Dr. MacAlister’s speech was standing room only. He presented the evidence, PowerPoint slide by slide, to the eager listeners; reporters jotted notes furiously, and boom mikes waved in the air.
He finished, “So my research suggests that Lady Jane Grey was neither innocent nor a victim: She probably concluded a secret pre-contract marriage with her childhood friend George Wyatt; she openly and eagerly urged his father to launch a suicidal rebellion against her cousin Queen Mary; and then she chose to die so that Princess Elizabeth could succeed her sister Mary to the throne. I believe that Jane was an admirable young woman with great strength and the courage of her convictions—a true heroine of her time!”
The audience clapped politely but uncertainly.
As Dr. MacAlister began to hand the microphone back to Lady Olivia, a young man came running down the aisle toward the stage. He was large, blond, sweaty, and unkempt, but he was waving a sheaf of papers and shouting, “Dr. MacAlister! Mac! I found the dying declaration! I found it! I made a copy. Look, here it is!”
I recognized Dr. MacAlister’s eager young assistant Jamie McNair. “I found it!” Jamie cried again as he reached the stage.
An elderly gentleman sitting next to me murmured, “Sure, and the lad’s demented,” but others in the audience caught some of the young man’s excitement. “What declaration is he going on about?” demanded the woman on my other side. “Hush and let the lad speak,” hissed her husband.
Dr. MacAlister and Jamie were having an intense colloquy on the stage, while Lady Olivia looked on in bemusement. When Dr. MacAlister held up his hand for quiet, the crowd fell silent. I saw that there were tears in the elderly scholar’s eyes.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his voice shaking, “what we appear to have here is Lady Jane Grey’s dying declaration.”
Chapter 51
PANDEMONIUM BROKE OUT again. Cameramen and reporters who had been yawning just minutes before leaped into action, and Lady Olivia’s mouth fell open in astonishment. I put my arm around Jane’s shoulders.
Dr. MacAlister held up his hand for silence, and the crowd magically quieted. He cleared his throat. “Lady Jane Grey hid this missive in the lining of her Book of Common Prayer, which she took to the scaffold with her, and which has resided for many years in the British Library. My assistant Jamie McNair”—he indicated the large young man, who was drooping with visible exhaustion now that his errand was completed—“was finally able to examine the book and use modern X-ray and other techniques—”
“Just read it to us!” shouted a reporter, and the crowd roared in agreement.
“Parts of it are illegible,” Dr. MacAlister warned. “Documents like this are highly vulnerable to elements such as—”
I felt like shaking the elderly man. Apparently, the crowd agreed, for a chant of “Read it! Read it!” arose. With a visible shrug, MacAlister replaced his glasses on his nose and began to read.
“ ‘On this, the eve of my execution, I, who have lately and wrongfully been called Queen Jane’ ”—a murmur arose from the crowd, and Jane put her hand up to her mouth; she, too, had tears in her eyes—“ ‘offer this dying declaration to absolutely and utterly renounce, on behalf of my own humble self as well as the entire Grey family, any claim to the throne for now and forevermore. Even my wee babe, George Thomas—’ ” Infuriatingly, Dr. MacAlister looked up from the pages and said solemnly, “As I warned, parts are illegible.”
The crowd groaned.
Hastily, Dr. MacAlister continued, “The next part that I can make out is: ‘As a base usurper and sinner, I can neither expect nor ask that any mercy be shown to me, but I beg mercy for my innocent sisters, who—’ ” He looked up again and brushed his hand across his eyes. “The rest of that paragraph is too damaged to read. The final section is about Elizabeth.
“ ‘It is God’s will, and my humble will, that my cousin Elizabeth become a great and glorious queen of this blessed realm, and that no Grey or other pretender shall ever challenge her for this position; my head shall be the price of the Lady Elizabeth’s deserved and rightful ascension to the throne of England. God save the queen and this glorious land she shall rule over, now and forevermore, and God grant mercy upon my soul.’ ”
The room was absolutely still save for some muted sniffling and sobbing. Jane hugged me fiercely, her head against my shoulder, and even John was clearly moved.
“Amen,” murmured the farmer in overalls who stood behind me. Then, from the center of the room, came the age-old cry: “God save the queen!”
“God save the queen,” the audience responded. “God save our good Queen Jane!”
One middle-aged woman in Birkenstock sandals and a tie-dyed T-shirt cried out, “She was better than we ever knew!”
“Too good for this world,” agreed the young man next to her.
I stifled a giggle. Another legend was being born.
“God save Queen Elizabeth!” someone else proclaimed.
The room was aroar, and John grinned down at me. “Which Queen Elizabeth do you suppose they’re referring to?” he inquired.
I shrugged helplessly. Neighbor was hugging neighbor and strangers were hugging strangers; Dr. MacAlister pulled his assistant into a triumphant bear hug.
I hugged Jane as the audience erupted in cheers. “Now are you proud to be named after Lady Jane Grey?” I whispered to her.
She nodded vigorously. “She’s wonderful. She’s my hero.”
John, much relieved, came to take my hand and draw me aside. “When I told you to fix it,” he murmured, “I didn’t expect that anyone really could.”
I laughed.
— – — – —
That night we lay in bed together, close but not touching under the warm, heavy comforter. I had lit candles in honor of the Elizabethan-themed day, and the flickering light glinted off John’s fair hair.
Did I love him? I loved being with him; I loved his dry, quirky sense of humor, and I loved making love with him. I enjoyed his cool, sophisticated intellect, his wit, his self-possession. I knew I could rely on him always, and I had entrusted him with all of my secrets. What was this if not love?
As for the children—well, there were many ways of mothering. I could never hover over them like American helicopter parents; nor could I send them off to boarding school with a blithe kiss and sentimentally moist eyes like my aerobics friends and Lady Pamela. The children’s successes were not my successes, and my estimation of my own value was not founded on their ability to get into Eton or Harvard.
And yet Jane was one of the best companions I had ever known; our comfortable silences and long conversations during those trips to Scotland had made her my favorite traveling companion. Katherine was charming and irresistible, Mary intelligent and warm. And Henry—well, he was independent, a little sassy, and endlessly entertaining. They were not a part of me, but they were mine.
I stirred against John, and he said, “What?”
“I don’t know.”
John pulled me into his arms so that our bodies melded, fitting together like pieces of a puzzle becoming one.
“I’m very, very fond of you,” he murmured into my hair.
“I’m very fond of you, too.” I paused. “Do you love me?”
“Good God, of course I do!” he said. “Didn’t you know?”
Maybe I did. “I love you, too,” I said.
For now and forevermore, as Lady Jane Grey would say.
Acknowledgments
Writing a book is pure delight; getting a debut novel published, not so much. But I was fortunate enough to find my brilliant agent, Marcy Posner, who plucked my book out of her pile of submissions and worked with me to get it just right—and to get it into the right hands. Then my equally brilliant editor, Micki Nuding, added her own special sauce so that this book became the very best that it could be.
Micki and Marcy, my heartfelt gratitude goes out to you; you made my dream come true.
My early readers also helped shape the book and keep me going when I needed a kick in the pants. Melissa, Laurie, Caroline, Kim—I think we all developed a huge crush on John, and you stuck with him, Jordy, and me through all of our adventures. Thanks for your unstinting criticism, praise, and encouragement; the fact is that I truly could not have done it without you.
Uncle Martin, I’m still grateful for your advice on writing a novel: Treat writing like a job, a demanding and professional job with fixed hours and serious deadlines, rather than a hobby to be enjoyed when the muse is with you. And keep writing—when the muse isn’t with you, when the characters just won’t behave themselves, when the plot lines unravel—just keep writing; it’ll all come right in the end. May his memory be a blessing to all.
My mother gave me the joy of reading, and for this (and much more) deserves my fervent thanks. When I was a toddler, she was reading a book and laughed out loud; I crawled into her lap and asked, “What’s funny?” She explained that it was her book and I looked at it dubiously, wondering how those scraggly scratches on a piece of paper could make someone laugh. Now, of course, I understand.
And my father—blessed be his memory—gave me the will to keep on fighting for what I wanted, no matter how many obstacles are thrown in my way.
Last but not least, thanks to Jerry, who absolutely refused to let me give up even when the rejection letters piled up and I didn’t think I would ever write another word. You always believed in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself; and you supported my writing habit in every imaginable way. Jerry, all the good and wonderful things in my life begin and end with you.
About the Author
JANE ELIZABETH HUGHES is a native New Yorker, recovering Wall Streeter, and mother of four. An obsessive reader, Jane has published widely on international finance but much prefers to write books that she and her friends would devour on the beach. She and her husband are ruled by two hideously spoiled Siamese cats, and divide their time between Brookline, MA and her true homeplace of Cape Cod.
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 by Jane Elizabeth Hughes
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First Pocket Star Books ebook edition May 2016
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ISBN 978-1-5011-3718-1 (ebook)
Nannyland Page 28
