After Such Kindness (23 page)

‘Drink a little more,’ I urge. ‘Dr Lawrence says you must.’

She makes another effort, but this time the water spills from the corners of her mouth, so I put the tumbler down. I lay the back of my hand against her neck. Very hot still, and with small swellings each side. ‘Can you hear me?’ I ask.

She opens her eyes.

‘Do you know who I am?’

‘Papa.’ She smiles her strange, sad smile.

A wave of love floods over me. ‘You know you are dear to me, don’t you?’ I whisper, cradling her again and kissing her over and over.

She nods. Then slips back into sleep, her head against my waistcoat.

Is she a little better? I cannot tell. The changes in her are so small. But I offer up the same prayer.
Let her live, dear Lord, let her live.

It’s evening now. I’ve dipped in and out of sleep all afternoon. I can hardly believe how tiring it is, simply sitting and watching. I’m used to being active. In one day I can do my parish rounds, take Holy Communion to the sick, attend a lesson or two at the school, chair a board meeting of the Charity Committee – and still have plenty of time to read or take a stiff walk along the riverbank, meditating on what occupies my mind the most. I almost never feel tired. But this watching and waiting has sapped all my energies. I feel almost as though I am becoming drawn into Daisy’s very body, sharing her sickness and lethargy.

And in this moment, it comes to me like a sign from Heaven; I can take on her sickness myself. That is what is required of me. That is the sacrifice God demands for my pride and my lust. I drop to my knees.
Take me, O Lord
, I pray most earnestly.
Take my life, take my health, take my sanity – but save Daisy.

I am still on my knees when Hannah comes in with my supper and a bowl of chamomile tea for Daisy. ‘Oh, beg pardon, Mr Baxter, I didn’t mean to disturb you at your prayers. It’s just that you’ve had nothing all day and Cook says she might as well hand in her notice.’

I get to my feet, a little shaken at her matter-of-fact manner and the sudden intrusion of simple material concerns. ‘Cook is right,’ I say with an effort. ‘We must nourish the body. It’s the temple of the spirit, after all. But let me try to get Daisy to drink a little first. I’ll hold her up if you will manage the spoon.’

I touch Daisy’s cheek with my finger and she lifts her head slightly towards me, which I think a good sign. ‘Come, dearest,’ I say. ‘Have some chamomile tea. Cook has made it specially.’

‘There’s ever so much sugar in it,’ says Hannah encouragingly. ‘Cook says sugar gives you strength.’

Between us, and very slowly, we administer at least half a cup of the sweet, warm liquid. Daisy’s head lolls a bit, and in spite of Hannah’s care, some of the tea dribbles down onto her nightgown and sits there damply around her neck. ‘I’ll wipe it in a minute,’ says Hannah, opening the collar. ‘You’ve done well, though, Miss Daisy. Cook will be ever so pleased. And now you, sir,’ she says, holding out the tray with its covered plates and a glass of wine. ‘I’ll watch Daisy for you while you eat – that is, if you don’t mind.’

‘Thank you, Hannah. You’re a good girl. I shall tell Mrs Baxter what a help you’ve been.’

She smiles and I think what a nice-looking young woman she is, and not nearly as sharp and flighty as I’d imagined. It seems to me that I have been inclined to judge people harshly, and that there is more common humanity in my servants than I have given them credit for. I except Mrs McQueen from that view, of course. I can hardly believe that we have allowed such a woman to have the care of our son. What was Evelina thinking of? But sufficient unto the day
. . .
Daisy must have all my attention now.

It’s night time, and I’ve lit a candle by the bedside. I watch over her in its flickering light. I think she breathes more easily now. Sometimes she wakes and tries to speak. I think she’s fighting the fever. At one point she throws off her sheet. ‘Too hot,’ she says. Then she asks for water, and I gladly give it to her. Then she sleeps again.

My eye keeps returning to the journal. It almost invites me to read it. I have prayed until I no longer know what to say, and my head is whirling with unanswered pleas and unimaginable punishments. I feel the need to rest my mind. Just a page or two, I think. Nothing more. I take the book onto my lap.

She’s written her name on the first page in true childish fashion. Her pet name, of course. She never uses her baptismal name, and I’ve no quarrel with her there. I always thought Marguerite a little outlandish for a clergyman’s child, but after all the tribulations of Daisy’s birth, I had to allow Evelina her way, and she had a fancy for the name. Yet, by some subtle process, this name has never been used. To all of us, Daisy is – well, Daisy. And it suits her. It’s as fresh and simple as she is.

I turn the page. I see that she’s written about the birthday party. So much excitement beforehand and so nearly a tragedy at the end. And John’s parasol has a mention, naturally. I see too that she got up early to record her thoughts. It’s an excellent practice – and one I followed for years myself; the hours before dawn have such clarity. And I see she’s been turning matters over in her mind, speculating why God allowed such a thing to happen to Benjamin. Unfortunately she also sets down my dismissive answer about the ways of the Almighty. Did I believe it when I answered her in that way? Sometimes I believe that God’s infinite mind cannot be comprehended by mere mortals; and at other times I think such a glib explanation is a mere excuse.

What a deal she’s written – and how observant she is. And forthright, too. I am ashamed to see that, in her eyes, I am a man with a temper, and even those I love are wary of me. She says – oh, what pain it is to read this – that Nettie’s departure is the
worst day of her life
. How could I not have seen that? Nettie had looked after Daisy all her life: she was a second mother. Yet I was more occupied with asserting my moral superiority than with Daisy’s welfare.

In spite of my exhaustion, I’ve hardly slept. I keep hearing fragments of conversations I can’t quite place, with people I can’t quite see. I’ve tossed and turned so much I’ve been tempted to take some laudanum – but Robert says one can come to rely on it, so I’ve refrained. But it’s seven o’clock now, and I’m fully awake. In spite of my earlier misgivings, I can’t wait to take the diary from under my pillow, and immerse myself in it once more. But I can’t risk Robert coming in and finding me, with a repetition of yesterday’s embarrassing hunt-the-parcel.

I wash and dress, not waiting for Minnie, and I’m almost completely ready when she knocks at the door. She’s aggrieved to find I have done without her, and insists on my sitting down by the dressing-table while she finishes my hair. ‘You’ve got such lovely hair, Mrs Constantine,’ she says, not for the first time, as she brushes it out.

‘Oh, there’s far too much of it,’ I say. ‘Sometimes I’ve a mind to cut it all off.’

She’s horrified. ‘Oh, no, ma’am – you’d lose half your beauty.’

I smile at the thought that my beauty is so resident in my hair. ‘I did cut it once,’ I tell her, with the memory of my childhood transgression still fresh in my mind. ‘And a very well-known literary gentleman thought it improved me no end.’

‘Well, that gentleman couldn’t have had no sense, begging your pardon. Any lady’d be glad to have hair like yours. I know
I
would.’ And she glances wistfully in the mirror at the thin brown strands of her own hair, dragged back into a scrawny knot beneath her cap.

‘You wouldn’t say that if you’d had to live with it all your life,’ I say. ‘Just think how long it’s taking you to make it halfway presentable this morning. You must have used up at least fifty hairpins.’ I laugh. ‘Perhaps Mrs Bloomer should advocate Rational Hair for women, as well as Rational Dress.’

She says nothing. Obviously she disapproves of Mrs Bloomer.

When my hair is at last done to her satisfaction, she lifts my nightgown from the bed, and pulls back the sheets. She bustles about, affecting not to notice that the pillow next to mine is pristine and untouched. But she’s not a fool, and as soon as she goes to clean the dressing-room, she’ll know for certain that her newly married master has once again spent the night apart from his wife. I don’t know whether she thinks grand folk do things differently, or whether she pities us for a lack of passion. But I am brisk and lively in front of her, and pretend that all is well in my world. I don’t have to pretend too hard. The thought that I might at last find the key to what is amiss makes me almost excited.

At breakfast, Robert senses my change of mood. ‘You seem in good spirits, Margaret. Is the prospect of a resolution to our problem cheering you up?’ He folds
The Times
over with a practised movement, and bends towards me to impart his usual morning kiss. His lips hover, and then just brush my cheek. I see he intends not to risk further rejection – until the Harley Street man is consulted, at least. ‘On that very matter, I have already sent a note to Dr Lawrence,’ he says. ‘I was up early, and it struck me that there was no time like the present. I have requested an appointment at his earliest convenience and I hope we will hear something soon.’ He helps himself to tea, and butters a piece of toast with a satisfied flourish.

‘Thank you, Robert. I’m sorry for being such a trial to you.’

‘All trials serve to strengthen us, Margaret. I pray every night that God will bring us together. And I am sure He will. In the meantime, I hope you will come with me to see Mrs Wentworth this afternoon. She’s been asking after you these two weeks and I feel maybe it is time you started your parochial duties. The carefree honeymoon life cannot last for ever.’ He stops, sensing the irony of what he has said. ‘At least, in the eyes of the parish, it will seem that, now that you are established at the rectory, that, well
. . .
’

‘Yes, Robert. I understand.’

‘I don’t expect you to overtire yourself, my dear, but you need to settle into your new responsibilities and – whatever our private troubles – you and I need to set an example to the congregation. We must appear together, in step, and in good heart.’

‘Yes, Robert. I really do understand. I am not a clergyman’s daughter for nothing.’ God knows Papa’s situation made me only too aware of the need to keep up appearances.

‘Good. Good.’ He grasps my hand and looks at me in the old, friendly way. ‘We will conquer this thing, Margaret. I will not be beaten.’

He has very sympathetic eyes. That was what first struck me when I awoke to that seemingly unreal world – and saw him smiling at me. In fairy tales, sleeping princesses are always being woken by handsome princes, and in general both parties take the thing in their stride, being fated since time immemorial to fall in love on the instant. But when my eyes fixed on his I still had the mind of a child, and could only guess what romantic love was about. Yet there was something in his expression, and the way he let the blade of grass linger on my neck, that gave me the idea he might be flirting with me. And at the same time, his manner was jovial and comforting – almost as I imagined an older brother to be.

Of course, in the days that followed, when I was trying to piece my life together, it never occurred to me that Robert would one day be my husband. I may have been fifteen, but I was very childlike – and Robert was already a man of twenty-one. But I liked his kind eyes and the trouble he took to ensure that I was always comfortable and entertained. He reminded me a little of John Jameson, so I was glad to have him as a friend. We walked together and talked together and went to church together, and when he was ordained and moved away for a while, I wrote to him every week – companionable letters of our everyday doings, and how dear Benjy was growing up. When he returned three years later and asked for my hand, I was completely taken aback; I had never thought of him as a lover. But everyone said we would make an excellent couple, and Mama was beside herself with relief. ‘Not every man would take a wife tainted by nervous disorder,’ she said, managing with one stroke to spoil any delight I might have had, while making me apprehensive for the future.

I take Robert’s hand now, and place a kiss on it to thank him for all his past kindness to me – and his present patience as I struggle with wifehood. He looks surprised, but pleased that I have been the one to demonstrate my affection. ‘Thank you, my dear.’ And he rises and kisses me on the forehead in return. Then he departs for his study, humming ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’, and treading, I feel, more lightly than usual.

I feel guilty to be deceiving him, even in this most minor of ways, but as soon as the door shuts, I put down my breakfast cup and hasten upstairs to retrieve Daisy’s journal from under the mattress. I’ve put it well into the middle, almost at the full stretch of my arm. I know Minnie’s less-than-rigorous bed-making won’t have dislodged it from there. I take it to the window and open it where I’ve left it. I squint at it. Daisy’s writing is becoming ever more difficult to read, as if she were working against time, or in fear of discovery.

Friday 11th July

Mr J did not come today as he was too busy thinking. He sent me a note which I have attached.
(And there it is, in John Jameson’s inimitable neat script):

My dearest Daisy,

My head is so full of mathematical problems that it has grown to twice its size and as a result I am not fit to be seen in polite company. Now, I know yours is not really polite company, Daisy my dear – nor, of course, conversely, is it impolite company – but all the same, the apparition of a man with a hot-air balloon for a head might put you in a terrible fright. You may, of course, be one of those young ladies whom nothing shocks and who walk about with their noses in the air thinking of archery lessons and cream teas, but even Dinah won’t come near me, preferring to sit on the windowsill and glare. Can cats glare, do you think? I’m sure you would agree that they do, if you were here watching Dinah. She has SUCH a decided glare, that even were she to jump off and disappear down a mousehole in the skirting board, I think her glare would stay behind and hover about by the window all by itself, showing its teeth in a disconcerting manner. All this brain work is a dreadful bother and I would much rather be walking about with you and playing our little games (which I am sure you will agree are not silly at all, but very educational), but I have to do it, otherwise the Master of the college (who is a very ferocious man with a face like a Cheshire cheese) will come and knock my huge head off in front of the massed ranks of the SCR (that is the senior common room, you know) and then play croquet with it around the quad, with the Dean and Chaplain flapping about in their scarlet Convocation habits like so many flamingos – all of which I shouldn’t like at all. So, you see, I shall be much obliged to you if you will forgive me from attending on you just now.

Your very dear friend,

John Jameson.

P.S. I shall make every effort to be with you next Monday. Please give my regards to your dear parents, and I hope your brother is quite recovered from his indisposition – although if I were he (which I’m not, otherwise I’d have to shrink to one eighth of my size) I’d carry on being poorly just so I could see your darling face next to my cot and hear you singing those sweet songs, and have – good heavens – a kiss or two from your sweet lips. But such thoughts are in vain, as the poets say – so, like a broken pencil, there’s no point to it.

I see that John Jameson has put a little drawing of himself at the bottom. He’s sitting at his desk with a big head like a turnip. It glows with ideas coming out in little bubbles called variously ‘geometrical calculus’ and ‘Archimedes’ principle’ and ‘algebraic trigonometry’, and Dinah’s teeth glaring at him from the windowsill. I can’t help laughing.

Mr J always cheers me up, especially after I have been working hard at my Confirmation lessons with Papa. I am doing that every day now. He always praises me and says how well I have done but sometimes he looks at me so oddly that I feel I have done something to displease him. I think he must still be blaming me for cutting my hair, although he says no, he is blaming himself for something else entirely. Perhaps he is sorry that he allowed Mrs McQueen to come and look after Benjy because now he knows how horrid she is and that she doesn’t love him like Nettie did. She is still horrid to me when I go up to the nursery and makes sarcastic remarks about young people who have time on their hands and nowhere to put it, but she doesn’t dare tell me to go away. I know it is wicked, but sometimes it is quite nice being annoying to her. DEB

Monday 14th July

I have had a very busy day with Mr J who came as promised and brought me a very nice story book by Miss Catherine Sinclair, which I can’t wait to read and we walked to lots of different places and he took some more photographs of me but the sun was very hot and now I have got a headache and a sore throat. Mrs McQueen saw me on the stairs and poked me hard in the back and said she thought I should go to bed as I looked feverish, so I won’t write any more in case she calls Mama.

I turn over the page, but I see only blankness, and then loose sheets of what looks like Mr Jameson’s writing – some sort of story – then a mixture of letters, drawings, photographs and poems, all interleaved in higgledy-piggledy fashion. It’s seems that the narrative is finished. Or rather, it’s unfinished. I’m in a panic; I can’t believe it. How can she break off now, leaving so much unsaid, and me high and dry in my expectation? Was the book confiscated? Or was something destroyed? I examine it again. There are pages torn out, the cotton threads loose and broken. And at the back, some of the photographs John Jameson took. I don't want to look at them, and quickly thrust them back. I look again at the last entry. Daisy has a headache, she says. And a sore throat. And Mrs McQueen is concerned that she looks ‘feverish’.
Feverish
: the word reverberates around my brain. And I know quite suddenly that this is not any passing childhood indisposition, but the time I had scarlet fever and almost died.

I don’t at all remember being ill, but over the years Mama has referred to
when you had scarlet fever
, as if to recall an anecdote, and then she’s pulled herself up short and changed the subject, as if it were something shameful, something not to be mentioned. How can a child’s illness be blameworthy? It’s hardly credible, but I can feel the lick of shame even now. I see Mama’s sad face, her look of contained patience.
I forgive you
, she seems to say.
Just do not mention it in front of me or it will be my death.
I strain again to recall what happened, but it’s like looking through a window from bright sunlight into a dark interior: impossible to make anything out except one’s own reflection. Yet, when I think of the words ‘scarlet fever’, it’s not Mama’s face, but Papa’s that comes to me. The mysterious shame that attaches to it must have something to do with him. Perhaps it was when his madness first began.

Even as I think it, a door suddenly opens in my mind, and I see Papa – his broad, handsome face, his thick brown hair, and his abundant whiskers. He’s saying something to me. But I can’t hear the words. Then he comes closer, and puts his arms around me in a desperate way. ‘You won’t leave me, will you, Daisy? You won’t go away and leave your poor papa?’ And he holds me extremely tight for a long time. So tight I can hardly breathe.

All of a sudden, I’m back there, lying in my bed. There’s some sort of rumpus going on in the house. But the only person I can see is Papa. He waits silently by the bedside, or moves in and out of the lamplight like a dark ghost. He speaks to me, but my throat is swollen and I can’t reply. He looks kind as he bends over me and asks if there is anything I want. I nod. I want Mama; I want her to hold my hand and stroke my hair and say kind things like she did before. But she’s going to leave me because of Benjy. Benjy’s her favourite. He’s everyone’s favourite. The only person I know who loves me for sure is Nettie and I long for her to come back with her nice, warm, biscuity smell and comforting arms. But she doesn’t come. Nobody comes. Instead I hear the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Up and down, up and down. Then someone calling for hush:
Think of poor Daisy!
Is it Mama? I think I see her in the doorway, and maybe for a moment at the bedside. But then she is gone. I hear the front door bang shut and the sound of the carriage departing. I have a wild idea that maybe I’ve been left abandoned in the house with no one to care for me. I’ll be like a plague victim, and neighbours will leave my food outside the door in a basket soaked in vinegar and I’ll die in solitude. Or perhaps not in solitude – perhaps Mama has left Mrs Mac to nurse me. I imagine her hard, square face and hard, poking hands as she comes towards me, and think I would prefer to be abandoned.