After Such Kindness Part 12

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 gra.s.s 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 Ches.h.i.+re cheese) will come and knock my huge head off in front of the ma.s.sed 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 fas.h.i.+on. 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 pa.s.sing 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. n.o.body 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.

But I'm not abandoned. Dr Lawrence comes, and he and Papa stand over the bed. Dr Lawrence touches my neck. I can hardly swallow, and my skin feels hot and itchy and I can't hear what they're saying and they seem far off and peculiar. The walls and the ceiling are moving around and now Hannah is in the sickroom, cleaning the floor. And now she is holding me up to spoon liquid into my mouth. And Papa can it be Papa? helping me to drink. Combing my hair too, and wiping my face with a cloth.

Yes, it is Papa. I can see his eyes. Large and brown and sad, gazing intently into mine. Now he has his arm around me, now he is on his knees at the bedside, now he is praying aloud. Now I am on his lap and there is a cool breeze coming in from the open window. I watch the muslin curtains billowing out, then falling back, the sky beyond them pale and blue, the sun a hazy golden ball. I can't keep my eyes open. My throat is so sore, my head aches so much. I feel Papa kissing me. It's a very nice kiss, soft and tender, and I drift into sleep, comforted.

Someone is stroking me. I can feel hands on my face, my neck. It's dark, except for a little nightlight a long way off, so I can't see who it is. My heart leaps up for a moment when I think it might be Nettie but it's not her hands. I know her hands they have rough skin around the fingertips. From sewing, she says. And being in and out of water all day. The hands stroking me now are different. Mama perhaps, come back from Herefords.h.i.+re? My heart rises again, but Mama always smells of lavender, and this smell is different. I can hear the sound of breathing, as if a wild creature is close at hand, hovering near me in the darkness. I think it's a lion; I can feel his mane, his thick, curly mane and the soft pelt of his skin. But the lion goes away, and suddenly I'm at the bottom of a huge and roaring waterfall. My ears ache, and my throat aches, and my head aches. I seem to be caught up in long, tangling weeds and I flail my arms and legs about. I scream but I can't make myself heard. I'm going to drown and no one is coming to rescue me. My body is sprouting with sweat as I shriek soundlessly against the noise. Then I'm carried out to sea, and I have forgotten how to swim: I think back to my lessons on the beach at Brighton Papa holding me around the waist and making my limbs move back and forward like a frog. Suddenly there are all sorts of creatures swimming alongside me, rising and falling with the motion of the waves. They are making strange wailing noises and they b.u.mp against me, jostling me hard. 'So very sorry,' says a walrus with a huge moustache, before he changes into a crocodile. The crocodile opens his jaws very wide and I am inside his great red mouth with his white teeth gleaming on all sides. I know I am going to die, and I call for Papa to help me, but the jaws snap shut and all is dark. But there is sobbing somewhere. It's not me. There must be someone else beside me. The sobbing is very loud. It's right in my ear. I think it must be the crocodile, weeping crocodile tears. Now I think I am being sick. Now Hannah is taking off my nightgown: 'I'll put this in the wash.' And more weeping. Weeping, weeping, weeping. Papa's voice: 'Let her live, Lord. Let her live.'

Now I'm awake again. The bedroom seems paler and barer than usual. The blue of the walls is cool. It's like the sky, and I want to fly up and be an angel. I'm calling out for Nettie, but it's Hannah that comes. She's was.h.i.+ng me all over with a sponge. The cool water trickles down my body and drips onto the sheets. Hannah says, 'Never mind, miss, it'll dry.' She's got a towel, now. She wipes between my legs as Nettie used to do when I was little. There's a crisp sheet over me now, lying lightly over my skin. My skin is itching, but I don't have the strength to scratch. I feel sick and have a pain in my stomach. The lamp is lit now, and Papa is reading something by its light. Now he's down on his knees again, murmuring something. Now it's daytime again and he's walking around the room. I hear Cook's voice, and Matthews. They are moving some furniture. Cook says, 'She's past the worst.' And I sleep again.

Now I'm feeling cooler, and my head is lighter. There's a pale, early morning light creeping through the curtains. Everything in the room looks normal and the walls don't fly around any more. There's a little truckle bed next to mine, and Papa is lying on it in his nights.h.i.+rt, his dressing-gown half open. He's asleep. I can't help noticing his bare feet, his rather large toes, and I find myself wondering whether I have ever seen his toes before. Even at the seaside he wears swimming shoes. And his face seems different too. He is asleep, of course, and I don't think I have ever seen him asleep either except for a light doze in the garden on a fine day with his straw hat tipped over his face and he strikes me as looking ragged and wild. 'Papa?' I whisper. My voice is so faint, I have to repeat myself. 'Papa?'

He wakes up and looks at me. Tears start from his eyes and run down his cheeks. He takes my hands in his and kisses them so fervently that, even in my weakened state, I'm taken aback. He doesn't seem like Papa any more, and not just because he's undressed and dishevelled. He seems different in a way I can't describe.

'The Lord be praised,' he says, his voice quivering. 'Oh, my dear, I have saved you. I have been cast down into the pit of iniquity, my sins heavy upon me, but the Lord is merciful and kind. We must praise Him, Daisy. We must praise the name of the Lord.' And he draws me to him, to the warmth of his chest, bare beneath his s.h.i.+rt. I can feel his heart beating, and smell his breath on my face. His smell is the smell of the lion. And I am afraid of him.

17.

EVELINA BAXTER.

I am sitting at my favourite window here at The Garth. The Black Hills undulate in a dark ma.s.s against the skyline and the grey clouds above them hint at rain, but I drink in the fresh, sweet air as if it is tonic wine. Now I can breathe again, free of the exhaustion that has weighed me down since Daniel was first afflicted. Now I can I relive our happier times as I take up my books again, and rediscover the country walks that we both loved so much. But guilt still knocks at my door because I know that I estranged myself when he most needed me, and I allowed petty jealousies and unworthy thoughts to come between us. If Daniel had not lived so long, I might have found it in myself to be more patient and faithful. But no one who has not endured it can understand how dreadful it is to have undergone the same loss twice: not merely the death of the body, but the death-in-life that preceded it. And, in between such horrors.

It is an irony to think that when I first married Daniel, I was grateful that he was such a strong and vigorous man. When we lived in Poplar, he seemed almost immune to the ravages of dirt and disease. He once carried a half-drowned man all the way from the river, setting him lightly on the kitchen table as if he weighed no more than a loaf of bread, and he'd often dig graves alongside the s.e.xton, matching him spade for spade, yet come home as fresh as if he had just risen from his bed. I was glad then to think that our children would have a healthy father to care for them if I were to depart this life, weak and worn out as I was. But now and G.o.d knows it is dreadful to say so I would ten times have preferred that he had dropped dead in front of me in the full vigour of his life, than to be delivered into the h.e.l.l that we were later to endure. If he had died when our love was still new and full of hope, I would have torn my garments and kneeled in the mud at his graveside, imploring him to come out like Lazarus and not leave me alone in the empty world. But in the end I would have been consoled. I would have laid flowers on his grave, knowing that he lived the serene life of the Redeemed. But Daniel's vigour was our undoing. He lived on to torment me with changes that I could hardly have imagined.

At first, there was no end of people whom I blamed for Daniel's affliction. If only Nettie had supervised Benjy properly, I thought, none of this would have happened: she would not have been dismissed, and John Jameson would not have placed us under such an obligation by stepping into the breach. And if John Jameson had not taken an interest in Daisy and escorted her to the most unsuitable places, she might never have contracted scarlet fever. And there again, if Mrs McQueen had been a better nurse, I would have been able to entrust Benjy to her care and look after Daisy myself. And Daniel well, if Daniel had not been so pa.s.sionate and angry, sweeping aside all offers of help from the parish, blaming me for being a cold and unloving mother maybe he would have been less p.r.o.ne to the dreadful brain fever that ensued. And if Christiana had not distracted me with her infatuation with Leonard Gardiner, perhaps I would have been more alert to what was happening to my youngest daughter, the one whom I thought safe and reliable, who, until then, had never given me a moment's anxiety.

But I knew that there was one blame that I could not apportion to others. It was I alone who was to blame for leaving Daisy when she was ill. A mother's place should always be with her sick child. Yet G.o.d knows I was in a torment of indecision until the very moment of my departure, when, fearful that I might never see her again, I even unpacked my valise and determined not to go. But Daniel discovered me with my clothes all strewn around, and made me pack them up again. 'You've made your decision and everything is arranged,' he said, rather stiffly. 'Once Benjamin is settled in Herefords.h.i.+re, that will be the time to return and take up your nursing duties.'

'But I can't forget what you said to me, Daniel. How you chastised me for not loving Daisy or not loving her enough. I can't let you think that I don't care about her.'

He patted my arm. 'I think I may have spoken hastily last night. I was in a state of alarm. But Dr Lawrence is hopeful. He says she is healthy and well-nourished and will fight the fever well.'

I knew he was simply trying to rea.s.sure me. No doctor can tell who will live and who will die, and even princes fall to typhoid. But I was grateful that Daniel was making my decision easier. 'Do you promise to telegraph if she worsens?' I asked. 'Please, Daniel, promise me that. I can be on the train in an hour, and back in Oxford in two or three more.'

'I promise. But I am sure there will be no need. Now, make haste and give my regards to your father when you arrive.'

'Should we perhaps hire a nurse after all?' I queried, now lacking in confidence that any of my plans made sense. 'It is too much for you to do, and not a man's task and Hannah may be unreliable at the sickbed. I could ask Mrs Carmichael if she could recommend someone.' But then I thought that Mrs Carmichael might recommend herself, and I selfishly did not want her spending even more time with my husband than she already contrived to do.

'Mrs Carmichael, good soul as she is, has already called and offered her services. But I feel that it's my duty to attend to Daisy. Don't forget Our Lord himself ministered to the sick, and humbled himself with mundane tasks. I can do no less. It is a test for me, Evelina, and I shall not fail in it.'

Daniel seemed so determined, and was so persuasive that I felt I could do no more than agree. My head had been aching all night and I began to feel I would be no use to anyone in that state. And Daniel was always so very good at everything he did, I was sure he would care for Daisy in the same way. So I pressed my lips to Daisy's moist brow and made my farewells, trying to imprint her face on my memory in case the worst should befall. All the way to Herefords.h.i.+re, I kept wondering if I had done the right thing, and as soon as we arrived at my father's house I almost galloped up the front steps to enquire whether a telegram had come for me. Thankfully there was nothing, and I allowed myself to feel that I had, after all, made the right decision. My father thought there was no doubt of it: he felt my first duty was to my son. Ever since Benjamin had been born, he had been delighted at having an heir, and used to lift him up and point out the fields and farms that he would one day inherit. His main anxiety that day was that he had not brought the fever with him. 'Keep an eye on him, Evelina. I will call Dr Jenkins the moment there is any sign.' But there was none.

And so that day pa.s.sed, and the next, and no urgent telegram from Daniel. And no symptoms of scarlet fever in Benjy, either. It was a relief, of course. Yet it was perplexing after two days to have only the most cursory of notes from my husband. She holds steady, he wrote, and sleeps most of the time. There is no need to hurry back; she would hardly know it if you were in the room. And Hannah has proved herself a most efficient nurse. The news rea.s.sured me, naturally, and I thanked G.o.d for it. But at the same time I was somewhat mortified that they were all managing so well without me. I kept reading the phrase 'would not know it if you were in the room', and wondering what lay beneath it. Perhaps Daisy was indifferent to my absence; but then I thought how tightly she'd held my hand that night, and how sad she had seemed when I said I'd have to leave her.

I replied in haste, saying I planned to return within the next two days, but Daniel wrote back immediately, saying that Daisy was not in danger and there was nothing more to be done by 'an extra person crowding at the bedside'. He urged me to enjoy my time with my father, in the countryside I loved so much. If he had been Satan himself, he could not have made a more tempting suggestion. There is no house quite like the one where you have been brought up, and The Garth has always held a special place in my heart. I loved to walk up Baycastle Crag, just as I do now, and I would gaze around from the summit, seeing the view just as it was when Daniel and I first made the climb, the day he had dedicated himself to G.o.d and to me. The magnificence of the scenery brought a sense of peace to me, and I realized how much I had missed it. Oxford always seemed to me so flat and enclosed. So I delayed my return, a.s.suaging my guilt by sending little notes to Daisy every day and enclosing pressed wild flowers for her to look at. I think of you every day, and will come back soon, I wrote. More days went past and I continued to live in a fool's paradise. Although I was a little surprised that Daniel wrote so rarely, I a.s.sumed he was too busy to do more and Daisy, I a.s.sumed, was too weak to pick up her pen.

The first clear knowledge I had that something was amiss came when a letter arrived for me, addressed in an awkward, unschooled hand and directed like a signpost To The Rev Mrs E. Baxter. I smiled at the oddness of the direction, thinking one of the people from the village had written to me. Then I saw that it was postmarked from Oxford. A sense of foreboding came over me and I opened it quickly. To my astonishment, the writer was Hannah.

Dear Mrs Baxter, I hope you dont mind my writing to you like this as Cook sais it is not my place to do so but as you put me in charge of Miss Daisy a long side of the Master I thought it right to let you know and I hope you wont hold it against me as it is only done for your sake and the families, to cut a long story short I feel there is some thing wrong with Mr Baxter and I hope you will come back as soon as is conveinant.

Hoping this finds you all well including Master Benjy and with kind regards and good wishes, Ever your Servant Hannah Potter.

Something wrong with Daniel? What on earth did the wretched girl mean? Why had she not explained herself more fully? And surely such a summons should have come from Mr Morton or one of the churchwardens or even Mrs Carmichael? To be summoned by one's housemaid was rather demeaning. I felt a curious mixture of impatience with the girl and anxiety about my husband. But it was clear I had to return home. By then I was content to leave Benjy with Mrs McQueen. She was somewhat in awe of my father, who took the greatest interest in his grandson.

I took the first train I could, and arrived in Oxford late in the evening. I'd had no time to telegraph, so there was no one to meet me, and I took a cab to Westwood Gardens. The house looked just the same, but it was Cook who greeted me at the door. 'Hannah's busy upstairs,' she said.

'And where is my husband?'

'Upstairs too,' she said, with a strange look in her eyes. For a moment, I had a picture of my husband and my servant in an adulterous embrace. I started up the stairs immediately, Daisy quite gone from my mind.

Cook put out her arm. 'I should just warn you '

'What?' My breath was coming in sharp bursts, my imagination seeing a froth of white petticoats, two figures rolling on the bed.

'Mr Baxter is not quite himself.'

'What do you mean?' Not himself. Something wrong with him the words went round in my head, confused with under-linen and stolen kisses.

Cook hesitated. 'I don't know how to put it, Mrs Baxter. You'd better see for yourself. Miss Daisy's much better, though.'

'Is she upstairs too?' I tried to cover the shame I felt for not enquiring about her the moment I set foot in the house.

'They're all in Miss Daisy's bedroom I believe.'

And indeed they were. Daniel was sitting in the little blue armchair, with Daisy on his lap, and Hannah was sitting on the edge of the bed, with Daisy's nightgown in her hands, st.i.tching. The whole room smelled of chloride of lime.

All three looked up the instant I opened the door. Hannah rose with a look of relief and Daisy scrambled off Daniel's lap and stumbled eagerly towards me. I had forgotten that she had cut her hair, and was shocked to see it so short, although I suspected Hannah may have shortened it more on account of the fever. But it gave her a new, unfamiliar look as if she had grown up a great deal since I'd been away. 'Oh, Mama!' she cried, embracing me around my waist and pus.h.i.+ng her face into my bodice. 'I'm so glad you are back!'

'And I'm glad too, Daisy dear. And even more glad to see you so recovered. You look so well. I think Papa and Hannah must have been spoiling you.'

I glanced up at Daniel, who had not moved or made any gesture of welcome. In fact, he was frowning at me. 'So, you have seen the error of your ways?' he said at last.

'What do you mean, Daniel?' I replied, trying to smile, to cover my disquiet at his words and his abrupt tone. 'I would have come earlier had you not begged me to take my time.'

'Then why ask me what I mean?' he said, narrowing his eyes. 'Don't try to confuse me.'

I was dismayed. Not only were his words so brusque and odd, but he seemed not at all glad to see me. Generally, after we had spent time apart, even a day or two, he could not wait to take me in his arms, and would quickly contrive a reason for us to be alone together. But now he was looking at me as coldly as if I were his enemy. 'I'm not trying to confuse you, Daniel,' I said. 'If I have done something to offend you, let us talk about it later. Don't spoil my delight in seeing Daisy again.' I embraced her tightly, but could not help noticing Hannah's expression, her eyebrows raised as if to say: See what I mean!

All at once, Daniel clapped his hands to his head and cried out: 'Evelina, it's you! Forgive me, I didn't know you in that perked-up bonnet! I only know you with your hair all loose. They told me you had gone away. But I said you'd come back.' He crossed the room at great speed and embraced us both. 'I knew you'd come back. I said so, isn't that right, Daisy?'

I felt Daisy nodding her head against my corseted waist. 'Yes, Papa, that's right.'

'Well,' I said, trying not to show my horror at the incoherence of his words, 'now I am back, Daniel, you are released from your duties. I will see to Daisy myself from now on.'

A change came over his face. 'Ah, so that's it you have come back to take her from me! You are subtle as a serpent, but I see through you, my lady, and I won't let her go.'

I half laughed, thinking he was play-acting, although for what reason, I couldn't think.

'Don't laugh at me, woman. Let me have her back.' He tried to pull Daisy away from me, grasping her shoulders quite roughly. I felt Daisy shrink against me, and she raised her eyes in a pleading way, as if to ask for my protection. For the first time in my life I was frightened of Daniel's superior strength, feeling we were in danger of a tug-of-war with our daughter being pulled asunder.

But Hannah put down her sewing and took his arm. 'Now, sir, you know very well that Mrs Baxter in't going to take Miss Daisy away from you. But she knows you're tired and she'll sit with Daisy while you takes some rest. You deserve it after all you've been through.'

He dropped his arms, as if suddenly distracted from his flare of anger. 'Ah, yes, rest, sweet rest. Come unto me all that travail and are heavy-laden and I will give you rest. Yes, I am tired. Very tired. It's all the sin weighing on me, you see.' He rubbed his eyes, and I could see that they were ringed with deep shadows. 'I will go and lie down. Upon the ground. Yes, upon the ground.'

'You'd be better off in your bed, I think. Come, sir, I'll go with you.' Hannah steered him gently towards the door, as if he were aged and in need of a.s.sistance. The absurdity of my previous imaginings struck me with force, but I thought I might even have preferred him to be dallying with Hannah than to be dependent on her in this dreadful, altered way.

'Well,' I said to Daisy when they had gone. 'Papa is in an odd mood, isn't he?' I tried to sound bright, not to let her see how hurt I was by his words. 'Fancy not recognizing me! I expect he's overtired. He'll be his usual self once he's had some proper sleep.' I hoped most fervently that would be the case.

Daisy looked down. 'I think it's my fault. He sat with me all the time I was ill. And prayed ever so much.'

I held her close. 'Oh, no, my dear, it's my fault. I should never have let your father take on so much. But I'll make amends now. Just let me take my hat and coat off and I'll put you to bed and read you a story.' I kissed her and sat her on the bed while I removed my outer clothes. Then I dressed her in a fresh nightgown. She was weak from days of bed-rest and leaned heavily against me as I pulled the sleeves over her arms and did up the tapes at the neck.

'Mama,' she said, as she lay down on the pillow. 'Will everything go back to normal now?'

'I hope so,' I said. Already the severe, scrubbed room was beginning to be more familiar to me, and I was feeling more like the mistress of the house. I even imagined that Daniel's strange words were not as strange as I had first thought. The effects of tiredness could be severe, I knew from my own experience, and Daniel had not expected me to arrive in the midst of things, unannounced, fresh and vigorous from my holiday walks. It had been a shock to him and he had become understandably confused.

I waited until Daisy was asleep, then I sat and watched her for a while, thanking G.o.d that I'd had the joy of seeing her face again. I pulled her poor, chopped hair away from her brow and gently stroked her eyelids. She was too deep even to stir. I wish we could have remained like that: I caring for her, and she in her turn trusting me. But it was the last time we enjoyed such closeness.

I eventually left the room in search of Daniel, only to find Hannah on the landing, sitting on a little wooden chair outside our bedroom.

'Just making sure,' she whispered as she got up. 'But I think he's asleep now.'

'Why are you sitting outside like this?' I asked, thinking she looked like a wardress at Bridewell.

She put her finger to her lips and walked me silently to the head of the stairs, as if we were conspirators. Then she stopped. 'It's all right. He can't hear us now.'

'Why shouldn't he hear us? What has been going on?' I demanded, feeling at a distinct disadvantage in my own home. 'This is all very irregular. I should have been informed the moment Mr Baxter was unwell.'

'I knew you'd say that. I told Cook you'd say that. I said, Mrs Baxter'll blame me if I don't tell her. But Cook said not to go behind the master's back or there'd be ructions. I nearly posted that letter three or four times, but every time Mr Baxter seemed to get a bit better, more his old self, so I held off. But in the end I said to Cook, "We can't take the responsibility." I was afraid he'd try to go out of the house, you see.'

'He is the master here,' I said, astonished at her presumption. 'He can come and go as he pleases. Why would you take it upon yourself to prevent him?'

'I'm sure I was only acting for the best, Mrs Baxter. I just didn't want no harm to come to him.' She hesitated. 'Nor any shame.'

'Shame?'

'Well ' She s.h.i.+fted, embarra.s.sed. 'He's not always properly dressed. He forgets his coat and doesn't always put on his shoes. And he doesn't really talk sense just seems to say what comes into his mind. I had an aunt like that she'd suddenly start talking about Old Sugary Perkins, and no one knew who he was.'