“Perhaps she wasn’t talking about this Guildford Dudley,” Charlotte suggested. “Perhaps she was talking about some other man.”
“Impossible!” Lady Olivia snapped.
I hadn’t noticed Jane and Katherine slip into the room, but I wasn’t surprised; of course they had been listening at the door to the adult conversation.
“But Grandmama,” argued Jane, greatly daring, “maybe Jane was in love with some other man. The letter only talks about her betrothed; it doesn’t mention him by name. Maybe that’s why she ran away from Guildford on her wedding night.”
“Yes!” Katherine’s blue eyes sparkled with mischief and merriment. “Maybe Jane had a boyfriend who was tall, dark, and handsome, and she was madly madly in love with him, so she couldn’t stand icky Guildford.”
Lady Olivia could take no more. “Nonsense, girls!” she said. “Highly born young ladies like Lady Jane Grey did not have boyfriends! Honestly!”
John suddenly said, “Wait a minute. You said there are letters written by Jane, describing her betrothed?”
“Yes,” Jane and I said together.
“To her cousin Anne Grey,” Jane added.
“And when were they written?” I could see his alert, active intelligence at work.
“January 1553,” Jane said.
“But,” said John, “Jane and Guildford were only betrothed for a few days, in May 1553. They were married less than a week after their betrothal. Weren’t they?”
My heart sank. The letters had been dated nearly four months before the wedding, nearly four months before Jane was betrothed to the hateful Guildford. And John was right: The betrothal had been just a few days before their wedding.
The letters must be fakes after all.
Quietly, her face downcast, Jane slipped out of the room.
— – — – —
But the next morning—good God, my “wedding” day!—Jane came into the breakfast room looking more animated than I had ever seen her. “I have an idea,” she said, sitting down beside me and pulling out a businesslike notebook.
“What?” I felt the urge to comb out her tangled hair, but then I realized that was the kind of gesture her aunt or grandmother would make.
“What if Jane was betrothed, four months before her wedding, but not to Guildford? What if the letters are real, and she was in love with someone else?”
It couldn’t be. Could it? But who, aside from Lady Olivia and a few other history buffs, would care if Lady Jane Grey had a youthful romance before her marriage to Guildford Dudley?
“Okay,” I said dubiously. “But what difference does it make?”
“Don’t you see?” Jane’s entire body was tense with urgency. “If Jane had a pre-contract with some other man, then her marriage to Guildford was illegal! She was a bigamist, or an adulteress, or—”
“Stop right there!” Lady Olivia commanded. She was standing in the doorway, rigid with fury. “How dare you disgrace the memory of our sainted ancestress!”
“Honestly,” said Kath behind her. “Does anyone really take this seriously?”
Lady Olivia glared at her, unable to speak in her outrage.
Jane was oblivious, intent on her notebook. “But look, Jordy. When we studied Richard the Third—you know, the one who stole the throne from his nephews and then killed them—we learned that the boys’ father, Edward the Fourth, had a pre-contract with another woman before he married their mother. The boys were illegitimate, so they couldn’t be king! A pre-contract was as binding as a marriage.”
Kath was finally interested. “That could be true,” she said. “In medieval and Renaissance times, pre-contracts were legally binding.”
“So if Jane had a pre-contract with another man . . . ,” I mused.
“Then she couldn’t have legally married Guildford!” Jane said triumphantly. “And that’s why she ran away on her wedding night and why she refused to crown him king. Because she was legally bound to another man!”
“Hmmm. Possible,” said Kath. “I could do some legal research, but—”
Lady Olivia found her voice. “You will do no research,” she said. “Jane will do no research. Jordy will do no research.”
Kath winked at me. “Don’t you want to know the truth, Lady Olivia?” she asked innocently.
Lady Olivia glared at her. “The truth is in my book. Lady Jane Grey was a martyr to the Protestant cause, a virtuous and learned girl. That is the truth.”
“But maybe she was—” Jane tried.
“That is all,” her grandmother said with awful finality, and stalked out of the room.
“Well!” said Kath. She grinned. “Guess we really got the old lady’s goat, didn’t we?”
Jane looked horrified at this show of irreverence toward the stately Lady Olivia.
I grinned, too, but then I remembered. “Oh my God, it’s my ‘wedding’ day! Jane, get dressed! Kath, get dressed! I have to— Oh my God, what do I have to do?”
“Get dressed,” Kath advised.
Chapter 27
IN THE END, my wedding was, astonishingly, fun. I had discovered that John loved music; his iPod was often playing softly when I slipped into his bedroom at night. He had the most eclectic playlist I had ever heard: Chopin rubbed shoulders with Lady Gaga, and a classic Pete Seeger protest song could be followed by Rage Against the Machine (when I thought about it, that segue did make sense).
So John had taken charge of the music. On the great day, we paced solemnly down the aisle to the strains of “Here Comes the Sun,” surprisingly sweet and hopeful. At the close of the brief ceremony, the Beatles’ “Help!” boomed out, and I burst into giggles. We danced our way back up the aisle as husband and wife, laughing at the scandalized faces of his mother and sister. Kath and Charlotte were convulsed in laughter; my mother was poker-faced. As we made our way into the reception rooms, I heard “Under My Thumb,” followed by “Run for Your Life.”
For our first dance as husband and wife, John had chosen “I’ve Got You Under My Skin,” and as we moved together, I felt the words as I had never felt them before. “But why should I try to resist when, baby, I know so well, I’ve got you under my skin.”
Maybe it would be all right after all.
I had never danced with John and discovered that he danced much as he made love: He was fun, inventive, and highly skilled. Then he danced with Jane, who looked almost pretty in her pale blue silk, while I danced with his best man, Pamela’s portly husband. John reclaimed me for the final dance of the evening, “Feelin’ Good,” and murmured in my ear, “Maybe we should return to the scene of the crime.”
I smiled up at him, feeling good indeed. “What scene of the crime?”
“We should consummate our marriage in that shed on the hillside where it all started.”
I rested my head against his shoulder. “Or we could go to the lovely country hotel three miles away, where we reserved the bridal suite, and sleep in a huge feather bed with room service and central heat.”
“Maybe you’ll sleep,” my husband said. “I have other plans.”
— – — – —
Absurdly, I was married. I was Lady Jordan Grey, married to Sir John the (formerly) Icy, stepmother to his four children, and a member of the British nobility. Two days after the wedding, John returned to London and life returned to normal. I started to ponder Christmas presents for the children and conferred with my aerobics friends about what an English country Christmas should include. Weren’t there quaint traditions like stirring the nog? Or pease pudding? Did we invite all the peasants in the village to the great hall for sixpence and a fatted calf?
They assured me that Christmas in the Cotswolds was much like Christmas anywhere else in the world. “There’s a Walmart near Bristol, and the Gap, and Banana Republic. Just buy Katherine some J Brand jeans and she’ll be thrilled.
” I must have looked dubious, for Meggie added, “And tell John you want some bloody expensive piece of jewelry. He bought Aline a great socking diamond or sapphire every year. I think his assistant picked them out.”
I winced at the thought of the oh so proper Maitland choosing meaningless jewelry for me. “I hope not. I’m not much of a jewelry girl.”
“I still can’t figure out why you two got married,” said one of the women (Brenda, the one who liked sponge cakes), cautiously probing. “And so fast! You’re not pregnant, since the whole village heard that you tossed down about six glasses of champagne at the wedding.”
I shuddered. “God forbid.”
“Well, then?”
Probably I should have a good explanation at hand. “We just”—I couldn’t bring myself to say we fell in love—“we just . . . It made so much sense, with me living at the house and looking after the children. And we do— I mean, he’s—” I gestured helplessly. “You know.”
“He’s good in bed.” Meggie nodded sagely. “I always figured he would be.” Eyes sparkled with interest all around the café table. Foolishly, I blushed. “But why the rush?” she went on.
What could I tell these kind, well-meaning women when I didn’t even know myself? I shrugged and said, “If you must know, the children caught us in bed together. It was a shotgun wedding.”
Meggie burst out laughing, Brenda and the others followed suit, and I found myself laughing, too. We all laughed until tears came to our eyes, then laughed some more.
“Was it worth it?” Brenda asked, still giggling.
I thought of John’s fair head on my pillow and his lean body lounging on my bed. “Absolutely,” I said, surprising myself.
— – — – —
That night on the phone, I said to John, “The aerobics ladies wanted to know why we got married so fast.”
“That’s a fair question,” he said. “What did you tell them?”
“That the children caught us in bed together and it was a shotgun wedding.”
I heard him choke. “What? For Jesus’ sake, why did you tell them that? It’ll be all over the village by tomorrow!”
“So what?”
“So what? So what? Do you want the children to hear that? Or my mother and sister?”
I internally shuddered and lied, “I don’t care what Lady Olivia and Duchess Pamela think. And nobody would repeat that to the children.”
“Why didn’t you just come up with a good lie? Tell her we fell madly madly in love, as Katherine would say?”
I bit my lip. It seemed like sacrilege. “I told them I married you because you’re good in bed.”
He was startled into laughter. “Thank you for the compliment, Lady Grey. And may I return it with interest.”
“They said they already figured you would be.”
He laughed even harder. “Clearly, you have enhanced my reputation in the village. Perhaps throughout the Cotswolds.”
“Maybe it’ll be good for you in the elections,” I teased. “You’ll get the female and the gay men’s votes.”
He chuckled, and I was smiling as we said good night.
— – — – —
A few days later, I got an ominous phone call from the headmaster’s office at Henry’s school. “Mr. Bingham would like you to take Henry home immediately,” the secretary explained. Her voice was not without sympathy.
“Oh, no! What happened? Is he all right?”
“Henry is fine, but . . . Mr. Bingham will explain when you get here.” She hesitated. “You’d better hurry.”
I rushed out without bothering to change from my jeans and sweatshirt. When I arrived, the headmaster said, “Lady Grey? Follow me, please.”
Lady Grey! Good God.
I followed and was relieved to see a perfectly undamaged Henry sitting on the bench across from the secretary’s desk, his little feet in their regulation kneesocks and school sandals swinging jauntily in the air. “Henry!” I hissed. “What did you do?”
He looked innocently affronted. “Nothing,” he hissed back.
I pressed my lips together and marched into the headmaster’s office.
Henry, it turned out, had had an “unfortunate exchange” with his Latin tutor. The tutor had suggested that Henry forgo sports to focus more on his studies, and a grinning Henry had returned, “Yeah, when monkeys fly out of your butt.”
Practically frothing at the mouth in his righteous outrage, the tutor had frog-marched a bewildered Henry to the headmaster’s office; none of Henry’s repeated protestations that “they said it in a movie” had moved either tutor or headmaster. Now he was being sent home in disgrace, though he seemed quite pleased at the prospect of a day out of school.
As I steered the car through the school gates, I asked Henry what movie the line was from.
“Wayne’s World. Deirdre let me watch it lots of times. And I don’t understand what’s wrong with—”
“Never mind,” I interrupted. “Just don’t do it again.”
He shrugged. “Can I watch Wayne’s World when we get home?”
“No!”
“Can I watch—?”
“No!”
He pouted.
When we got home, I opened his car door and he brushed past me with a hauteur remarkably reminiscent of his father. But he was so busy pretending to ignore me that he didn’t watch his feet and promptly slid into a puddle of icy mud.
“Bath,” I ordered. Honestly, little boys were so appalling!
However, when I went into the bathroom to order him out of the tub, I was surprised by the softness of his little-boy skin and the fineness of his bones, with delicate blue veins showing faintly through his fair skin, as he stepped unconcernedly out of the bath. I pulled a thick towel from the heated rail and wrapped it around his warm, yielding little body.
“Remember when you rescued me from the lake?” Henry said suddenly.
“Yes. You shouldn’t have gone out there, you know.”
He ignored this. “You made me take a bath then, too.”
“I suppose I did.”
“I’m sorry I got mad at you in the car.”
“That’s okay.” I paused. “I’m sorry I got mad at you, too.”
Abruptly, he said, “Did you get another father? When your father died, I mean.”
Unexpectedly, I felt tears prick against my eyelids. I blinked rapidly. “Uh . . . no.”
“Did you want another father?”
“I suppose I did,” I said again.
Henry fetched up a deep sigh, and I waited, anxious to hear what he would say next. “I’m hungry,” he said plaintively.
Chapter 28
I WAS STILL feeling kindly toward John during the Christmas and Boxing Day holidays. Perhaps we could make this work after all. I loved that he had chosen “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” for our first dance and “Feelin’ Good” to close out the night.
The girls liked most of their presents, although Katherine stared disbelievingly at the copy of Little Women that I’d given her, and she had to be prompted by her father to issue a pro-forma thank you. Later I heard her complaining to Jane that books weren’t presents; Jane rejoined that J Brand jeans shouldn’t be presents.
I gave Mary a DVD of Billy Elliot, hoping that she would be inspired by its story of a seemingly ordinary boy who, against all odds, became a dancer. But she glanced at it indifferently and tossed it aside. Astonishingly, I came upon Henry watching it a few days later in the morning room.
“I love this movie,” Henry announced. “I want to be a dancer like Billy Elliott! I want to dance on chairs and wear dance costumes just like him.”
Oh, dear. I suspected that John would not like this development. I knew he didn’t care whether anyone was gay, straight, or in between, but I also knew he wanted his only son
to marry and pass on the Grey titles to a passel of sons. Heritage would out, I supposed.
— – — – —
Sure enough, when John came home for the first weekend in January, the first thing he said to me after greeting the children was “I hear my son is planning a career in ballet.”
“Modern dance, perhaps,” I said.
“Well,” he said a little heavily. “Of course, whatever he wants.”
Henry came “dancing” into the kitchen, wearing old pink ballet slippers of Katherine’s and his blue-and-gold-striped school kneesocks. He twirled around on one foot, barked his shin on the chair, and jumped straight into the air to land on a kitten’s tail. The kitten squawked and streaked out of the room. I stifled a giggle.
“Look!” he proclaimed. “I’m Billy Elliot! I’m a dancer!”
“Yes, indeed,” said his father weakly.
I gave him points for good sportsmanship.
— – — – —
My good humor fled when John announced that Lady Olivia and Pamela would be joining us for dinner the following night, along with the planning committee of the Grey 500 Gala. “They would like Jane to be present as well,” he informed me.
“Why?”
He had the grace to look slightly uncomfortable. “She is, after all, the namesake of Queen Jane.”
“But John, she hates that stuff.”
“That ‘stuff,’ as you so inelegantly call it, will be bringing great fortune to my constituents in June. And my mother is the honorary chairwoman of the Lady Jane Grey Society. It is very important to her and the others on the planning committee.”
Lady Jane Grey and her possible boyfriend had slipped my mind during the wedding and holiday festivities, but now I wondered again: Were those letters fakes? Or was it possible that Jane had not been such an innocent pawn after all?
When our guests arrived on Saturday evening, a reluctant Jane had been stuffed into her best dress and, upon Lady Olivia’s orders, taken up her post in the great hall to greet them. The first guest, an elderly bewhiskered gentleman wearing a velvet smoking jacket and what appeared to be ancient driving moccasins, practically knelt at Jane’s feet. “My lady,” he murmured, bowing so low that I feared he would topple to the ground, “it is truly an honor to serve you.”
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