Chapter 13

THE WOMAN SAT down at the kitchen table and smoothed back her already perfect hair. “It was most unfortunate that I was abroad when that atrocious Deirdre departed, but I am here now.” She eyed my old jeans, loose flannel shirt, deplorable sneakers, and careless ponytail with disfavor. (I had raided all the closets in the house to find some country clothes after I saw Cook and Maisie pointing at my black leggings and giggling together.) The contrast with her sleek chignon, tailored slacks, and cashmere sweater set could not be more pointed. “And not a moment too soon, I see,” she added, her assessment complete.

The children came clattering into the kitchen and came to a dead halt at the sight of the woman. “Aunt Pamela!” Katherine exclaimed, flinging herself into the woman’s immaculate lap. “Aunt Pamela! I’m so glad you’re here! Are you going to take care of us now? Jordy doesn’t know anything about hair and she keeps driving the car into walls and she only wears black!”

Little traitor. I hadn’t hit a wall in days.

The woman smiled slightly and eased Katherine upright. “Mind the white slacks,” she murmured. “Yes, Katherine, I am here to take charge.”

The woman’s fair hair, height, and blue-eyed languor were so like John’s that she had to be his sister, not Aline’s. Instantly I wondered about his childhood with no father, this Ice Queen for a sister, and his mother, the Countess: Greyer than Grey, he had said.

The other children hung back cautiously. Pamela said, “What, no welcome? Hello, Mary, Jane. Hello, Henry.”

They murmured hellos, and Pamela nodded approvingly. “Now, children, you must do your homework. Jane, please see to it that Henry is dressed and washed appropriately for dinner; I will discuss the menu with Cook. Mary, straighten up, child. You mustn’t droop.”

Henry muttered rebelliously, “I eat fish fingers every night. We don’t need a menu.”

“You most certainly do,” Pamela said. “Fish fingers, indeed!”

Jane shot her aunt a look of active dislike before putting her arm around a now-tearful Henry and leading him out of the room. I heard her whisper, “Don’t worry, Jordy will get you fish fingers. Don’t let her see you cry,” and saw him nod piteously. Mary following, drooping even more than usual.

Katherine was still prattling to her aunt, and Pamela was listening with an indulgent smile; clearly, Katherine was her favorite. She caught me watching them and patted Katherine on the arm. “Now, child, go on and do that homework.”

“I hate maths,” Katherine whined.

Pamela smiled again. “Of course you do. Don’t worry, just ask Jane to do it with you. She’s such a clever girl.” Clever, her tone implied, was not a compliment.

Katherine skipped out and Pamela turned her cool gaze on me. “You must understand,” she said, her tone warm and confidential now, “John has been inconsolable since Aline died. He will never marry again.”

I pressed my lips together, irritated by her assumption that I was interested in her precious brother. Though, in all fairness, I suspected that lots of women were.

“And certainly not an American,” she went on. “There may be dalliances, to be sure, but moving in and trying to ingratiate yourself with the children is simply not permissible. I will not permit it.”

I laughed. “I am not trying to marry John. I’m taking care of the children because I had to fire Deirdre. She was dangerously incompetent.”

“So I heard,” she drawled. “No matter, I am back now and will take charge. I hope I know my duty. You may go.”

I remembered Jane’s look of dislike and Henry’s tearful face. “I’m sorry,” I said firmly, “but I am here at John’s request, and I’m not leaving until John tells me to go. I don’t even know who you are.”

“Let me introduce myself. I am Lady Pamela Cordray-Simpson, John’s sister.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said coolly.

“So now that you know who I am . . .” She trailed off suggestively.

Absurdly, I found myself getting stubborn. I had wished and prayed and begged for someone to relieve me of my nannying duties, and here I was, balking when deliverance had arrived. Perhaps I had chosen to remain after all.

“I need to call John,” I said.

She shrugged. “Please do.”

John didn’t answer his cell phone. I redialed his office number and spoke to his assistant Maitland, a very proper man with whom I was now on a first-name basis (in the past week, he had helped me forge John’s signature on Katherine’s field trip form, locate a farrier for the horse, and reboot the Internet). He promised that John would call back shortly.

An awkward silence descended on the kitchen.

“Don’t Americans offer refreshments when a visitor arrives?” Pamela inquired.

Wrong-footed again. I stiffened my resolve not to let this arrogant woman intimidate me, as she so clearly intended. I could play lady of the manor, too.

“Cook,” I called, knowing that she had been loitering just inside the pantry to better hear our conversation. “Would you please bring our visitor some tea?”

Cook emerged from her hiding spot and moved to the cooker.

I cast about for topics of conversation. “Do you live near here?” I ventured finally.

“Near enough,” Pamela returned. “We live in Bradgate village, in the Old Manor House near the churchyard.”

I remembered seeing the huge, moss-covered, stately home on a small rise overlooking the town square. “Do you have children?” I asked.

“Yes, Pippa is away at school and Oliver is going away next year. I just returned from Europe, and I’ve been hearing nothing in the village but talk about the American girl who’s moved in on my brother.”

I rolled my eyes. “I think he can take care of himself.”

Cook laid a small lace doily on the table in front of me and put my teacup and saucer on top of it. I smiled in thanks, and she laid some chocolate cookies on another lace doily. I picked up a cookie and put it on my tea saucer. “Your turn,” I said to Pamela, gesturing to the cookies.

“No, thank you. I never eat sweets.”

Of course not.

The phone rang.

John said urgently, “Jordy? Are you with Pamela? Can she hear you?”

“Yes and yes.” I smiled pleasantly at Pamela.

“I don’t have time to explain now, but I’m begging you, could you please stay with the children until I get home? Pamela is not what the children need right now. I know I asked her to pitch in, but now that I’ve thought about it, I—Look, I understand you’re probably ready to do a runner and I’m asking a lot, but could you please—”

“No need to explain,” I interrupted. “Don’t worry, I’ll be here when you get back.” I hung up and turned back to Pamela, whose face had tightened imperceptibly. “John would like me to stay until he gets home,” I said.

Calmly, she took a final sip of tea and rose, brushing off her immaculate white slacks. “Let him know that I will await his call,” she said, and marched out the door.

I had to admire her; she had to be furious, maybe even a little embarrassed, but her head was high and her exit regal. Moments later, I heard the whine of an expensive car engine and the spurt of gravel on the front drive.

Henry’s head peeked around the kitchen door. “Is she gone?” he whispered.

“Yes.”

“Good-o.” His head vanished, and I pulled out the packet of fish fingers from the freezer.

— – — – —

I was so irritated by Pamela’s visit that I had two glasses of wine with dinner, and I was feeling much calmer as I laid out Henry’s soccer uniform for the next morning. Then I heard John’s voice calling me from downstairs.

“Jordy! Are you aware that Henry is sledding down the back staircase?”

“On what?” I called back.

“Trays from the kitchen. Why is he not in bed?”

“Oh, be quiet,” I said. Of course Henry would have taken advantage of my having gone upstairs to do the forbidden.

“Henry,” I shouted, striding into the upstairs hallway and hurrying down the back stairs. “Lord Henry Grey! Viscount Bradgate! Stop sledding at once and come greet your father!”

Henry skidded to a stop at my feet and grinned. “Daddy’s home,” he said. Then he reached up to whisper in my ear, “I think you’re in big trouble, and I didn’t even tell him about the ‘shit’ and ‘fuck’ and the car.”

I was losing my good cheer quickly, thanks to the black look on John’s face. “Henry,” I said. “Please put on your jammies and go to bed.”

“You’ll come up and tuck me in?” He was talking to me, not John.

“Yes.”

“And we’ll play one game of Tetris and one of Arctic Monkey?”

“Yes.”

“Can I sled down one more time?”

“No!” John and I said in unison.

“Fine,” said Henry, aggrieved. “I’m going.”

John and I watched him trudge up the stairs in silence. John took a deep breath, and I could see him remembering that I had done him a favor that afternoon, and that he was about to—if I was any judge—ask for an even bigger favor, insofar as he did not appear to have Mary Poppins in tow.

Unexpectedly, he said, “I used to sled down the same stairs when I was his age. In fact, I broke my arm on these very stairs.”

I tried and failed to picture John as an adorable little boy. “John, I—” I began.

For the first time since I had known him, he looked uncomfortable. “Thank you for today,” he said. “For not leaving them with Pamela.”

I nodded, picturing Pamela’s likely reaction to Henry’s sledding adventure.

He sighed. “May we discuss this in the morning? I’m absolutely shattered.”

He did look exhausted, and I nodded again.

“I shall take Henry to his soccer game tomorrow,” he said, “and meet you in the stables at one. We can talk while we exercise the horses.” Then he disappeared up the stairs.