My Lady Jane Page #2

"My Lady Jane" is a historical fiction novel that intricately weaves together the lives of Lady Jane Grey, the nine-day queen of England, and her tumultuous journey through love, loyalty, and political intrigue. Set against the backdrop of the Tudor era, the story follows Jane as she navigates her role in a court rife with danger and ambition. With a blend of humor, romance, and poignant moments, the novel explores themes of identity, power, and the struggle for agency in a world dominated by men. The imaginative retelling offers readers a fresh perspective on a well-known historical figure, inviting them to consider what might have been in the face of destiny.

• Short story

								

Anything was better than lounging away the evening at my hotel. It
couldn't do any harm. I owed Clark Oliver a good turn and I would save
Mrs. Kennedy the annoyance of a vacant chair.

There was no disputing the fact that I looked most disgustingly like
Clark when I got into his clothes. I actually felt a grudge against
them for their excellent fit.

"You'll do," said Clark. "Remember you're a Conservative to-night and
don't let your rank Liberal views crop out, or you'll queer me for
all time with the great and only Mark. He doesn't talk politics at his
dinners, though, so you're not likely to have trouble on that score.
Mrs. Kennedy has a weakness for beer mugs. Her collection is
considered very fine. Scandal whispers that Miss Harvey has a budding
interest in settlement work--"

"Miss who?" I said sharply.

"Harvey. Christian name unknown. That's the girl I mentioned. You'll
probably take her in. Be nice to her even if you have to make an
effort. She's the one I've picked out as your future cousin, you know,
so I don't want you to spoil her good opinion of me in any way."

The name had given me a jump. Once, in another world, I had known a
Jane Harvey. But Clark's Miss Harvey couldn't be Jane. A month before
I had read a newspaper item to the effect that Jane was on the Pacific
coast. Moreover, Jane, when I knew her, had certainly no manifest
vocation for settlement work. I didn't think two years could have
worked such a transformation. Two years! Was it only two years? It
seemed more like two centuries.

I went to the Kennedys' in a pleasantly excited frame of mind and a
cab. I just missed being late by a hairbreadth. The house was a big
one, and everybody pertaining to it was big, except the host. Mark
Kennedy was a little, thin man with a bald head. He didn't look like a
political power, but that was all the more reason for his being one in
a world where things are not what they seem.

Mrs. Kennedy greeted me cordially and told me significantly that she
had granted my request. This meant, as my card had already informed
me, that I was to take Miss Harvey out. Of course there would be no
introduction since Clark Oliver was already acquainted with the lady.
I was wondering how I was to locate her when I got a shock that made
me dizzy. Jane was over in a corner looking at me.

There was no time to collect my wits. The guests were moving out to
the dining-room. I took my nerve in my hand, crossed the room, bowed,
and the next moment was walking through the hall with Jane's hand on
my arm. The hall was a good long one; I blessed the architect who had
planned it. It gave me time to sort out my ideas.

Jane here! Jane going out to dinner with me, believing me to be Clark
Oliver! Jane--but it was incredible! The whole thing was a dream--or I
had gone crazy!

I looked at her sideways when we had got into our places at the table.
She was more beautiful than ever, that tall, brown-haired, disdainful
Jane. The settlement work story I was inclined to dismiss as a myth.
Settlement work in a beautiful woman generally means crowsfeet or a
broken heart. Jane, according to my sight and belief, possessed
neither.

Once upon a time I had been engaged to Jane. I had been idiotically in
love with her in those days and still more idiotically believed that
she loved me. The trouble was that, although I had been cured of the
latter phase of my idiocy, the former had become chronic. I had never
been able to get over loving Jane. All through those two years I had
hugged the fond hope that sometime I might stumble across her in a
mild mood and make matters up. There was no such thing as seeking her
out or writing to her, since she had icily forbidden me to do so, and
Jane had a most detestable habit--in a woman--of meaning what she
said. But the deity I had invoked was the god of chance--and this was
how he had answered my prayers. I was eating my dinner beside Jane,
who supposed me to be Clark Oliver!

What should I do? Confess the truth and plead my cause while she had
to sit beside me? That would never do. Someone might overhear us. And,
in any case, it would be no passport to Jane's favor that I was a
guest in the house under false pretences. She would be certain to
disapprove strongly. It was a maddening situation.

Jane, who was calmly eating soup--she was the only woman I had ever
seen who could eat soup and look like a goddess at the same
time--glanced around and caught me studying her profile. I thought she
blushed slightly and I raged inwardly to think that blush was meant
for Clark Oliver--Clark Oliver who had told me he thought Jane was
smitten on him! Jane! On him!

"Do you know, Mr. Oliver," said Jane slowly, "that you are startlingly
like a--a person I used to know? When I first saw you the other night
I took you for him."

A person you used to know! Oh, Jane, that was the most unkindest cut
of all.

"My cousin, Elliott Cameron, I suppose?" I answered as indifferently
as I could. "We resemble each other very closely. You were acquainted
with Cameron, Miss Harvey?"

"Slightly," said Jane.

"A fine fellow," I said unblushingly.

"A-h," said Jane.

"My favorite relative," I went on brazenly. "He's a thoroughly good
sort--rather dull now to what he used to be, though. He had an
unfortunate love affair two years ago and has never got over it."

"Indeed?" said Jane coldly, crumbling a bit of bread between her
fingers. Her face was expressionless and her voice ditto; but I had
heard her criticize nervous people who did things like that at table.

"I fear poor Elliott's life has been completely spoiled," I said, with
a sigh. "It's a shame."

"Did he confide the affair to you?" asked Jane, a little scornfully.

"Well, after a fashion. He said enough for me to guess the rest. He
never told me the lady's name. She was very beautiful, I understand,
and very heartless. Oh, she used him very badly."

"Did he tell you that, too?" asked Jane.

"Not he. He won't listen to a word against her. But a chap can draw
his own conclusions, you know."

"What went wrong between them?" asked Jane. She smiled at a lady
across the table, as if she were merely asking questions to make
conversation, but she went on crumbling bread.

"Simply a very stiff quarrel, I believe. Elliott never went into
details. The lady was flirting with somebody else, I fancy."

"People have such different ideas about flirting," said Jane,
languidly. "What one would call mere simple friendliness another
construes into flirting. Possibly your friend--or is it your
cousin?--is one of those men who become insanely jealous over every
trifle and attempt to exert authority before they have any to exert. A
woman of spirit would hardly fail to resent that."
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