After Such Kindness Read online

  ‘Head of the River 1845,’ he said, seeing me look, and pointing first at the picture, then at the oar. ‘I was Stroke, and I set the best pace that season.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ I said, conscious of a dryness in my tone. ‘You are undoubtedly a fine, athletic fellow and all should bow their heads to you.’

  He laughed. ‘You are hard on me, as always. But you must allow a man a little justifiable pride from time to time.’ He smoothed his impressive set of whiskers in a smug manner.

  ‘Must I?’ I said, with as straight a face as I could manage. ‘When we both know pride is the worst of sins?’

  He looked at me as if to ascertain if I were serious, and I continued with my solemn look. Although I did not care a jot if he was (or was not) proud of his rowing achievements, it seemed to me that if he accepted the seven sins as deadly, it was logical to have a healthy respect for them.

  ‘You are right of course,’ he said after a while, his face almost comically full of self-reproach. ‘I am a proud man – a vain man, in fact. It is a terrible failing and one I fight against every day. Forgive me, John.’

  ‘Oh, it’s not for me to forgive,’ I said, airily. ‘You’ll need to ask for mercy in a very different quarter.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. And I will again add it to my nightly prayers.’ He seemed flustered, and I thought again how easily he was put off his stride. ‘It wasn’t meant as a boast, you know,’ he said with a wry smile. ‘Just a passing remark. But, as usual, some pernickety person takes it up and makes much of it.’ He ran his hand through his hair and in the good light I noticed for the first time how brown it was, how deeply wavy. ‘You see what you have done, John. I am now filled with guilt.’

  ‘Are you? Oh, dear,’ I said. ‘And a guilty man is no better than a stoker.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Well, they both heap up coals of fire all day.’

  He laughed. ‘You say the most absurd things, John. But you always make me think – that’s what I like. You always bring me back to the point.’

  ‘Glad to be of service,’ I said, wishing he would come to the point and take me to meet his children.

  As if he had read my mind, he suddenly brightened and said, ‘Come, I must introduce you to my wife. She is most anxious to meet you.’ To my relief, he took off his quilted jacket and donned his clerical coat, straightening his stock and smoothing his hair back, running a hand along his whiskers.

  ‘And am I to meet your daughters too?’

  ‘I have asked them to join us for tea. I will show you my son, first. It’s de rigueur, even though you are not a devotee of boy-children.’

  He ushered me across the hall and into the splendid drawing room, furnished in the same plush way, the glitter of mirrors and the green of potted plants being much in evidence. I was nervous, as always, when entering a lady’s domain and hardly dared raise my eyes to take in more detail.

  ‘Evelina, my dear, this is the Reverend John Jameson, the clerical friend I have spoken so much about, the one who keeps me from your side every Wednesday evening, and keeps me on the straight and narrow every day. John, may I present my wife?’

  I could see the pattern in the brocade of the chaise, and the small boots peeping out of the frilled hem of Mrs Baxter’s deep green gown as she reclined along it. I raised my eyes and there was a delicate and beautiful lady, with pearly skin, thick dark hair, and remarkably bright eyes. She was much more youthful than I expected, and, seeing her look so fondly at her husband, with his manly bearing and glossy head of hair, and seeing him hold her glance in return, I could sense that their marriage was not simply one of true minds, but was still alive with the breath of conjugal passion. Of course, I could not put from my mind what Baxter had told me of his nightly struggles and, as she turned her eyes to mine, I immediately had an image of her sitting up in bed in her white nightgown. It was most awkward and I felt quite unpleasantly hot, but I made an effort of will and, to my relief, the impertinent image disappeared.

  Mrs Baxter held out an ivory hand. ‘How do you do, Mr Jameson? I have tried hard to forgive you for taking my husband from me for so many hours, but I regret to say that I have not yet succeeded. You will need to work very hard to gain my favour.’ And she gave me what I felt was almost a flirtatious smile. At which point my tongue became a tortured ball of string, which filled my mouth and would not unravel. I took her hand and nodded, making a dreadful half-choking sound which I hoped would be taken for a heartfelt assent.

  She must have taken it as such, because she laughed and said, ‘Excellent.’

  Such was my discomfort, I was unsure I could maintain the required level of civilized conversation through the whole of teatime. But I was saved by the arrival of young Benjamin Baxter, brought down from the upper regions by his nursemaid to spend half an hour with his progenitors. The nurse was a sensible body of about thirty, and she seemed both modest and conscientious. She also spoke of her other charge, and my ears pricked up. ‘Miss Daisy has learned a poem she would like to recite to you,’ she said. ‘But she wasn’t expecting visitors to be here.’

  ‘It will be good practice for her,’ said the vicar. ‘She must learn to accommodate a larger audience than her parents if she is to learn the art of public speaking. Mr Jameson is a connoisseur of verse, so he will be well-placed to offer his comments on her performance.’

  ‘Well, p-perhaps not yet,’ I added, afraid I would predispose the little girl to dislike me by first encountering me in the role of critic. ‘It might make her shy. I will listen, but I won’t interfere.’

  ‘I’ll tell her, then, shall I, that there’ll be an extra gentleman but not to take no notice of him.’ The nurse gave me a droll look.

  ‘Exactly. I like it b-best when I am not noticed,’ I said, and I got up and moved myself to a place behind Mrs Baxter’s chair where I was partly in the shadow of the curtain.

  I could hardly contain my excitement at the prospect of seeing the little girl. Of course, I said to myself, she might be ugly, or lame or sickly, or, even worse, spoiled. But I had a strong premonition that she would be as delightful as I had imagined. With a handsome father like Baxter, and a beauty for a mother, I felt she must surely have the best of attributes. I was not mistaken. When the door opened and the nurse ushered her in, I beheld the most graceful and charming of children – small-boned, delicate, with pale skin and wonderful dark, rather wild-looking hair. She looked like a fairy creature, a fawn. She seemed made for the meadows and woods of the Garden of Eden, where, like our first forefathers, she could walk naked and innocent. But of course she was heavily clothed, as is our regrettable fashion. A blue cotton dress and a substantial embroidered pinafore obscured the childish curves of her arms and neck, and her well-shaped little legs were covered in dark woollen stockings. She was very self-possessed, however, and without a glance at me, approached her mother and handed her a book before taking up her position in the middle of the room.

  ‘Off you go,’ said Baxter, with a smile.

  ‘“How Doth the Little Busy Bee”, by Isaac Watts,’ she announced, folding her hands in front of her in the approved classroom manner. I groaned inwardly. I dislike that poem with its mincing platitudes, but I was still keen to see how Daisy would perform it. She fixed her eyes on some spot out of the window and began. Both Mr and Mrs Baxter nodded with approval, and I buried the urge to laugh as Daisy metrically informed us of her need to keep permanently busy in case Satan found mischief for idle hands to do.

  I looked at Daisy’s sweet face, her little hands, and thought how unlikely it would be for such a child to be doing any serious mischief in the world, and how wrong it was that she should be preoccupied with imaginary sins in this way, spouting sickening cant about work and duty, and devoting herself to stultifying dullness. How natural and enjoyable it would be for her to cast off the chains of duty and propriety that Society was forcing on her, and to do exactly as she wished in the short golden time of childhood, before she
was obliged to conform to the absurd rules and regulations of adult life. Even then I determined to devote my powers to this end: Daisy would know what it was to have days of enchantment; to know amusement and freedom and laughter; to explore the wild ways of the imagination. Of course, in order to do so, I would need to have her to myself – and that would not be easy to bring about.

  With the fourth verse, Daisy’s recitation came to an end, and she executed a deep curtsey, her face flushed with relief, her cheeks dimpling with pleasure. The nurse, I saw from the corner of my eye, clapped her hands discreetly together, and Mrs Baxter handed back the book saying, ‘Well done! Word perfect.’

  ‘Nettie helped me,’ said the child, giving the nurse a grateful glance.

  ‘Then well done, Nettie, too,’ said Mrs Baxter, somewhat languidly.

  ‘But we won’t let ourselves become too proud, will we?’ said Baxter, rising and placing his hand on his daughter’s shoulder. ‘It is only a recitation and there is much more of worth to be striven for in this life.’

  I thought this speech somewhat rich after our conversation in the study, and for the first time thought it might be possible that Daniel Baxter was a hypocrite. I also noted that the child’s pleasure in her achievement was on the instant undermined, and that her face fell. To be frank, I could have wrung her father’s neck. But I was immediately put into a mixture of confusion and ecstasy as he steered her towards me. ‘Daisy, this is Mr John Jameson, a good friend of mine, and a very clever man. I hope we will be seeing much more of him at the vicarage.’

  ‘How do you do, sir?’ she said politely, holding out her hand.

  ‘I do very well as it happens. How do you do?’

  ‘Very well, too.’ But she looked somewhat disconcerted, and quickly pulled back the hand I was holding so reverently in mine. I was afraid that she did not like me. Many people don’t at first acquaintance. I could see that I would need to develop a repertoire of suitable distractions if I was to overcome this antipathy: I would need to practise words and actions that would appeal to a child’s mind. Puzzles, perhaps, or jokes – or some of my little inventions. I opened my mouth to say more to her, but she was gone, whisked away by the nursemaid. I gathered she would not be joining us for tea.

  The rest of the afternoon was very much an anti-climax. The older girls were duly brought in and presented to me, but I could see they were the sort that would have no time for a plain and awkward fellow such as myself, and, frankly, I returned the compliment. They were handsome, certainly, but they were rather haughty and somewhat pleased with their new-found womanly charms, and in their presence I blushed and found that my stammer redoubled. They clearly thought this circumstance amusing, and exchanged several smiles and even sniggers when their parents were not attending. ‘Some j-jam, Mr J-Jameson?’ one even whispered as she brought me a plate of bread-and-butter. I am usually unprepared to sanction rudeness in young people, and have a selection of withering replies for any undergraduate who steps even slightly out of line, but I did not feel that insulting his older daughters would be the best way to insert myself into Baxter’s intimate household. So I nodded and looked meek. I felt the Baxter ladies all regarded me with a kind of condescending pity, and from that day onward I did nothing to counter that judgement.

  ‌2

  ‌ MARGARET CONSTANTINE

  I’ve been married now for exactly seven weeks and two days. But life is not at all how I imagined it would be.

  I’ve been busy, of course, doing all the things a new wife should do. I’ve inspected every room in the rectory, including the broom cupboard and the wash-house; I’ve counted every jar of preserve and pickle in the larder and made a note of the quantity in the household book Robert has given me; I’ve checked every silver knife, spoon and fork in the pantry, and made a note of them too; I’ve counted the sheets and pillow-slips a dozen times, and then the tablecloths, tray-cloths, napkins and towels, noting as I go; I’ve made little lavender bags to hang in the closets to keep away moths, and I’ve embroidered initials on all my husband’s handkerchiefs; I’ve spoken to Cook in the mornings and arranged the day’s menus in minute detail; and every day, whether it’s fine or not, I’ve walked in the garden, inspecting the fruit and the vegetables.

  In addition, I’ve spent two whole days unpacking the wedding presents. I’ve set out the new ornaments on the mantelpiece and the piano, and moved them around until I am satisfied. And then, not being satisfied at all, I’ve moved them again. I’ve carefully mounted the photographs we had taken for our wedding in the album Robert has bought for the purpose, and I’ve shown them to him after supper when we’ve sat in the drawing room together. I’ve written long letters of thanks to all who kindly sent us presents, and I’ve answered all the congratulatory notes that have welcomed me to my new home. I’ve noted who has left visiting cards and, on selected afternoons, I’ve chosen fashionable new outfits from my trousseau and taken the carriage to leave my own card in return. I’ve written every other day to my mother and sisters, and once a week to my brother Benjamin, who is still at school. I’ve written as often as is reasonable to my dear friends, Annie, Enid and Emma. And when I’ve completely exhausted every possibility of duty and entertainment, and my husband is still busy in his study with his sermons, I’ve sat at the window-seat in the upstairs drawing room, looking over the yew trees in the churchyard, reading the latest novel about love.

  In spite of all this housewifely activity, I can’t help feeling that the house belongs more to my husband than to me. In my more rational moments I know this is not Robert’s fault. After all, he has been established here at St Aidan’s for almost a year, and he has his ways and patterns already in place. He’s all ease and familiarity as he walks around, and has a purpose in all he does; whereas I feel awkward and unsure, and have no one with whom to confide my uncertainties. I can’t confide in Robert; I feel too foolish. Besides, there are other, more difficult, matters that occupy the ground between us. But I’m embarrassed to find that the servants seem to know my husband’s preferences better than I do: when he likes to be convivial and when he likes to be quiet; his dislike of fuss, and his desire, on the whole, to be left alone during the day, a period that has seemed longer and longer when I have only myself for company. Robert has been generous: he has given me carte blanche to make whatever changes I wish. Anything, he says, that will make me happy. He wants me to be happy – he wants both of us to be happy. He holds my hands and kisses me to show how much he wants it. And of course I want it too.

  But this afternoon I’ve had an exciting diversion. I’ve come the six miles right into Oxford, to the house where I was brought up – and more particularly, to the attic nursery where I spent a large part of my childhood. It’s bare now, the furniture gone. But in the middle of the room is a large toy-chest. It was left behind when my family moved out a month ago, and now, by a kind of default, it has come to me. An inheritance, almost – although Mama doesn’t appear to have attached much value to it. Indeed, it was only last week that she even remembered to tell me of its existence – and then in a hasty postscript to a letter full of other matters to do with her settling back in Herefordshire.

  I am very sorry, but the box was overlooked in the general frenzy and only discovered at the eleventh hour, covered in old carpets. I glanced inside, naturally, but it was so packed with childish rubbish that I found it impossible to do more than sift through what was on the top; and with the removal men gone and the carriage to take us to the station practically at the door, I decided not to have it sent on. Your brother is not interested in toys any more – and Christiana and Charles hardly wish to be reminded of the fact that they have no children. I had half a mind to let Mr Arbuthnot have it – after all, he has five offspring, and it would save the expense of moving it. But then I saw you had written your name on it – although it was almost too faint to see without my spectacles and your writing was never very clear – so I suppose it is yours. And as I hope you and Robert will enjo
y the good fortune of having an infant of your own in the near future, it makes sense for you to see if there is anything to salvage. In my opinion, it is mostly jumble – things that should have been got rid of long ago. But then, if I remember rightly, you were a child who never threw anything away.

  Mama manages as usual to sound disapproving towards me, as if the mere existence of the toy-box is my fault, and its late appearance in the removal schedule were deliberately engineered by me. But I thought it would prove a pleasant way to spend the afternoon, so here I am, up in the nursery at Westwood Gardens, with a meagre fire in the grate and two hours to sift through what remains of my childhood memories. My initial delight at the prospect of a diversion from my housewifely routine has faded a little. Even entering the house again has made me feel apprehensive. I stare at the box. It’s years since I’ve opened it and I don’t remember at all what’s inside.

  Other memories are clear, though. This room, for example: I’m familiar with every inch of the sloping ceiling and the high view from the dormer window, right down to the garden below. And Nettie’s gentle face is clear, too. I see her in my mind’s eye, bending over me, putting on my petticoat and frock and patiently brushing my hair. Nettie is part of this room, part of the best time of my childhood. She loved me in a way that no one else did. And I know that I was happier in this room than I have ever been – even now, as a newly married wife, which everyone has told me is the pinnacle of a woman’s joy and aspiration.