'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 G.o.d 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 fl.u.s.tered 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 circ.u.mstances.' 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 embarra.s.sing 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 pa.s.ses 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 embarra.s.sing. 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 pa.s.ses or does not pa.s.s 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 tete-a-tete 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, pa.s.sing 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 visit 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 a.s.sumed 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 gla.s.s 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 circ.u.mstances. '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.'

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 G.o.d.'

This seemed to enrage him. 'Swear to me, then,' he said. 'Swear to me on the truth of G.o.d 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 pa.s.s-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.