I almost welcome the diversion. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘It’s the photographs. Robert thinks I was wrong to let John Jameson take them. He thinks I’m tainted.’
‘Tainted? My Daisy tainted? Wherever did he get that idea? I mean, I can understand a man not liking to think his wife had showed herself to another man, even if she was a child – even if it was “art” – and I’m not at all sure Mr Jameson should have asked you, not without asking your Mama first. But to say you were tainted! It’s like you were a piece of bad meat. Shame on him!’ She pauses, bristling with indignation. But then she softens. ‘But on the other hand, I suppose Mr Constantine had that high an opinion of you in the first place that he thought you could do no wrong. It’d come as a shock, then – this “art”.’
‘I didn’t do any wrong, Nettie. At least, not –’
She interrupts. ‘You see, men can be very touchy when it comes to – things like that. They gets put off their stroke. I wouldn’t mind betting that Mr Constantine is regretting his words, now. All you needs to do is show him that you love him. Put your arms around him. Give him a kiss. You’ll find he’ll forgive you. And then things’ll come natural after that.’
She makes it sound so easy. But she doesn’t know the depths of the divide between us. ‘It’s not just the photographs,’ I say. ‘There’s more, Nettie. It’s much, much worse.’
But I struggle once more to find the words. It almost seems as if what happened with Papa took place in a different world. A world where nobody could be trusted and nothing was as it seemed. Whereas now, with Nettie here in front of me, I’m in the ordinary world, the one in which everyone is kind and responsible and where such thoughts seem almost heresy. ‘I’m sorry, Nettie, but it’s too horrible to talk about!’
‘Not too horrible for Nettie, surely? And you know a trouble shared is a trouble halved.’ I can’t help smiling at Nettie’s affection for the proverbial: all the things that will come out in the wash and the inadvisability of crying over spilled milk. She sits beside me and draws me close, composing herself to hear my tale of woe.
‘I’m afraid you’ll blame me, and take Papa’s side.’
‘Now, when did I ever take your pa’s side?’ She hugs me again.
I know that if I’m ever to tell anyone, it will be Nettie. And if there is any time to tell her, it must be now. And so I explain how Papa began to act strangely; how he seemed to notice me for the first time after I cut my hair; how I had to go to him every day in his study to do my catechism and he’d show me all his sermons and the photographs of himself when he was young. ‘He wasn’t the least bit frightening – and he made me feel special. We were special to each other, he said. Our love was a special kind. And after I was ill, he told me I’d saved him and that he’d saved me in return. He said that we were bound together for ever. Nothing should come between us, he said – not Mama or Mr Jameson, and –’ I whisper ‘– certainly not clothes.’
I sense Nettie’s body stiffen. But I carry on, my heart thumping, my mouth so dry it is difficult to speak. ‘I’d always sit on his lap when he read to me, and after a while he’d ask me to take my stockings off and sometimes my drawers, so we could be really close. As close as it was possible to be. I didn’t like it, but he always made me. And he’d take some of his own clothes off – his waistcoat and his –’
Nettie stops me, her fingers pressed hard on my lips. Her eyes are fierce with horror. ‘What are you saying?’ she gasps. ‘Oh, Daisy, think, girl, what are you saying?’
Indeed, what am I saying? Is this simply part of the nightmare in my head, without an ounce of truth in it? But hot tears roll down my cheeks as I feel myself back with Papa, back in the study with the door locked and the pocket watch ticking never-endingly.
Nettie pulls me to her breast, and I feel how wonderful it is to be touched and held by someone I trust. ‘There, there, my dearest,’ she murmurs. ‘But are you, you know – really sure?’
The comfort of her arms drains away. ‘Oh, Nettie, do you think I am making it up!’
She rocks me, now, and I can sense that she doesn’t know what to say. ‘Well, Daisy,’ she says at last. ‘I know you were the truthfullest child ever. But are you sure you’re not remembering things wrong? You always had such an imagination. And to think Mr Baxter should do such wicked things – a Man of God like him – well, I can’t credit it.’
My heart sinks. ‘So you do think I’m making it all up?’
‘I’m not saying that,’ she says, although, clearly, she is. ‘I knows such things goes on. Men can be very wicked, Daisy. Very wicked indeed. Even in respectable families. I’ve known servant girls disgraced by their masters, and babies born out of wedlock and all sorts. It’s just that your papa was a clergyman – and not at all like that, and I was in the house for nearly twelve years. I know he had his faults – but he was always most respectful of us women servants and never tried to do anything he shouldn’t. And you’d have known straight off if he’d been that way inclined, with a girl like Hannah flaunting her wares. And why would he have done such things to a child? To his own daughter, too? He had a lovely wife and he always spoke so wonderful about the little children on a Sunday: For of such is the Kingdom of Heaven. And you knew he meant it.’
I start to cry again, mangling my handkerchief. And Nettie carries on rocking me, as if she might rock away all my evil thoughts. ‘Maybe you mistook his meaning. After all, fathers can hold their children and love them, can’t they? Mr Bunch has my Daisy on his lap most nights, playing and giving her kisses.’
‘But that close, Nettie? Touching me that close?’
She’s flustered now, out of her depth. ‘Perhaps your papa was just a bit too, well, overpowering in the way he went about it. You were always very fussy about kissing people, as I recall. You wouldn’t kiss your Uncle Bertie for love nor money.’
‘He had a wet mouth and smelled of rum. And that was just kissing; don’t you understand? This was more than kissing, Nettie.’
Nettie desperately tries a new tack. ‘Well, maybe when you lost your memory that time, things came back all jumbled up. Perhaps it was Mr Jameson who did something he shouldn’t have. Perhaps that’s what you remember – Mr Jameson, not your father at all. I mean, he was the one taking pictures of you without your clothes on. Are you sure it wasn’t him as touched you?’
I pull away from her. ‘No, Nettie, I’m sure. My memories of John Jameson are quite clear.’
She ponders. For once she doesn’t have the answer. ‘I don’t know, Daisy. This is all beyond me.’ She rises and goes to the window, glancing out at the children playing piggy-back outside as if they don’t have a care in the world. I am conscious that it is beginning to grow dark, and I know I must return home. But the thought of going back to that silent mausoleum with nothing to do but make another list, and no one to speak to but Minnie, fills me with despair. There must be something I can do. ‘Should I try again to tell Robert the truth?’ I ask her. ‘Perhaps he will make sense of it. He’s a man, after all.’
‘Oh, no, Daisy!’ she exclaims, turning hurriedly. ‘You must never tell him. That would be the worst thing ever.’
I am startled at the vehemence of her response. ‘But he already thinks so badly of me. It can hardly be worse.’
‘Oh, it can, Miss Daisy. Believe you me. With Mr Jameson, it’s only some photos when all’s said and done, and art like you said, even if Mr Constantine has taken it bad. But speaking against your father like that, you could be sent to the asylum too.’
She’s right. No one will believe me. My father may have been deluded at the end, but he served for twelve unblemished years in the parish and was worshipped by all. And even if I were to speak out, to whom should I go? The bishop? Mama? My sisters? And, even if they listened, what good would it do? But I fear they would not listen; it is too unthinkable.
Nettie goes on. ‘No, whether it’s true or not, you just got to forget all about it, Daisy. Just like you did before.’
; But I don’t know how I managed it before; it was certainly not an effort of will. And now there seems to be so much more to forget. ‘Perhaps I should take some laudanum? Perhaps that will help me forget?’
She takes my hand. ‘Now, Daisy, you don’t need medicine. You just need to make your mind up to do your duty. Love your husband, Daisy. All these other fancies will go away then, I’m sure.’
Nettie is a simple soul. And I can see she doesn’t want to lift the curtain into my nightmare world. But I’ve always relied on her for advice, and she has always been right. My best – indeed, my only – hope lies in making my peace with Robert. He’s promised to do nothing precipitate; so there may yet be time for me to absolve myself in his eyes.
I’m home again, with my empty basket and my mud-splashed coat, and I find to my surprise that Robert is back before me, sitting at the tea table with his velvet slippers on. He sees me hesitate in the hallway, and invites me to join him, giving me a little smile of welcome. It’s the first time he has smiled for over a week, and I’ve never felt so grateful. I return the smile in good measure, and, discarding my coat, I go eagerly into the room. I wonder, as I approach him, how close I can sit. We have not eaten together since he discovered the photograph, and I try to read his intention in the position of his body, the placement of his arms and legs. But he sets a cup and saucer next to him, and speaks as though nothing untoward has happened. ‘I hear from Cook that you have been attending to your parish duties, and I’m very pleased. Mrs Bunch is an excellent woman and a true Christian. I hope that she and the children are all well?’
‘Very well,’ I say, wondering whether to tell him of my connection with Nettie, but deciding against it, for the present at least. ‘They are a lovely family.’
He takes the silver teapot and pours me some tea, and adds milk and sugar for me, as if I am a child. He has never poured me tea before, and although I am a little full with Nettie’s hospitality, I drink it down. It’s lukewarm, and I think he must have been waiting here for some time.
He clears his throat. ‘I’d originally feared – when I found you not at home this afternoon – that you’d gone to take tea with John Jameson. I hope you don’t mind my referring to this, Margaret, but I would rather that you didn’t reopen your friendship with him. This is no reflection on you, but I’d prefer it all the same.’
‘Of course,’ I say, wondering how on earth he could know about John Jameson’s invitation. I hid the letter; he could not have found it. Anyway, the invitation to tea was for tomorrow. And ‘no reflection’ on me? How can he mean that? ‘I will do whatever you say, Robert. I don’t wish to offend you in any way. John Jameson is nothing to me, now.’
He nods. ‘I simply think it would be wise. Under the circumstances.’ He clears his throat, plays with the teaspoon. ‘The fact is – I seem to have made rather a fool of myself with Jameson, and I think it will be less embarrassing for all three of us if we do not meet or correspond.’
‘You surely haven’t been to see him?’ I am astounded. I couldn’t have imagined that Robert would have the nerve to confront John Jameson about the photographs, and I wonder what on earth John said to bring about such a change in my husband.
He colours. ‘It was foolish. I was foolish. He’s an odd fish, and I can’t say I like him. And I certainly disapprove of his taking photographs of you in an unclothed state. But I realize I may have been at fault in the conclusions I drew. I accept his word that nothing sinful took place between you.’ He passes me a plate on which there is a slice of cake, already cut, and I take it. I see that he cannot ask me out loud to forgive him. But he is doing it by means of the tea and the new, emollient manner.
I don’t think I can manage the cake after the feast at Nettie’s, but I need to acknowledge the effort he’s made, and the apology he’s trying to make now. I nibble the edge. I think about taking Nettie’s advice, but I’m afraid that I might shatter this delicate rapprochement by an untimely hug or kiss. It’s enough for the moment that he’s prepared to be my friend.
He pours himself more tea, and makes a great deal of fuss with the milk and the sugar, as if he is playing for time and cannot quite bring himself to say what he wants to. I think maybe he is going to tell me what he and John talked about and why he has accepted a stranger’s word as he never accepted mine. But then, I don’t suppose John incriminated himself as I did. ‘I ran into Lawrence on my way back,’ he says, finally.
‘Dr Lawrence?’ I didn’t expect this. I feel a new, quick beat in my pulse.
‘Yes. It was rather embarrassing. He said this fellow Franklin – the Harley Street man – was very put out that we no longer wished to see him. He’d been looking forward to it, it seems.’
‘Oh.’ It seems an odd thing for a doctor to have been ‘looking forward’ to, and I wonder what kind of man Dr Franklin is, to be so interested in what passes – or does not pass – between a man and a woman. But I’m glad, now, that I don’t have to meet him and talk to him, and allow him to put his hands on me.
Robert drinks the cold tea he has fussed over so elaborately, then looks out of the window. The wind is tossing the dark line of yew trees along the drive and I think there may be sleet in the air. He clears his throat. ‘Franklin’s lecturing at the Sheldonian this evening; I might go along and see what he has to say. It won’t do any harm, and may be of some general use.’
‘Of course, Robert. Yes, indeed, you should.’ That is what I must say all the time, now: ‘yes’, ‘of course’, ‘indeed’. I must cultivate the art of pleasing him. I must agree with everything he says and does. If he thinks the lecture will be ‘of general use’, then I will not dispute it.
‘You don’t mind being left alone?’
‘Robert, I have been more alone this past week than ever in my life. I have been almost out of my mind with loneliness. But now that you are not angry with me, you may go to the moon and I shan’t complain.’
He smiles. ‘I may be late, but I won’t disturb you, of course.’
‘No, of course. Thank you.’ The very fact that he refers to the possibility gives me hope. But, at the same time, I have the old, anxious feeling that when the time comes – if it comes – I may repeat my fearful behaviour. I must remember what Nettie said. I must put my duty to my husband before my own feelings. I must forget Papa – push him away from me and bury him deep. I can’t let him control me from beyond the grave.
‘Do you think it is going to rain?’ says Robert.
‘Well, the sky is very dark.’ Indeed, as we have been speaking, all the daylight has gone, and we can barely see each other.
‘Perhaps I’ll take my umbrella.’
‘Yes, do so. There is nothing worse than sitting in a wet overcoat.’
‘You are quite right. Nothing worse.’
‘Are you teasing me, Robert?’
‘I believe I am, Margaret.’
I think, in the dark, he may be smiling at me.
22
JOHN JAMESON
And now, at the time appointed, I sit here waiting, although I know in my soul that she won’t come. I find I can’t enjoy the warm fire Donnelly has stoked up for me, or the sight of the kettle boiling on the hob. Even the tempting sight of the jam tarts on the sideboard does not lift my spirits. Her husband has prevented her; that much is clear. My little tête-à-tête with him yesterday was not of the most amicable kind.
I had not expected him to call on me at all. I don’t know the man in the slightest, and my thoughts were all on Daisy. Indeed, the moment I had finished my morning lecture on plane trigonometry, I could not help looking in the lodge to see if there was a note from her. My pigeonhole was bare, but the porter advised me that I had a visitor. ‘I’ve put him in your sitting room, Mr Jameson,’ he said, passing me a visiting card. ‘I hope I did right.’
It is unusual for me to have visitors in the morning. I always arrange for my little friends to come near teatime. Indeed, all my visitors are encouraged to come then. A vi
sit just before noon is extremely inconvenient. So I took the card rather crossly, ready to dislike whoever it was who was now encamped in my sitting room. To my surprise, the card said, The Reverend Robert Constantine M.A., and I assumed it could be no other than Daisy’s new husband. My first thought was that something dreadful had befallen her, so I hastened across the quadrangle and up the stairs.
He was standing at the fireplace, staring at the mantelpiece. I could see him in the glass as I came in: a slight man, almost a head shorter than I, with very black hair. He did not have the appearance of someone who was about to impart news of illness or death; in fact, if anything, he seemed rather angry.
‘Mr C-Constantine I believe?’ I said, extending my hand as he turned to face me. ‘I am John Jameson. To what do I owe the pleasure?’
He ignored my hand. ‘I am not sure it is a pleasure, sir. I am here concerning my wife.’
‘She’s not unwell, I hope? I was so looking forward to seeing her tomorrow.’
‘You expect to see her tomorrow? She is due to come here, to these rooms tomorrow?’ He looked so aghast that I realized that he was unaware of my invitation. I could not imagine why Daisy should have kept it from him, but I was mortified to have blundered in this way.
‘I was hoping I might see you b-both,’ I said, feeling a small misdirection was required in the circumstances. ‘But I only dispatched my note yesterday and I have not yet had a reply. So I must admit to being in the dark as to the reason for your visit now. But, pray sit down; it makes me uncomfortable to see anyone standing.’
He hesitated, then sat, keeping himself bolt upright on the edge of the armchair as if he were ready to launch himself at me on the slightest provocation. There was an awkward pause, and then he said grimly, ‘Mr Jameson, how well do you know my wife?’
‘I don’t know her at all.’
After Such Kindness Page 34
