Alice I Have Been: A Novel (8 page)

“I’ll be so happy to have my own room,” Ina said with a dreamy sigh, looking around the bright, whitewashed nursery. It was the cheeriest room in the house, I always thought, for here the windows were simply hung with starched yellow curtains, the floors bare except for a few braided rugs, the furniture comfortable and useful, not stiff and ornamental. “Mamma and I have already spoken about it. You children can remain in the nursery. She’s making over one of the guest rooms for my boudoir.”

“It appears to me,” I said, a wonderful notion tickling my lips, turning them into a very mischievous smile indeed. “It appears to me that you’re getting far too old, then, to play with Mr. Dodgson. If you’re not careful, people will talk, just as they did with Pricks.”

Ina turned to me, slowly, as she concentrated on buttoning up her left glove. She would not look at me, a tactic I was beginning to recognize as one she used whenever she most wanted to make a point. “I wouldn’t be so concerned about
my
reputation, Alice. It seems to me there are others who have far more to worry about.”

“What? Who do you mean?” I forgot I was angry at her; I truly wanted to know. I was afraid I was getting to be rather like Mr. Ruskin after all.

Maddeningly, Ina refused to answer, and at that moment a Mary Ann appeared in the doorway to tell us the gentlemen had arrived. So we left Phoebe and Rhoda—Pricks was, presumably, up in her room on the top floor, plotting some awful revenge upon me—and joined Mr. Dodgson and Mr. Duckworth, who were exchanging pleasantries with Mamma in the hall. They had a lovely hamper with them, and I was most anxious to see what was in it; Mr. Dodgson always did bring the best cakes. I hoped there was one with buttercream frosting, my favorite.

“I do hope the girls aren’t too much trouble,” Mamma said as we made to leave. “It is very kind of you to invite them.”

“It’s our pl-pleasure,” Mr. Dodgson stammered; his stammer was always much worse around Mamma than it was around anyone else. “We-we always have such a lovely ti-ti-ti—”

“We have such a lovely time,” Mr. Duckworth said with a fond smile for his friend. I very much liked Mr. Duckworth, with his patient eyes, jolly, plump cheeks, and muttonchops; he was so kind to everyone, the type of person who sought out the odd, lonely people of the world whom everyone else forgot. I was very glad he had sought out Mr. Dodgson; I did worry about him being lonely when I wasn’t around. “Your daughters are such a credit to you—they’re so well mannered and delightful.”

“Why, thank you.” Mamma looked pleased; her eyes matched her smile.

“Shall we, ladies?” Mr. Duckworth bowed and held open the front door; we all trooped outside, the two gentlemen in their white linen suits, straw boaters on their heads instead of the usual black silk top hats, carrying the wicker hamper between them. I heard the tinkle of china jostling inside.

“How many cakes are in there, do you imagine?” Edith whispered to me, evidently not very quietly, because Mr. Dodgson laughed and told her not to worry; we’d have enough left over to feed the swans on the river, most likely.

So we proceeded through town, crossing the crowded, narrow streets until we found the clear path to the river, following it to the end, right under the arched mossy stones of Folly Bridge, to Salter’s Boat House. Mr. Dodgson politely asked Ina to pick out the perfect rowboat. Naturally, she took a long time doing so, walking up and down the riverfront, making quite a production of asking the boatmen how seaworthy each one was. Finally she picked one that didn’t look any different from the others, and we all climbed in; the seats were damp, and I was very glad no one had told me not to get dirty because honestly, I couldn’t see that I could help it. Mr. Duckworth and Mr. Dodgson manned the oars, and they asked me to man the tiller.

“Oh!” I took the thick knotty rope that steered the creaky tiller and pulled it over my head so that I could face them. My heart beat fast with the responsibility. “I do hope I don’t make the boat go in circles.”

“That is a fine thing to hope indeed,” said Mr. Dodgson with a smile. “But it’s a much finer thing to accomplish.”

I agreed that it was. Then Mr. Duckworth untied the boat and pushed it away from the dock with his oar as we headed upstream, the air hot and still, perfect weather for rowing. Even so, the gentlemen did not seem in any hurry to exert themselves; the oars dipped lazily in the muddy water with a sloppy, regular slosh. I concentrated on keeping the tiller straight and sure; my hands grew tired of pulling at the rope, but I wouldn’t have said so for the world.

Ina and Edith were crammed on either side of me, our identical white skirts overlapping so that it was impossible to tell whose was whose. Mr. Duckworth was in the far seat and Mr. Dodgson directly in front of us.

“Miss Liddell, I must say you are looking far too grown-up these days,” Mr. Duckworth called out. He needn’t have shouted so; across the calm water, his musical voice carried perfectly well. “Isn’t she, Dodgson?”

Ina sucked in her breath and sat up straighter, trying very hard not to look at Mr. Dodgson as he replied.

“Quite,” he answered, rowing steadily, thoughtfully, even as his strokes matched Mr. Duckworth’s. “Far too grown-up, I’m afraid, to want to accompany us foolish old men much longer. Young swains will be more to her liking, I predict.”

“You’re—you’re not old,” Ina blurted, her face red, hands trembling, even as she kept them firmly folded in her lap. “I know you’re only thirty.”

Mr. Dodgson raised an eyebrow, while Mr. Duckworth suppressed a smile.

“Ah, I’m very old, indeed. Duck, however, is merely twenty-eight. I’ll have to act as chaperone, I suppose.”

Ina shook her head, blushing even more—and looking very pretty, I had to admit. Even though we still dressed identically, her skirts were longer, and her silhouette had more curves. My sister
was
a young lady, I realized with a pang; she wasn’t merely saying it to spite me. I didn’t know how to feel about that; was I jealous that I was not, or was I mournful because of all the changes I knew were just ahead, for all of us? After all, Mamma was already starting to talk about young men with “potential,” and while I never heard her elaborate, I knew what she meant.

For the first time, I understood that childhood would end. In my eagerness to grow and learn, I hadn’t, until this very moment, realized that the result would be the termination of my world as I knew it—sleeping under the same snug roof, three narrow beds all in a row, with my sisters; riding with Papa on the paths in the Meadow in the early mornings, the only time we ever had him to ourselves; endless days adrift on a river, journeys to places wonderful in their safe familiarity—

My eyes felt wet and hot, and my heart ached with loss. While I was surrounded by those who loved me—and yes, I even included Ina in that—already, I felt their absence.

“Wake up, Alice—we’re listing to starboard!” Mr. Duckworth called out.

I shook my head and tightened my grip on the tiller rope, pulling until we straightened out.

“What were you thinking about, Alice?” Mr. Dodgson asked gently. “You looked like you were dreaming.”

“Oh, just—I was just thinking how very
tragic
it is that childhood must come to an end.”

Mr. Duckworth must have swallowed a bug, for he coughed, almost dropping his oars. Ina clasped her hand over her mouth and giggled. Edith kicked her plump little legs against the side of the boat and asked, “How much farther?”

Mr. Dodgson, of them all, looked as if he understood. For he nodded, his eyes blue and soft; his gaze was serious and sad, as serious and sad as my own.

“Oh, Alice, you’re far too young to think about things like that!” Ina removed her gloves so she could dabble her hand in the water, just like an illustration in a novel.

“Dear little Alice, don’t worry so—your sister is right. You’ll have plenty of time to worry about all that later.” Mr. Duckworth resumed his rowing.

“Would you like to stay forever young, Alice?” Mr. Dodgson asked. “Would you like not to grow up?”

“Oh, well—yes and no.” I wasn’t sure how I could prevent that from happening. “I don’t want to have to keep having lessons with Pricks, and be made to memorize silly poems and lessons, and always being told by Ina that I’m too young.” I turned to glare at my sister as she practiced her dreamy-eyed, thoughtful expression on Mr. Dodgson. (Who, I was very glad to see, was not paying any attention at all.) “But I don’t want to wear a corset, and long skirts, and not be able to leave the house unescorted, and pretend I’m not hungry when I really am, and most of all I don’t want to get too big to be taken out by you,” I continued, surprised by my passion—I felt my eyes tear up again as I spoke faster and faster, louder and louder. Finally I had to hide my face in my hands, forgetting about the tiller so that the boat swerved sharply toward the bank again.

“Alice, Alice—don’t cry!” Mr. Dodgson sounded so alarmed. I felt his hand upon my shoulder, patting it helplessly; the hamper was between us, and we were all so tightly wedged in the boat, it was impossible for him to get closer to me than that.

“I won’t.” I sniffed, and Edith passed me her pocket handkerchief so I could blow my nose.

We drifted for a long minute or so. Ina pursed her lips very disapprovingly, while I dabbed at my eyes and felt my face finally cool down so that I wasn’t ashamed to show it again. Another boat passed us, two young men and two young ladies—accompanied by a stern-faced chaperone looking as if she longed to be anywhere but—laughing and singing a minstrel song. Even after they rounded the bend ahead, we could still hear a strong tenor voice singing
All the world is sad and dreary, everywhere I roam
.

“Who would like a story?” Mr. Duckworth finally asked, briskly taking charge of things—picking up his oars, nudging Mr. Dodgson with his boot, nodding at me to steer us back toward the middle of the river.

“I would! I would!” Edith clapped her hands. Ina—after leaning over and hissing, “Ladies do
not
talk about corsets, Alice!”—also sat up straight, an expectant smile on her face.

“Alice?” Mr. Dodgson asked, his voice low and kind.

I nodded, afraid to look up; when I did, I was rewarded with a look of pure love. I don’t know how I recognized it. Was it the same look he had given me that day in the garden, when he told me he had dreamed of me? Perhaps, but that had been such a long time ago.

I knew only that, under his gaze, I felt—beautiful. Beautiful, and free to say whatever I wanted, think whatever I wanted, for I could make no mistakes. Not in those blue eyes.

“Yes, please, do tell us a story,” said I.

And so he did.

“There once was a little girl named Alice,” he began.

“Oh!” I couldn’t help myself. Mr. Dodgson had told us hundreds of stories, stories with people in them we recognized, even if they had nonsensical—different—names. But never before had he named a character after one of us. I smiled up at him, waiting; Ina looked down upon her lap, glaring.

“Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank,” he continued, without giving that sister a name, to my everlasting delight.

So he continued his story, of a little girl named Alice, a white rabbit—who reminded us all of Papa, right down to the pocket watch; even Ina laughed at that!—a tumble down a rabbit hole, a crazy adventure with such curious creatures—“Curiouser and curiouser!” I shouted, as the story wound itself around in circles and curlicues and love knots.

It took the entire afternoon to row to Godstow, but none of us was in a hurry, mesmerized, as we were, by Mr. Dodgson. His thin voice, just soft enough so that we had to lean in to hear him, which only made the story more exciting, rose and fell as the tale spun itself; even Mr. Duckworth was hanging on every word.

“Dodgson, are you making this up?” he interrupted once.

Edith cried out, “Shhh! Do go on!”

Mr. Dodgson turned and nodded. “I’m afraid I am,” he said, although I wasn’t sure Mr. Duckworth believed him.

Astoundingly, he made the story last the entire day. Just when he would seem to trail off, running out of words, one of us would cry out for more and he would be off again. He kept talking, taking breaks only when necessary, such as when we landed at Godstow and he helped us out of the boat, tied it up, and followed us girls (hamper in tow) as we raced about, stretching our legs from the long journey. We searched for the perfect haystack—there were always huge sheltering haystacks just far enough back from the river so that the ground was dry and the bugs weren’t horrid—spread a blanket, and consumed the tea and cakes from the hamper. Mr. Dodgson drank gallons of tea—he must have been parched from all his talking—but then he picked up the story exactly where he had left off, right around the caterpillar.

So we spent that golden afternoon (we did break once, so that Edith and I could climb over the ruins of the nunnery; the tumbled stones, dark corners, and musty smell always gave me a thrill, even though I never once spied a ghost). Then we packed everything up and rowed downstream, back home; the light was fading by the time we crossed Tom Quad, exhausted, starving (the cakes long gone), still hanging on Mr. Dodgson’s every word. He finally came to the end, where Alice’s sister woke her from her dream.

When he stopped talking, then—we were in the middle of the Quad, by the quiet fountain full of lily pads—no one said a word. We couldn’t; my mind, at least, was still filled with the images of the story. Also, with a melancholy. A story—like my childhood—was so fleeting. I thought of the hundreds of stories Mr. Dodgson had told us over the years; I couldn’t remember a single detail from any of them. Yet once they, too, had filled my mind with pictures, notions—with dreams.

I didn’t want this story to disappear; I didn’t want the day to end. I didn’t want to grow up.

“Write it down,” I said finally, as we were gathering ourselves to say good-bye and go inside the Deanery, with its cheerful, welcoming lantern over the front door. “Please, could you—write it down?”

“What, my Alice?” Mr. Dodgson looked confused. He also looked very, very tired. His fine, curly brown hair was more mussed than I’d ever seen it, and his lips were chapped from the sun. When he was this tired, his eyes looked even more lopsided than usual; the left one drooped more.