Alice I Have Been: A Novel (10 page)

“Poor Bertie,” Mamma murmured.

“Who?”

“The Prince of Wales,” she said. I relaxed, eager to think of someone else, for I suspected my own thoughts were dangerous even as I could not say precisely why.

“Why is he poor?”

“Because royalty never marries for love. Not that that’s everything, of course—and I can’t say that I approve of it being the only reason. But I know Bertie—he gave your father many a nightmare while he was in residence. He’ll never be happy with a sweet little princess, no matter how beautiful.”

“She is, isn’t she?” I had admired the artist’s picture of Princess Alexandra in the newspaper. She was stunning, with dark hair and beautiful big eyes and the tiniest waist I’d ever seen.

“Yes, but that won’t be enough to keep Bertie in tow. But that’s not our problem, is it? The poor Queen—still in mourning.”

I remembered when Prince Albert had died, more than a year ago. Mamma ordered the seamstress to make us up several winter dresses, either black or gray edged in black. I was very happy when we didn’t have to wear them any longer.

“Mamma, how much property, exactly, must a gentleman own to be suitable?” I glanced over at my mother, prepared to do another sum. But her eyes were closed again, and she was breathing steadily.

Slowly rising—careful not to knock a thing over on the table with my wide sleeves—I bent down and kissed her on the forehead; it was clammy, so I blew on it, wishing I could dispel her troubled thoughts, as well. Then I walked over to the window and pulled the heavy brocaded drapes even tighter, trying to drown out the relentless drumming of the sleet.

As I did, I looked across the garden, toward the Old Library with its crooked roof and small windows, where Mr. Dodgson lived. I thought of the Prince of Wales, about to be wed.

It seemed to me—for I was caught up in the wedding fever, too, though I wouldn’t admit it; an illustration of the Prince and his fiancée was currently folded under my pillow, where no one could see—that love was in the very air these days. Perhaps that was what we were waiting for, after all. It blew the bare limbs of the trees; it warmed the stones in the Quad on sunny days. I wanted to believe that happily-ever-after was possible, and not only in fairy tales or stories. Although not in the stories that Mr. Dodgson told—I realized, just then, that his stories were almost always remarkable for their lack of sentiment. Why was that? Did he need someone to—to
inspire
him, perhaps?

But surely, a storyteller like himself had to believe in happily-ever-after, deep down in his soul. Maybe he could put it into the end of
my
story; I blushed to call it that, but I did. Not out loud but in the quiet places of my heart. Perhaps it wasn’t too late; after all, he hadn’t written it down.

There was still time to change it, I believed; all I had to do was ask, for he had never denied me anything. Alice could be a tall, pale maiden with short black hair, a faint worried expression. She could walk into the sunset hand in hand with a tall,
slender
man with blue eyes, curling light brown hair, and they would live happily ever after, just like the Prince and Princess of Wales. Despite what Mamma said, I wanted to believe that they were very much in love. For if princes and princesses couldn’t live a fairy tale, what hope did the rest of us have?

Did I see a light burning in a window across the garden? A light in rooms I had visited so many times, only to think of doing so again made my stomach tremble, my mouth grow dry, my head spin with notions of fairy tales and princes and love and good men? I shut the drapes quickly and turned to go—as if the creatures of the night could see me and read my thoughts.

As I did, I tiptoed past Mamma, the red afghan rising up and down steadily as she slept. I paused, just once, to look at her and guess at the dreams that mothers dreamed—

Wondering if happily-ever-after meant the same thing to them as it did to us.

ON MARCH
10, the Prince and Princess of Wales were wed. There was an explosion of celebrations in Oxford; Mamma was too ill to mind that she could not host any of them, and this malaise troubled me more than the strange confidences we had shared.

Still, she managed to dictate what Ina, Edith, and I were to wear at our one official obligation. We each planted a tree in honor of the marriage; mine was planted in memory of Prince Albert, and I gave a brief speech (which, according to Ina, no one heard, as my voice never rose above a whisper). After, we strolled through the narrow streets of Oxford with Papa and Grandmother Reeve, who was visiting to help Mamma, and we admired all the festivities—the bazaars and lawn games and dancing and music everywhere. I’d never seen so many musicians, many of them in military uniform, with faces to match the scarlet of their coats as they puffed away at their brass instruments. It was chilly despite the sun, but nobody appeared to mind, as there were bonfires on every corner, tended gaily by sweeps and ragmen wearing their very finest, shiniest black frock coats, top hats merrily askew.

Ina was not in a good mood, despite the infectious gaiety around her—strangers clasped hands in the streets, and young men boldly attempted to kiss young women, to Grandmother’s audible horror. For Mamma was permitting me to stay up for the fireworks and illuminations that evening; not only permitting me but allowing me to invite whomever I wished to accompany me. Without hesitation, I invited Mr. Dodgson.

“You’re much too grown-up to be out at night unchaperoned,” Mamma had told Ina that morning—very crossly, as the baby was only a few weeks away. “Why on earth do you care if Alice goes?”

“Because I do want to see the illuminations! It’s so romantic!” Ina flounced about the room; I held my breath as her skirts brushed Mamma’s marble table, almost knocking over the carafe.

“Ina, do be quiet.” Mamma looked as if she was about to be ill; she pressed her lips together and closed her eyes. Ina was startled into stillness.

“Do you want some water, Mamma?” I whispered from my post on the stool.

She shook her head, shuddered quietly, then opened her eyes again; they were dull with fatigue.

“Now.” Her voice was weak yet decisive, an echo of her former self. It vexed me that Ina couldn’t see how ill she was. I wanted to shake my sister until her teeth rattled—but only after we left Mamma’s room. “Now. Alice has been a perfect angel to me and she deserves a treat. I fail to understand why she wants to go with Mr. Dodgson—Mr. Ruskin has made himself available, if she wants.” Here Mamma looked at me, the question in her eyes underscored by the purple smudges beneath them. I wrinkled my nose and shook my head. Mr. Ruskin? Why on earth would he want to escort me? While I’d learned to keep my mouth more or less shut during our lessons, he still appeared to see me not as I was but almost as someone he had already decided me to be.

Also, I was no longer so sheltered from the gossip that circled like a dust storm about him wherever he went, not all of it generated by him, and much of it about him. There were whispers as to the true reason his marriage had been annulled, a reason that no one would actually speak but that caused many heads to nod sagely, even as it made ladies blush and gentlemen snicker. I had no desire to become further acquainted with him, despite the fact that I knew he very much desired to become further acquainted with me. This was not the first request he had made for my company.

“As you wish. Then Mr. Dodgson it is, although for the life of me I do not understand his appeal. If he weren’t such a stammering fool! I suppose it’s the Christian thing to do, to allow him his little friendship with you children. I’m sure he has no friends otherwise except for Mr. Duckworth, but that hardly counts. Mr. Duckworth is pleasant to everyone.”

“See, then, Mamma?” Ina’s fists were clenched, as were mine; neither of us liked to hear Mr. Dodgson run down like this. Why couldn’t others see him the way we did? I marveled, again, at how one man could appear to be so different to so many people.

Ina’s face, at least, remained smooth and sweet, just like her voice. “See how it would be the Christian thing, for me to go tonight, as well? As you said, he has few friends otherwise. We do seem to provide him comfort in that way.”

“Stammering or not, he’s a man and you’re a young lady, Ina. You cannot be out at night together. Not even with Miss Prickett—but as her father is poorly and she’s down at the cottage with him, that’s impossible, anyway. No, you’ll remain with me tonight, and Alice may enjoy the fireworks.”

“Thank you, Mamma!” I forgot myself and jumped up, clapping my hands; Mamma grimaced. “Oh! I’m sorry!”

“It’s all right. Now, please, girls, I need to rest. Enjoy yourselves today, but remember you’re the Dean’s daughters and act accordingly. Oh dear.” Abruptly, she pressed her handkerchief to her mouth, waving us away.

We hurried out just as Yvonne burst into the room carrying a fresh chamber pot covered with a linen towel. I shuddered as poor Mamma summoned Yvonne over to her, her face ashen. Quickly, I shut the door.

“I’m never going to have a baby,” I declared, feeling my own stomach turn in sympathy. “How horrid. And Mamma has had so many of them!”

“I think babies are perfectly lovely.” Ina turned up her nose—but she paled a little as she heard Mamma’s poor racking sounds from behind the door, and we hastened down the hall.

“Maybe they are, but getting them seems awful.”

“Pray, how do you know about that?” Ina turned, folded her arms across her chest in perfect imitation of Pricks, and stared at me, her eyes narrow and suspicious.

“I—well, I—” Here it was; another thing I did not know, was too young to know, could never hope to know, but Ina, of course, did. I couldn’t bear to see her standing there looking so superior, so I lied. “Of course I know about babies. I’ve known for ages.”

“How, precisely?”

“Honestly, Ina, I can’t possibly remember everything—”

“Did someone tell you?”

“Well—”

“Or did someone show you?”

“Yes! That’s it—someone showed me.”

“Someone older than you?”

“Naturally!”

“How long have you known?”

“How long have
you
known?” I countered, and was rewarded with Ina’s startled look, a pink flush coloring her cheeks.

“I—well, I’m not quite sure—at any rate, I do know.”

“Well, then.” I brushed past her, as we needed to change for the tree-planting ceremony; Mamma had chosen new identical dresses of light blue taffeta, with black scallop edging up the front of the bodice and along the hem. “We both know. Imagine that, Ina—you’re not the only one who knows something!”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be sure of that, Alice.” Ina followed, serenely; she paused in front of a gilded mirror hanging on the wall and smoothed her hair down with one of her secret smiles. “I know things, I see things. More than you do. I’ll only say this—be careful tonight with Mr. Dodgson.”

“What?” I stopped, confused. “What do you mean? Be careful of what?”

“I’m simply concerned for you, Alice. I’m your elder sister, and I’m concerned about you, about this family—but mainly about you. Do remember that—remember that I’m always thinking of you.”

“Fine, but—what did you mean about Mr. Dodgson?”

Ina continued to look in the mirror. Her reflected gaze caught mine, and for a moment it was as if a different person entirely was living on the other side of the gilt frame; a different—dangerous—person. Not my sister.

That person would not answer me, except to place a finger upon her lips and smile.

——

WHEN MR. DODGSON
called for me that evening, accompanied by his brother Edwin, who was visiting, I remembered that smile, that sinister gesture. Despite my warm cloak, I couldn’t help but shudder.

However, as soon as we left the Deanery—which had taken on a dark, sick atmosphere for me lately, I realized; Mamma’s illness, and Ina’s unaccountable actions and my own troubling thoughts, combined with the usual depressing gray of an Oxford winter—I felt my spirits lighten. The night was ablaze with spectacle; music was still in the air—I wondered if the musicians had paused for a moment’s breath or at least for dinner—and the possibility of love was everywhere. The Prince of Wales was married! There would be more little princes and princesses, someday a new King and Queen. England would never die; it was the greatest nation on earth, and Oxford was the crown jewel. I was so proud of my country, proud of my home. There was nothing to fear, only everything to celebrate.

“Edwin, may I present Miss Alice Liddell?” Mr. Dodgson gestured to his younger brother, a pale, blurry copy of himself. They had the same lopsided eyes, but Edwin’s were more so; the same small mouth that curved slightly down at the ends, only Edwin’s appeared to hang slightly open.

By now, I had met several of Mr. Dodgson’s siblings; two of his brothers, Skeffington and Wilfred, were undergraduates and had sometimes accompanied us on rowing trips. (Neither of them sang, though, and they
both
sighed, extremely loudly, whenever I dropped an oar.) Once two of Mr. Dodgson’s sisters came to visit him, and I thought them awfully fat and nosy. (The fattest one, Fanny, had asked me if my mother dressed me in silk petticoats!)

I was a bit doubtful about Edwin then; although I told myself that one should keep an open mind.

“I’m very happy to meet you,” I said, borrowing one of Ina’s fake smiles as I curtsied.

“It’s a pleasure.” Edwin bowed.

“Where shall we go first, Alice?” Mr. Dodgson took my hand—both of ours were gloved, but still I could remember how his hand had felt that day in the garden, dry but soft, cool yet warm. I clung to his hand tightly, as if I could feel it that way again. “Every college has an illumination—I’m told Merton is especially nice.”

“Can’t we simply wander? I don’t want to be in any hurry.”

“That’s a perfect plan. We shall wander and enjoy the night and wi-wish the Royal Couple much happiness.”

We crossed the Quad—there were more than a few students teetering on the curved stone edges of the fountain, slick with moisture, and I did hope one of them might fall in, but regretfully, none did. As we passed through the great iron gate separating the Quad from St. Aldate’s, we found ourselves in the midst of a noisy, pushing crowd. We had no choice but to follow it.