“So she was a Protestant martyr,” said Jane, disappointed.
“Yes, but hardly an innocent victim,” said Dr. MacAlister. “She was by far more cunning and manipulative even than Elizabeth. Imagine a girl of that age contracting a secret betrothal behind her watchful parents’ back and conspiring to oust the queen of England!”
“And then there’s the baby,” murmured the female assistant.
Jane’s head came up alertly.
“Baby?” I repeated. “What baby?” asked Jane at the same time. We exchanged glances.
For the first time, Dr. MacAlister hesitated. Finally, he said, “There appears to be mention of a babe in the letter to Elizabeth. Possibly an heir to the Grey estates, which were bestowed upon the first male born to each generation. Had Jane borne a boy, that boy would have inherited the Grey name and property, instead of the distant cousin who eventually inherited after her father’s death.”
Jane was quicker than I was. “So does that mean . . . could that mean . . . that my family isn’t the rightful heir to Bradgate? That my father shouldn’t be Lord John Grey? And I shouldn’t be . . . Oh my God.”
I was speechless.
Dr. MacAlister said quickly, “My lady, it could never come to that. A babe born in the Tower—why, its chances of survival were minimal, let alone the chances of tracing that child’s lineage through the next five hundred and fifty years.”
I wet my lips. “How do you know it was born in the Tower?”
He averted his eyes.
The older grad assistant said, “It could not have been Guildford’s baby. They were married in May 1553, and the babe appears to be several months old in the February 1554 letter to Elizabeth.”
I started counting on my fingers.
“But if Jane had a pre-contract with George Wyatt in January 1553 . . . ,” Jane continued.
“Then the baby could have been born around October 1553, when Jane was in the Tower,” I said.
“Maybe that’s why she fainted when they told her she was queen,” speculated the female assistant. “Not because she was overwhelmed but because she was six months pregnant—with her lover’s baby.”
“Not precisely her lover,” Dr. MacAlister pointed out. “A pre-contract was as binding as a marriage.”
“I told you!” exclaimed Jane.
“And many couples did consummate a betrothal, even though the church officially disapproved.”
Jane’s eyes were shining. “A baby,” she murmured.
“Your father,” I said, “is going to kill us.”
Chapter 32
WE LEFT ST. ANDREWS the following morning with promises of undying devotion from Dr. MacAlister and his bleary-eyed assistants. We were to say nothing, do nothing, hint at nothing, until his “preliminary conclusions” had been subjected to peer review and published in an appropriately scholarly journal. They would engage in a frenzied search for any and all documents that might relate to Jane and the Wyatts, as well as the “probably apocryphal” dying declaration.
Jane and I did some whirlwind shopping in Edinburgh, raced through a hair salon in record time, and arrived back at Bradgate in time to see John depart for London.
His only words to me upon departure were “Henry wants to quit karate and football so he can take ballet lessons. Do something, Jordy.”
I had much bigger things to worry about. But since I couldn’t do anything about my legal woes, or Queen Jane, or my icy marriage, I decided to tackle the worries I could address. First I signed Henry up for ballet classes.
In preparation for the classes, he redoubled his leaping about the house. One morning I went downstairs to find him balanced precariously on a kitchen chair, his standing leg wobbling and his other leg stuck behind him in an attempted arabesque.
“Henry!” I ordered. “Get down at once.”
He fell off the chair; fortunately, I was close enough to catch him, and we went down together in a heap of flailing arms (Henry) and curses (me). Katherine appeared in the kitchen doorway. “What on earth are you doing?” she demanded.
“Henry, no more dancing on chairs,” I said.
“But—”
“I know that Billy Elliot dances on chairs, but you need to learn how. I’m sure they’ll teach you in ballet class,” I added mendaciously.
We went on Amazon together to buy clothes for dance class, and when the great day arrived, Henry was up at five A.M. and dressed in his black pants and shirt. I had agreed that he could skip football, since it conflicted with ballet class. Anticipating John’s reaction, I could only pray that my scheme would work.
We walked into the ballet school together, Henry practically quivering with excitement. It was full of girls dressed in pink, and Henry’s eyes widened as he took in the scene. Then the teacher came out and clapped her hands. “Beginners’ class!” she announced.
Henry bounded toward the classroom but stopped short and ran back to me. He threw his arms around my waist. “Thanks, Jordy!” he cried, and planted a kiss somewhere in the region of my cheek. Then he turned and bounded back into the sea of chattering girls.
I almost felt guilty. But if Henry had talent as a dancer, then I was the Dalai Lama. I had never in my life seen anyone with less natural aptitude for dance; his jumps ended in elephantine thuds, and his turns inevitably ended in crashes.
When Henry came out at the end of class, his feet were dragging. “That was hard,” he complained. “My legs hurt.”
“Dancing is hard work,” I agreed.
“And we didn’t learn anything about dancing on chairs! You promised, Jordy.”
“It takes a long time to learn how to dance on chairs,” I replied. “First you have to learn the basics.”
He sighed.
I suggested, “How about if we stop for ice cream on the way home?”
His eyes lit up. “Ice cream? In the morning? And the girls don’t get any?”
“Nobody gets ice cream but you,” I assured him.
“You can have some, too,” he said generously.
“Thanks, honey.” The endearment slipped out before I was even aware of it.
In the middle of his second scoop of fudge ripple, Henry decided that maybe he would go to football next week instead of ballet.
So that was Henry sorted out.
Next, I called the London asthma specialist and made an appointment to bring Mary in the following week. As with the St. Andrews trip, I kept it a secret. Keeping secrets from John wasn’t difficult; we’d been coolly polite since he had forbidden Jane and me to continue our Queen Jane research. When we did speak, we argued.
He had come home on Sunday, the day after Henry’s ballet class. He gave me a perfunctory kiss when he strode into the great hall, very much the master of his domain, I thought resentfully, and said, “Hi, Jordy. Where are the children?”
“I’m just fine. How are you?” I retorted.
He flicked me a dismissive glance. “Where are the children?” he repeated.
“Jane is doing homework.” She was doing research on Wyatt’s Rebellion, but he didn’t need to know that. “Katherine is at a sleepover at a friend’s house, and Mary and Henry are watching TV in the morning room.”
His gaze sharpened. “What are they watching?”
Oh, for God’s sake. “I have no idea.”
“Why did you let Katherine go on a sleepover? You knew I’d want to see her when I got here.” Unspoken was his hurt that she couldn’t be bothered to see him.
“She’ll be home soon. The children have their own lives, you know; they don’t just sit around waiting for their lord and master to show up.”
He turned away, his lips tight.
I wondered if this was how he and Aline had spoken to each other, and I softened. “I’m sorry.”
He nodded curtly.
Jane came dashin
g into the hall but stopped short when she saw her father. “Oh, hi,” she said to him. To me, she said excitedly, “Jordy, you won’t believe what I’ve been reading about! Did you know that when Jane and Elizabeth were both living with Catherine Parr and they were studying together, Jane wrote a letter saying she’d never be as smart as Elizabeth? She didn’t say that exactly, it was something like ‘my royal cousin and lady Elizabeth has the learning of great men, and my humble efforts are but a shadow—’ ”
Her father interrupted, “Why are you still working on this? Didn’t I tell you very clearly to stop trying to rewrite history?”
Jane paused, her face falling.
A shot of pure fury coursed through me as I saw her retreat into her silent self. “What is the matter with you?” I asked sharply. “She’s studying the history of your great and noble family. What could possibly be wrong with that? What’s your problem anyway?”
“My problem, as you so elegantly put it”—I hated him, absolutely, passionately hated him in that moment—“is that you girls can do a lot of damage by smearing the reputation of Queen Jane in this gala year. No one wants you to dig up dirt about Queen Jane.”
I said quietly, “What if it’s true? Don’t you want the truth?”
“My dear girl, we will never know the absolute truth about people who lived over five hundred and fifty years ago. The legend is very important to a great many people, including those who live in this area and were raised to revere their queen of nine days. Including Jane’s grandmother.”
Jane begged, “Please, please, don’t fight.”
John’s face turned ashen and I stopped short, realizing that Jane must have seen her parents snap at each other just like this—and then her mother had died. I looked at John and our eyes met.
“We’re not fighting,” he said, attempting a weak smile. “It’s just a lively discussion.”
“That’s right,” I agreed.
Jane looked at us dubiously, then closed her notebook and slipped out of the room.
John turned to me, but before he could speak, I said, “We have to behave better in front of the children.”
He nodded. “Right. No matter what we really feel.”
“Agreed,” I said, feeling sick inside.
It was only a few hours before the next blowup, this time over Katherine. When I picked her up at her friend’s house, the friend’s mother didn’t know where the children were. We searched through the enormous McMansion before running them to ground in the basement playroom (pool table, mini–basketball court, giant plasma TV). But Katherine wasn’t sitting on the couch innocently watching TV with her friend Cordelia; she was sitting on the couch entwined with Cordelia’s older brother, Lucas.
“Damn,” I said. The friend’s mother gasped.
Katherine and Lucas disentangled hastily; I was relieved to see that although her face was blushed and her lips were slightly swollen, her clothing was intact. Apparently, Lucas hadn’t gotten to first base yet.
I smothered a smile. “Katherine, let’s go.”
The friend’s mother gabbled apologetically, “I am so sorry! I’m so embarrassed! Lucas, how could you? Where is your sister? Apologize to Katherine and Lady Grey at once!”
Lucas, his face much redder than Katherine’s, stammered out an apology, and I hustled an unrepentant Katherine out of the house.
When we got into the car, she said, “Isn’t he cute?”
“Katherine—”
“Oh, I know, you don’t have to pull out the lecture. Anyway, it wasn’t that much fun. His lips were really wet.”
“Katherine—” I said helplessly.
She tossed her hair and grinned at me. “Don’t worry, Jordy, I know. I’ll behave.”
We both knew she wouldn’t.
She said thoughtfully, “I don’t think I should be kissing boys without titles anyway. They’re just jumped-up manufacturers. And did you see that hideous house?”
I saw my opening. “Katherine,” I said, “boys don’t like girls who are too—easy.” I thought of myself with Lucian, and John, and winced. “You should play hard to get. And absolutely, no boys without titles.”
She nodded in vigorous agreement.
So that was Katherine sorted out.
Unfortunately—very unfortunately—the friend’s mother couldn’t leave it alone. She called John that evening to apologize again, and he stormed into the bedroom where I was pondering my inadequate sweater collection. It was very cold in drafty old Bradgate Hall.
“What the hell happened with Katherine today? And why didn’t you tell me?” he demanded.
I parried, “Tell you what, exactly?”
“That abominable woman called to apologize. Katherine was ‘making out’ with her son?” His tone suggested that it was one step away from a back-alley abortion.
“Oh, John, it was nothing. They—”
“Nothing? Nothing? My thirteen-year-old daughter is caught in a sexual encounter and you say it’s nothing?”
“John, let’s not overreact. They were just kissing. And she didn’t even like it,” I added, hoping to placate him.
He was not placated. “I can’t believe you tried to keep this from me,” he fumed. “May I remind you that I am their father and you are only their stepmother? They are my children, and my responsibility, and—”
I couldn’t stand it any longer. “Yes, you are so responsible for them that you see them for one day every two weeks or so! I may be only the stepmother, but at least I’m here!”
“I’m here now, aren’t I?”
I snorted. “Yes, you prance in long enough to make sure that your son isn’t watching his favorite movie, and to discourage your eldest daughter—who is a brilliant scholar in the making—from doing groundbreaking historical research!”
He started to answer indignantly, then hesitated and sighed. “It’s been a very busy period,” he admitted. “I know I’ve been absent a lot, and I do hope to be home more often in the spring.”
I wondered how I felt about that.
“Anyway, please try to keep the children under control,” he said wearily.
I nodded, and he left the room.
— – — – —
That was our last private conversation before his departure for London. On Monday morning, it was déjà vu as Mary and I sat facing each other on a train bound for London. I had just explained to her that we were going to see an asthma specialist, and she’d said uneasily, “But my father will be angry.” I remembered Jane saying almost the same exact words on our trip to Scotland.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I’ll explain it all to him. I’m sure he’ll be thrilled when he sees how much the doctor can help you.”
Neither of us believed it.
Still, the appointment went even better than I had hoped, so the very next day, I went into the school with Mary and marched into the nurse’s office. I handed over Mary’s inhalers, as well as the doctor’s note clearing her for participation in all games and sports. “The games mistress will be delighted,” the nurse confided, tucking everything away in a file cabinet. “She once told me that she thought Mary has the perfect body type for cross-country running.”
“One step at a time,” I said a little apprehensively.
But when I picked up Mary that afternoon, she was on the playing fields with the other girls. Though her cheeks were bright with cold and exertion as she retrieved her backpack and walked over to me, she wasn’t wheezing. I put my arm around her thin shoulders. “How was school today?”
“Not bad. Miss Ellers thinks I should try out for the cross-country team. What do you think?”
“Okay,” I said.
“Do you think I should check with Daddy?”
I hesitated.
“Well,” she said, “maybe I’ll try out first and see what happens
.”
“That’s a good idea,” I said. “Let’s not bother him yet.”
So that was Mary sorted out.
— – — – —
John came home early that weekend (perhaps he was stung by my barb about his time with the children). He went to pick up Mary and Henry from school and came home in a high temper. “Jordy, may I speak with you?” he said icily.
I braced myself as we proceeded up the stairs and into the bedroom. He closed the door behind us.
“I hardly know where to begin,” he said. “You took Mary to the doctor? And now they have her running cross-country? Have you lost your mind?”
Prepared, I opened my bedside drawer and pulled out the sheaf of papers that the doctor had given me. “Here,” I said, holding them out to John. “This is her diagnosis, and her treatment plan, and some research on asthma in children. Read it.”
Reluctantly, he took the papers and glanced through them. Then he sat down on the bed and began to read more carefully. Quietly, I tiptoed out of the room.
— – — – —
It was a good thing that John was home, because the next morning, I had another visitor from New York.
When the red Jaguar purred up the front drive just after breakfast, somehow I knew even before he stepped out of the car that it was Lucian. Lucian Fellowes, my onetime bedmate (I couldn’t bring myself to call him my lover) and boss. The man who had set me up to take the fall for his financial scheming. Lucian, who only drove red Jaguars.
I could have slammed the door in his face. I should have slammed the door in his face. But I wanted to stand up to him one last time. I wanted to prove—to myself, to John, to Lucian—that I wasn’t a passive victim anymore. I wanted to confront my ghosts and banish them.
Chapter 33
I HAD THOUGHT about this meeting a lot; it seemed inevitable that Lucian would show up in person to apply the sheer force of his personality. Or, if that didn’t work, brute force. After all, it had never failed before. Not when he’d insisted that I give him my passwords; not when he’d claimed that the blond trader from Asteroid Fund was just a friend; not even when he’d pushed my unwilling head down his body despite my tendency to gag at the very idea.
Nannyland Page 18