2. Conrad #2
When Billie was born, Jade had kept notes about her feeding schedule and sleep patterns.
That had morphed into a list of every little milestone, then ideas for the future, because Jade had always believed life could be negotiated into shape with enough ink and determination.
She’d noted down books we should read to her, and which parks to visit once Billie was old enough to go down the slide by herself.
Jade had even jotted down a reminder to buy more socks because toddler socks disappeared into another dimension when they were moved from the washer to the dryer.
And then one night, Jade went to sleep.
There had been no warning. No long illness. No accident to blame. No villain. No mechanical failure anyone could point to and say, there, that’s the reason your world fell apart.
She went to bed beside me after rocking Billie to sleep, kissed my shoulder as she complained about me leaving a cabinet open in the kitchen, then said she was going to call her sister in the morning.
She never woke up.
The coroner said it was natural causes. Then different doctors said the same thing. The autopsy confirmed it.
Sometimes people just died.
“She had lists of things she wanted to show you,” I said finally. “Books. Places. Foods. Songs.”
Billie leaned back to look at me. “Songs?”
“Yeah.”
“Did she sing good?”
CJ made a face. “No.”
Bianca nodded. “She was enthusiastic but not technically skilled.”
I laughed. “She was terrible. Very committed, though.”
CJ grinned at the headstone. “Sorry, Mom.”
We stayed there longer than I’d planned. The kids talked to Jade in turns. I stood and took a step, not far; never far enough that I couldn’t see them. I gave them privacy because they deserved it, and also because I needed a second to breathe without any of them watching me.
That was when I noticed Lady Ferdinand. She was technically our neighbor, but she lived far enough away that calling her a neighbor felt generous to the concept of proximity.
Her estate sat beyond the woods east of ours, behind a stone gate and a winding road I’d only driven twice, both times after storms had knocked branches down over the lane and her driver had called to ask whether I had a chainsaw.
I did have a chainsaw. I did not know how to use it.
Lady Ferdinand stood several rows away in a long camel coat, one gloved hand resting on a cane, the other holding a small bouquet of white roses. Her driver waited next to a polished black car, pretending not to hover while absolutely hovering.
Lady Ferdinand was in her eighties. She still wore lipstick to the grocery store, still sent handwritten invitations for tea, and called my children “the little revolutionaries,” which they found deeply flattering.
I glanced back at the kids.
CJ had started gesturing. Bianca looked unimpressed at Billie’s attempts to stack rocks on the headstone.
They were all right. So I crossed the grass toward Lady Ferdinand. “Good morning.”
She turned before I reached her. Her face brightened, though it carried that particular softness everyone wore in a cemetery. A gentling of the edges. A temporary truce with the rest of the world.
“Conrad Lawrence,” she said. “You look tired.”
“Lovely to see you, too.”
“I’m too old to waste pleasantries on lies.”
“That does sound nice. Honestly, who has time for pleasantries?”
“It’s one of the few rewards of surviving this long.” She looked past me toward my children. “And there they are. Taller every time I see them.”
“They refuse to stop growing.”
“Children do that. Mine did as well, despite repeated warnings.”
I smiled and glanced at the stone in front of Lady Ferdinand. Her husband’s name was carved beneath a simple cross and the dates. I hadn’t known him well. He’d died before Jade, back when grief had been something that had happened to other households.
“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I said.
“No worries, dear. You didn’t interrupt.” She adjusted her grip on the roses. “I was just telling Arthur that the vicar’s new haircut makes him look startled. He would have appreciated the update.”
“I’m sure he would.”
She smiled. “He enjoyed information that was both useless and unkind.”
A cool, damp breeze moved through the cemetery. I tucked my hands into my coat pockets and looked at the kids. Billie was now balancing a rock on her head.
Lady Ferdinand followed my gaze. “They’re doing better.”
I let out a small breath. “That makes one of us who thinks so.”
“No.” She studied me for a moment. “That makes all of us except you.”
I looked down at the grass. “They’re having a hard time.”
“Of course they are. They lost their mother. No matter how much time passes, they’ll always feel that void in their lives.”
“I keep thinking I should be better at this by now.”
“At what?”
“All of it.”
“That is not an answer, dear.”
I sighed. “Parenting. Grieving. Work. Getting everyone fed. Remembering dentist appointments. Keeping nannies from fleeing the premises.”
“Ah,” she said. “I take it that last one has become difficult?”
“You could say that.”
“How many now?”
I hesitated and rubbed the back of my neck. “Depends on how we’re counting.”
“The truthful way.”
“Nine.”
Her brows rose.
“Ten, if Alice counts,” I added.
“Who’s Alice?”
I shrugged. “No one knows.”
Lady Ferdinand laughed with enough force that her driver looked over in concern.
“I’m glad my suffering entertains you,” I said.
“It does, a little.” She patted my arm with her gloved hand. “Only because you look so wounded by the predictable consequences of raising intelligent children without enough structure.”
I stared at her.
She smiled. “Too direct?”
“No. Just… devastatingly accurate.”
“Yes, well. I have had children, stepchildren, grandchildren, and one nephew who tried to sell my silver tea service back to me under an assumed name. I know domestic warfare when I see it.”
CJ was talking now, one hand on his hip. Bianca had her arms folded, and Billie was lying flat on the grass beside the grave, apparently showing Jade what it looked like to be dead.
“I love them so much.”
Lady Ferdinand raised an eyebrow. “I should hope so.”
“I know they’re not bad kids.”
“Of course, they’re not bad kids.”
“They’re just…”
“Grieving,” she said.
I nodded slowly.
“So are you,” she added.
I looked at the headstone beneath her flowers rather than at her.
“I’m managing,” I said.
“Are you?”
“Ish.”
“At least that was honest.”
I laughed under my breath. “I’m trying.”
“I know.” The hint of a real smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “And they know, too. Children often know far more than we want them to.”
“They need someone during the day,” I said. “Someone who won’t be psychologically dismantled by a five-year-old with access to baking supplies.”
Lady Ferdinand’s smile turned thoughtful.
“Oh,” I said. “No. Whatever that expression is, no.”
She turned fully toward me. “I may know someone who could help you with the children.”
“No.”
She scowled. “You haven’t even heard the suggestion yet.”
“I don’t need to. If this is someone from your bridge club?—”
“I do not belong to a bridge club.”
“Okay.” I sighed. “Your murder mystery luncheon group.”
“That’s not what it’s called. The woman I’m thinking of would be perfect. She was my nanny,” Lady Ferdinand said.
I stared at her, mouth agape. “Your nanny?”
“Yes.”
I waited for her to clarify.
She did not.
“Lady Ferdinand,” I said carefully, “you are aware that I am looking for a nanny for my children. I’m not looking for someone who needs me to care for them.”
“Don’t be clever. It doesn’t suit the circles under your eyes.
” She reached into her handbag and began rummaging.
“When I married Arthur, his children were furious. And they had every right to be. Their mother had died, and then there I was, young and terrified and trying to take up space in a house that had no room for me. Arthur thought affection would solve it,” she said.
“Men do love believing affection is an entire plan.”
I opened my mouth to protest, but she pointed a gloved finger at me.
“The children were grieving,” she said. “I was lonely. Arthur was useless, like most well-meaning men are useless when they’re afraid of saying the wrong thing. And then Winifred came.”
“Winifred?” I searched the dusty catalog in my brain of people Lady Ferdinand had mentioned to me in the past. I couldn’t recall anyone by that name.
“My nanny. Governess, really, though she disliked the title. Said it was too severe. She had rules, but she also had immense patience. And she had an absolutely terrifying ability to know when a child was lying before the child had finished drawing breath to speak.”
I stared at her handbag. “And this woman is still working?”
“When she chooses to.”
“How old is she?”
Lady Ferdinand withdrew a small, cream-colored card. “Older than you expect, but young enough to handle your brood.”
“That’s not reassuring,” I said, giving a slight shake of my head.
“She’s capable.” She handed me the card. “Call her.”
The cardstock was thick and yellowed around the edges. The lettering looked hand-pressed, dark, and elegant.
Miss Winifred Carrington
Private Childcare and Household Instruction
Discretion Assured
Below that, a phone number had been written in ink.
I stared at the card that looked old enough to retire comfortably in the countryside. “Does this number still work?”
“It did the last time I used it.”
“When was that?”
She pursed her lips. “Time becomes less interesting at my age.”
I looked toward my children again. Billie had stood and was now brushing grass from her coat while Bianca picked grass out of her hair. CJ was rearranging the flowers one more time, delaying the walk back.
“I don’t know,” I said. “The children are… a lot.”
“Yes. We’ve established that.”
“They’ve scared off professionals.”
She patted my arm lightly. “Perhaps they require someone who isn’t easily intimidated.”
I glanced at the card again.
Winifred Carrington.