Nannyland

by Jane Elizabeth Hughes

  “No, I fired my lawyer.”

  “For goodness’ sake, Jordy . . . wait a moment, what do you mean, you were an MD? Perhaps we should meet for dinner tonight and discuss damage control. I can fit you in at—let’s see, after my phone call with the West Coast agency—eight o’clock. Shun Yee Palace on Fifty-Third?”

  I was rocked to realize that my own mother had not even noticed that I’d left New York three weeks ago. “Mother, I’m in the UK. I’m not in New York.”

  “Oh? When will you return?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Let me know when you’re back and we can discuss the situation then. All right? I must run, Misha is on the other line. Goodbye, dear, thanks for calling.”

  Several days after this very unsatisfactory conversation, Jane’s appearance outside my cottage window made me realize how very welcome some company would be. Eagerly, I hurried to the door. “Jane!” I called. “Want to come in?”

  The girl gazed dubiously at me. I could hardly blame her after that disastrous family dinner, but the present-day Lady Jane Grey—and her hatred of her famed namesake—intrigued me. I brushed my tangled hair back and tried a smile. “I walked to the village and bought biscuits this morning,” I wheedled.

  The walk to the village, which boasted one tiny store and at least six pubs, had been my latest attempt at escaping from the nonexistent book (I’d written and deleted seventeen paragraphs thus far). Cautiously, Jane advanced into the cottage and perched uneasily on the edge of my kitchen chair, watching as I bustled around the tiny kitchen.

  “Here!” I presented her with a covered plate bearing some of the gooey chocolate cookies, which I had already learned to call biscuits.

  Jane bit into the sweet cookie. “These are good,” she admitted. “Do you have any tea?”

  I didn’t drink tea, and my coffee came in twelve-dollar venti cups from Starbucks. “I have Diet Coke,” I offered.

  She looked dubious. “I’m not allowed to have Diet Coke. My grandmama, the Countess of Stamford, says that soda rots your teeth and diet soda is only for the weak-minded.”

  “That’s exactly what my mother says!” I exclaimed. Jane was surprised into laughter.

  I handed her a can of Diet Coke and took one for myself. Solemnly, we clinked cans. “Cheers,” I said, and we each took a long, deep swallow of the icy cold sweetness.

  “What else does your grandmama say?” I asked.

  Jane considered. “Let’s see . . . Stand up straight. Put your shoulders back. Keep your hair out of your eyes. Don’t fidget. Don’t scowl. Don’t complain. Don’t bite your nails. Um . . .”

  I took up the litany. “Don’t whine. Stop playing with your hair. Don’t speak with your mouth full. Don’t speak too loudly . . .”

  Delighted, Jane chimed in, “Don’t speak too softly. Don’t say ‘whatever.’ Don’t roll your eyes. Don’t sulk. Don’t sigh.”

  “Oh my God, that’s exactly what my mother says!” I exclaimed.

  Our eyes met in shared amusement, and with a slight shock, I realized that her grandmama must be John’s mother. It seemed that John and I had more in common than lost fathers.

  With a guilty glance at the clock, Jane gathered up her backpack and said, “Well, I guess I should be—”

  I was determined not to let this unexpected and unexpectedly delightful guest escape so quickly. “How’s school?” I asked hurriedly.

  “Fine,” she said. “How’s your book?”

  “Fine,” I said. We exchanged glances. “Well, actually,” I added, “the book is terrible.”

  “So is school,” she admitted.

  “Really? I loved school.”

  “Probably you were good at it. Probably you were good at everything.”

  It was true—at least until the Three M’s. Now I wasn’t sure if I was good at anything.

  “I suspect you’re good at school, too,” I told her.

  “Well, yeah. But I have to do this awful project for history.”

  “Don’t you like history?”

  “Yes, but not stupid Lady Jane Grey.”

  I was intrigued. “Maybe I can help you. I majored in history in college, you know. What’s the topic?”

  She shrugged, and once again I recognized the sullen teenager I had been. For the first time, I felt a sneaking sympathy for my mother.

  I asked, “Did your father go back to London?” I had figured out the house schedule; John usually appeared on weekends, then disappeared—to London, presumably—during the week, when the apathetic Deirdre took up her nannying responsibilities.

  “Yes, on Monday.”

  “So Deirdre is taking care of you?”

  Jane stiffened. “I take care of myself, and I take care of Henry and Mary, too.”

  I could well believe that. I had seen Deirdre twice that week: once lying on a towel on the front lawn one sunny afternoon and oblivious to all but the strains of her iPod, and once herding Henry into the car with a cell phone pressed to her ear. She wore at least four piercings in each ear and one just above her lips, plus spiky, stiff-gelled black hair and the shortest skirts I’d ever seen. “What about Deirdre?” I asked.

  Jane gave me a scornful look. “We don’t need Deirdre. Anyway”—she got up—“I have to go and help Mary with her homework. Goodbye, Miss—er, Ms.—and thanks for the cookie.”

  Alone again, I sank down on my desk chair and looked helplessly at the blinking icon on my desktop. I wondered about Jane—Lady Jane Grey, after all!—and her unwillingness to research her famous namesake. Queen Jane had been intelligent, one of the most educated and respected girls of her time. I could sympathize with a young woman who had fallen prey to ambitious men. I thought of myself, drawn and yet repelled by Lucian’s force. Perhaps I was the lucky one after all; they only scapegoated and exiled me, but they beheaded her.

  Poor Jane.

  Unable to help myself, I logged on to ­www.hedgefundtoday.com and scanned the headlines. GM cutting fifty-seven hundred more jobs; the Japanese finance minister losing influence; China Petroleum in a deal with UBS . . . Quickly, I turned to the derivatives exchanges and started calculating gains and losses—let’s see, if I shorted Takashita and picked up some more Russian oil futures, then I could— Just as quickly, my fingers stopped moving, and I remembered that I was out of the game. For good, if Lucian’s threats held true.

  I leaned back and stared, unseeing, over the peaceful rural landscape—so different from the Manhattan office canyons that I was used to. It was so exciting there; the trading desk practically hummed with tension and testosterone and tumult as we shouted into telephones and pounded computer keys and made and lost millions, sometimes billions, of dollars. I loved the heady thrill of the deal, and the huge paychecks, and the raw power that ran through the room.

  But then came the Three Misfortunes, which led to the biggest mistake of all: falling into the grasping arms of my new boss, Lucian Fellowes. And when I’d learned that my “lover” had booked shadow—illegal, false—trades in my name, and that my biggest client, Asteroid, teetered on the brink of bankruptcy as a result, all I had done was run away. I remembered the acrid taste of panic in my mouth as I hastily threw clothes in a suitcase while praying not to hear the heavy tread of Lucian’s footsteps outside my door. I remembered my fear and shame, my overpowering desire to flee before Lucian’s hard hands caught me again in a painful, punishing grasp.

  Dimly, I realized that I had always been afraid of Lucian: my boss, my lover, and in the end, my betrayer. And as I ran away, I realized that I was right to be afraid.

  Chapter 7

  THAT NIGHT I stayed up late, wrapped in blankets on the living room couch and rereading Barbarians at the Gate, a rip-roaring indictment of Wall Street and its predators. How hard could it be to write a book like that? I was staring unseeingly out the cold blank windows in
to the blackness beyond when a sudden clatter and a whoosh sent my heart into overdrive. Then a bat flew out of the dark fireplace and shot straight at me.

  I screamed and curled into a fetal position, my hands over my face, and screamed again. The bat flew about the room wildly, smashing into a tall vase of flowers and sending it flying to the floor in a great crash. Gabbling to myself in terror, I dove to the floor and started crawling, frantic to escape. I grabbed my cell phone from the side table and stabbed at the keys. Please be there! Please be there!

  “Grey here.” His voice sounded sleepy.

  “John? Oh, thank God. A bat flew into the living room! It flew straight at me! Please—can you come over?”

  Later, I supposed, I might regret this frantic call. I was not accustomed to calling on anyone to rescue me, let alone attractive men who had “propositioned” me with such insulting casualness. Girls should take care of themselves, according to my mother. But at the moment self-preservation was all I cared about. I hid behind the sofa with my head buried in my lap, listening to the wild flight and frenzied squeaking of the creature. Would John never get here?

  An eternity later, I heard him pounding on the door. “I can’t get up! It has me pinned down!” I called to him.

  His footsteps went around the back of the cottage, and moments later he was in the living room, looking heavy-eyed and irritated and amused at the same time. “What’s all this, then?” he asked.

  The filthy animal had chosen this moment to come to rest under the heavy oak beam that hung just below the roofline. With its wings folded down, it looked smaller than a kitten and much more defenseless.

  “It attacked me!” I told John. “I couldn’t move. Do you think it’s rabid?”

  “Just stupid,” he said. “And completely out of its element.”

  I winced. Was he describing me or the bat?

  “Toss me a towel, would you?”

  I unfolded myself from the defensive crouch and tiptoed into the bathroom, terrified of disturbing the creature. “What are you going to do with this?” I asked, tossing the towel at John. “Should I call Animal Control, or . . . ?” My only experience with wild animals had been solved by my landlord, who’d sprayed some sort of rat repellent while I took a three-day vacation in the Hamptons.

  “Shhh. Here, batty batty,” he crooned. “Here, batty bat.”

  Five minutes later, the bat was joining its mates outside and John was washing his hands in the kitchen sink. “Any more nighttime terrors that I need to banish?” he asked me.

  I pressed my lips together.

  “No? Well, then, do I at least get a reward for rescuing you from the terrible scary bat?” His eyes sparkled with mischief.

  I marched over to the door and held it open. “Thank you, Lord Grey,” I said formally.

  He bowed. “You are welcome, Ms. Greene. Feel free to call on me any time—day or night.” Before I realized what he was up to, he dropped a light kiss on my lips and disappeared into the dark night.

  — – — – —

  Two weeks later, I was staring at my blank computer screen (having banned myself from www.hedgefundtoday.com for the foreseeable future) when my eyes wandered once again to the landscape outside. Today it was damp and gray; fat raindrops were just beginning to fall, and the trees were heaving and tossing in the rising wind. For once, I was glad to be inside my boring but safe little cottage.

  Then my eyes fastened on a tiny figure in the distance, and I leaned forward, straining to see through the gathering mist. Was that Henry? Surely it couldn’t be Henry, all alone by the lake. But it was little Henry, struggling to pull a heavy rowboat down the sandy path toward the water. I looked up toward the house, sure that I would see Deirdre or Jane or somebody, anybody, running down the path and calling out remonstrances.

  But the path was deserted, and the waves on the usually quiet lake were beginning to pitch and toss under the force of the downpour. Henry was farther down the path, out of eyesight. I shoved my feet into my running shoes, grabbed a raincoat, and ran out into the windy, rainy outdoors.

  “Henry!” I cried, slipping and sliding in my haste on the muddy path. “Henry Grey! Stop that this instant! Come back here! Henry!”

  The wind was whipping the trees into a frenzy, and the little figure never even glanced in my direction. He pushed the rowboat out into the water and jumped in, grabbing at the heavy oars. One promptly fell into the water, and he leaned over to try and pull it on board.

  At that moment I emerged from the trees onto the lakeshore, still shouting, and Henry looked up and saw me for the first time. “Miss—er, Ms.—” I think he tried to say, but he overbalanced, staring over his shoulder at me and reaching for the oar at the same time. And then, as if in slow motion, the little boy toppled headfirst into the murky water. His head sank below the surface and my stomach clenched in terror.

  “Oh, fuck!” I gasped. I splashed into the waist-high water—it was shockingly cold through my jeans and T-shirt—and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

  I dragged him onto dry land and we both stood for a moment, breathing hard and watching the rowboat dance around on the churning waves, drifting slowly but inexorably toward the tiny island at the center of the lake.

  “You said a bad word,” Henry said accusingly. “And you let the rowboat go. Daddy’s going to be very cross with you when he gets back from London.”

  “With me!” I almost choked on my indignation. “What about you? You were trying to go out on the lake alone, in a rainstorm, by yourself!”

  “I can swim,” he said. “Nobody told me not to.”

  “Where the hell is Deirdre? Or Jane?”

  “You said another bad word,” he said reprovingly. “Jane’s at school, but I stayed home because I’m sick.”

  I looked at him disbelievingly. “Well, Mary’s sick,” he amended. “And I stayed home to keep her company.”

  Suddenly, I realized that we were sopping wet, standing there and scolding each other while the rain continued to pour down on our freezing bodies. My teeth were chattering, and poor Henry’s lips were a delicate shade of blue. “Come on,” I said, putting my arm around him. “Let’s go back to the house and warm up. And Henry?”

  He looked up at me, his thin face pinched with cold.

  “Call me Jordy, okay?”

  “Okay,” he agreed. Trustingly, he pressed his shivering little body against mine as we hurried up the muddy path together. “And I won’t tell Daddy about the bad words.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Thanks.”

  We slipped and slid along the streaming, muddy path. Finally, we were in the cobblestoned courtyard and Henry twisted away from me to pull open a small door to the side of the massive entrance portals. I hadn’t even noticed it before. Gasping with relief, we practically fell into the warm welcome of the great hall.

  “Let’s get you into a hot bath,” I said to Henry. Children took baths, not showers, right? “Where’s Deirdre?”

  “I dunno,” he muttered, cold and delayed shock making him sullen.

  “Deirdre!” I called. “Deirdre!”

  No answer. Then I heard a muffled sound from the end of the long hallway, and I turned questioningly to Henry. “Was that a cough?” I asked him.

  He shrugged.

  The cough sounded again, louder and more desperate. Hesitating, I looked down at the blue-lipped Henry and then in the direction of the tortured coughing. Had Deirdre choked on something? Was that why she hadn’t appeared?

  “Come on,” I said, and started tugging Henry toward the closed door.

  Chapter 8

  WHEN I PUSHED open the heavy swinging doors to the kitchen, there was no sign of Deirdre. There was only Mary, bent almost double at the waist and coughing so violently that her small, thin body seemed half torn apart by the spasms. “Mary!” I drop
ped Henry’s hand and rushed toward her. Good God, what else could go wrong in this benighted household? “What’s the matter?”

  “She has azz-ma,” Henry said worriedly. “Sometimes she can’t breathe. It’s azzzz-ma.”

  Asthma. Well, that wasn’t so bad, was it? People took drugs for that and they were fine. I was dismayed to realize that I was no longer shaking with cold but with fear. “Mary? Do you have medicine?”

  “Can’t. Find,” the girl wheezed. She was forcing air through what seemed like a smaller and smaller space into her laboring lungs. I longed to breathe for her. Frantic, I turned to Henry.

  “Where’s her medicine?” I demanded.

  He looked terrified. “I don’t know. She has something she breathes into her mouth.”

  An inhaler, I interpreted. “Mary! Where’s your inhaler?”

  She shook her head, small hands clawing frantically at the air.

  Desperately, I looked around for a telephone. “What’s the emergency number here?” Not 911, I knew. 511? 411?

  Henry started to cry.

  I yanked open kitchen drawers and cabinets, tossing aside potholders and utensils in a frenzied search for an inhaler or a telephone. Then Henry cried out, “There it is!” He pounced on a small cylindrical object that had fallen on the floor in my wild search and held it out to Mary. “Here! I found it!”

  Mary reached out, but her hands were shaking so hard that she couldn’t even grasp it. Quickly, I steadied her hands in mine, and together we guided the inhaler to her mouth so that she could take a long, lifesaving breath. Another. And then another. Her desperate wheezing slowed, and the terrible gasps for air settled into normal breathing. Now she started to cry, too.

  I took the girl into my arms and hugged her, frightened anew by the fragile, birdlike bones of her shoulders. “You’re all right,” I told her awkwardly. “You’re all right. Good for you, you’re going to be fine now. Everything’s all right.”

  Her tears slowed and she pulled away, embarrassed. “Thank you,” she mumbled.

  “You’re welcome. Is there any other medicine you should take?”