpfully suggested, “Shit? Fuck?” when I bounced the car off a stone wall on our way home from school.

  But we were getting better. The checklist prevented us from leaving the house without Jane’s games uniform on Thursday, and that night we concluded a successful negotiating session on the definition of “healthy” snacks (I agreed that popcorn and pretzels were acceptable as long as everyone ate one piece of fruit). Best of all, I had booked two lessons with the village driving school and could now negotiate the roundabout without hitting any walls or hedges (though proceeding at a sedate ten miles per hour).

  Still, by Friday we were all counting the seconds until John came home. That afternoon, I gazed around the kitchen—bright and shining thanks to Cook—in some relief. I had taken care of four children for two whole weeks and no one was dead, maimed, or even badly injured (not even the car). I did it! And more important, the job was done. John would come home, hire a real nanny, and I would get back to my book.

  On that disquieting thought, the kitchen door opened and a tall blond woman in cashmere and pearls came strolling in. “Can I help you?” I started, but her cool, clipped British voice cut across mine.

  “I am back now,” the woman announced. “So you may return to your—whatever you were doing—and I will take charge of the children. Thank you very much for your service to the family.”

  I gaped.

  Chapter 13

  THE WOMAN SAT down at the kitchen table and smoothed back her already perfect hair. “It was most unfortunate that I was abroad when that atrocious Deirdre departed, but I am here now.” She eyed my old jeans, loose flannel shirt, deplorable sneakers, and careless ponytail with disfavor. (I had raided all the closets in the house to find some country clothes after I saw Cook and Maisie pointing at my black leggings and giggling together.) The contrast with her sleek chignon, tailored slacks, and cashmere sweater set could not be more pointed. “And not a moment too soon, I see,” she added, her assessment complete.

  The children came clattering into the kitchen and came to a dead halt at the sight of the woman. “Aunt Pamela!” Katherine exclaimed, flinging herself into the woman’s immaculate lap. “Aunt Pamela! I’m so glad you’re here! Are you going to take care of us now? Jordy doesn’t know anything about hair and she keeps driving the car into walls and she only wears black!”

  Little traitor. I hadn’t hit a wall in days.

  The woman smiled slightly and eased Katherine upright. “Mind the white slacks,” she murmured. “Yes, Katherine, I am here to take charge.”

  The woman’s fair hair, height, and blue-eyed languor were so like John’s that she had to be his sister, not Aline’s. Instantly I wondered about his childhood with no father, this Ice Queen for a sister, and his mother, the Countess: Greyer than Grey, he had said.

  The other children hung back cautiously. Pamela said, “What, no welcome? Hello, Mary, Jane. Hello, Henry.”

  They murmured hellos, and Pamela nodded approvingly. “Now, children, you must do your homework. Jane, please see to it that Henry is dressed and washed appropriately for dinner; I will discuss the menu with Cook. Mary, straighten up, child. You mustn’t droop.”

  Henry muttered rebelliously, “I eat fish fingers every night. We don’t need a menu.”

  “You most certainly do,” Pamela said. “Fish fingers, indeed!”

  Jane shot her aunt a look of active dislike before putting her arm around a now-tearful Henry and leading him out of the room. I heard her whisper, “Don’t worry, Jordy will get you fish fingers. Don’t let her see you cry,” and saw him nod piteously. Mary following, drooping even more than usual.

  Katherine was still prattling to her aunt, and Pamela was listening with an indulgent smile; clearly, Katherine was her favorite. She caught me watching them and patted Katherine on the arm. “Now, child, go on and do that homework.”

  “I hate maths,” Katherine whined.

  Pamela smiled again. “Of course you do. Don’t worry, just ask Jane to do it with you. She’s such a clever girl.” Clever, her tone implied, was not a compliment.

  Katherine skipped out and Pamela turned her cool gaze on me. “You must understand,” she said, her tone warm and confidential now, “John has been inconsolable since Aline died. He will never marry again.”

  I pressed my lips together, irritated by her assumption that I was interested in her precious brother. Though, in all fairness, I suspected that lots of women were.

  “And certainly not an American,” she went on. “There may be dalliances, to be sure, but moving in and trying to ingratiate yourself with the children is simply not permissible. I will not permit it.”

  I laughed. “I am not trying to marry John. I’m taking care of the children because I had to fire Deirdre. She was dangerously incompetent.”

  “So I heard,” she drawled. “No matter, I am back now and will take charge. I hope I know my duty. You may go.”

  I remembered Jane’s look of dislike and Henry’s tearful face. “I’m so
rry,” I said firmly, “but I am here at John’s request, and I’m not leaving until John tells me to go. I don’t even know who you are.”

  “Let me introduce myself. I am Lady Pamela Cordray-Simpson, John’s sister.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I said coolly.

  “So now that you know who I am . . .” She trailed off suggestively.

  Absurdly, I found myself getting stubborn. I had wished and prayed and begged for someone to relieve me of my nannying duties, and here I was, balking when deliverance had arrived. Perhaps I had chosen to remain after all.

  “I need to call John,” I said.

  She shrugged. “Please do.”

  John didn’t answer his cell phone. I redialed his office number and spoke to his assistant Maitland, a very proper man with whom I was now on a first-name basis (in the past week, he had helped me forge John’s signature on Katherine’s field trip form, locate a farrier for the horse, and reboot the Internet). He promised that John would call back shortly.

  An awkward silence descended on the kitchen.

  “Don’t Americans offer refreshments when a visitor arrives?” Pamela inquired.

  Wrong-footed again. I stiffened my resolve not to let this arrogant woman intimidate me, as she so clearly intended. I could play lady of the manor, too.

  “Cook,” I called, knowing that she had been loitering just inside the pantry to better hear our conversation. “Would you please bring our visitor some tea?”

  Cook emerged from her hiding spot and moved to the cooker.

  I cast about for topics of conversation. “Do you live near here?” I ventured finally.

  “Near enough,” Pamela returned. “We live in Bradgate village, in the Old Manor House near the churchyard.”

  I remembered seeing the huge, moss-covered, stately home on a small rise overlooking the town square. “Do you have children?” I asked.

  “Yes, Pippa is away at school and Oliver is going away next year. I just returned from Europe, and I’ve been hearing nothing in the village but talk about the American girl who’s moved in on my brother.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I think he can take care of himself.”

  Cook laid a small lace doily on the table in front of me and put my teacup and saucer on top of it. I smiled in thanks, and she laid some chocolate cookies on another lace doily. I picked up a cookie and put it on my tea saucer. “Your turn,” I said to Pamela, gesturing to the cookies.

  “No, thank you. I never eat sweets.”

  Of course not.

  The phone rang.

  John said urgently, “Jordy? Are you with Pamela? Can she hear you?”

  “Yes and yes.” I smiled pleasantly at Pamela.

  “I don’t have time to explain now, but I’m begging you, could you please stay with the children until I get home? Pamela is not what the children need right now. I know I asked her to pitch in, but now that I’ve thought about it, I—Look, I understand you’re probably ready to do a runner and I’m asking a lot, but could you please—”

  “No need to explain,” I interrupted. “Don’t worry, I’ll be here when you get back.” I hung up and turned back to Pamela, whose face had tightened imperceptibly. “John would like me to stay until he gets home,” I said.

  Calmly, she took a final sip of tea and rose, brushing off her immaculate white slacks. “Let him know that I will await his call,” she said, and marched out the door.

  I had to admire her; she had to be furious, maybe even a little embarrassed, but her head was high and her exit regal. Moments later, I heard the whine of an expensive car engine and the spurt of gravel on the front drive.

  Henry’s head peeked around the kitchen door. “Is she gone?” he whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “Good-o.” His head vanished, and I pulled out the packet of fish fingers from the freezer.

  — – — – —

  I was so irritated by Pamela’s visit that I had two glasses of wine with dinner, and I was feeling much calmer as I laid out Henry’s soccer uniform for the next morning. Then I heard John’s voice calling me from downstairs.

  “Jordy! Are you aware that Henry is sledding down the back staircase?”

  “On what?” I called back.

  “Trays from the kitchen. Why is he not in bed?”

  “Oh, be quiet,” I said. Of course Henry would have taken advantage of my having gone upstairs to do the forbidden.

  “Henry,” I shouted, striding into the upstairs hallway and hurrying down the back stairs. “Lord Henry Grey! Viscount Bradgate! Stop sledding at once and come greet your father!”

  Henry skidded to a stop at my feet and grinned. “Daddy’s home,” he said. Then he reached up to whisper in my ear, “I think you’re in big trouble, and I didn’t even tell him about the ‘shit’ and ‘fuck’ and the car.”

  I was losing my good cheer quickly, thanks to the black look on John’s face. “Henry,” I said. “Please put on your jammies and go to bed.”

  “You’ll come up and tuck me in?” He was talking to me, not John.

  “Yes.”

  “And we’ll play one game of Tetris and one of Arctic Monkey?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can I sled down one more time?”

  “No!” John and I said in unison.

  “Fine,” said Henry, aggrieved. “I’m going.”

  John and I watched him trudge up the stairs in silence. John took a deep breath, and I could see him remembering that I had done him a favor that afternoon, and that he was about to—if I was any judge—ask for an even bigger favor, insofar as he did not appear to have Mary Poppins in tow.

  Unexpectedly, he said, “I used to sled down the same stairs when I was his age. In fact, I broke my arm on these very stairs.”

  I tried and failed to picture John as an adorable little boy. “John, I—” I began.

  For the first time since I had known him, he looked uncomfortable. “Thank you for today,” he said. “For not leaving them with Pamela.”

  I nodded, picturing Pamela’s likely reaction to Henry’s sledding adventure.

  He sighed. “May we discuss this in the morning? I’m absolutely shattered.”

  He did look exhausted, and I nodded again.

  “I shall take Henry to his soccer game tomorrow,” he said, “and meet you in the stables at one. We can talk while we exercise the horses.” Then he disappeared up the stairs.

  Chapter 14

  BY THE NEXT afternoon, I had decided that everything was John’s fault. His sister had come back from her holiday in Europe and was, to all appearances, ready and able to take care of his children. Hadn’t I done enough for his family already? Why the hell was I still here? One of the village store gossips had confided that a veritable parade of nannies had come and gone at the Grey household since the children’s mother had died. “No one stayed longer than six months or so,” she confided. “Well, really: four children, out in the country. What does he expect?”

  He should be grateful to me! And I should be back at my little cottage working on my book, blessedly free of worrying about games uniforms and soccer balls and asthma inhalers!

  So I was practically spitting nails at him as we tacked up our horses in silence, having left Cook and Jane in charge at the house. I was riding my beloved gray, Prince Ferdinand, and John was riding a black stallion (how clichéd, I scoffed privately) rather ominously named Lucifer. I eyed the stallion cautiously.

  John came over to examine the girth on my horse, and I barely managed not to snap at him that I knew how to fasten a girth, thank you very much. “Would you like a leg up?” he inquired.

  I wanted to snarl at him but had to accept his offer; it was that or a stepladder to climb onto the big horse. We walked our mounts easily out of the stable yard. John cast an assessing eye toward the sky. “Could be
some weather on the way,” he commented. “We’d best stay close to the house.”

  “Oh, no,” I cried. “Let’s gallop out into the countryside a little. Ferdie needs the exercise, and I need—”

  “The space?” John suggested.

  “Exactly.”

  He sighed. “It will be on your head if we get caught in a downpour.”

  “Yes, I am the all-powerful weather god,” I agreed sarcastically, and was pleased to see him look discomfited, then amused.

  I dug my heels into Ferdie’s sides and he took off as if on a racetrack, his long legs pumping steadily and fiercely until his sides shone with sweat and my own legs ached from gripping him. After we had ridden for several miles, I reined him in and we looked around. John was just slightly ahead, and I realized that it was raining. John turned his horse and trotted back to me, Lucifer obedient to his slightest command.

  “I think the heavens are about to open up,” said John, his voice perfectly under control.

  I tried to slow my own panting. “How far are we from the house?”

  “Several miles, at least. But there’s a small cottage up ahead that we used to use for itinerant shearers; it should still be relatively sound.”

  A crack of thunder crashed overhead and Ferdie shied nervously. I tightened my grip on the reins.

  “Follow me,” said John. “And control that horse.”

  Indignant, I started to answer, but he was already riding away.

  We were soaked to the skin by the time we reached the cottage, and my arms were tired from holding in my skittish horse. I was glad to slide off his back and lead him over to the rough wooden shelter next to the cottage. “They should be safe here,” John said. “You go inside and I’ll untack them.”

  Surprised, I said, “Of course not; I’ll help you.”

  “You’ll catch a chill, and who then will take care of my children?”

  “Your sister, Pamela?” I retorted.

  “Oh, just get inside!” he snapped.