He leaned forward. ‘How can you deny it when there is a photograph of her on this very mantelshelf?’ He pointed at it, accusingly.
‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I don’t deny that I know Daisy Baxter. That was, of course, ten years ago. But I have never met your wife; she is another creature altogether. Which is why it would be very pleasant to make her acquaintance in my rooms.’
‘I see you are a casuist,’ he said, as if ‘casuist’ were cognate with ‘murderer’.
‘I simply try to make words mean what they say.’
‘Very well,’ he said patiently. ‘I will play your game. How well did you know Daisy Baxter?’
‘I’m not sure I can answer that. It’s a very open question. And to be frank, I’m not sure what it has to do with you.’
‘I am her husband.’
‘You are not Daisy Baxter’s husband, though, and it is Daisy Baxter we have established as the subject of this interrogation.’
He gave a groan of exasperation. ‘Are you deliberately obfuscating? I want a simple answer to a simple question.’
‘In my view, simple questions rarely have simple answers. For example, “What is the purpose of life?” rarely provides an answer of fewer than ten thousand words, and generally a great many more.’
He got up. ‘I think you are avoiding answering me, Mr Jameson. And that is because you are guilty. Guilty of a heinous act towards my wife – or the child she once was. You are loathsome, sir. And a coward to boot.’
I have never had such words openly directed to me; I felt quite nauseous. I have been prepared for vilification from a number of quarters during my life, but did not expect it from the husband of Daisy Baxter. I stood up too, and felt glad that I was the taller man; it gave an illusion of superiority even though I felt weak as water. ‘Heinous act, Mr Constantine? What on earth do you mean?’
‘You have used your influence over my wife – or over Daisy Baxter, if you insist – to take photographs of a vile nature. It is my belief that you have corrupted her.’ To my surprise, having delivered himself of this dreadful accusation, he burst into tears – copious tears, in fact – such as you might expect from a servant girl. I was taken aback. I myself have not wept since Dr Lloyd admonished me that day in his study when I was fourteen years old, and I think it weak of a man to give in to hysteria in this way. But clearly he did not know what he was saying. How could I have ‘corrupted’ my darling Daisy simply by taking her picture? She was just the same sweet creature afterwards as she was before. And if he found her less lovely because she had shown herself to me in all her innocence, then the fault was with him.
‘Neither Daisy nor I did anything we were ashamed of,’ I said. ‘You have seen something you do not like – something that does not meet with your own narrow view of morality – and you have jumped to some wild conclusion.’
‘I don’t think so,’ he said, shaking his head and swallowing back his tears. ‘Margaret – my wife – has more or less admitted her sin.’
My innards churned about in a dreadful way as I thought how all the Mrs Grundys in the world would rejoice at my downfall if it was thought I had sinned against a child. But why had Daisy turned against me and born false witness? ‘What has she said?’ I demanded. ‘What is this “more or less”?’
‘She has hardly described it, Mr Jameson,’ he said, sarcastically. ‘She is a modest woman, after all. But she admitted that she had misled me as to her character before our marriage and that she was “not as she should be”.’
‘Daisy said that?’
‘And I have my own very cogent reasons for thinking that her connection with you was of an unchaste nature.’
‘What reasons do you have? State them at once.’ I was almost choked with a mixture of fear and rage.
‘They are – intimate and private,’ he said, looking decidedly uncomfortable.
I saw immediately that he was not on such firm ground as he was pretending to be. I suspected that he was seeking clarification of something he did not understand, on the evidence of something Daisy did not exactly say (at least, I hoped she had not cast such calumny on me). It seemed that he had come to his conclusion before even hearing the evidence. ‘You cannot come here making terrible accusations against me, and then claim “private and intimate” reasons for not saying why you are making them,’ I said. ‘At least you can – but it would get you nowhere in a court of law. So don’t expect me to take such accusations with any seriousness. And if I hear that you have – in any way, shape or form – spread such accusations abroad, I will invoke the law myself and have you arraigned for slander.’
He looked horrified. ‘This is not a matter for the courts, Jameson. Do you think I care nothing for my wife’s reputation? If I attack you, I bring her down with you – in the full glare of public opinion. I would not do such a thing to her, whatever she may have done to me. I wish only to arrive at the truth.’
‘The truth? Ah, what is Truth, as jesting Pilate said – although, notably, he did not stay for an answer. Perhaps he knew that there is no truth in this world. There is only the truth of God.’
This seemed to enrage him. ‘Swear to me, then,’ he said. ‘Swear to me on the truth of God that nothing impure occurred between you.’ He got up and seized a New Testament from my desk, thrusting it at me as if we were engaged in a particularly urgent game of pass-the-parcel.
‘I’m not obliged to do anything of the sort,’ I said, declining to take it from him. ‘I am not in the dock at the Old Bailey, for all you think you are both judge and jury in this case. It is enough for me to know I am innocent of all charges.’ But then it occurred to me that a man as bitter and confused as Constantine was best appeased, if only to stifle further rumour. ‘But for Daisy’s sake, I will swear,’ I said. And I did, taking the book, and reverently and solemnly invoking Christ to be my witness at the Awful Day of Judgement, that I had never laid unchaste hands on Daisy Baxter; that she was as pure when she left my company as when she had come into it.
When I had finished, Constantine put the Testament back on the desk. He seemed uncertain, then, like Dinah, when she used to pounce on her prey, only to discover it had unexpectedly escaped. ‘I suppose I must accept what you have said,’ he murmured finally.
‘Indeed you must, unless you think I would put my eternal soul in jeopardy,’ I said. ‘Daisy was one of the purest-minded children I have ever met, and unless she has changed with the onset of wifehood’ – I could not help saying that – ‘I cannot imagine how there can be any charge made against her.’
He sat down abruptly and put his head in his hands. ‘I can only think that her father’s madness has affected her more than I thought. It seems he has the power to frighten her still.’
‘Still? I am astonished to hear he ever did. In my experience, Daniel Baxter was devoted to his daughter.’
‘Forgive me,’ he said, glaring up at me. ‘But you weren’t in the house. You never had to listen to his unfortunate ravings; you never had to restrain the poor man by main force. She’s had dreadful dreams about it. She can’t clear him from her mind.’
Poor Daisy. I knew she suffered much in that household, trying to meet her father’s exacting standards. But I had always thought that Baxter’s fierceness had invariably been tempered with love. And he showed that love to all his children, even the imperious Christiana, and the disatisfied Sarah. To tell the truth, I had always envied the ease with which he accepted the due rewards of fatherhood – in particular, of course, Daisy’s rosy kisses, and her loving presence on his lap. And I’d seen (not without some jealousy on my own part) how his love for her had latterly blossomed, and how pleased she had been to be the object of his new-found attention. Indeed, I’d begun to feel that she no longer looked forward quite so much to the company of a rather eccentric, stammering don when she could have her handsome, doting father to herself. And when she fell ill, I believe no one could have cared for her as devotedly as Daniel – certainly I could not have done so.
‘I s
till fail to see how my photographs are connected with Daisy’s alleged fear of her father,’ I said. ‘Or perhaps you intend to slip up to heaven and accuse him of unnatural acts, too?’ It was, of course, an appalling notion. Indeed, the idea was so horrific I didn’t wish to think about it. I immediately thrust it back into the hell-pit whence it had come. ‘I beg your pardon,’ I said. ‘I take back that remark; I disown it utterly.’
‘I should think so; I thought you were supposed to be his friend. But it seems that friendship means little to you, Jameson.’
‘On the contrary,’ I said, stung by this calumny, ‘I think friendship the highest form of human connection.’
‘Then why did we never see you at the vicarage when Daniel needed your help? It seems you are a fair-weather friend at best.’
It was a very palpable hit – but I would not allow him his moment of victory. ‘Again, you are wrong. I wished to help very much,’ I said. ‘Indeed, I came to the vicarage with Mr Warner as soon as Baxter’s indisposition was reported. But I was forbidden from visiting the house.’
He looked at me with renewed triumph, as if he had pinned me down at last. ‘Ah. So Baxter knew of your unauthorized activities with Daisy? He knew what you were doing and he took action against you to keep you away from her?’
‘Nothing of the sort,’ I retorted. ‘It was Mrs Baxter who made the request.’
‘Then Mrs Baxter knew?’
‘Knew that I had taken pictures of Daisy? Yes – that was open knowledge. Knew that I had taken these particular pictures – these pictures that have upset you so much? No, she did not.’
‘You see?’ He shot up from his chair.
‘What do I see?’
‘You were secretive about them, because you knew that if they had come to light, people would have been appalled by them.’
‘As you are now, Mr Constantine. Yes, I knew that would happen. Which is precisely why I kept the matter secret. You have proved my point.’
Constantine looked annoyed. ‘Then why did Mrs Baxter disapprove of you? There must have been a reason.’
‘If you must know, it was the matter of a haircut.’
‘A haircut?’ He laughed – as well he might. ‘That hardly seems likely.’
‘I agree. But when the hair was on Daisy and the scissors in my possession, it seems that rationality fled through the window. One would think I had half killed the child – instead of improving her appearance and taking away a source of great discomfort. But Mrs Baxter decided on that basis that I was untrustworthy. And once Daniel succumbed to his affliction – well, Mrs Baxter was head of the household and made the rules.’
‘How dare you speak so slightingly of her? She endured more than a woman ever should. And with unfailing dignity.’ He looked ready to strike me down in her defence.
‘I don’t doubt it,’ I said, retaining the equable manner that seemed to infuriate him so. ‘But the fact remains that I was shut out of Daisy’s life and could do nothing about it. Or rather, I could do something – I could make good my estrangement by imagining that she was here with me, in these rooms, and that I was telling her some of the stories that she liked so much. You may possibly have heard of a little book called Daisy’s Daydream. It has been something of a success.’ I thought I had bested him there, but he came at me with a final thrust.
‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘if the parents who buy that popular story book are aware of this other, more esoteric interest of yours?’
I shrugged, although my heart was beating fast. ‘I make no secret of my leisure interest. I have photographed the lowest and the highest in the land, the old and the young, the humble shepherd and the celebrated poet. I am only interested in beauty, Mr Constantine. And may I remind you that to the pure, all things are pure?’
He seemed to be unable to find a reply to this, and, as we stood in an uneasy truce, Donnelly came in to tell me that the bell had gone for luncheon. ‘It’s steak and kidney pudding today,’ he said, adding coals to the fire. ‘Then cherry tart with custard.’
‘Excellent,’ I said. ‘All my favourites.’
‘Will the other gentleman be lunching, sir?’
‘No,’ we both said with one voice, although Constantine added, ‘Thank you.’
I let him go down the staircase first. At the bottom, as we said our awkward farewells, I ventured to hope that, as his wife knew nothing of our little contretemps, I might still look forward to a visit from her the next day.
He gave no answer, and, as I watched him stride across the quadrangle and under the arch of the lodge, I did not feel optimistic. How irritating it is that women and girls are so dependent on the whims of their fathers and husbands and cannot do just as they like. If I were in charge of the world (which will never be the case as I have no ambition worth speaking of) I would make it a law that girls and women should have equal rights not just to be educated, but also to go to tea with whomsoever they choose.
As I listen to the gentle bubbling of the kettle, I try to imagine exactly what brought Constantine to me in such a furious state. His story is confused at best – but I deduce from his embarrassment over the ‘intimate and private’ matters, that his distress has as much to do with the marital relations between himself and Daisy as with the pictures themselves. I don’t like to think of marital relations when it comes to Daisy, but I am sorry if she is prevented by some scruple or other from doing what is necessary in order to become a mother. She was always drawn to infants, and it did my heart good to see how she cared for Benjy in those long afternoons we spent in the vicarage garden. And, in my selfish way, I have looked forward to seeing her own infants come to the age when an old bachelor can have them to tea, and make them laugh.
I can’t account, though, for this so-called sin that her husband talks about. Daisy always had a proper sense of right and wrong, but she was never preoccupied with evil. Of course, the nature of her father’s insanity may have changed her. I remember how chastened she seemed when I last spoke to her, how lacking in that vitality that had so endeared her to me. But that would still not account for the ‘heinous act’ that Constantine says she has confessed to. After all, with whom could that act have possibly been committed? Constantine’s thwarted passion has clearly blinded him to the dictates of common sense.
All the same, I have taken his visit as a warning. I occupy a delicate position of respectability with regard to children, such that the slightest frisson of scandal will do for me. So, after luncheon yesterday, with the steak and kidney pudding in my stomach and Constantine’s words ringing in my ears, I went into my studio and broke all the photographic plates that might give rise to any ambiguity. Daisy’s lovely limbs went under the hammer, as did Annie Warner as the Spirit of Dawn, her sister Louisa as Venus, and the Malcolm girls as the Three Graces. I asked Donnelly to cart away all the broken glass in the coal scuttle, and I burned the paper copies in my grate. It was dreadful to destroy the beautiful images, and I hesitated over more than a few. But it is best to put them out of harm’s way.
It is nearly five o’clock, now. The kettle is still simmering away, the tarts are untouched. The window is already dark, and there are splashes of sleet against the panes. My bones ache and I recognize that I am in the autumn of my life. I miss Dinah. I miss Benson, too. And most of all I miss Daisy. I look back with such joy at the golden afternoons when she and I were all in all to each other. I see so clearly her sweet face, her grey eyes, her mass of unruly hair. In my mind, she is always eleven years old. I hear her now, her delicate voice fluting into my fuzzy brain. ‘Mr Jameson?’ she says.
‘Daisy? Can it be you?’ I lift my head. I have been dozing in the half-light, and she has come to me, stepping into my sitting room like a fairy, with the lightest of steps. She is wearing a pretty white fur bonnet and is carrying a white muff. My heart fills with gladness.
‘Please, I’m not Daisy,’ says the child. ‘I’m Amy.’
I sit up. I see now that it’s not Daisy at all. In fact,
it is not the slightest bit like her. This child has golden hair and cherry-red lips, and she is about eight years old.
‘Where have you sprung from?’ I say, rubbing my eyes.
‘I knocked, but you didn’t reply,’ she says.
‘I was in the Land of Nod. But I have come back now and I am very pleased to see you. But you have surely not come on your own?’ I look to see if there is a mama lurking in the shadows.
She shakes her head. ‘My Uncle Neville lives downstairs. He brought me to the door, but wouldn’t come in as he says he is a – person ungrata – with you.’
‘Ah, is your uncle by any chance Mr Smith-Jephcott?’ How could such a delightful child be related to that boorish person? But stranger things have happened.
‘I don’t know his surname.’
‘Of course you don’t. But you seem to know my name, don’t you?’
She pulls out a copy of Daisy’s Daydream. ‘You’ve got two names,’ she says. ‘One unreal one for writing and one real one for everything else. Uncle Neville says you will write both in my book if I ask nicely.’
‘And are you asking nicely?’
‘Not yet. I haven’t found the page.’
‘Of course not. What was I thinking of?’
She puts down the muff and opens the book at the title page. ‘Please will you put your name there?’ she says, pointing at a space one inch below the title. ‘Can you put my name too, and say it’s for me?’
‘By all means,’ I say, as I get up to find my pen. ‘Do you have any unreal names yourself – or were they all given to you at your baptism wherein you were made a child of God?’
‘They are all real,’ she says solemnly. ‘I have three Christian names and one surname. My Christian names are Amy Frances Elizabeth – and there is an “e” in Frances as otherwise it’s a boy’s name. And my surname is Edgerton.’
‘That’s a very fine set of names,’ I say. I take the book to my desk and she follows me.
She watches me carefully as I write. ‘What neat writing!’ she says. ‘You can see every letter.’
After Such Kindness Page 35
