Nannyland

by Jane Elizabeth Hughes

  “Most modern scholars date her reign from Edward’s death, not from when she was proclaimed queen. That makes more sense, don’t you think? So she wasn’t queen for nine days, she was queen for two weeks. The legend is wrong.” Jane didn’t say anything, so I went on. “When was Lady Jane Grey born?”

  She sighed loudly. “The same day as me. Twelve October, 1537.”

  “She wasn’t! No one actually knows when she was born, but it was probably in the summer of 1537. It almost certainly wasn’t October twelfth—that was Prince Edward’s birthday, not hers. So you don’t share a birthday with her after all.”

  “But my mother said—” Jane stopped short.

  It was the first time any of the children had ever mentioned their mother to me, except for Henry informing me that she had died when he was born. My interest sharpened. “Yes?” I prompted.

  “My mother said . . . she said that as soon as she knew she was having a girl, she wanted to name me Jane. After Lady Jane Grey. And she made sure that she had me on Lady Jane’s birthday. The twelfth of October.”

  Oh, dear. I wasn’t sure how to proceed.

  Now Jane’s eyes were shining. “So I wasn’t born on the same day as her?”

  My mother would have corrected the grammar. “No, you do not share a birthday with Lady Jane Grey, queen for two weeks.”

  Jane smiled broadly. “Cool.”

  It wasn’t a riding lesson, but it was a start.

  — – — – —

  We celebrated Jane’s birthday quietly that weekend. John was home, and on Sunday afternoon he brought home a cake for us, Pamela, Pamela’s husband, Hugo, and their two children, Pippa and Oliver.

  Pamela greeted me with “So, you’re still here? How surprising.”

  “Now, be nice,” said John. He shook hands with Hugo, who stood almost a head shorter than his tall blond wife. Hugo’s face was broad and red, but his eyes were kind. The children trailed in quietly, both pale, washed-out versions of their mother.

  Henry bounced up to Oliver, two years his senior. “Yo, Ollie! Whassup?” he demanded in his best version of American gangsta rap. Henry was going through a very intense Lil Wayne period, perhaps triggered by my American accent. I had learned that Henry’s enthusiasms were intense but, fortunately, short-lived.

  Oliver looked horrified. I suggested, “Henry, why don’t you take your cousin to the playroom? Maybe you can play some pool.”

  “Billiards,” John corrected automatically. His gaze rested on me, and for just that moment I felt the electrical current between us and my body tingled with remembered pleasure.

  Pamela’s eyes narrowed.

  Pippa, who was a miniature of her mother in a blue cashmere sweater and perfectly pressed khaki slacks, said, “Mummy, may I take my book into the library? I have exams this week.”

  Katherine protested, “Oh, but I was hoping to show you my new dress! Jordy took me shopping and—”

  “In Bradgate?” Pippa interrupted.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Mummy and I do all our shopping in London.”

  Katherine hesitated, disconcerted. I found myself bristling on her account and interjected, “Actually, I was very impressed with the selection in Bradgate.”

  Though Pamela looked amused, I knew she couldn’t find any fault with my carefully chosen black Armani skirt and blouse. Inwardly, I decided to take the girls on a shopping spree in London before my nanny stint ended. Perhaps we could go with John next week. Wasn’t there a school holiday?

  Hugo interrupted my thoughts by suggesting a drink, and we adults all retired to the morning room. I braced myself, and Pamela did not disappoint.

  “John, I am surprised to find Jordan still in residence,” she said even before we sat down. “Isn’t she a banker of some sort? Can’t you find a real nanny?”

  “If you’re offering to help find one, that would be great,” I said. “I’m trying to write a book about my experiences on Wall Street; we would love some help in getting the children settled.” I didn’t dare look at John.

  “Yes, please do help us,” he echoed. “Do you know of any suitable candidates?”

  Hugo gave a bark of laughter. “If she finds any, she’ll keep ’em for herself, right, Pammy?”

  “It can be difficult finding girls willing to work up here—and with four children. And I understood you no longer have a relationship with the nanny agencies that I use in London.” Pamela’s aristocratic nose wrinkled slightly as she conceded the point. I smiled to myself.

  “And how are the gala preparations proceeding?” John asked.

  “Lord Stockwell has agreed to take charge of the preparations. It’s a shame that the gala will be in June rather than October, so it won’t coincide with the birthday,” Pamela began.

  “Is that the celebrations around the five hundredth anniversary of Bradgate Hall?” I asked, eager to share my newly found expertise. “Did you know that Lady Jane Grey wasn’t actually born on October twelfth? It was probably in the summer, maybe even spring.”

  Pamela stared at me, her expression even frostier than usual. “Oh, are you a historian, then?” she inquired. “I hadn’t realized.”

  “I majored in history in college,” I said with some heat. “But this wasn’t any great finding—historians have known for years that her birthday wasn’t in October, and that she wasn’t even queen for nine days, she was actually queen for two weeks . . .” I trailed off at the utter disinterest on John’s face and the cold mask of Pamela’s.

  “My mother is honorary chairwoman of the Lady Jane Grey Society,” she said tightly. “And my sister-in-law Aline—John’s wife and my dear friend—enjoyed the legend of Lady Jane Grey quite a bit. So much, in fact, that she named her daughters after their ancestresses.”

  “Yes, but—”

  John glanced up. “Pamela,” he drawled, “how are the plans for the gala coming along?”

  Chapter 17

  SO WHAT IF Pamela disliked me? I didn’t like her, either, and I didn’t like her influence on Katherine, who was even more irritating than usual in the days after her aunt’s visit. The girl couldn’t possibly be as empty-headed as she seemed, could she?

  I said to John a few nights later, “Katherine seems very attached to her aunt.”

  “Yes, indeed.” His voice was neutral, but I felt his muscles tense slightly under my head. We were lying in his bed together, his arm around me and our legs casually entwined in postcoital intimacy.

  “Are you . . . attached to her?” I asked.

  I felt him smile in the darkness. “Pamela? I’d as soon get attached to a boa constrictor. She’s my sister and I’m quite fond of her, but no, we are not ‘attached.’ ”

  Greatly daring, I asked, “Is she anything like Aline?”

  “Good God, no! Aline was quite the opposite—a free spirit, or so she liked to have people think. I thought it charming when we married, somewhat less so after the children were born. She was very keen on the Lady Jane Grey connection, and it was she who named the girls after Queen Jane Grey and her sisters. But she had been spending much of her time with her relations in France. She grew bored with Bradgate very quickly and had little use for three little girls most of the time. Or me.”

  I couldn’t think of a response.

  “Her funeral was the social event of the season, at any rate,” he continued in the same even tone. If I hadn’t felt the rigidity of his muscles, I might have been deceived. “Pamela and my mother were quite determined about that. It was what Aline would have wanted.”

  “And you? What did you want?”

  “Good God, I was the sole proprietor of three little girls and one infant son!” he flared. “Do you think I cared if the queen attended Aline’s funeral or not?”

  The sudden display of emotion warmed me, and I twisted closer to him. “Did s
he?”

  “What?” He was fumbling on the bedside table for a cigarette, his head turned away.

  “Did the queen attend the funeral?”

  “Yes, of course. I told you, it was the social event of the season.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said again.

  He cleared his throat. “Anyway, I’d appreciate it if you could . . . mitigate . . . Pamela’s influence on Katherine. The girl actually asked me today if she could have a debutante ball! And she wants to go to finishing school in Switzerland.”

  “She asked me if I knew how to ‘get anorexic,’ as she put it,” I admitted. “She thinks it’s the easiest way to stay thin.”

  John groaned.

  “Don’t worry,” I said. “Half the girls at Brearley, my high school, were anorexic. I told her about the hospitals and the cutting and the suicide attempts; I don’t think she’ll be romanticizing it again.”

  “I knew there was a reason why I prefer you to Pamela,” John said.

  The next morning I armed myself with my water bottle and cautiously edged into the village hall; the local newspaper had advertised aerobics classes at ten A.M. on weekdays, and I was badly missing Fitworks Studio on Wall Street. That five-fifteen A.M. class was famous throughout the city; you had to audition before you could attend, and Sergei was quick to kick you out if you didn’t perform up to standards. He carried a stainless steel baton to smack the thighs of students who weren’t working hard enough, until a partner at one of the city’s most prestigious law firms threatened to sue him. They settled out of court: Sergei agreed not to ban the lawyer from class, and the lawyer agreed to work harder on her sprints.

  I twisted my hair into a loose bun and glanced around the large, dusty room. There were several other women, clumped in small groups, mostly much lumpier than the svelte exercisers that I was used to. In New York, only the thin and the emaciated were allowed into the elite aerobics classes.

  Finally, a petite woman appeared, wearing leggings and a loose sweatshirt emblazoned with the Nike swoosh. She had wiry red hair that coiled energetically around her small head. “Come on, ladies!” she called out. “Let’s get moving!”

  Obediently, I went to the center of the floor and realized there was no mirror. How would I know if my form was correct without a mirror? When the class began, I discovered that proper form was not a priority in this group. Staying alive was.

  The instructor—Meggie—appeared to have taken her routine from the 1970s Jane Fonda videos. We jumped and jumped and jumped some more, pausing only to take sips of water as Meggie exhorted us to jump higher! Move faster! The music was 1970s disco and the air still and stale; I was gasping and wheezing like an eighty-year-old asthmatic. Sergei had been right—for every day out of his studio, it would take three days to get back into fighting shape.

  Mortified, I tried to slink out the back door the moment the class was over. Meggie was quicker; she cornered me as I struggled with the heavy door. “Are you the famous Jordy?” she asked.

  “Well, I’m Jordy, but I don’t know how famous—”

  “Duchess Pamela has been spreading the word. Welcome to Bradgate! You have to be an improvement over that awful Deirdre.”

  “Well, yes,” I said doubtfully. “But that’s a very low bar—”

  “Still, it’s great to meet you!”

  It seemed I was destined never to complete a sentence in Meggie’s presence. She fairly crackled with energy, from the tips of her red hair to her restless feet.

  “Come to the teashop with us for some coffee. We can tell you everything you need to know about Lord John the Icy!”

  When she put it like that, how could I refuse?

  — – — – —

  I joined Meggie and four other class members, all red-faced, sweaty, tubby, and clearly thrilled at the opportunity to examine the latest addition to the Grey household. Meggie, to my astonishment, ordered a slice of chocolate mousse cake and latte with oodles of whipped cream. I had never known an aerobics instructor who ate food that didn’t contain tofu, sprouts, or Greek yogurt, preferably all three. “I’ll burn it all off in an hour,” she informed me gleefully. “I have a magic metabolism.”

  The other women, even more astonishingly, ordered scones heaped with strawberry preserves, frothy lattes topped with whipped cream, and lemon sponge cakes so plainly rich in butter and vanilla that they fairly sagged in the middle. I knew women in New York who scarfed down food in secret, including myself, but I had never seen anyone unself-consciously consume sweets-laden calories in public.

  As I nibbled my bran muffin, I watched them in some fascination, especially Meggie. No self-respecting New York woman bragged about her metabolism; we all mourned together and discussed the benefits of colonic cleanses versus the all-lettuce diet. I was too much in awe of her to hate her.

  “So how are you getting on with the Greys?” she inquired through a mouthful of mousse cake.

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “Have you met the duchess yet?” another woman asked. “Lady Pamela, I mean.”

  “Oh, yes.” I shuddered at the memory.

  Meggie gave me a sympathetic smile. “She’s only a lady, like me. I mean, who isn’t? But since the day she was born, she’s put on airs like a duchess.”

  “Now, be nice,” chided the pleasant-faced woman who was practically inhaling her sponge cake. “She had a big career as an event planner in London before her husband’s father died and Hugo decided that he fancied becoming a gentleman farmer up here in the Cotswolds. She’s probably bored out of her skull.”

  I leaned forward in sudden interest. “So you’ve known the family for a long time?” She must have known Aline, too.

  “Oh, yes. I went to school with Aline,” said Meggie. “She and Pamela were best friends. Pamela only went to St. Andrews, but Aline and I read philosophy at Cambridge together.”

  Lady Meggie had studied philosophy at Cambridge and had a magic metabolism? I mentally shook myself and zeroed in on the critical question. “What was Aline like?” I asked.

  Silence fell over the group as covert glances were exchanged. Meggie put her fork down and sighed, her expressive face gone quiet and still. “Aline was . . . unique,” she said finally. “I mean, everyone is, but Aline wanted to be much more unique than anyone else.”

  I tried to decipher this. “Were she and John happy together?” I ventured.

  Another silent exchange of glances. Meggie fetched up a deeper sigh. “Oh, no. I don’t think they would have stayed together; in fact, I know they wouldn’t have stayed together. They had already separated when she got pregnant with Henry—some people said . . . well . . .” Infuriatingly, she stopped there.

  I wanted to shake her by the shoulders and scream, “Said what? Said what?” Was Henry not John’s son? Instead I murmured, “What a shame.”

  “It was hard to watch. John the Icy just got icier and icier, and Aline just got more maddening with every passing day.”

  “Maddening?”

  “She would pull the girls out of school for a picnic in the meadow and then forget to bring food or insect repellent, and they’d come home starved and covered with bites. She filled Jane and Katherine’s heads with tales about the original Grey girls until they really thought they were reincarnations and doomed to have their heads cut off.”

  Another woman volunteered, “She carried on like poor Mary was a consumptive from some Victorian romance instead of just a little girl with asthma. I’m a nurse, and children with asthma aren’t sick; they just need to manage it.”

  “That was when she was there,” added another. “Mostly she was in France. Especially toward the end. When she got pregnant with Henry . . .”

  “She drove John crazy,” Meggie concluded, and the women nodded solemnly.

  I tried to understand. “Was she just ditzy? Or was there really something wro
ng with her?”

  Meggie snorted. “She liked driving him crazy.”

  The nurse murmured, “She liked driving other men crazy, too.”

  Her friend added a little spitefully, “She wanted everyone to think she was a free spirit, marching to a different drummer than all of us dull folk who played by all those boring rules like getting our kids to school on time.”

  Meggie nodded, but then her face drooped into sadness again. “Still, she shouldn’t have died so young.”

  Nods all around the table. I ventured, “She died having Henry? Isn’t that odd in this day and age?”

  “Ridiculous!” Meggie agreed. “I pushed out three gonzo-sized kids without so much as an episiotomy”—I winced at the thought; childbearing had never been one of my interests—“and poor Aline did fine with the girls, but something just went terribly wrong with Henry, and they couldn’t save her.”

  The nurse explained, “She hemorrhaged and lost so much blood so quickly.”

  “John must have been . . .” I stopped, unable to conjure up an image of the cool John wild with grief.

  Meggie said, “He was and he wasn’t. He was furious and raging and wanted to sue the doctor and hospital and everyone in sight. But he was also eerie calm sometimes, comforting the girls and looking after poor little Henry.” Her eyes filled with tears. “It was a terrible time.”

  “Did Lady Pamela help?”

  Meggie sniffled. “In her way. She wanted the girls to live with her—she thought John couldn’t possibly raise three motherless girls—but he put a stop to that.” She brushed away tears.

  “She would have just handed them over to nannies and gone off on vacation,” put in the spiteful one.

  The nurse said gently, “Still. Pamela had lost her best friend, and John had lost the mother of his children. It was terrible.”

  I couldn’t think of a thing to say.

  “You know, I hate to say this because it sounds so awful,” the quietest woman murmured, “but Aline just wasn’t a natural mother. Do you know what I mean?”

  I certainly did. I wasn’t a natural mother, either.