Alice I Have Been: A Novel (17 page)

“I’m sure His Royal Highness would love to see Edith sit first, as she photographs so beautifully,” Mamma said, turning away from me, and for once I did not mind her presumption. Although I saw that Leo—with one golden eyebrow arched in exasperation—did.

Mr. Dodgson motioned for Edith to sit down upon a leather high-backed chair; he arranged her just so, and the photograph was taken; he counted to forty-five softly, almost under his breath, and I remembered how he used to be so silly about it when we were young. Mamma then urged Leo to sit with Edith for a photograph, which he did with politely concealed impatience; then Mr. Dodgson requested a photograph of Leo alone, for his own collection.

“Now Alice must sit,” Leo said eagerly, when Mr. Dodgson emerged from the darkroom with a newly prepared plate. Mr. Dodgson nodded, concentrating upon fitting the plate into the back of the camera, and nearly dropping it.

I walked to the chair, slowly; I felt all eyes upon me, and wondered what they were all looking for, what they were all waiting for me to do. I sat upon the chair, turned to Mr. Dodgson, and awaited his instructions.

“C-c-could you—per-perhaps, if you will—I’m not certain, bu-bu-but I believe if you j-j-just—” For the first time in my memory, he could not control his stammer; finally he simply stopped trying to talk and shook his head. He was unable to tell me what to do; he was as terrified as I was.

I wanted to go to him and tell him it was all right—just as I had when I was a little girl and I ached at his sadness and knew only I could save him. But it wasn’t all right between us, and it never would be again, and the reason for that hung heavy on everyone’s minds, all of us gathered in this odd rooftop space fitted with strange costumes and unnaturally colored painted backdrops of make-believe places.

There was only one person who did not feel the unbearable weight of the past in that room.

“Why don’t you lean back?” a voice suggested. Blindly, I turned in its direction and saw, despite hot tears, that it was Leo. Leo who walked over to me, placed one hand upon my shoulder, and with the other brushed a strand of hair back from my face tenderly; I closed my eyes, leaning into him, and wished the two of us were somewhere—anywhere—else, alone.

Mamma cleared her throat, and my eyes flew open—catching Mr. Dodgson’s surprise as he stared at the two of us. Surprise, and some other emotion that I did not want to understand; my face burned, and I gently pushed Leo away. With a steadying breath, I straightened in the chair, tilted my head down, and looked up—seeking some safe, anonymous spot on the wall behind the camera upon which to concentrate.

Look at me, Alice. Look only at me—
the words echoed strangely in my ears, and I wasn’t sure who had said them, or if I was remembering another time and place. So I kept my eyes trained on the wall and willed myself not to move.

Mr. Dodgson removed the lens cover and counted to forty-five, his voice soft, monosyllabic. With a swift movement, he removed the glass plate and hurried it to the darkroom. I exhaled—I must have been holding my breath the entire time—and rose. Our group was suddenly silent, awkward, without Mr. Dodgson. Even Leo did not seem to know what to do.

“That’s it, then,” Mr. Dodgson said, emerging from the darkroom. He limped over to retrieve his frock coat and gloves and put them back on while we all mutely stared, still waiting for something. Had we done what we needed to do? Was there something missing? Something unsaid?

Of course there was. The air was oppressive with what was not being said; the unspoken words—accusations, pleas, reasons, questions—bounced around the bright space until I longed to cover my ears. Even Leo seemed to sense it now, as he shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other, clearing his throat softly.

“I no longer print my own pictures; I send them out,” Mr. Dodgson finally said. “As soon as I get them back, I’ll send you all copies.”

“Fine, fine—I can’t thank you enough.” Leo recovered his self-possession with evident relief. Laughing heartily, he shook hands with Mr. Dodgson. “I do so look forward to the photographs. And we must see each other more; perhaps at one of the many enjoyable evenings at the Deanery?” He turned to Mamma.

“Naturally,” she replied, her voice as smooth and cold as ice. Mr. Dodgson bowed, but his faint, wry smile betrayed that he did not expect any such invitation to be forthcoming.

We left him in his sitting room, standing in front of the fireplace, his back toward us as he warmed his gloved hands in front of the flames. When the photograph arrived a week later, I held my breath when I pulled back the brown paper: What secret part of me had his camera captured this time?

The sad, lost part of me; the part that needed rescue. My dispirited eyes did not meet the camera, my face was pale, my mouth a small, grim pout. I could not share Leo’s enthusiasm for it, although I was happy to know that my likeness would reside in a silver frame on his desk, just as his resided in a silver frame on mine.

And now I could not help but wonder if it was all I would ever have of him; with a jolt, my thoughts returned to the awful uncertainty of the present, where fear was as oppressive as the unspoken accusations of the past. Still, I cleared my disorderly thoughts with a stern shake of the head, gripped my pen firmly, and began the letter required of me, the measured, circumspect letter from the daughter of the Dean to a favorite student.

HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS, THE PRINCE LEOPOLD

Dear Sir
,

I write with much concern, inquiring as to your health and telling you that your friends here at Oxford miss you dearly. The holidays have been a bleak affair, indeed, as the knowledge of your illness hung over every celebration. I must tell you that Papa is very worried and was heard to mutter, “Dear fellow, dear fellow,” the last time your secretary posted a letter about your condition

“Alice?” With a soft rap on my bedroom door, Edith opened it, popping her head inside. “Am I bothering you? I felt as if you might want company.”

“Are there any letters? News?” I jumped up—nearly flinging my pen across the room before I collected myself and placed it back in the inkwell. I ran to the door and pulled Edith inside, my hand gripping her arm so tightly she exclaimed.

Gently, she removed my hand and placed her arm about my shoulders. “No, I’m sorry, dearest, Papa has received no letter yet today.”

“Oh.” I allowed my sister to steer me toward a soft chair by the hearth; she pushed me down in it, kneeling beside me, taking my hands in her own.

“Alice, your hands are like ice!” She began to rub them vigorously. “Have you eaten today?”

“I don’t know.” Dully, I stared into the fire, not truly seeing, aware only of the soft popping of embers. My thoughts would allow me to see nothing but Leopold lying on a bed, his face pale, his beautiful, sympathetic eyes closed, his luxurious yellow lashes grazing his cheeks; dying, perhaps, or already—

I shut my eyes, twisted my head, and could not prevent a small moan from escaping my heart. Every nerve, every bone, felt raw, rigid, from trying to contain my true feelings for so long. Why could I not be there? Why could I not simply commandeer a carriage—no, a train!—and fly to Osborne, steal a boat, row myself out to the island, and march right up to the house, demanding to be taken inside?

Heartsick
. I truly knew the meaning of the word, for my heart
was
sick, ill, wrung with worry; I felt, at times, as if I simply could not go on living, for the poor instrument would give out, unable to absorb any more of my fear and longing. My voice must be mute, but my heart was not; it cried out with every beat.

“Mamma desires you to come down for dinner tonight,” Edith said softly, still stroking my hands.

“Desires?”

“Commands, if you will. She will not hear of you staying in your room another evening. You know how she feels about that, and I’m afraid—I’m afraid that she refuses to see your distress, as she is unwilling to acknowledge your true feelings for the Prince.”

“Naturally. I suppose she wishes me to do a merry dance for everyone’s amusement, as well?”

“Alice,” Edith soothed, laying her cheek against my hand. “At least your wit is intact. You’re not so far gone as I feared.”

I smiled at my sister, her face so sweetly furrowed with concern. “No, I’m not so far gone as that. I know it does no one—least of all, Leo—any good to mope about in my room. But, oh, I do so long to be with him! Why am I never allowed to be with the ones I love when they suffer? I can’t bear to think of him afraid, in pain, without me—what if … what if he needs me, cries out for me—I’m stronger than he is, oh, so much stronger, I would give him my strength, if only I were allowed!” My heart rose up, choking my throat, flooding my eyes with tears; I couldn’t stop them; I allowed them to wash over me, unburdening my heart, giving voice, finally, to my fear and longing. I held my sister close—she was so warm, alive in my arms—and allowed myself to weep until I was empty, finally, relieved of my silence. It was a blessing, despite the pain. I felt a strange sense of calm wash over me as I wiped away my tears.

“Oh, I wish I could give him my strength as well,” Edith said, wiping away not a few tears of her own as she wriggled out of my arms. She pulled the other chair closer to me and sat down—but still, she held my hand. “I would, you know.”

“I know.” I smiled; Edith was the picture of health, rosy-cheeked, prettily plump in a country dairymaid way. I was inclined to thinness, unfortunately; my features were much too sharp, and my unwillingness to eat these last few weeks had not improved my looks. If—
when
—Leo did return, I would certainly scare him away. There were purplish smudges under my eyes that even candlelight could not disguise.

“What is the time?” I asked, suddenly aware of the gathering darkness outside my window.

Edith consulted the diamond watch pinned to her dress. “Four-thirty.”

“I must go.” With an effort, I pushed myself out of my chair and walked over to my dressing table. Pinching my cheeks, smoothing my hair, and pinning up a few strands, I did the best I could to make myself presentable. Then I rang for Sophie.

“Alice, do you have to go today? Wouldn’t he—wouldn’t he understand if you sent a note saying you were ill?” Edith’s eyes grew darker, clouded over with worry; suspicion, too. I turned away, so she couldn’t see my face.

“No, Mr. Ruskin is a demanding taskmaster. He feels I am not working as hard as I might with my sketching. But truly, it’s a welcome distraction. When I’m there, I—I don’t think of Leo at all!” Spinning around, I smiled tightly and faced my sister once more.

Yet I did not deceive her; shaking her head, she placed her hand upon my arm, just as Sophie knocked on the door and entered, bringing my fur wrap, hat, and muff.

“Alice, wouldn’t you like me to come with you today, at least? Mr. Ruskin enjoys my company,” Edith said, her voice low and concerned.

“Of course he does. But it’s simply a private drawing lesson, and there’s no need for you to be bored.” I turned around while Sophie buttoned my wrap, and heard my sister’s stifled, worried sigh.

“Well, do try to enjoy yourself, if you can. I’ll come get you if there’s any word from Osborne.”

“Oh, do, please! Thank you!” I flung my arms around her, kissed her on the cheek, and hurried out, leaving Edith standing near my dressing table, her face troubled.

As I flew down the stairs—Mr. Ruskin did not like me to be tardy—Mamma suddenly appeared at the foot of the staircase. It was uncanny how she did that, how she sometimes managed to simply appear, no sound, no whooshing of her skirts or creaking of her corset, to give her away.

“Alice.”

“Yes, Mamma?”

“I trust you’re feeling better?” She tilted her head, studying me with her cool, appraising eye.

“Yes, Mamma.”

“Good. I don’t approve of young ladies eating alone. You’ll be down for dinner, then.”

“Of course, Mamma.” I brushed past her, pulling on my black leather gloves; Sophie tiptoed past, and I could sense her trembling. I’m not sure she had ever said one word to Mamma in all the time she’d been with me.

“Alice—wait.”

There was a catch—a hesitation—in my mother’s voice that startled me, and persuaded me to pause just as I selected an umbrella from the massive Chinese urn beside the front door. “Yes?”

I didn’t turn around; I stood there, my heart beating wildly in some kind of hope, some kind of anticipation, as I heard Mamma take a step toward me.

“Will you—that is, I wanted to tell you that we’ve not had any updates from Osborne this afternoon. In case Mr. Ruskin were to inquire.”

Tears sprang to my eyes; I longed—I ached—to run to my mother, throw myself in her arms, and be folded up in them, rocked gently, loved. I wanted to be a little girl again, her sole trouble a scrape upon her knee that could be healed only by a mother’s kiss.

Yet—when had I ever been that girl? When had my mother ever given me such comfort? I was remembering someone else’s childhood, not my own.

“Thank you, Mamma,” I whispered. Then I left, not daring to look back.

Chapter 10
•  •  •

U
NREAL. DREAMLIKE. AN OPIUM HAZE
.

With each afternoon spent in Mr. Ruskin’s drawing room, I grew more and more uncomfortable, yet strangely mesmerized. It was as if, once installed in the high-backed chair by the fire—pouring out tea as instructed, dispensing the cakes, the linen napkins—my thoughts, my very limbs, would be blanketed by a numbing, reality-altering opiate.

Once, as I sat there watching him laugh hysterically at a notion that had just seized him, I thought, “So this is what the Mad Hatter’s tea party was like.”

But unlike the other Alice, I could not simply get up and leave. I was bound by my word to remain; to return, even, week after week.

At first, Mr. Ruskin cozily chatted about his day, or his work, or the newest gossip. Our afternoons would pass quickly, and while I never looked forward to them—there were times when he seemed displeased to see me, as if it was I who was insisting upon visiting him; other times he would berate me for being one minute late or leaving one minute early—still, my duty seemed easy to discharge. And there was no denying the amazing breadth of his knowledge about art and architecture; even his commentaries on society were interesting, although I could never reconcile his professed love for the emerging middle classes with his practiced love for the finer things in life.

Even in those early visits, however, there was a sinister element, an unspoken debt to be paid; it was evident in his eyes, studying me even as I did the most ordinary things—stirred my tea, paged through a book, asked about the provenance of a painting. I tried to flatter him, always, and never did I feel as if it was enough; I knew he was waiting for something more.

Then, sometime around late March, Mr. Ruskin’s moods grew even more changeable; oddly, this coincided with Leo’s return to Oxford.

When I first received the letter telling me, in his own strong handwriting, only the brevity of the message betraying his weakness, that Leopold was recovering splendidly and that the only recuperation he required was to hold me on his knee, stroke my hand, and be allowed to tell me quantities of undignified yet romantic sentiments, I sank to my knees in my room and wept for joy. Then I wiped my eyes, wrote a letter echoing his desire, and posted it, careless of who else might read it, my only wish to let him know, in the most direct way possible, that our hearts were of one accord. As I watched the footman carry the letter away, I felt such relief, both at the knowledge that he would recover and at my disregard, for once, of the need to conceal my true feelings. My sleep that night was one of utter peace; when I awoke, the circles under my eyes had vanished.

We had arranged the exact hour of his return to Oxford; I was waiting for him at the door to the Deanery, pulling him inside before any servant could see. He was shockingly thin—I could not hide my despair at the way his collar hung so loose about his neck, at the suddenly prominent bones holding up the fine flesh on his face—but his spirit, his vivacity, had not diminished. There was a new sense of purpose in his blue eyes, and I felt certain I was behind it. For upon our reunion he was the one to wrap his arms around
me
, spirit me away to a dark corner in the front hall, and kiss me, passionately; my words of greeting were vanquished upon my lips.

His lips were soft but insisting, seeking answers, promises I was more than eager to give; I kissed him back, awakened, finally, from the torpor of the last few weeks. I could not have enough; he tasted of salvation, just as I had hoped; we pressed close together; I had never before been so aware of the many layers confining us, separating us, but somehow I still felt
him
, his passion, his warmth, and I longed,
longed
, to feel his hands against my skin, my bare skin—

Abruptly, I pulled back. I could not catch my breath; it came shallowly, too fast, and my head grew light; the room began to spin. Leo reached out to me—I saw, after all, that his hands were strong enough to carry me away—and grabbed my upper arms just as my knees buckled.

“Alice!”

“I’m all right, truly. You took my breath away!” I was able to laugh as I sank down into a small chair. “Sir, I must protest! I had expected a recovering invalid, not a—a—”

“Lover?” He knelt beside me, taking my hand; his round blue eyes danced with satisfaction, with delight, even though his face was so thin now, his mustache looked much too big for it.

“Leo!” I lowered my voice to a whisper; Mamma’s and Papa’s footsteps were heard in the gallery above, headed for the stairs. Papa called, “Is that the voice of the Prince I hear?”

“This is just the beginning, Alice, I warn you. I mean to make each moment I have left at Oxford more memorable than the last, and that includes the time I have with you. Commemoration is in just a few weeks, and I have so very many plans, my darling! Mamma has been most touchingly sweet and accommodating since my illness, and I have reason to believe she simply can’t deny me a thing right now. Anything—anything I ask. Do you know what that means?”

“I believe so.” I couldn’t look at him, but my mouth—as if tied by a thread to my soaring heart—turned up in joy. This was the first time he had alluded to the future and to the possibility of the Queen’s blessing.

“It means that we will be together, I promise. I have been away from you too long; I never mean to be away from you again.”

“I am yours, you know. Oh, Leo, if you only saw the letters I wrote to you! I didn’t dare post them, but—oh, you would laugh, I was so foolish! But that’s all in the past now. You’re here, and you’re well, and there’s nothing more I need in the world.” I searched his eyes for my reward: my reward for keeping silent, for not giving way to my fears, for not giving Mamma any reason to scold or lecture; for submitting to Mr. Ruskin.

I sought, and I found; his eyes bright with tears, Leo put his finger to my lips, kissed my forehead, and murmured, “And there’s nothing more I need, for I have found my true love. My Alice; my heart can speak no other name.”

I closed my eyes and knew I would never be happier than I was in that moment; that moment when I allowed myself to deserve happiness, after all.

“Leopold! Is that Leopold?” Papa was rounding the last stair step; Leo and I jumped up and managed to release each other just as he came into view. “My dear boy, my dear boy! I am so happy to see you well and strong!” With a cry, a hasty wipe of a tear, Papa bounded toward Leo, who likewise moved toward him. They clasped shoulders, shook hands, and I was so happy to see their obvious affection for each other.

Mamma joined them; she, too, had a welcome smile on her face, although she could not prevent herself from searching me, for—what? I no longer knew what she was looking for when she studied me this way: signs, scratches, everyday wear and tear? Betrayal?

I did not have time to linger, however; it was nearly five o’clock, and I was expected elsewhere. I bade farewell to Leo; when he kissed my hand, I could not prevent myself from imagining him kissing me elsewhere; my throat, the back of my neck ached with the desire. With a great effort, I managed to withdraw my hand and say good-bye. Then I hurried off to Mr. Ruskin’s, Sophie in tow.

“You’ve been kissed,” he said immediately upon greeting me. He thrust his lower lip out in a sulk and stomped over to his chair.

“Indeed, I have. Rhoda kissed me on the cheek this morning, when I lent her my new green riding habit.” My face was flushed, my lips still throbbing from Leo’s kisses, but I managed to take my seat with a demure smile, pouring out, as usual. The tea looked exceptionally hot today; the porcelain pot was very warm to the touch and stung my hands.

“That’s not what I mean. This tea is too hot.” He tasted his, made a face, and set his cup back down upon the table with such force that the tea splashed out, ruining a cake.

“Now look what you’ve done.” I began to mop it up with a napkin.

“Don’t scold me. I’m not a child. Nor am I infirm,” he grumbled, his face reddening so that he did, indeed, resemble a small boy holding his breath to have his way.

“Nor are you acting sensibly. Do behave.”

“There you go again! Do this, do that. I tell you, you’ve been kissed, that’s what. You have that look about you—bruised, ready, and ripe for plucking. Who is he? Who?”

“I will not continue this line of conversation,” said I, feeling ice surge through my veins, cooling my skin, allowing me to gain control of the situation. “I neglected to give you your lemon; that will cool your tea.”

“It was him, I suppose, wasn’t it?” Mr. Ruskin grumbled, blowing on his cup so that his whiskers practically stood on end.

I couldn’t suppress a smile, remembering the passion of Leo’s greeting; I felt my skin suffuse with heat.

“Aha! I thought so. Lucky devil. Just look at you, all rosy and twittering like a bird. A lovely little bird. Why him? Why him and not me?” Again he set his cup down on the table, this time so hard that he shattered it. Tea was everywhere: on the table, the flowered rug, splattering the fire screen, splashing my skirt.

“What on earth?” I looked at him, aghast. He did not resemble a little boy any longer; his eyes were hard, his brows thunderclouds, his mouth twisted up in a horrible grimace.

“Why him? Because he’s younger, is that why?”

“Why would you ask such a thing?”

“Ah—see, look at you! I was right. You’ve been kissed by him, that man—Dodgson! Haven’t you? Don’t deny it, my pet. I’ll not have that.”

“Mr.—Mr. Dodgson?”

“Yes, Mr. Dodgson. Why him and not me?”

“What are you talking about?” I froze, halfway out of my chair; too many thoughts, memories, rushed through my mind; lips and hands and hopes and dreams, summer days, the look in Leo’s innocent eyes when he told me I was his, just minutes ago, could it possibly be?

“Dodgson. Why him, why allow his kisses, when you know I want to pet you, too? Ever since you were a little girl, I watched you. Alice, Alice, lovely Alice in Wonderland. What is it about him that charms you so? He’s a stuttering fool, but you chose him.”

“I don’t know what you’re—that is, he’s not—Mr. Dodgson? What can you possibly mean? I told you he’s no longer—I thought you were referring to, to—” But I could not say Leo’s name.

“Little girls and their charms,” he sneered, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. “So innocent, they seem. Yet seductive, too. You wanted his attention—you asked for it, just as you’re asking for it now. You knew what you were doing that summer afternoon, didn’t you?”

I shut my eyes against the memories—the rhythmic swaying of a train, the velvety blackness of heat-induced sleep, the confused awakening. Ina’s eyes, round and unblinking, seeing what she wanted to see; what I wanted her to see—

“No!” I shook my head. “No! I was too young! I can’t possibly remember—I was too young!”

“That’s what she said, too.” Still he sat, glaring at me.

“Who?”

“Rose. My Rosie, my pet, my puss. On a summer afternoon. Always, always it’s a summer afternoon, isn’t it? She’s too young, she says. She won’t walk with me, she says, even though I ask and I ask and you won’t talk. Your parents won’t permit it. Why?” Now he was standing, pacing, his hair wild, as wild as his eyes. There was a tremor in his hands that he did not bother to hide.

“My parents? Whatever do you mean? Why would you ask them?”

“Because I’m a gentleman, that’s why!” He shouted it, shocking me out of my frozen state; finally I was able to rise from the chair, shaking out my stained skirt with trembling hands; on trembling legs I began to inch toward the door.

“Mr. Ruskin, I’m afraid you’re not well today. I should leave you to rest—”

“No!” Abruptly, he stopped, blocking my path; he swung around, staring at me with anguished eyes, clenched fists. I jumped back, my heart pounding, my skin prickling with fear. “No! Not when I’ve got you here—got you back! You’re always leaving, always slipping out of my grasp, first Alice, now my puss, my pet—Rosie, please don’t go! I’ll be good now; I’ll do whatever you say. Please.” Great, slow tears rolled down his suddenly sunken cheeks; he wiped them with his coat sleeves, sniffling, shuffling, as forlorn as a little boy.

With a shock, I comprehended the situation. He was sick. Sick, tired, confused; I took a step toward him, holding out my hand, as one would do to a wounded animal.

“Mr. Ruskin, please, I’m not Rose. I’m Alice. Alice Liddell. Don’t you remember?”

He stared at my hand, his gaze moving up my arm to my face. His great white brows furrowing, he glared at me.

“Of course I remember. What do you mean? Where’s the tea? Alice, I believe I asked you to pour out. Look at you—did you spill it? Let me ring for Mrs. Thompson.”

He rang for Mrs. Thompson, who hurried in, took one look at the hearth, and scurried back out, returning with a pail of water, a rag, a dustpan. With efficient cheerfulness, she cleaned up the spill and brought in fresh tea.

While she was on her knees picking up the pieces of the shattered cup—it had a pattern of dark blue forget-me-nots—she paused and looked at Mr. Ruskin. He was staring out the window toward the Meadow, which was pale green in its first blush of spring; the days were lengthier now, so it was no longer dark at teatime. Mrs. Thompson then looked at me. I was standing, useless, in the middle of the room, unable to do anything but watch her try to put everything back together again. She caught my gaze, furrowed her brow, as if trying to piece together a difficult puzzle, and gave me a cautious, careful smile. Then she finished her task and left without another glance.

“Now, pour, please, and do a better job of it this time. Tell me, when is Edith going to announce her engagement? Poor Aubrey is beside himself.” Mr. Ruskin returned to his chair, rubbing his hands together briskly as he looked at the cakes on the table beside him.

Slowly—moving as if underwater, against a heavy current, sights and sounds strangely muffled and distorted—I returned to my chair. Everything around me seemed perfectly normal, remarkably undisturbed: the fire dancing in the hearth, fresh new tea things on the tray, Mr. Ruskin looking at the cakes in anticipation. The only clue that something bizarre, something unsettling, had occurred was the sight of the ugly splotches of tea, still wet, clinging to my light wool skirt.