Nannyland

by Jane Elizabeth Hughes

  Jane looked mutinous. “Wasn’t Elizabeth considered a bastard when she lived here?” she asked. “Why did she have such a fancy bedroom?”

  The man looked at her curiously. Edging closer to us, he bent his head and murmured, “Though legend has it that this was her room, in fact, we don’t know where she slept.”

  “But she was not at all grand then,” Jane persisted. “She was a bastard, with no claim to the throne and a mother who was executed for treason.” She waved her hand disparagingly at the huge, imposing room with its priceless marble inlaid writing desk and gracefully curved pianoforte. “This wasn’t how she lived at all.”

  The docent leaned closer and whispered, “Let’s get rid of this group and I’ll show you the real Elizabeth.”

  The rest of the group—German tourists with a bored little boy in tow, and Chinese tourists who clearly didn’t understand a word but snapped copious photos—filed dutifully through the remaining rooms and dispersed. His tour completed, the docent turned back to us. “Come,” he said.

  We followed him through a door marked “NO ADMITTANCE” and found ourselves in what appeared to be a miniature private museum. Glass-topped display cases were filled with papers, books, and small objects lit by low-glare, low-heat museum lamps. Jane looked around in wonder.

  Once again, the docent swept his hand around. “This,” he said, “is the real Elizabeth.”

  Jane and I crowded together to examine the objects on display. The docent tapped lightly on one display case. “This is our collection of letters,” he said proudly. “The lady Elizabeth—you are quite right, my dear girl, she was not even called ‘princess’ during her years here—was an enthusiastic correspondent.”

  We gazed at the letters in wonderment. Jane breathed, “What language did she write in? What do the letters say?”

  “She wrote in at least four languages,” the docent bragged, as if describing his own precocious child. “Mostly Latin, but some Italian, French, and Greek, too.”

  “And she was a teenager when she wrote these?”

  “Yes. She was a very learned young lady.”

  Jane looked suitably intimidated.

  Hardly daring to hope, I asked, “Is there any correspondence between Elizabeth and Lady Jane Grey?”

  “Oh my, yes. A letter from Lady Jane, in fact, to the lady Elizabeth.”

  “Could we see it?” Jane and I exclaimed in unison.

  He hesitated. “May I ask what your interest in this letter is? Only because we usually don’t share these documents with anyone but certified scholars.”

  “We don’t have to see the original,” I said. “Do you have a copy?”

  “Translated to modern English?” Jane said hopefully.

  He permitted himself a small smile. “I’m afraid that we don’t ‘translate’ our documents; the old English is so expressive. But yes, we do have a copy—let’s see, somewhere in these filing cabinets . . .”

  His voice trailed off as he rummaged through a dusty, crammed-full set of cabinets set against the ancient paneled wall. Jane unexpectedly reached out for my hand and squeezed it. I smiled at her.

  The letter, when finally produced, was worth the wait. The elderly man, after professing that he was not a scholar, either, helped us “translate” a few paragraphs of the lengthy missive.

  My sweet cousine Elizabeth,

  It is my dearest hope that this letter finds you well and not ailing, as so many are ailing during this drear winter season [the winter of 1552, one of the harshest in English history, the docent explained], and it would grieve me beyond repair to learn that my sweet and amiable cousine and sister had succumbed to the cold winds and damp conditions that plague us all, especially as my love should warm your heart and keep you safe and well despite the chill and barren . . . [she did like run-on sentences, Jane commented] I am toiling at my studies with the estimable and fearsome Aylmer, but find that my meagre efforts are but a blot on the memory of my sweet cousine’s scholarship, so as to discourage me mightily when I consider the humble products of my work and the vast, learned compositions of my lady Elizabeth; I struggle daily with the Greek and praise God for showering His goodness and wisdom upon you, my beloved cousine and sister, and thank Him for gracing me with the pleasure of youre company during those long days of winter several years past, days that I remember with awe and . . .

  “She goes on in this vein for some time,” the docent said. “But here’s the really good part.”

  When perusing the Latin text with my tutor Aylmer, I remembered those days in humble study with my lady Elizabeth, so learned and so wise, and these thoughts came to me; what a great and glorious Queene she would be! How blessed would be this realm should she come to rule over us, what goodness and grace would she bestow upon this troubled land! I know that I dare not speak these words aloud and dare not even think them, but oh! What a gloryous day that would be!

  The docent looked up, his eyes alight. “Elizabeth kept this letter with her most secret documents for years,” he said confidingly. “One supposes that she was deeply touched by her cousin’s words, perhaps even inspired through her own time as a prisoner in the Tower.”

  “So Jane did want Elizabeth to be queen,” Jane said to me.

  He shook his head. “Jane wanted herself to be queen, one supposes. After all, she claimed the throne after Edward’s death.”

  “But she was pushed into that by her father and her so-called husband’s father. Later, she refused Mary’s offer of mercy and chose to be beheaded,” Jane countered. “Why do that unless she was deliberately getting herself out of the way so that Elizabeth could follow Mary onto the throne?”

  The docent looked flabbergasted. “Why, because she was a pious Protestant and refused to embrace Mary’s Catholic faith. She was a Protestant martyr.”

  “But what if—?”

  I hushed her and held out my hand to the man. “Thank you so much for your help. This has been wonderful; we’re so grateful.”

  He still looked bewildered. “ ‘So-called husband’? What do you mean by that?”

  I said hastily, “Jane is still confused about some of the details of Elizabethan history. Come, Jane, we have to pick Henry up at school.”

  I hustled her out before the poor man was able to formulate his next question.

  It was perhaps unfortunate that this trip came just two days before John returned home for the weekend, and Lady Olivia joined us for dinner, along with her comrades from the Grey 500 Gala Committee. The blue-haired lady eyed Jane with some trepidation as we sat down to table, but I had coached Jane extensively and she only smiled demurely at the guests.

  However, Jane’s mood deteriorated as the meal wore on, and I was a bundle of nerves. Could we get through this dinner without another explosion? The guests were fulsome in their praise of Lady Olivia’s book, having read advance copies, and exclaimed over its hagiographic treatment of Queen Jane.

  “Such a sweet, sainted girl!” gushed one.

  “A martyr to the Protestant cause.”

  “So learned, so gifted with intelligence and wisdom.”

  “Not as learned as her cousin Elizabeth,” muttered my Jane under her breath. I sent her a warning glance.

  “Such a role model for our own young ladies,” said another with a disapproving look at Jane and Katherine, who had been allowed to join the adults at table. Neither girl noticed; Katherine was tapping away at her iPhone, and Jane was glaring at her grandmother.

  An elderly gentleman turned to Jane. “In this year of Lady Jane Grey and the gala, you are the star of the moment, my lady. You must work hard to live up to the high standards that Queen Jane has set for you.”

  Uh-oh.

  “Such an innocent maiden,” added Lady Olivia, with a sharp glance at Jane and Katherine. “And with noble blood on both sides of her family. An ideal descendant of h
er royal ancestors.”

  Jane couldn’t contain herself any longer. “Yes, she was descended from a lecherous lout who murdered two of his wives”—Henry VIII, I interpreted—“and a common bimbo!”

  I looked a question at her and she mumbled, “Elizabeth Woodville.”

  Oh yes, the famous gilt-haired beauty who snared Edward IV, Queen Jane’s great-great-grandfather. I couldn’t help eyeing Katherine thoughtfully. Perhaps she had inherited some of her ancestress’s legendary charm.

  Lady Olivia drew back, affronted. “Honestly! Jane, you should be ashamed of yourself! Aspersing such a noble girl’s ancestors!”

  Jane paused, clearly trying to figure out “aspersing.”

  The elderly gentleman chided, “Young lady, don’t you know better than to contradict your elders? Queen Jane never would have acted in such a way!”

  “Your father should wash your mouth out with soap,” chimed in a white-haired lady, looking accusingly at John. He gazed back in mild inquiry.

  Jane stood up so abruptly that her chair toppled over behind her. “Your precious Queen Jane was just a teenager in love! She had a baby in the Tower—not Guildford Dudley’s baby but—”

  “Jane!” I exclaimed urgently. “Manners! Remember what Dr. MacAlister said!”

  “Who?” muttered the lady.

  “Her psychiatrist, no doubt,” trumpeted the elderly man.

  Jane scowled but held her ground.

  In that moment I was fiercely, blazingly proud of her, despite the repercussions that would follow. I waited to hear what she would say.

  She didn’t disappoint me. “This is ridiculous,” Jane said. “All of you have fallen in love with the legend of Queen Jane. You don’t know anything about her as a person.”

  “And you do?” inquired the elderly gentleman. I remembered now: He was Lord Stockwell and had volunteered as general manager of the gala.

  “Yes!” she said defiantly. “I’ve learned lots and lots of things about her, but none of you want to hear about it. You just want to cling to the soggy old legend. You don’t want the truth.”

  “Well.” Lord Stockwell heaved himself to his feet and stood, one shaking hand supporting himself on the table. “I have heard enough.” He turned to my mother-in-law. “Lady Olivia, I regret to say that I will not be able to involve myself with this event. It does not appear to be something with which one would care to be associated.” He toddled out.

  John sighed. “Jordy?”

  I sighed, too. “Jane, you may be excused,” I said wearily.

  Without a look at me, she ran out of the room. Katherine sent me a glance of mute appeal and followed.

  The silence was deafening.

  Finally, John said calmly, “I believe it’s time for pudding. Mother, would you care to pour the tea?”

  Manners won out; after an internal struggle that was almost painful to witness, Lady Olivia got up and began to dole out tea with murmured colloquies about sugar and cream and scones. A stilted conversation about Prince Harry’s latest scandal (naked girls, tassels, and ice cream cones figured prominently) began, and I settled back to sip my tea and carefully avoid John’s eye. Perhaps he would leave for London before we had to discuss this latest contretemps.

  Chapter 36

  “A BABY?” JOHN roared at me. “A baby in the bloody Tower? What are you girls thinking? Are you thinking at all? Or just dreaming up absurd scenarios to upset very important people, like the man who promised to do all the dog’s work in putting on this bloody gala?” He ran agitated fingers through his hair so that it stuck up in demented stalks. “Who will my mother find now to do all that work?”

  You mean who else would be foolish enough to volunteer to work with the old witch, I thought. But I had the sense to keep quiet.

  “We need this bloody gala!” he continued. “I need this bloody gala! You need this bloody gala! It will bring in millions of bloody pounds to my bloody constituents! Now what am I going to do?”

  I had a sudden thought. “Hire Pamela.”

  He paused and stared at me. “What?”

  I was a genius. “Hire Pamela! She was a professional event planner in London, and the aerobics ladies tell me she’s dying of boredom out here in the sticks. She’s been doing a lot of the planning work anyway, so just put her formally in charge and pay her. She’d be brilliant! Much better than stuffy old Stockwell.”

  “She might be able to handle our mother,” John said thoughtfully. “And she’d probably do a much better job than stuffy old Stockwell.”

  “See? It’s a brilliant idea! She would probably be great at it, and the town will make money hand over fist at the gala.”

  And it would keep her out of my hair.

  He looked relieved. “Thank you, Jordy. I will speak to ­Pamela. But I’m afraid there’s still young Jane to deal with.”

  I nodded. Much as I sympathized, her behavior had been “unacceptable,” as both my mother and Lady Olivia would have said.

  He said a little stiffly, “I would be grateful if you could discuss the matter with her. Experience suggests that I am not very effective in that sort of discussion.”

  My heart softened, as I saw how much he didn’t want to chastise his daughter again.

  “So you will deal with her?” he asked.

  I nodded again.

  “Fine,” he said shortly, and strode out of the room.

  So that was where things stood when the Day from Hell dawned. John and I were pleasantly civil, Pamela had been duly hired and was busily squaring off against Lady Olivia, and I had “punished” Jane by assigning extra research on her famous namesake.

  It all started innocently enough. Katherine and Mary’s school was closed for a teacher prep day (honestly, couldn’t all of these schools coordinate so I had some child-free days?), and I was in the paddock giving Katherine a riding lesson while Mary pranced around the meadow, pretending to be a horse.

  Katherine had come along better than expected under my tutelage, and I had “graduated” her from the fat little pony to a beautiful gray gelding, Nicky. She might never ride at Madison Square Garden in the Nationals, as I had—or whatever the British equivalent was—but she looked adorable in her perfectly cut jodhpurs, blond braids bouncing below her helmet, and she had a bold and lively style that would entrance some judges.

  My cell phone rang: John. I pressed the “talk” button, expecting another brisk set of instructions from Maitland about the home or children or schedule. Instead it was John’s cold and clipped voice, the public school voice I hated most. “Have you seen the newspaper?” he asked tightly.

  “No.”

  “There is an article entertainingly entitled ‘Lady Jane Grey: Bigamist, Adulteress, or Single Mother?’ on the front page of the Oxford Standard.”

  “Shit,” I said involuntarily.

  “Lovely language, Lady Grey,” he snapped. “Have you been talking to reporters?”

  “Of course not! Why on earth would I—?”

  “What about Jane? Or your pet professor up in Scotland?”

  “No, of course not! Oxford, you said? Maybe it’s your pet professor from that awful dinner party.”

  He paused, then rallied. “I have reporters in my outer office wanting to see the ‘newly discovered documents.’ ” His tone suggested that they were pornography rather than valuable historical artifacts. “I have reporters asking if Lady Jane Grey really committed adultery, and/or had an illegitimate son, when I’m trying to introduce bloody tax reform into the bloody House of Commons!” His voice rose in anger, and I flinched.

  “I’m sorry, John,” I said. “But Jane and I have nothing to do with this. We—”

  “You have everything to do with this! You and Jane doing your bloody fucking research, dredging up all sorts of insane ideas—” He was shouting, or as near to shouting as John
could ever be. I had heard him use the F-word only once before: when he realized he had to marry me.

  My voice rose, too. “Why are you yelling at me? Go talk to the stupid reporters and tell them—”

  “Tell them what, exactly? That my daughter and my wife”—he spat the word out, and I flinched again—“are conspiring to ruin the reputation of a girl who’s been dead for over five hundred years, and in the process ruin a gala that promises to bring—”

  “I’m so sick of your bloody—” I started, but then I saw, out of the corner of my eye, that Katherine had taken advantage of my distraction and was setting her horse at the flower-bedecked fence in the middle of the paddock. “I’ve got to go. Call you later.”

  I clicked the phone shut over his outraged “But—” and turned back toward the paddock. Katherine, I saw, was approaching the fence much too fast; her hands were loose on the reins, and her body was too far back.

  “Katherine!” I shouted. “Pull him around! Go around the fence! Don’t try to jump it!”

  I saw dawning panic in her face as the horse thundered toward the fence and then abruptly stopped short, veering away from the frightening flowers so sharply that Katherine was flung over his head with a scream, landing hard on the unforgiving ground, and lying helpless, unmoving.

  Chapter 37

  I LEAPED OVER the paddock fence and ran toward the skittering, nervous horse, then forced myself to slow down and talk calmly, steadily. “That’s okay, Nicky boy, that’s okay. You’re all right. Calm down, Nicky, just take a deep breath.” I approached cautiously and slowly, gently reached out my hand to take hold of his reins. Then I bent to the still body of the girl, reaching out to her with my free hand.

  Blood was streaming from her forehead; her helmet had been knocked askew, and her golden hair was already matted with blood. “Oh, Katherine, oh my God,” I babbled. I wanted to cradle her in my arms and stroke her head until the pallor disappeared from her waxen face, but I knew that I mustn’t move her. I reached out to take her hand and saw that her poor wrist was twisted and swollen to twice its size: a broken wrist, the most common rider’s injury. Tears streaming down my face, I pulled out my cell phone and punched desperately at the tiny keys—911, 911—oh my God, what was the emergency number in the UK?