After Such Kindness (26 page)

Perhaps Daniel was right and I never loved her as I should. Perhaps there was something from that time of her infancy which made my heart less generous towards her. But in the days and weeks that followed, my excuse – if indeed I can allow myself one – was that Daniel took up all of my attention. He made demands every minute of the day, whereas Daisy made none, falling in, it seemed, with whatever I proposed, never complaining in any way. But always giving me that mute, hostile look, as if she were deaf and dumb entirely at my behest.

When Dr Lawrence returned from holiday, he prescribed fresh air and activity, saying the Brighton air had invigorated his own mental capacities and would surely do the same for Daniel. As Oxford lacks sea air, Hannah and I began to take Daniel for short evening walks in the quieter byways of the neighbourhood. But it was very difficult to manage. We were always apprehensive about meeting any of the parishioners, and frequently had to escort Daniel down a back lane to avoid an embarrassing encounter. On one occasion he ran away from us completely, and had to be brought back by a constable. On another occasion, he managed to get out of his bedroom window before breakfast, and ran into the church, addressing the dozen or so gathered for Morning Prayers, clad only in his nightshirt. Charles Morton and Robert Constantine had luckily been witness to this incursion and had brought Daniel home before too much harm was done, but I understood that rumours had begun in the congregation as to the exact nature of Daniel’s ‘nervous exhaustion’.

After several months of this hole-in-the-corner existence, I realized that I could not manage my husband with just the servants to assist me. We were all exhausted with the effort of trying to keep him occupied and fully clothed. So in the end I had no option but to confess all to the bishop. He was most perturbed: ‘Daniel is such a fine preacher; such a fine, God-fearing man. We must all pray for his recovery.’ He agreed that Charles should continue to take the services, with help from the curate at St John’s, until such time as Daniel’s state of mind had improved. ‘I hesitate to suggest it, Mrs Baxter, but there are excellent sanatoria for clergymen who are undergoing any trials of – er – a mental capacity.’

‘You mean an asylum?’ I said. ‘God forbid that ever Daniel should be committed to a place like that!’ I’d once visited a poor parishioner in Bethlem Hospital and I’d never forgotten it.

‘I leave the matter with you, of course, Mrs Baxter. But the Church is anxious that there be no scandal. I must have your assurance that Mr Baxter will be kept out of the public eye.’

‘Locked up, you mean?’

He tilted his head. ‘Kept confined, I would prefer to say.’

‘We cannot keep him in. We are all women – apart from the gardener – and my husband is strong.’

‘Then I suggest you ask the churchwardens to assist you, or any member of the congregation that can be trusted.’

So, I set out to discover whom I might trust to help me. Mr Warner, the churchwarden, had in fact come to offer his help not long after my return, but he’d turned up with, of all people, John Jameson, so I’d refused him. I’d been incensed at Jameson’s effrontery, having specifically written to him requesting him to cease all correspondence with both Daniel and Daisy, and yet he came in person asking to see Daisy, and making much fuss about a manuscript that he had left with Daniel. Maybe the purpose of his call was simply to retrieve it, as it formed the basis of that ridiculous fairy story, which later became so popular. However, much to my surprise, he used the occasion to end his role as Daisy’s friend and confidant. I cannot say how much that contributed to my peace of mind. Daisy was upset, but she said nothing, and I was sure she would soon recover.

So I approached Mr Warner again, and, together with Mr Attwood, Mr Morton and Mr Constantine, we formed a kind of alliance to keep Daniel confined yet active; to distract him and to stop him accosting the general public with his revelations. We took it in turns to watch over him, and the men would bring new books to interest him and new subjects for him to write about, while Matthews taught him how to grow vegetables and clip the rose bushes. Sometimes he would be utterly absorbed in these occupations, but from time to time he would ask why he wasn’t being allowed to preach at church. ‘You are all preventing me from taking my message to the people,’ he would say. ‘You are of the Devil’s party.’

This regime continued for the best part of three years. In spite of some terrible lapses, we always imagined that we saw signs of improvement – the return of Daniel’s genial manner and more lucid conversation – and we continued to hope. Charles Morton carried out all Daniel’s duties and the bishop gave what support he could, finally bestowing on Charles the title of Perpetual Curate
pro hac vice
, to be revoked on Daniel’s return to health. The congregation prayed for him every day, and although his condition was formally attributed to overwork, most of them knew how badly his mind had been affected. Mrs Carmichael, calling to pay her respects, was distressed to find that Daniel did not know her before deciding she was the laundrywoman come to wash the shirt off his back, which he proceeded to remove. And he could be very insulting at times. He called me names that no woman should hear, and spoke harshly to Christiana and Sarah and made them cry. Dr Lawrence gave him copious doses of laudanum, which gave us respite – but, in the end, nothing helped. Even Daisy’s calming effect diminished. She became increasingly reluctant to read to him, although he was always asking for her. I didn’t exactly blame her; Daniel’s often-stated love for her was more than a little suffocating.

And so, at last, I had to swallow my pride and consider a ‘place of asylum’. It was not a bad place as these places go – but when I first visited Daniel there, I was shocked at the number of afflicted clergymen who skipped about and ranted to the heavens. Daniel came to me immediately, which was gratifying, but within minutes he accused me of being the cause of his captivity and caught hold of my skirts and begged me to release him. ‘You are my wife, Daisy. They will listen to you.’

‘It’s Evelina,’ I said. ‘Not Daisy.’

‘Ah, yes,’ he said. ‘Evelina. I see that now. You have long skirts and stars in your eyes. But where is Daisy? I’ve bartered my soul for her, you know. I have the right to see her.’

His delusions were clearly as bad as ever, and I had no intention that any of our children should see their father in such a place. In addition, it took the best part of a day to make the journey there and back. But the Superintendent said it might help Daniel recover if he could see his daughters. I refused at first, wishing to spare them more distress. Daniel could rarely be prevailed upon to wear anything more than a nightshirt; and he would often remove that. If I remonstrated, he would begin to unbutton my bodice or lift up my petticoats or – horror – pull down my drawers, and seek to lie with me in full view of everyone. I, who had once been so intoxicated with his body, now shrank from him as if he were a savage. And, every time, he asked for Daisy, and cried when I told him she could not come.

But, finally, my conscience got the better of me. None of the girls was anxious to go, but I insisted: ‘He is your father.’ Benjamin was left out of the expedition; Daniel seemed to have forgotten he had a son, and I did not remind him. But I was, surprised at how reluctant Daisy was, and how pale she looked when we set off. She was even paler when we arrived, and I thought she might faint as we waited in a little anteroom for him to appear. Daniel seemed to have grown much older in the course of a few months and I could see that the girls were taken aback. He was very scantily dressed and, as usual, seemed unaware of any impropriety. He pressed his half-naked body against us with expressions of great joy. Christiana and Sarah submitted graciously, but Daisy hung back, her stare fixed on the ground. In fact, she paid him little attention, and when he took her on his lap, giving her loving kisses and showing her special attention, she sat stock-still and glassy-eyed, and made no attempt to speak to him. At first, I felt it was somewhat unkind of her, given her father’s obvious joy in her company, and I was annoyed that she made so little effort. It was as if the sweet little Margaret who’d sat with him every day and been the apple of his eye had completely vanished, and a horrid, cold girl come in her place. But then I realized that it must have been a shock to her, as it had once been to me, seeing her beloved papa in even more reduced circumstances, no longer the adored shepherd of his flock, not even the titular head of the household – but simply one madman among many. It was a great deal for a child of fifteen to bear, and I spoke gently to her then, and tried to ease her away from Daniel’s smothering embrace. I knew that of my three girls, she’d been the one who had borne the brunt of the terrible changes in Daniel, and I could only suppose that after his departure, she’d comforted herself by putting all thoughts of him quite out of her mind. And now, this ill-advised visit had brought back memories she would rather have forgotten. I think I was right in my deduction: on the journey home she said nothing at all, and when I spoke of Daniel, she simply looked out of the carriage window. Indeed, I never heard her speak of him again. It was as if she had absolutely erased him from her mind.

None of the girls wished to repeat the visit, and not long afterwards, I put an end to my own. I could not endure being subject to such public humiliation. It was difficult enough that I had to endure all the curious and sympathetic enquiries at church every Sunday, and to stand in the pew saying the Creed and praising a God whom I felt had abandoned me.

Christiana was, to my surprise, my staff and comfort during this time. Indeed, she has turned out to be the most dutiful of our children. She lives just five miles from me now, across the Welsh border – where Charles has at last taken up a Living of his own. He is an excellent man, and the whole Baxter family owes a great deal to him. He was not the suitor we would have wished for our eldest daughter – and not the one she had dreamed of herself, I daresay, when she drew her bow with such grace in front of Leonard Gardiner, or danced with such feeling around the drawing room at Westwood Gardens. Charles, poor fellow, is rather pale and thin, with spindly legs and an indistinct voice, and I’d feared that she would ignore him much as she had previously ignored John Jameson – and for many of the same reasons. But she has been faithful and done her duty.

Sarah is still unmarried and likely to remain so, dedicated as she is to the life of an amanuensis in the household of a German theologian, crammed up, I believe, in an attic bedroom with pen and paper and dozens of Bibles. I have encouraged her to come home but she insists she is happy learning Hebrew and Greek, and hopes in time to attend lectures at the university under the auspices of Herr Doktor Fischer. She has set no date for her return. I tell her that we are no longer in Oxford to be pilloried and pointed at, but she only says that Dr Fischer cannot do without her.

Benjamin, of course, cannot remember his father and takes each day as it comes. But he is away at school much of the time, so I cannot count on his company. He can’t bear to be called Benjy, which he says is childish. If I
have
to shorten it, he says, he’d prefer ‘Diz’, after the prime minister – which I think a good deal worse. He chafes at schoolwork and I fear he often neglects his prayers. Maybe Oxford will change him in due course, but he has no desire to follow his father’s profession, and looks forward instead to inheriting his grandfather’s estate when he is twenty-one. The tenants know him well and find him amiable and cheerful. Already he has Daniel’s hearty manner and bonhomie. Sometimes, when he pushes back his hair and smiles at me, he is so like Daniel that I can hardly bear to look at him.

And then there is Daisy – or rather, Margaret. It is an odd thing, but it’s the old name that keeps sticking in my mind. ‘Daisy’ was Daniel’s name for her, but, as is the way of children, she decided one day that she didn’t like it. Of course, a change of name cannot change a person’s character, but it seemed to me that the alteration I had observed in her when I returned to Oxford at Hannah’s behest, was reflected somehow in her decision to change her name. Once she was Margaret, she became even more unknowable and secret.

She is still unknowable, now. There is a
froideur
that keeps me at a distance. I feel I am about to say the wrong thing, or that I have already said it. She is such an awkward person to converse with that I am amazed that Robert Constantine was able to make any headway with her, especially as he is a shy young man himself. I had no idea, in all the years he was visiting the vicarage, that he was attracted to Margaret, or she to him. A mother likes to think that she has a sixth sense in such matters – or at least that her daughter will confess to her when she is in love. But with Margaret there was nothing – just silence, stillness and secrecy. She and Robert spent hardly any time alone as far as I remember, and she showed no excitement, no blushes, no sense of delight at being close to him. He might have been her brother – or indeed her father. As the wedding approached, I thought it likely that she was ignorant of the intimate duties of a wife, but when I tried to speak to her, she turned the conversation elsewhere, and so I let it lapse. Robert would guide her, I was sure, just as Daniel guided me. It does not do for a woman to know too much. It is the husband’s place – and his pleasure – to instruct her.

I have not seen her since the wedding, she and Robert being on honeymoon, and I being so preoccupied with settling myself here at The Garth, although I have corresponded weekly with her, as I do with all my children. She writes of all the new things she is doing. She sounds quite animated, and I hope this means that married life is suiting her, although there is no mention yet of a child. I cannot help feeling that she is fortunate to have gained the love of Robert Constantine, who will, when his great-aunt dies, have wealth enough for a large family. With this thought in mind, I directed Daisy to the old toy-box that was left behind when I moved, and I believe she is going to investigate it. I warned her it was mainly dog-eared paper, but Daisy will make up her own mind.