Nannyland

by Jane Elizabeth Hughes

  “And her sister Lady Katherine did fall madly madly in love and did die for the sake of love, just like I told you!” cried Katherine.

  John’s face was a mask again. “More or less,” he admitted to me. “Lady Katherine Grey was even more foolish and feckless than her older sister, Jane—Katherine married against Queen Elizabeth’s wishes and ended up in the Tower, as one might have expected.”

  “Sounds pretty harsh to me,” I commented.

  “As I was saying,” continued John smoothly, “she gave birth to one son and then, uh, lay with her husband again while they were both imprisoned in the Tower—No, Katherine, not another word!”—this as a giggling Katherine opened her mouth to speak—“and died under house arrest, having been separated from her husband and sons for the rest of her life.”

  “And how old was she?” I asked, fascinated by the sad story. I couldn’t recall reading much about Queen Jane’s sisters, though I knew she’d been the eldest of three.

  John glanced at Jane. “Twenty-seven,” the girl told me.

  “Wasn’t there a younger sister, too? Lady Mary?” I asked. For the first time I realized that these girls were all named after the original famous Grey sisters of the sixteenth century. How . . . eccentric. How very English.

  “Oh, yes,” said Jane. “She was the youngest, just like our Mary. But she was sickly and, uh, stunted—”

  Henry contributed, “She was a dwarf!”

  John frowned at him.

  “Anyway, she died, too,” Jane finished quickly.

  I looked over at Mary, the smallest and youngest of the three girls, who was picking listlessly at her food, and wondered again about her “physical condition.” Only eleven years old, Mary was a wan, faded reflection of her older sisters, her hair light but not blond, her eyes a pale washed-out blue. She looked tired.

  “Mary, sweetheart, try to eat some corn,” John said coaxingly. The gentle, almost tender tone caught me by surprise, and I looked up sharply.

  “Yes, Mary, the corn is really sweet,” Jane agreed. Her expressive eyes, resting on her sister, were worried and caring; even I felt a pang of anxiety for the delicate-looking child. What on earth was wrong with her?

  — – — – —

  We ran out of conversation shortly after that, so John asked me to tell them something about myself. “Well,” I began, trying not to notice that Henry had pulled another game out of his pocket and was tapping at the keys, “I went to a girls’ school, too, Katherine. But I loved it.”

  “Really?” she said skeptically.

  “Yes, really.” She did not need to know about the rampant anorexia, the fake IDs, the Collegiate boys, and the accommodating bartender on Eighty-Sixth Street.

  “Now what do you do?” asked Jane.

  “I am— I mean, I was a hedge fund manager on Wall Street.”

  “What’s that?” Katherine asked.

  “Yes, do please explain,” said John.

  I looked a little helplessly at my audience. “We take highly leveraged speculative positions in financial markets around the world, managing the investments of high-net-worth individuals and . . .” I trailed off, seeing Jane turn the page of her book and Katherine making faces at Mary across the tablecloth.

  “Shall I?” John asked.

  I nodded.

  “They sit at computers all day and move pretend money around so that they can make huge bonuses.” John looked at me. “Is that accurate?”

  “No,” I said coldly.

  “And then after they created this whole pretend economy, they let it crash and burn so that we’re having to cut services and raise taxes,” he added.

  I glared at him. Wasn’t he a Tory, like all the other milords?

  “Why did you come here?” asked Katherine. “Did you fall madly madly in love and—?”

  “Katherine,” her father warned.

  She wasn’t all that far off, but then again, she couldn’t have been more wrong. Love had never entered into the relationship between me and Lucian. Power and fear, perhaps, but never love. I remembered that Henry Kissinger had said power was the best aphrodisiac, and power clung to Lucian like an invisible cloak of majesty.

  “No,” I said again. “I’m going to write a book.”

  “A romantic book?” Katherine asked.

  “A book about the hedge fund industry. Telling lots of secrets. What we call a tell-all memoir.”

  “Is that wise?” John asked me.

  I shrugged, thinking of the daily messages from lawyers on my cell phone.

  Henry looked up from his game for the first time and focused on me. “Did your mummy die, too?” he asked.

  Everyone looked at me.

  “No,” I said for the third time, finding, to my surprise, a lump in my throat as I returned the children’s questioning gazes. “She’s in New York. But my father died.”

  Henry nodded.

  “All right, children,” John said briskly. “Henry, time for bed.”

  “I’ll bring him upstairs,” Jane said, and she took her brother’s hand and led him out of the room. Katherine reclaimed her cell phone and followed, while Mary dragged behind her with a palpable air of listlessness.

  “Well!” John said. “Shall I run you home?”

  “Yes, please. I’m afraid to touch that car anymore, so I walked over. I think I will return it tomorrow.”

  “At this point a few more dents wouldn’t even be noticed,” he said drily. “You may use one of the estate cars. Er . . . perhaps the Renault? That’s quite . . . small.” Expendable, his tone suggested.

  “Are they automatic transmission?” I asked hopefully.

  “Of course not.”

  “Uh . . .”

  He fetched up a deep sigh as he held the front door open for me and we went out into the damp-smelling fall evening. “I suppose I shall have to teach you, then.”

  Chapter 5

  THE NEXT MORNING I woke up refreshed after my first solid night’s sleep since arriving in England—to be honest, my first solid night’s sleep since Lucian told me about the shadow trades. I pulled on my running shoes and ran to the village and back, determining to buy a pedometer so I could keep track of the miles. It wasn’t any fun unless I had a goal; perhaps I could cut my time in half by the end of the month. Maybe there was even a running club I could compete with. Then I showered, ate a stale store-bought scone, and seated myself, with something of a flourish, at my new laptop. I was ready to write.

  Two hours later, I was ready to kill someone. Preferably myself, but pretty much anybody would do. The blinking icon in front of me hovered insistently over the words “Hedge Fund Horrors,” by Jordan Leslie Greene. The rest of the screen was blank.

  How could writing be so hard? According to my mother, any nitwit could write a book and get it published if he found a good enough editor. And as one of the top editors in New York, she should know.

  I got up to pour myself a glass of water and gazed longingly out the back windows at the rolling meadow. Somewhere just beyond the rise was that exquisite gelding, probably out grazing and absolutely pining for someone to ride him.

  I heard a horn tooting outside and ran to the front windows. John unfolded himself from the cramped front seat of a sporty little Renault and opened the driver’s-side door for me. “Ready for a driving lesson?” he asked.

  I bit my lip. I would jump on that horse’s back in an instant and ride him as hard and as fast as he could go, sailing over fences and streams and glorying in the knowledge that all his power was under my control. But this little car—between the stone fences lining every lane, and the wrong side of the road, and that mysterious shaky stick thing between the seats—well, I’d rather walk.

  I looked up into John’s slightly mocking face and swallowed my words. I’d show him. Anybody could drive a stick shift.
Right?

  Apparently not.

  “Clutch!” John shouted at me for the hundredth time. “For Jesus’ sake, clutch!”

  Clutch, clutch, clutch, where was the damned thing again? You not only had to wiggle the shaky stick thing around with your left hand, you also had to stamp down on a pedal with your left foot—oh, no, I mean the right foot—at the same bloody moment.

  “Shit!” I shouted as the transmission shrieked yet again and the car came to a shuddering stop in the middle of the road.

  Blessed silence descended.

  Finally, John suggested, “Want to have another go at it?” He sounded unenthusiastic, and I could hardly blame him.

  “No,” I said.

  We sat in silence some more.

  “Bloody hell,” he said after a while. “I’ve never seen anyone have so much trouble with a stick shift. Are you sure you’re not, er, physically challenged? Is that the politically correct term?”

  I was too defeated to take umbrage. “I don’t know,” I said in a small voice. I couldn’t do anything right anymore—first the Three Misfortunes, then Lucian, then the indictments—or was it the other way around? I couldn’t even remember. Then I discovered I couldn’t write a single coherent word, and I couldn’t do something as simple as drive a car. Horrified, I realized I was perilously close to tears. That couldn’t be; I hadn’t cried since I fell off Giorgio and broke my collarbone when I was twelve.

  “Bloody hell,” John said again, in a different tone. “Look, Jordy, how about we forget this whole thing for today, shall we? There’s a lovely little pub just around the corner.”

  “Okay.” I sniffled and opened the door to switch places with him.

  “Oh, no,” he said. “That’s the catch: You have to drive us there.”

  By the time the little car limped to a halt in front of the pub, trickles of sweat were running down my back, and John’s mouth had a pinched, strained look to it. But I felt a small thrill as I stamped down on the despised clutch one last time and handed the keys to John. “Thank God,” he said feelingly.

  “Thank God,” I echoed. We smiled weakly at each other, like survivors of a small war, and I saw with regret how attractive he was when stripped of his customary air of cool politesse. This was a complication I did not need.

  — – — – —

  “Did you really drive all the way here from Heathrow?” he asked after the second round.

  “Yes. You saw the dents.”

  “And no one died?”

  “No people,” I said, guiltily remembering the suicidal squirrel outside of Leicester.

  He shook his head. “Remarkable.”

  We both drank deeply.

  “And tell me again why you’re here?” he asked.

  “I told you. I’m writing my memoirs. Life in the hedge fund industry.”

  “Sounds like a rip-roaring bestseller.” He sounded bored again, and I bridled, thinking of Lucian and the managing directorship and the Asteroid Fund.

  “You’d be surprised,” I told him.

  He shrugged. “Have you always lived in New York? Cold, dreary town, I always thought.”

  “Compared to London?”

  He smiled slightly, conceding the point.

  “Yes, I was born and raised in New York; that’s why I don’t have much driving experience. Went to Columbia for undergrad, then stayed there for B-school. How about you?”

  “Born in Bradgate, went to Eton and Oxford—”

  “Of course,” I murmured.

  “—elected to Parliament seven years ago despite Tony Blair and New Labour. My mother still lives in London, on Eaton Square.”

  “And your father?” I asked.

  “Flitted off when I was a boy. He lives in Majorca with a girl who’s . . . oh, about Jane’s age, I think.”

  “Surely not?” I asked, aghast.

  “Well, maybe a few years older.”

  There was an uncomfortable pause as I reflected that John and I had both lost our fathers in our youth. It was surprising and a little unsettling to discover that we had something so momentous in common.

  “Why did you decide to rent out the cottage?” I asked curiously, deciding to change the subject. He appeared to have more money than the queen, and the damp little cottage—mod cons and all—didn’t seem to be designed for rental.

  He grimaced. “It belongs to the Countess of Stamford, actually—my mother.”

  “So?”

  “So, my mother doesn’t believe in letting her assets sit by idly. She has been known to lease out her Mercedes when she’s not using it, and even consulted me about renting out her butler and chauffeur for catered parties.”

  I grinned. “But?”

  “I informed her that slavery has been outlawed.”

  “Are you close to your mother?” I wondered, thinking of my own mother: Susannah Greene, executive editor, Lowell Claflin Books; editor of books by Raisa Gorbachev and Hillary Clinton; currently working with Mikhail Baryshnikov on his memoirs. Why was it that I always thought of my mother in terms of her résumé?

  “My mother is the keeper of the Grey family traditions. Greyer than Grey, as converts often are.”

  “Converts?”

  “She married into the family, of course.”

  “Of course,” I repeated, amused.

  “Anyway, right now she’s completely wrapped up in the Grey Five Hundred Gala.”

  I recalled seeing notices around the village referencing the gala. “What is that?”

  He smiled. “June 2016 marks the five hundredth anniversary of Bradgate Hall, so an enormous bash is being planned. Sponsored by the Prince of Wales Charity Trust, British Historical Trust, et cetera, et cetera. My mother is the honorary chair, so she’s in all her glory.”

  “Sounds like fun,” I commented politely.

  “It’s a pain in the ass,” he retorted. “But it will bring jobs and business to my constituents, so I’m resigned to a lot of nonsense about the glorious Grey family and our queen for nine days.”

  I thought of Jane—“I hate Lady Jane Grey!”—and wondered how she felt about all of this.

  “Enough of that,” he said, leaning forward so he could lower his voice and not be overheard. “Have I fed you enough beer yet?”

  “Enough for what?”

  “You haven’t thanked me for the driving lesson.”

  I snorted.

  Unabashed, he went on, “They have lovely rooms upstairs, with a big feather mattress and a bottle of Château Rigaux 1996—an excellent vintage, though perhaps a bit too nutty for every taste—”

  I swallowed hard. “Really? You’re hitting on me?”

  He grinned. “What an unattractive term. And close your mouth or people will think I’m propositioning you.”

  “But you are,” I said.

  “No, just suggesting a very pleasant afternoon diversion for two consenting adults.”

  Horrified, I realized that I was tempted. John’s blue eyes were dark with interest and curiosity; his fair hair was mussed from when he’d raked his hands through it during that hellish driving lesson; and his long, lean body lounged carelessly in the chair across from me. I was very tempted. But.

  “No,” I said firmly.

  He quirked an eyebrow at me. “No?”

  “No, thank you,” I amended. I’d had enough of unloving sex in New York; I didn’t need any more here. I was turning over a new leaf.

  He shrugged. “Too bad. It would have been so convenient. Ah, well.”

  I wondered if he would ever ask me again.

  Chapter 6

  BY THE MIDDLE of the following week, I was bitterly regretting not taking John up on his offer. I was so bored that I called my mother, realizing it had been over a month since we had talked.

  “Jordy
? Are you well? I’ve heard some nasty rumors about goings-on at AmCan Bank; I assume you’re not involved” was her greeting.

  “Of course I’m involved, Mother, I’m a managing director. I mean, I was a managing director.”

  She paused. “Does this have anything to do with the, er, events of last winter?”

  “Do you mean the merger, meningitis, and Mistake? I call them the Three Misfortunes.”

  “Ah,” she said. “Quite the alliteration.”

  I paused, remembering. The previous year, Atlantic Bank had “merged” with the massive AmCan Bank, which meant that about half of Atlantic’s traders were fired and the other half—me, for example—were demoted to work under AmCan bosses.

  Which shouldn’t have been a catastrophe, since my reputation should have won me another job almost anywhere else on Wall Street.

  And then I came down with meningitis—the “good” kind, which meant I was bedridden for only two months and had the good luck not to lose any limbs. I should have been grateful, but by the time I got my weak, shaky legs back onto the trading floor, I was entirely outgunned by my new bosses and colleagues and all but forgotten on the Street.

  And then I made the Mistake. It could have happened to anyone; misreading a quote was a common enough error, and usually, the trader on the other side was kind enough to warn me. But everyone hated AmCan Bank, so the trade went through and cost the bank a few million dollars.

  Petty cash, really. Not a firing offense.

  Still, I was shaken to my very core and, for the first time, unsure of my future in an industry suddenly overrun by men nearly a decade younger than I was. They all spouted incomprehensible trading algorithms and seemed to have written their PhD dissertations on novel stochastic calculus techniques for derivatives pricing regimes, or high-frequency trading data sets.

  And then Lucian—never one to miss an opportunity—spotted my weakness and came in for the kill.

  I snapped back to the present with a start. My mother was saying, “I assume you’ve taken steps to protect yourself. Do you have a good lawyer?”