Nannyland

by Jane Elizabeth Hughes

  “But no direct quid pro quo?”

  The other lawyer had asked the same questions. Silently, I shook my head. What had I ever gotten out of my relationship with Lucian? Some bruises and a lawsuit and a humiliating sense of myself as a latter-day Lady Jane Grey, with neither the power nor the will to refuse a greedy, grasping man the use of my body.

  “Pity,” Mr. Bramstock commented.

  I sighed in agreement.

  “Ms. Greene, I would imagine that every prosecutor from the Southern District of New York, as well as the SEC, the FDIC, and the comptroller of the currency, is anxious to speak with you. And then there are AmCan’s attorneys, Asteroid’s attorneys, Mr. Fellowes’s attorneys, and several miscellaneous attorneys. We need to roll up our sleeves and get busy. Are you ready for this?”

  “I suppose I have to be,” I said, resigned. “Can’t I just stay here and avoid the subpoenas?”

  “Out of the question. You could be held in contempt and extradited to New York. Also,” he added, “you should know that these cases are notoriously difficult to prosecute and win. It sounds as if there will be no real evidence against you, especially since you have the happy advantage of telling the truth. It will be messy and unpleasant, but I foresee no real threat to you.”

  I was silent.

  “Is there anything else you would like to tell me?” he asked.

  “Well . . . I’m writing a book about my experiences in the hedge fund industry. Sort of a memoir.”

  He made another note. “Then you will require the services of our libel division as well. I will arrange for you to meet with Mr. Grantham on that matter.” When I started to protest, he overrode me. “Ms. Greene, you could be in a great deal of trouble, and you are about to get yourself into even more trouble with this book. Lord Grey has instructed me to get you out of trouble, which I plan to do. Are we clear?”

  I sighed in defeat. “Yes. We’re clear.”

  — – — – —

  I should have been grateful to John, but I was too embarrassed to be anything other than resentful. He had insisted that I tell him everything—every mortifying detail, from my affair with Lucian to the security guards who had escorted me from the office on that last, terrible day. Head held high, I had marched out with nothing except my handbag, not even allowed to stop at the ladies’ room, trailed by the frenzied whispers and giggles of the office staff until I was unceremoniously abandoned on the sidewalk in front of our building. The guard had held out his hand for my security badge and admonished me, “Do not attempt to enter this building or make contact with any employees of Asteroid or AmCan Bank. Do you understand, Ms. Greene?”

  I had turned on my heel and walked away. I was proud that I didn’t cry.

  But then the threatening phone calls from Lucian began, and I knew I had to escape. I had never fled from anything before, let alone the authorities, and I was shaking with panic when I offered my passport to the Turkish Airlines agent at the airport, half expecting alarm bells to go off and SWAT forces to descend from the ceiling. I was surprised when they let me through.

  Later, the headlong panic seemed a little overwrought. I had done some research after arriving in the Cotswolds and learned that I had multiple options: I could inform on Lucian to the authorities and ask for immunity; I could stay in the UK and force them to extradite me, which could take years; I could do nothing and wait for the whole thing to go away for lack of proof, as many such cases apparently did. As Mr. Bramstock had suggested, it would be messy and ugly but was very unlikely to land me in jail. There had been no need to run, or to stay away once I’d run.

  Maybe I had just wanted to run.

  Now, sitting on the northbound train out of Paddington station with four squirmy children, I tried to take stock of my situation. Had I simply gone from one user to another—from one man who had claimed me, almost against my will, to another? Lucian had taken me when we traveled together on business, when we worked late, when we found ourselves in the same hot, crowded New York pub or eatery as the others headed home. He had taken me painfully, ignoring my protests, and he’d left bruises on my body. The one thing he’d never done was kiss my mouth. His hands had fumbled on my body while he buried his head in my neck or my breasts, but he had never kissed me.

  Yet now I drifted most willingly down the silent hallway to John’s warm, firelit bedroom night after night, and he took me to his bed with nary a tender word or gesture or gaze. I found John impossible to resist. Perhaps that was my specialty: loveless affairs with men whom I barely knew and barely liked.

  And yet John was different. He was helping me with the legal mess that Lucian had landed me in. I didn’t fear John’s anger, and I was in no danger of making terrible mistakes with him, like giving away my passwords. I was fiercely attracted to him, as I had never been to Lucian. I took great pleasure from his skilled mouth on mine and his demanding body, going to him every night and lingering later and dangerously later in the mornings, tempting fate up to its breaking point.

  Until it snapped.

  — – — – —

  Two weeks later, the watery morning light was streaming in when John stirred beside me in his bed. “Still here?” he murmured. “Let’s take this opportunity to—”

  Halfheartedly, I tried to push him away. “John, it’s too late. I overslept and the kids will be up soon.”

  But his hand was on my breast and his mouth was on mine, so I relaxed back into the warm, inviting bed and gave myself up to him—just as the heavy bedroom door swung open and four pairs of blue eyes widened with surprise.

  “Daddy!” cried Katherine. “What are you doing?”

  Chapter 22

  QUICK AS A flash, John rolled off me and pulled the duvet over our naked bodies. But it was indeed too late.

  Henry said uncertainly, “Jordy? Are you all right?”

  I tried to smile reassuringly. My heart was pounding so fast, I thought I might be having a heart attack.

  Mary breathed, “Daddy. Are you and Jordy—?” She coughed nervously, fumbling for words.

  I couldn’t even bear to look at Jane. She was holding a heavy tray heaped high with John’s favorite breakfast foods: muesli, eggs, tomatoes, croissants, and a steaming cup of coffee that was slopping over the edges from her shaking hands. Carefully, she bent down to set the tray on the floor.

  Katherine’s eyes were wide with horror. She said disbelievingly, “Are you having sex? How can you be having sex? You’re not even married. It’s disgusting!”

  Finally, John found his voice. “Don’t you know you should knock before charging into people’s rooms?”

  That was all he could think of to say?

  “It’s your birthday!” Henry exclaimed. “We were bringing you breakfast.”

  “Of course,” Jane said, her voice eerily like her father’s at his coldest, “we didn’t know we should bring breakfast for two.”

  John’s lips tightened.

  Katherine wailed, “You can’t have sex without being married! I’m going to call Aunt Pamela and ask her to come get me. I want to live with Aunt Pamela! I’ll tell her everything, and—”

  John sat up. “Don’t you dare call Pamela!”

  “I will if I want to,” Katherine shot back. “You’re not the boss of me!”

  “Oh, yes, I am.”

  “No, you’re not!”

  Things were deteriorating badly if John had lost his cool enough to engage in a verbal duel with an angry teenager.

  Jane said slowly, “Aunt Pamela wanted us to come live with her when Mummy died. Maybe . . .”

  I could feel the rigidity of John’s body beside me. Then, all at once, his tense muscles relaxed and he even smiled. He took my hand. “I guess we’ll have to tell you the truth, then.”

  “Tell us what?” Katherine asked suspiciously.

  “That Jordy and
I are getting married.”

  — – — – —

  John urgently squeezed my hand. My eyes must have been as wide as Katherine’s, and for the first time in my life, I was tongue-tied. I couldn’t have spoken if my life had depended on it.

  Jane said, “You’re what?”

  John smiled and squeezed my hand again. “We’re going to be married. We wanted it to be a secret until we could tell you and Pamela and Grandmama properly, but I guess you found us out. Jordy will be your new stepmother!”

  Henry broke into a wide grin and ran over to hug me. “Really? You’re never going to leave us?”

  I hugged him back, conscious of the fragility of his warm little body. “Uh . . .”

  “You’re getting married,” Jane said slowly, testing out the words.

  Mary was silent, her gaze darting back and forth between her older sisters for guidance.

  Katherine said, “I want to be a bridesmaid! Right, Jordy? It’s so romantic! Isn’t it romantic, Mary?”

  Jane’s lips tightened in unconscious imitation of her father. “Where’s your engagement ring?” she asked me.

  “Uh . . .”

  “I’m picking it up in London this week,” John said. “Then we were going to announce it to all of you.”

  “Are you all right, Jordy? Your face is kind of green,” said Mary.

  “Are you pregnant?” breathed Katherine.

  “Is that why you have to get married?” asked Jane.

  “No!” John and I exclaimed together.

  “You’re awfully quiet,” Mary observed to me.

  For the first time, John turned to me and our eyes met. I saw his urgency and his need, and while my brain was shouting, This is crazy! This is crazy! This is crazy! my lips were moving. “I’m just . . . uh . . . I’m just glad . . . um . . . that we don’t have to keep it a secret anymore.”

  Thank you, John mouthed at me. Then he turned back to the children. “Now, will you all please leave us to enjoy this delicious breakfast? We’ll be downstairs in a few minutes. Go get dressed.”

  The door closed behind them.

  John fell back against the pillows and threw his elbow over his face. “What a fucking disaster,” he said grimly.

  Chapter 23

  I JUMPED OUT of bed, forgetting my nakedness, and grabbed a blanket to cover me. “Are you crazy? You must be crazy! What are we going to do now?”

  “I have no idea,” John admitted. “I was improvising.”

  “God give me strength—I hate to tell you this, Your Lordship, but you absolutely suck at improvising! We barely like each other! Now what are we going to do?”

  As my mood darkened, his seemed to lighten. “You know,” he said, “this may not be such a bad idea after all.”

  I was furiously gathering together clothes, trying to put on panties while not letting the blanket slip. “You are the biggest idiot I’ve ever met, and I’ve met a lot of idiots. But you—you—” I choked on my fury.

  “No, seriously,” he went on, clearly warming to the idea. “It would be much more convenient, don’t you think?”

  “Convenient?” I gaped at him.

  “And as a British citizen, you would be much more difficult to prosecute for libel in the States once that tell-all memoir of yours is published.”

  My hands were shaking so badly that I gave up on the blanket and let it drop to the floor. I fumbled, trying to pull my camisole over my head and failing miserably.

  John’s eyes darkened as he watched me. “And there is that,” he mused.

  “What?”

  “The great sex.”

  I untangled the camisole straps and managed to yank it over my breasts.

  “Also,” John said with growing enthusiasm, “a marriage will be perfect for my image after the home secretary got himself involved in a sordid sex scandal.”

  I pulled up my pajama pants and stared at him. “You really are crazy.”

  He got up, oblivious to his own nakedness, and pulled me against him. I went unresisting, too wrung out to protest. “Relax, Jordy,” he said against my ear. “Take a breath.”

  “John, I—”

  He kissed me. “Thank you,” he breathed.

  “John, I haven’t agreed to—”

  He let me go and started pulling on his own clothes. “I told you that my dear sister wanted the girls to live with her after Aline died,” he tossed over his shoulder. “She said I couldn’t take care of them properly.”

  I couldn’t imagine why the perfect Pamela wanted four young children in what I suspected was her perfect house. “John, excuse me for saying this, but your sister doesn’t exactly seem the maternal type. I got the very strong impression that nannies and boarding schools would be her preferred methods of childrearing.”

  “Indeed they would,” said John. “Pamela learned everything she knows about mothering from our own mother.” His tone spoke volumes, and I had a vision of a young towheaded John being force-marched by his mother from boarding school to Eton to Oxford to Parliament.

  “But then . . .”

  He sat back down on the bed and looked at me. “That doesn’t mean she doesn’t care, though,” he explained. “Pamela truly believes that children should be ruled with an iron hand, no coddling or spoiling.” He thought for a moment. “In fact, she probably thinks that my children need an even firmer hand than most, given the disastrous effects of their early years with Aline.”

  I still didn’t understand. “I thought she and Aline were friends.”

  “They were best friends,” John agreed. “Perhaps it was a case of opposites attracting—they agreed on nothing and were inseparable. Pamela genuinely loved Aline, and she genuinely thinks it is her duty to care for Aline’s motherless children. In her own peculiar way.”

  I sat quietly, digesting that.

  John stood up and started buttoning his shirt. “That doesn’t mean I have any intention of turning my children over to her,” he said.

  I gathered that even I would be better than that. “No court would take children away from their father unless he’d done something terrible,” I countered.

  “We would never take this to court,” he said, shocked. “But she has a powerful ally in my mother, who doesn’t think a man can raise three girls. And Katherine adores Pamela.”

  I thought of Pamela’s blond perfection and Henry’s muddy messes; of Pamela’s coolness and Mary’s desperate need for warmth. And Jane, sensitive, intelligent Jane, who reminded me so much of my teenage self.

  “Anyway,” John added, “don’t you think finding Daddy in bed with the nanny would count as something terrible?”

  “I’m not the nanny,” I protested.

  “No.” He grinned at me. “Now you’re the stepmother.”

  — – — – —

  Why was I going along with this insanity?

  I had never wanted children; never felt that my botched fibroid surgery and resulting sterility were anything other than a gift. Of course I had grown fond of John’s children—I wasn’t made of stone!—but perhaps that fierce maternal instinct I had seen in others had been excised along with my uterus. I was glad of that; it must be terrifying to have one’s heart so utterly vulnerable to the careless vicissitudes of fate. One misstep, one drunk driver, and you were undone. Forever.

  My father had been killed by a drunk driver when I was seven years old.

  My own mother had never had much interest in me, either—Susannah Greene, executive editor of Lowell Claflin Books, had much more pressing interests in her life than a small girl. Children were the province of au pairs and elite private schools and tutors, not busy editors.

  Now, it seemed, I would have four stepchildren. So why was I doing this?

  I showered and dressed slowly. Marrying John was insane, but I was going to do it. Was
it John—his hard, warm body and knowing hands and rare, warming smile? Was it the children and the impossibility of watching those four sets of wide blue eyes take in the news that their father had, simply and carelessly, seduced their nanny?

  Maybe I was more like Lady Jane Grey than I had thought, both of us pushed by circumstances into loveless marriages.

  We sat at the breakfast table like a proper family, Jane and Mary refusing to meet my gaze and Henry clearly uncomfortable in the tense atmosphere. Only Katherine seemed intrigued.

  “Maybe you should run off and get married in secret,” she suggested. “Just like Lady Katherine Grey, who married Ned Seymour because she was so in love with him, and they had a baby, and the queen chopped her head off! Just like that?”

  “Not the outcome we would prefer,” John said.

  “Grandmama will chop your head off, though,” Jane observed. She couldn’t seem to make eye contact with either of us.

  I sympathized, recalling my fourteen-year-old self; the thought of sex between a father and another woman must be appalling. But I couldn’t help feeling a little hurt. I had thought that she and I were becoming friends.

  Mary coughed nervously and reached for her inhaler. On the advice of www.childrenwithasthma.com, I had picked up three extra inhalers from the pharmacy. One lived in the kitchen cabinet with a big sign on it marked “INHALER”; one lived in my handbag; one lived in Mary’s bedside table; and one was supposed to be in her pocket at all times. I was pleased to see that this one was in her pocket, where it belonged.

  “I don’t think Aunt Pamela will be happy, either,” Katherine added. “She said that Jordy was nothing but a—”

  “If you have nothing nice to say, don’t say anything,” John interrupted.

  “I was just quoting,” Katherine protested, but she fell silent under her father’s glare.

  Henry announced, “My mummy died when I was born.”

  I had realized that this was his go-to sentence in times of stress. I gave him my usual response, “My father died, too,” and he relaxed.