Nannyland

by Jane Elizabeth Hughes

  She thought that over and heaved a great sigh. “All right, then,” she said. “I guess you can show me how to use the things.”

  — – — – —

  Later that day, I got an email from my solicitor in London.

  Dear Lady Grey,

  I have been in frequent contact with my counterparts in New York, and while AmCan Bank and Asteroid Fund are indeed urging prosecutors to charge you, I am assured that no indictments will be forthcoming. Based on the information that you provided, the IP address of the computer from which the suspect trades were initiated does not match any in your possession. Furthermore, you were on your own computer conducting other business at the time the trades were done.

  Nonetheless, there is a dearth of solid evidence against other suspects (Mr. Fellowes and Mr. Puccelli). As we discussed in our previous conference call, therefore, we would like to proceed with the course of action suggested by New York prosecutor Nirav Gupta.

  Aka Foxy, I thought.

  Accordingly, you should prepare to present yourself to the New York authorities for “arrest.” The event will be publicized quite heavily, as we agreed, and Mr. Gupta’s office will immediately announce that you have agreed to testify against your former colleagues in exchange for immunity.

  If I may permit myself a witticism, the game is afoot.

  I choked with laughter. Good old Reggie.

  The matter of your memoir is still under discussion. Lord Grey informs me that the manuscript is in rough form and may never be published . . .

  Well! I thought, indignant. How does John know? And then I remembered him scanning through the pages on my computer one day in the sunroom. He was probably right.

  . . . never be published, so I suggest that we table this matter unless and until the manuscript is viable.

  I am, as always,

  At your service

  Reginald R. W. Bramstock, Esq.

  Pompous ass! Until the manuscript is viable, indeed! I would show them viable.

  And then I remembered the stultifying prose, and my heart sank.

  Oh well. At least there was my perp walk to look forward to.

  — – — – —

  The last event of interest was a phone call from Dr. MacAlister at St. Andrews.

  “Lady Grey,” he began formally, “have you or Lady Jane been able to locate any more family documents?”

  I hated to disappoint the old scholar. “No,” I said. “We did go through the attics again, but there was nothing more.”

  He sighed gustily. “I hardly dared hope,” he admitted. “What we already have is such a blessing; one mustn’t get greedy. Would it be possible for you and Lady Jane to make the journey up here again? I have collected some other documents that I am reassessing in light of the new information in your letters. Not the alleged dying declaration, but you may find them interesting.”

  We certainly would.

  “Dr. MacAlister,” I asked tentatively, “are you familiar with the Grey Five Hundred Gala that is scheduled for June?”

  “Oh my, yes. Not a scholarly event, but it is always welcome to have the public involved in historical pursuits.”

  “Yes. Well. My husband’s family is very concerned about the effect of these revelations . . .” I trailed off; it sounded so silly to me.

  “The effect?” His voice rose in surprise.

  “You know,” I said. “Puncturing the image of Queen Jane as the sainted martyr.”

  “But my lady, she was a martyr! She died to ensure that Elizabeth could become a queen. And a Protestant queen at that!”

  “Yes, but you know, the pre-contract and all. It’s not the right image.”

  “Good God,” he said blankly.

  I cleared my throat. “Yes, so is there any way that we could, um, delay announcing our research until after the gala?”

  “Most assuredly not,” he rumbled indignantly. “Why, I’ve already heard rumors that my counterpart at Oxford is on the trail; he has requested that I share the documents with him, and in the name of academic scholarship, I must agree to his request. In fact . . .”

  “In fact what?” I asked apprehensively.

  “In fact, now that I think of it, your gala will be the perfect venue to present our research to the world!”

  Oh my God.

  — – — – —

  The children’s half-term vacation was almost upon us, and I was not looking forward to two weeks with them in the house all day, every day. One of the aerobics ladies suggested an all-inclusive resort in Spain (“That’s where we always go; they keep the kids so busy that we don’t see them all day”), and another suggested shipping them off to football or computer camp.

  When John came home on the last Friday night in February, we started discussing it at the dinner table.

  Katherine suggested Kenya, “where Prince William proposed to Kate Middleton.” John countered with a hiking weekend in Cornwall. Jane mentioned a special exhibit on Elizabethan England in Edinburgh. Henry looked mutinous, and it was deteriorating into a good old-fashioned family squabble when Mary whispered something.

  “What was that, Mary?” I asked.

  “I want to go to . . .”

  I still couldn’t hear her. “Sorry, what was that?”

  “I WANT TO GO TO DISNEY WORLD!”

  The table fell silent.

  John sent me an agonized look and I opened my mouth. But Henry clapped his hands and cried, “Disney World! I want to go to Disney World, too! In Florida!”

  Katherine said slowly, “Didn’t Gwyneth Paltrow just take Apple to Disney World? Don’t lots of famous people go there?”

  “Yes, do you see yourself playing with the Pitt-Jolie children?” Jane asked tartly. She, too, sent me an agonized look. She had never looked more like her father.

  Katherine, impervious to sarcasm, beamed. “Yes! I want to go to Disney World, too!”

  Henry started chanting, “Disney World! Disney World!” and Katherine and Mary joined in.

  John said meaningfully, “We could combine it with that New York trip that we’ve discussed,” and I exchanged glances with him while I thought about the idea.

  I had never been to Disney World; I’d always been at riding competitions, and my mother’s idea of vacation was a literary festival in Chicago. I had never wanted to go to Disney World. John and Jane would probably detest it. The vote was three against two, so I could veto the idea. But then I saw Mary’s face, bright and rosy with excitement, and Henry looking like any little boy in search of the Pirates of the Caribbean, and Katherine’s blue eyes alight with glee.

  “I’d love to go to Disney World,” I said.

  Chapter 41

  A FEW DAYS later, John announced at dinner that Maitland had made the reservations. We would, he declared, make a stopover in New York “so that the children can get a soupçon of culture before descending to—that is, before Disney World.”

  I knew that he wasn’t looking forward to the crowds and commercialism of Disney, and for once, we were in complete agreement. But we were both trying to be good sports about it, and I sent him a conspiratorial smile.

  “We’ll only need one day in New York,” he added.

  Four pairs of unwinking blue eyes focused on him in various states of dismay.

  “But I want to go to Bloomingdale’s!” cried Katherine.

  “I want to see the dinosaurs!” whined Henry.

  Surprisingly, Jane said softly, “I thought you were going to buy us designer jeans.”

  Mary was silent, her eyes going back and forth between us, her gaze questioning and uncertain.

  I felt a surge of panic. What if our little conspiracy failed? What if they really did arrest me? Could we possibly triumph over the back-alley savagery of a New York bank and its lawyers?

  “M
aybe New York isn’t such a good idea,” I said.

  “Why not?” John inquired, as if we were discussing lamb versus stew for dinner.

  “You know why. The extradition? The subpoenas? The charges?”

  “What’s a sub-penis?” Henry asked, suddenly alert. “Is it a really, really little willy? Malcolm on my football team has a really, really little willy, and he says—”

  John suppressed a smile. “No, Henry, that is not what it means. And Jordy, don’t worry about . . . the other. It’ll be fine.”

  I started to protest, but he cut me off. “Children, don’t you want to go to New York? To see the stores, and the dinosaurs, and . . .”

  “New York! New York! New York!” they shouted, pounding on the table. Even Jane joined in, and I knew I was defeated.

  — – — – —

  I wondered, as I packed my clothes, What does one pack to be arrested? I envisioned being met at the airport by burly NYPD officers, their guns gleaming in their holsters, and being led away in cuffs from the terrified children. How much good would bloody John’s bloody connections do me then? I even called Reginald Bramstock, who assured me that there was not a shred of evidence against me and that Mr. Gupta was a perfectly trustworthy co-conspirator.

  “How will they do it?” I asked him, still fretting. “They won’t arrest me in front of the children, will they?”

  He hesitated. “Mr. Gupta thinks it best not to let you know in advance. It’s best for you to be surprised, so that it looks real.”

  “But what if—?”

  “Lady Grey,” he said firmly. “All is under control.”

  John, when applied to, just laughed and said he had enough on Foxy to blackmail him for the rest of his days. “There’s a snapshot of him with a donkey’s head,” he said dreamily, and I poked him hard in the ribs.

  “I’m serious!” I snapped.

  He looked surprised. “Really? How absurd.”

  — – — – —

  We arrived safely enough in New York and made our way to the hotel without incident. “Where shall we go first?” Katherine demanded as the bellman unloaded our bags. We were staying at the hopelessly stuffy Four Seasons rather than the trendy, child-friendly hotel in Times Square that I had suggested.

  “The Metropolitan Museum of Art,” John said.

  “I want to ride the Staten Island Ferry!” Katherine protested.

  It was pouring rain outside.

  Henry shouted, “I want to go to Ripley’s Believe It or Not!”

  John shuddered.

  Mary quietly said, “I should like to see a play.”

  Jane looked thoughtful. “I’d like to see a play, too.”

  I didn’t know what John wound up paying the concierge for the tickets—he refused to discuss it—but we all went to see The Lion King on Broadway that night. Henry and Mary were entranced by the music, Katherine by the costumes, and Jane by the story. John even unbent so far as to put his arm around me as we walked back to the hotel in the dark rainy night, and he granted the children full access to the minibars with only a slight wince.

  The next morning, we were up with the sun. “Let’s take the children to Ellis Island today,” John said, shrugging into his Thomas Pink shirt. Blue-striped and exquisitely fitted, it was (at two hundred dollars) possibly the least expensive garment he owned, aside from the ancient jeans and sweaters that he wore only around the house. “I believe there’s an excellent museum on immigration there.”

  I pretended to yawn. “I promised them we could go to the Museum of Natural History. Henry wants to see the insect zoo there, and Mary wants to see the dinosaur skeletons.”

  “Mary does? Really?”

  “Yes,” I lied ruthlessly. Once we were there, I was sure, she would love the dinosaurs.

  “But what does one do there?”

  “They have lots of fossils and dioramas of every animal in the universe, and the precious gems gallery, and the insect zoo . . .”

  He’d already lost interest. “Just a collection of freakishness,” he said decidedly. “We’ll go to the Immigration Museum.”

  Over my dead body. “John,” I said, “all evidence to the contrary, you were a child once, weren’t you?”

  “If by ‘child’ you mean one of those spoiled American brats with Mummy trotting around them, offering everything from Ritalin to eyebrow threading, then no. I wasn’t.”

  “How do you know about eyebrow threading?” I asked, diverted.

  “I know lots of things you don’t know.”

  Encouraged by this sign of childishness, I pressed on. “I know you were a kid once—don’t deny it, I’ve seen the pictures—and I can’t believe that you would have chosen an immigration museum over dinosaur bones any day.”

  “British parents—” he began stiffly.

  “Oh, enough with the British parents! I’ve been there long enough to see that British yummy mummies fawn over their little darlings every bit as much as Americans do. This discussion has gone on long enough. I am taking the children to Natural History today, and that’s that.”

  Our discussion was interrupted by the insistent trilling of the bedside telephone. I glared at John and grabbed up the receiver.

  “Lady Grey? You have some . . . visitors . . . in the lobby. Police officers. Could you please come downstairs immediately, before they upset our guests?”

  As Reggie would say, the game was afoot.

  Chapter 42

  I BABBLED SOMETHING at John, and he went to alert the children while I threw on jeans and a sweater; no sense in wearing my best clothes to jail. I raced around the room, throwing items into my purse and wondering what they would let me take. Could I take my Kindle? My iPhone? What about a paperback book? I would go crazy without something to read. How long would all of this take anyway?

  John came back into the room and began to dress unhurriedly while I sent death-ray glares his way. Now that the time was upon us, I was nervous and jumpy. Would everything go as we had planned? Was it all a terrible mistake? Could we really outwit AmCan’s army of piratical lawyers?

  We rode downstairs in the elevator silently; even the children were quiet, sensing the tension of the moment, and stayed close by my side. Henry sidled up to John and took his hand. As we walked off the elevator, a heavyset, grizzled African-American man in his late forties, his jacket slightly open to display the gun at his belt, came to meet us. “Jordan Greene?”

  Henry’s eyes were wide. He whispered to Jane, “Is he an American bobby?” and she nodded. Mary coughed slightly, and John took her hand in his free one.

  “Yyyyyess.” My lips were stiff, but I managed a reassuring smile at the children. Damn Nirav Gupta! I had specifically asked that this not happen in front of them.

  The police officer gave me a wide smile and held out his hand. “I’m Detective Arthur Watkins. A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Greene. Or should I address you as Lady Grey?”

  John said smoothly, “Ms. Greene will do. I’m John Grey, and these are our children.”

  Our children! I almost forgot to be annoyed as I digested the words.

  Watkins smiled pleasantly at the children and looked back at me. “Ms. Greene, my partner and I have come to escort you to the district attorney’s office. Will you please come with us?”

  I looked at John, who was imperturbable as ever. He nodded at me. “You go with the gentlemen, Jordy, and I’ll follow in a cab with the children. We’ll slip out the back way to avoid the press.”

  “Oh, no, don’t bring the—” I was horrified by the idea of the children seeing me under “arrest.” Then I realized how much I wanted them with me. Selfish, perhaps, but I remembered how much strength I had drawn from them during those unwelcome visits from my former colleagues at the bank, and I remembered Mary’s fake asthma attack when she wanted to get me away from Marcus and G
ary.

  Besides, if they didn’t come, then John would have to stay with them. The idea of doing this without John at my side was unthinkable.

  “Okay,” I said weakly.

  “Don’t worry,” he said again, more urgently. “Please. Everything will be fine.”

  Blinking back sudden tears, I followed Watkins and his partner, a younger white man with one of those silly soul patches on his chin and a thin, lanky frame. As we emerged into the bright sunlight, the street came alive with hundreds of popping flashbulbs and shouting reporters. “Lady Grey! Are you really going to testify against your ex-boyfriend?” “Jordy! Look here!” “Lady Grey! Are you under arrest?”

  I hurried awkwardly by the police officers, trying to keep my head down and my face expressionless. But the flashes and the jostling crowd were practically in my face, and I was annoyed to find that my hands were shaking.

  So this was what a “very public” perp walk felt like.

  Unbelievably, Watkins tried to chat pleasantly during the drive downtown. He asked me when we got in from the UK, were we suffering from jet lag, how old were the children. I could only give him monosyllabic answers, and mercifully, he left me alone after that, exchanging good-humored jabs with his partner about the Mets and the Yankees.

  Finally, we arrived at the huge complex at the tip of Manhattan that housed the U.S. Attorney for the Southern District of New York. I knew this building. Every banker in the city knew this building. We had all built our careers around a devout desire never to be investigated by anyone in this building.

  As we waded through another gauntlet of shouting reporters and photographers, I realized I had to go to the bathroom desperately.

  “Here we are, Ms. Greene,” Watkins said cheerfully, opening the door to the building.

  I asked tentatively, “May I use the bathroom?”

  “Of course. Just down the hall on the right.”

  The two policemen stood in the busy hallway, chatting and looking unconcerned as I made my unsteady way to the bathroom. Inside, I locked the door and stared at myself in the mirror. Perhaps I should just run away.