Nannyland

by Jane Elizabeth Hughes

John squared his shoulders. “Let’s call Grandmama,” he suggested. Jane gulped.

  I said quickly, “Jane, why don’t we go up to the attic and see if there’s anything up there dating back to Queen Jane? We can let Daddy talk to your grandmother on his own.”

  John raised an eyebrow at me. “Don’t you want to accept your mother-in-law-to-be’s congratulations?”

  I shuddered and followed Jane in hasty retreat.

  — – — – —

  John waylaid me before I made a full escape. “Try to appear happy about your marriage,” he suggested. “It would be good for the children to think I didn’t force you into this.”

  “But you did,” I retorted without thinking.

  He raised a quizzical eyebrow at me.

  “Anyway,” I said, backtracking quickly, “we can still change our minds. Don’t you think this is a terrible idea?”

  “Actually, I don’t,” he said. “Look, Jordy. I have no interest in emulating my father’s behavior. I plan to make an honest couple of us, so my children will not be embarrassed or ashamed when they look at me.”

  I had no answer for that.

  “And we’re quite well matched, really,” he went on. “After all, neither of us plans to fall madly madly in love, as Katherine would say, and I shall be quite relieved to be rubbed off the eligible bachelor lists. My title and money, it turns out, are quite attractive.”

  He didn’t need the title or money to be attractive, I thought.

  “Though there is that passel of pesky children,” he added. “But that’s why God created boarding school, as one prospective Lady Grey explained.”

  “Don’t you want to date other women?” I asked.

  “Why, no. I don’t much care for first times. I prefer the familiar.”

  I had no answer for that, either—except that I did, too. Our first time, though . . . that had been pretty spectacular.

  “And before you ask,” he said, “I also don’t believe in infidelity. I’ve had some experience along those lines, and I don’t much care for it.”

  I thought of his long-gone father and the whispers about Aline. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about him straying. Why on earth should I worry about that anyway? John made marriage sound like a polite, convenient arrangement, and he was right. It would suit both of us very well.

  I made one final effort. “Are you sure you want to lend me your name? After all, I could be a convicted felon any day.” Perhaps the threat of having a wife in jail would dissuade him from this mad engagement.

  “What on earth are you talking about?”

  “New York! The lawsuits against me.”

  “Oh, that,” he drawled. “There’s nothing to worry about there. I’m sure Bramstock can make it go away.”

  “John,” I said ominously, “no one on earth can make Nirav Gupta and his team ‘go away.’ He’s a crooked banker’s worst nightmare.”

  He frowned. “Nirav Gupta?”

  “The U.S. attorney who’s investigating me! Don’t you listen?”

  “But you are, in fact, not a crooked banker. Isn’t that correct?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Then you have nothing to worry about,” he said firmly. “And Nirav Gupta—”

  Just then Jane called, “Jordy! Are you coming? Bring some plastic bags in case we find some old diaries or papers!”

  “Coming!” I called.

  I stalked off, leaving an unaccountably cheerful John behind me.

  — – — – —

  My new friend Meggie had suggested that someone should go through the boxes stored in the attic in preparation for the gala. “There might even be stuff up there from Lady Jane Grey’s time,” she remarked. “Aline once said it looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since then.”

  When Jane and I pushed the stout wooden door open, I could readily believe that. Jane muttered, “Maybe we’d better go get one of Mary’s inhalers,” and I sneezed. The dust had to be inches thick and looked as if it hadn’t been disturbed for centuries.

  “Good God,” I said. “How big is this attic?”

  Jane looked around. “Dunno. It might go over the whole house.”

  “Didn’t you ever come up here to play?”

  “Up here?” Jane sounded scandalized. “What for? It’s filthy. There’s mice and snakes.”

  I doubted the snakes, but . . . “Why don’t you go get one of the cats?” I suggested. “They might like to play here.”

  “They wouldn’t like it up here.”

  “Okay, then.”

  It was an odd way to spend the morning of my “engagement,” but Jane and I were soon absorbed. The attic was crammed with dusty, sheet-covered furniture that rustled ominously when we ventured too close; dusty lamps that dripped with Victorian trimmings; dusty pictures that could have been lost Michelangelos or paint-by-number masterpieces; dusty rugs rolled into corpselike bundles.

  We gave the rustling furniture a wide berth and concentrated our efforts on the (yes, dusty) chests and boxes under the eaves. I sent Jane down to the kitchen for rubber gloves and a knife, and we set about opening the boxes. “Look, here’s a recipe book from a long time ago!” Jane exclaimed. “Let’s see, take a pound of sugar and a pound of lard . . .” She looked up. “What’s lard?”

  “Nothing you’ll ever see,” I told her. “Those were the days.”

  Reluctantly, Jane put aside the recipe book and reached for another volume. “This is the household accounts book, I think,” she said. “From 1835? Look, thirty shillings for housemaids Meg and Colleen. Do you think that’s thirty shillings a day?”

  “Probably thirty shillings a year,” I said, and she looked horrified.

  We found more household accounts books and carefully set them aside; they told the history of the great house in its minutest form, and I looked forward to going through them at some length. But there was nothing earlier than 1800. Jane’s face grew longer and longer.

  “Let’s stop for lunch,” I suggested at last, putting down a set of letters from wife to husband in which she worried incessantly about the state of his bowels and he kept scolding her for spending too much on household fripperies (such as soap and flour). “You know, Jane, even if we don’t find anything from Lady Jane Grey’s period, this is a fascinating set of historical documents.”

  She sneezed from the dust and we went downstairs.

  Late that afternoon, what little sun crept in through the dusty portholes lay in long, deep shadows on the sheet-draped furniture. Jane’s eyes were drooping from the antihistamines I had made her take at lunch. There was only one box remaining. “This is it!” I said, more to encourage her than because I really believed it. “This box was the furthest back, so it’ll be the oldest.”

  But the box proved to be another disappointment, filled with letters from young ladies on the “fishing fleet” to India in search of a husband. Any other time I would have been thrilled by their accounts; today I was just frustrated.

  Then Jane made an odd strangled sound, and I looked up sharply. Wordless, she held out a sheaf of dry, age-darkened papers to me. Wordless, I took them.

  In the Yeare of Our Lorde MDLIII, the document began. 1553. And at the bottom of the page, From Youre Loving and Constant Cousine, Jane Grey.

  Chapter 24

  “IT’S FROM HER, isn’t it?” Jane squealed excitedly. “Queen Jane? Let me see them, let me see.” She reached out to grab the papers; instinctively, I shrank back and clutched the precious, fragile sheaf to my chest. Already tiny brown specks of parchment were sloughing off and drifting to the dusty floor as the old paper was exposed to light for the first time in . . . 462 years? Unbelievable.

  “Jane, we have to be incredibly careful with this, it’s practically falling apart. Let’s figure out some way to preserve it before we read it. Okay?”
<
br />   Her face fell. “Can’t we just—?”

  “No,” I said firmly. “These are historical documents; we need to take care of them. Let’s call that professor from St. Andrews and ask him how we should handle it.”

  — – — – —

  “Letters from Queen Jane?” Dr. MacAlister asked incredulously.

  “They certainly appear to be. They’re not in good condition, all crinkled up and spotted and with some bits flaking off, but I read the signature and the date when I flattened one out—”

  “Flattened it out?” The good professor’s voice rose to a howl. “A letter from Queen Jane and you flattened it out?”

  Honestly, you would have thought I had executed the wretched queen all over again. Indignantly, I said, “Just a tiny piece. As soon as we realized what it was, we brought them downstairs and called you. What should we do with them?”

  “What should you—? Good God. Letters from Queen Jane.” His silence spoke volumes.

  “Uh, Professor?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. My God, letters from Queen Jane.” He paused to clear his throat. “You must wrap the papers gently in inert plastic and bring them straight up to St. Andrews. They must be handled by experts. Don’t touch them with your bare hands; use museum gloves.” On and on he droned, but I had stopped listening. Jane was dancing with excitement, and even Katherine was gazing at the heap of brown-speckled pages with some bemusement.

  Finally, I interrupted. “Dr. MacAlister, I’m afraid that we can’t come to Scotland right now.”

  “Why not? What could be more important than these papers?” He sounded astonished.

  “Well, for one thing, I’m getting married, and . . .”

  “Yes? So?”

  “And I have four children to care for . . .”

  “Yes?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Never mind. Look, as soon as we can come to Scotland, I’ll be in touch.”

  — – — – —

  Absurdly, I really was getting married. In typical John fashion, he left all of the preparations to me, which meant that I had to deal with Lady Pamela and the even more fearsome Lady Olivia Grey, Countess of Stamford, my future mother-in-law. Lady Olivia descended upon us the following week, since John had decreed that the wedding would take place in just two weeks, on December 1. He condescended to plan the music for the big day and disappeared to London on “urgent government business.” As always, I was instructed to contact Maitland, his assistant, “if I needed any assistance.”

  Thus I was alone with the children at Bradgate when a chauffeured Mercedes sedan glided up the front drive and purred to a stop. The back door opened and a long, slim, silk-clad leg appeared. I watched, mesmerized, as the rest of Lady Olivia emerged, her blond hair tightly woven into a perfect chignon and her elegant frame adorned by a light gray Chanel suit. I looked closely for any imperfections that might be concealed by the beautifully cut skirt, but I was disappointed.

  She waved a languid hand at me. “Lady Olivia Grey,” she announced. “You are . . . Miss Greene?” Clearly, she hoped that I was not.

  I smoothed my green cashmere sweater nervously and wiped my damp hand on my black Seven jeans. This morning I had been pleased with my clothing selection, casual yet tasteful, but now I felt like a country mouse. The countess was even more intimidating than her daughter.

  “Yes, I’m Jordy. Pleased to meet you.”

  “The pleasure is all mine,” she said, though her frosty tone belied the politeness of her words. “May I come in?”

  “Of course.”

  She brushed past me, her heels tapping lightly on the flagstone floor of the great entrance hallway, and she glanced around in open curiosity. She was alarmingly like John in many ways: tall, elegantly built, fair-haired, blue-eyed, sophisticated. “I see you’ve moved the rugs.”

  “Yes, I didn’t want the cats to scratch them—”

  “Cats?” she said sharply.

  “The children have kittens—”

  “Cats are for the stable,” Lady Olivia said freezingly. She sounded just like John.

  “Yes, ma’am, but actually . . .” I couldn’t remember calling anyone “ma’am” since I was in the sixth grade. Like her daughter, Lady Olivia seemed determined to bring out the awkward child in me.

  But I hadn’t spent my formative years in the rarefied atmosphere of Manhattan private schools and elite riding shows for nothing; I had never been a gauche, gangly girl. My riding instructors never would have permitted that, let alone my mother. So I straightened up and said, “Studies demonstrate how valuable it is for children to have pets. And John is very fond of the kittens.” A little white lie never hurt anyone.

  “The animals will remain in the stables while I am in residence,” Lady Olivia decreed. “Now, Miss Greene, may I please freshen up and have some tea?” Still trying to wrong-foot me.

  Undaunted, I said, “Yes, of course. I can show you to your room and ask Maisie to bring—”

  “I hope I am capable of recalling where my room is situated,” she said. “This was my home for many years, young lady.”

  Why don’t you go and soak yourself, you old witch? I wanted to say. Instead I nodded politely and wandered into the kitchen, where I sat in silence and watched Cook prepare our dinner. Cook was large and silent; her face was doughy and her eyes were flat. Her big, capable hands kneaded bread and rolled out scones with astonishing speed, but she was a woman of few words. The children seemed to neither seek her out for warmth nor cringe away from her, so after a few awkward words, I tended to treat her as I did the grandfather clock in the corner—always there, always ticking away at the job, never interacting.

  When, oh when, would the children get home from school?

  Amazingly, John heeded my urgent phone call and returned from London in time for dinner. He kissed his mother politely and bent down to give Henry a genuine hug, which Lady Olivia watched frowningly.

  “Really, dear,” she remarked. “One does not wish to pick up American childrearing habits.”

  “Too much affection?” he suggested.

  She sniffed, and I reflected that John and I had that in common: mothers without the slightest scintilla of maternal instinct. No wonder he was so Johnish.

  “Dinner’s ready,” I said.

  “Ah. We have abandoned the pre-dinner sherry hour in the drawing room, Miss Greene? The tradition lasted for four centuries, but I suppose it’s your home now.”

  John laughed and slung his arm around my shoulders. “Let’s start a revolution and have sherry with our dinner,” he suggested.

  I needed much more than sherry.

  The children, I had observed, were cautious in the presence of their grandmother. The girls had given her polite kisses on her well-powdered cheek, but Henry hung back and slipped his hand into mine. At the table, only the irrepressible Katherine seemed at ease.

  “Grandmama,” she chattered, “I am to wear pink for the wedding! Jordy is taking me to London to buy a new frock, and Jane will be chief attendant, and she will wear blue because she doesn’t like pink, and Mary can wear my old green dress that I wore for Pippa’s birthday party, and we want Jordy to wear white, but then Daddy laughed and said—”

  John and I both interrupted at once. “Eat your soup, Katherine,” he commanded, and I said quickly, “I think we should get Mary a new dress.”

  Lady Olivia pressed her lips together. “My goodness,” she said. “Is Katherine always this talkative?”

  Did Lady Olivia know her grandchildren at all?

  Katherine continued, “And did Daddy tell you that Jane and Jordy found some letters in the attic? Letters from Queen Jane herself, from 1553? And Jordy read a little bit and said that Jane’s husband maybe wasn’t icky after all but maybe he was very good-looking? But not as cute as Katherine’s husband, of course—did you know that they m
ade love twice and—”

  “Good God,” said John helplessly. “Jordy, make it stop.”

  But it was too late. Lady Olivia said sharply, “What’s this about Queen Jane?”

  “Never mind,” John snapped.

  “Miss Greene, I do hope that you are not inciting the children to believe stories about Queen Jane.”

  Jane’s head came up. Indignantly, she said, “They’re not stories! Jordy and I found the letters in a box in the attic, and the one that we read was to her cousin Anne Grey. She talks about her betrothed—that’s her future husband, Guildford Dudley—and she describes him as well favored and of a pleasant temperament!”

  Lady Olivia turned to John, more agitated than I had ever seen her. “John, you must put a stop to this nonsense at once. Why, poor Queen Jane was assaulted by that monster on her wedding night! She despised him! She was so traumatized that she ran away the next day and had to be dragged back to her husband. Why are these girls talking such nonsense?”

  I remembered that John had described his mother as “Greyer than Grey, as converts often are.” She had been born Lady Olivia Dunham, second-generation nobility, since her father had been knighted for his (commercial) services to the Crown during World War II. The fact that he had been a manufacturer of field army latrines was buried so deeply that even Lady Olivia had probably forgotten it.

  Henry said, “My mummy died when I was born.”

  I opened my mouth to reassure him, but Lady Olivia beat me to it. “God took her to heaven so that she could be with Jesus and the angels.”

  Henry looked confused.

  “He needed her to give the family a son and heir—that’s you, Viscount Bradgate —and then He took her away.”

  Big tears formed in Henry’s eyes. He looked at me in mute appeal.

  “My father died when I was little, too,” I said briskly. “Now, Katherine, tell us more about your pink dress.”

  Under the table, John’s hand reached for mine, and he squeezed it tightly.

  Chapter 25

  I THREATENED JOHN with all sorts of terrible things if he left me alone with his mother again, so he agreed to work out of his local parliamentary office for the next few days. It was fortunate that he wasn’t too far away, because the next day Lady Olivia discovered that I was Jewish.