Alice I Have Been: A Novel (15 page)

“I understand, but you have no idea how beautifully the girls photograph with Mrs. Cameron—”

“I said Mr. Dodgson.”

I had never heard Leo speak so imperiously before; neither had Mamma. But she recognized a Royal command when she heard it. She had no choice but to curtsy and hurry away, announcing to all the company that the musicians had returned, and everyone was to take their seats.

During the rest of the evening, while sitting next to Leo—Edith resided on his other side, placed there with scowling determination by Mamma—I pretended to enjoy the delicate trills of a Mozart quartet. My heart, however, remained heavy, and the back of my head burned with the heat of Mamma’s accusing glare. I knew who she would blame for this latest reminder of
all that business
, as Mr. Ruskin so carelessly called it.

Was there no escape from my past? As long as I remained here, I knew there was none. But I could not escape Oxford on my own. I needed someone to spirit me away; I had a notion of myself, tucked into a trunk or valise, being carried out the gate of Tom Quad, hidden from eyes, those prying eyes.

Leo’s hands were too slender, I feared. Too slender, too unaccustomed to the burden of carrying someone else.

Particularly someone so burdened herself.

THAT NIGHT, AS I
undressed for bed, there was a knock on my door.

“It’s only me,” Edith’s voice called softly.

“Come in!” I smiled, relieved; Edith’s presence was so restful, so assured. Surely she could calm my jumbled nerves, for I had not been able to shake off the unease Mr. Ruskin had left behind after he took his leave with another arch reminder of our “lovely tea” on the morrow. “Sophie, you may go,” I told my maid, who curtsied and gathered up my fallen finery—bustle with its network of tapes, corset, petticoats, drawers, silk stockings, satin dress. She staggered under the load, as she was a mousy little thing with a forever frazzled look about her. Wrapping myself in my dressing gown, I opened the door to let her out, and Edith in.

“I couldn’t sleep.” Edith’s hair was a bright electric cloud released from its pins and clips. She plopped down in the middle of my four-poster bed, jostling the rose brocade curtains. “Did you have a nice time tonight?”

“Yes.” I sat down at my dressing table and started to remove the pins from my own hair, dropping them with a clatter in a little scalloped china dish. Then I began to brush it out, although it didn’t take long; even though my hair was not as thick as Edith’s, and still pin straight, I never tired of the heavy weight of it down my back.

I looked at my sister in the reflection of the gold-framed mirror. “Why do you ask?”

“I was merely curious.”

“You mean concerned, don’t you?”

“Alice, you’re getting to be extremely suspicious in your old age.” Her eyes grew big and bright, her mouth strangely set, as if she were holding a handful of pebbles in it.

“I’ve always been extremely suspicious. And you’ve always been a terrible liar. Mamma sent you in here, didn’t she?”

My sister swung her white legs over the edge of my bed and sighed. “You’re too sharp for me, Alice. You take after Mamma that way.”

“Much to my regret.” I placed my hairbrush down on my dressing table and joined my sister on my bed. Grabbing her hand, I pulled her down with me, so that we were both staring up at the canopy above. “What is her concern this time? Did I spill my punch? Tear my dress? Betray the location of the family vault?” I knew what my mother’s concerns were, naturally, but I simply wanted to make Edith laugh.

She didn’t disappoint. “Alice!” Edith giggled, musically, joyfully; she sounded like a little girl again, which was what I had wanted. And so I had to giggle, too; her laugh was so infectious.

“Isn’t this nice?” I asked with a melancholy sigh, when we had tired ourselves out.

“Yes, very.” Edith leaned her head upon my shoulder with a contented smile.

“As if we were little girls again, up in the nursery with Phoebe, dear Phoebe. She’s so old now. However does she keep up with Violet?”

“I don’t believe she does. Violet has the run of the place. She’s quite the little tyrant.”

“True. I am loath to say it, but I almost wish Pricks was here. She’d straighten her out in no time.”

“She asked about you the other day, you know,” Edith said, after a moment.

“How could she?” I twisted my head around to stare at my sister; we were so close, I could count the faint freckles on her nose—ghost freckles, I called them, for they were almost translucent, hardly noticeable to the casual eye.

“I went down to the hotel, to visit. Pricks enjoys seeing us—well, seeing me, and Rhoda.”

“An innkeeper’s wife. How fitting.”

“She always speaks well of you, Alice.”

“As well she may, now that she’s done her damage.” I rolled over, my arms crossed against my chest. “She’s a ridiculous figure, and it’s a wonder she ever snagged a husband at her age, the way she positively threw herself at—well, at those who had better taste.”

Edith did not comment; she simply waited for me to roll back over and take her hand, so she could give me a comforting squeeze.

“You haven’t told me what your mission is,” I said with a sigh, finally steeling myself to hear it. Mamma rarely spoke to me directly these days; indeed, she hadn’t in years. It was as if she couldn’t trust herself not to speak what was truly in her heart. Or perhaps she couldn’t trust me not to do the same.

“I’m not going to carry it out,” Edith declared, happy and proud in her little act of defiance. I had to smile, turning my face toward hers, breathing in the summer smell of rosewater that always lingered in her hair.

“She wanted you to tell me to be less attentive to Prince Leopold, didn’t she?”

“Yes, but I don’t want you to, unless you feel the need for secrecy yourself. Oh, Alice, you seem so happy with him! I don’t care that Mamma had her eye on him for me—I wouldn’t want him, anyway, for I am—am fond—of another. Truly, I see your happiness, the light in your eye, the smile, and I’m so glad, for I haven’t seen that in you in such a long time!”

I wrapped my arms about my sister, tears springing to my eyes; they dampened the shoulder of her pink lisle nightgown, but she didn’t appear to mind. She was so dear! So unselfish with her love! She was the only person in my life who still treated me as I was before the breach. For that was how I viewed my life; it was as if the first part had been spent in a land of pure contentment, a land of gingerbread houses and spun-sugar clouds and lemon-drop sun. But one day a giant quake tore the very earth away from my feet, and cast me up on the shore of a darker, foreign place.

I knew it was ridiculous; no childhood could be that uncomplicated, and I knew my memories couldn’t be trusted, for wasn’t that what everyone said? Yet forever, I viewed my life as divided into two different parts, or lands; before and after.

“I’m so very glad you’re here,” I told Edith, speaking what was in my heart, for once. “Now!” I brushed away the tears on both of our cheeks and sat up, fluffing a pillow—shooing away the tiny white feathers that escaped from it—and leaning up against the headboard. “Tell me who has won your heart, for I know you’re not simply fond of this gentleman. Fondness has no place in your vocabulary.”

Edith dimpled, rolling over so that her head was propped up on her slender hand. “Do you remember my childhood dream of living in a house as grand as Nuneham Courtney?”

“Yes, but—Edith! You don’t mean to say you’re in love with Aubrey Harcourt?”

Edith blushed, but her green eyes, as bright as stars, confirmed my guess.

“Oh, how wonderful! He’s a kind young man, and of course, all that property, including Nuneham Courtney! Mamma will positively swoon! Do you love him, truly?”

“Yes,” Edith said, twisting a strand of hair about the fourth finger of her left hand, until it resembled a wedding band. “He’s no prince, of course—I leave the truly spectacular match up to you—but he is fond of me, I think. Ever so fond. And I of him.”

“Then I shall think fondly of him, too. Although I can’t bear the notion of giving you up.” I reached toward her, grabbing her hand as if I could grab on to my childhood, as well. How quickly we all had grown, after all.

“You won’t have to, not for ages, not until the summer, at earliest. I’ll be the one who will have to part with you, I fear. Fear, and hope, both?” She smiled at me, joining me at the top of the bed, nestling under my arm.

I didn’t answer. There was both fear and hope within my heart, true. They did not mix well together, I discovered, placing a hand upon my breast, trying to quiet the tumult within.

“I don’t know,” I finally whispered to my sister, voicing the fear, hoping that by hearing it out loud, it might not feel so real. “There are many obstacles in the way, I’m afraid.”

Edith nodded, forced to agree; she was a sweet little optimist, my sister, but no fool. She understood instantly what I meant.

“Did Mamma mention anything about being photographed?” I asked.

“Yes. By Mr. Dodgson, you mean?”

I nodded, unable to look my sister in the eyes.

“It was an odd request, was it not? By the Prince?” Edith’s voice was very gentle, very careful.

I nodded again.

“I would think, then, that no gossip—no talk, I mean—has reached his ears. I believe that is why Mamma has decided to arrange for a sitting; she seems to view this as an opportunity.”

“An opportunity to humiliate me in front of the Prince?” I couldn’t help it; I flew off the bed and paced around my room, tying and untying the sash of my dressing gown, not knowing I was doing so until I found my hand wrapped tightly in a knot of silk.

“An opportunity to show that there is no basis to—to what some may have said, in the past.” Edith remained on the bed, her legs dangling over the side, watching me.

“And what some are still saying.” I remembered Mr. Ruskin, and his summons.

“Which is all the more reason to do this, Alice. The Prince truly loves you—I can see it!”

“The only reason Mamma is consenting is because of you—you’re the one she desires to see happy. Not me.”

“That’s not true, Alice.”

“Yes, it is. The Prince is not intended for me; if she’s eager to show the gossips that the Liddells are not afraid to associate with Mr. Dodgson, it’s not to restore my reputation—I’m too far gone for that. It’s to clear the family name for you.”

“But don’t you see that the result will be the same? One less obstacle, as you say?”

“No, I don’t. Because I don’t know what will happen—how we can possibly return to that—to him—to—oh, I don’t know. I don’t know!” I threw myself back upon the bed; my head somehow found itself resting on Edith’s lap, as she smoothed my tangled hair. Eventually my breathing slowed, my limbs grew heavy, and, yawning, I began to feel the lateness of the hour.

“Alice, Alice. I know it’s been terribly difficult for you, but I believe good times are just ahead. You’re strong—so strong! So much stronger than I am.”

I looked up at her sweet, worried face. “You’re just as strong. We’re both our mother’s daughters, for better and for worse.”

“I do believe she wants you to be happy, Alice. I truly believe so.”

“I know you do.”

“As do I. I pray, very hard, every night, for your happiness,” she whispered, before gently kissing me on the cheek and pushing me off her lap. Then she ran out the door, back to her own room.

“May we be happy,” I murmured, not quite understanding what I was saying, only that the phrase seemed familiar to me. A ghost missive from the land of childhood, I mused drowsily, getting up to blow out the candle on my dressing table. I stopped there and gazed at my reflection in the mirror, looking for some trace of the child I’d been—before.

I still wore my hair in a fringe; I still had a rather decided chin. But other than that, I could see no trace of the triumphant girl in the pale, somber-eyed maiden that stared back at me. What did Leo see in that maiden, then, that enchanted him so? What goodness, what innocence, did he find? I could not recognize it; I saw myself only as others did, as my mother did. Should I pray that he see me that way, too, so that he could absolve me with his love? Or should I pray that somehow I could miraculously shed the past and become who he believed me to be?

“May we be happy,” I repeated, frowning at myself; I blew the candle out. Climbing back under the down quilts of my bed, I wondered if Sophie would have the sense to bring up a bed warmer, as the nights were growing colder. “May we all deserve happiness,” I murmured into my pillow.

Then, with startling clarity—and a cold, sick dread that spread over my limbs—I remembered when I had heard those words, after all; I remembered who had spoken them to me.

I knew no copper bed warmer would give me comfort tonight.

Chapter 8
•  •  •

T
HE NEXT AFTERNOON I DRESSED IN MY MOST SOMBER
dress, a wine-colored wool with tightly buttoned sleeves, high neck, and lace trim; I pinned my plainest hat in place and left the Deanery—Sophie trotting behind me—rejoicing that I did not have to walk across the Quad, where I was sure to feel his gaze upon me with every step.

Mr. Dodgson had moved to different rooms some years previous. He no longer lived across the garden from the back of the Deanery; he now had larger quarters across the Quad from the
front
of the Deanery.

Our meetings, in the years since that summer day, had been few, always strained, always in public—and always commented upon by others; Mr. Ruskin was considerate enough to inform me of
that
. Yet they were inevitable, as long as we both lived in such close proximity. For Oxford was, despite its deserved academic reputation, simply a village, after all. The students might come and go, society as a whole might change all around us—a new, bustling middle class was rising out of the ranks of the poor, demanding to be taken seriously—but the established citizens of Oxford remained the same. Prone to the same quarrels, the same jealousies, the same social maneuverings as any hamlet one might read of in the novels of Mr. Trollope.

Mr. Dodgson had aged, finally; considerably. He was a graying, stiff-limbed figure now, thin, with a pronounced limp. When we met in public, as was inevitable, we were always polite. Never did our eyes truly meet, though, except from across a greater distance; across the Quad, across a crowded lecture hall, across the packed congregation in the cathedral. And always I felt his eyes upon me when I walked to my own front door; I felt them pick me, once again, out of all the people in the Quad and follow me until I reached the safety of the Deanery. No longer did this bring me happiness, make me feel special and loved; now I was afraid. Afraid that he could see me, after all—see the real me, as his camera had done so often—and know the truth.

And I watched, myself. I watched him go on picnics with other little girls. I watched him escort them to his new rooms, accompanied by their governesses. I watched him take them rowing on the Isis, and I couldn’t help but wonder—did he tell
them
stories? Capture their souls, their desires, with his camera?

Did he feel my eyes upon him, too?

I had no idea. The only thing I knew for sure was there was no escaping him; with the publication of
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
, which was what Lewis Carroll decided to call
Alice’s Adventures Under Ground
, our lives were seemingly bound together for eternity. The book was an instant classic, and Mr. Dodgson dutifully sent me every edition, including foreign printings; when he published
Through the Looking-Glass
, he sent me that, as well. In his odd, indirect way, he persisted in dedicating both books to me.

What was I to make of that? That I remained, forever, a child of seven, courtesy of the man who had caused me to grow up sooner than I had ever wished? I’d spent years trying to figure out this last, most confounding, puzzle of his. I doubted I’d ever be able to solve it.

Still, he haunted me. Everywhere I went; everyone I met. His eyes, his words, were upon me always. Alice in Wonderland. I would never be anything but.

Not even to Leo, I thought with a sigh. That was who he came to Oxford ready to fall in love with, I knew. An invalid all his life, shut off from the world until now, wasn’t it natural that he fall in love with a girl spun from dreams, from words, from pictures; not from flesh and blood and dubious experience?

Sometimes, I wondered—did he dream of me as I was, the pale young woman with straight black hair, cut in a fringe? Or did he dream of me as a girl in a pinafore with long yellow hair? I could never ask him; I was afraid to know the answer.

“Sophie, do keep up,” I snapped, marching down the path in front of the library, turning right onto Merton Street, much narrower and less crowded than the High or St. Aldate’s; there were few shops, mainly university buildings. I despised the necessity of being chaperoned wherever I went, but I, of all women, could not risk censure, no matter the circumstances. Fortunately, Sophie was a simple creature, and easily distracted by servant gossip; the promise of tea and a cake with Mr. Ruskin’s equally gossipy housekeeper would keep her occupied while I met with the eminent scholar himself.

Quickly I attained Corpus Christi, the small college adjacent to Christ Church—both colleges bordered the Meadow—where Mr. Ruskin’s rooms were located. The heel of my boot rapping sharply against the walk, I headed down an intimate little rectangular stone quad to the Fellows building, the largest building in Corpus. I always thought the façade resembled Buckingham Palace, with the pitched roof at the center above faux columns.

I paused, although I was not out of breath despite my tightly laced stays, and readjusted my hat. Sophie, however, was mopping her brow with the sleeve of her coat. “Miss, how quickly you do walk!”

“You’re simply out of condition. Now go on, quick, up the stairs and knock on the door.”

“Yes, miss.”

I followed her up a staircase to the first floor; she knocked on the door and was admitted by a plump, red-faced housekeeper with a comical air of regality.

“Miss Alice Liddell, to see Mr. Ruskin!” Sophie exclaimed, breathless.

“Do come in,” the housekeeper intoned.

Brushing past, I handed her my card, removed my hat and coat and bestowed them upon Sophie, and waited to be shown into Mr. Ruskin’s drawing room. “Sophie, as it is teatime, I’m certain that you won’t mind stopping in the kitchen and having a bit of cake with Mr. Ruskin’s housekeeper.”

“Oh, thank you, miss! That will be lovely!”

“Well, then.” I nodded at her as the housekeeper opened the door to the drawing room with a stiff curtsy.

“My dear little friend!” Mr. Ruskin rose from an easy chair in front of the fire and met me halfway across the room. He was wearing his usual attire: outdated black frock coat, bright blue tie, rough tweed pants.

“Pray, don’t act so surprised. I believe this was a command performance, was it not?” I allowed him to kiss me on both cheeks, in the continental fashion, while wondering just when he had acquired this habit. It must have been on his last trip to Italy.

“Just when did you get so very suspicious, my lovely? You remind me of your dear mamma more and more each day.” He chuckled with pleasure and gestured toward another chair near the fire. There was a table set up between the two chairs, laden with tea things: two fragile cups of distinctly Italian decoration, a matching teapot, plates, silver, and delicate cakes.

Removing my gloves, I surveyed his drawing room. I’d managed not to be coerced into visiting here in the four years he’d been in residence; Edith and I took our lessons at the Deanery. Yet I admit I had been curious to see his rooms, as I’d heard so much about the odd décor. Indeed, this was a singularly eclectic room; overfilled with books, etchings, and especially paintings and photographs, on easels, hanging from walls, on the floor, slanted against furniture. In addition, there were two cabinets full of rocks of every shape and hue, each carefully labeled. In short, the room resembled nothing more than a museum exhibit.

With a smile—for there was something oddly charming about the juxtaposition of cold, scientific artifacts and the abstract, light-filled Turner landscapes he loved so well—I made to sit down. Before I could do so, I froze.

For there, in a simple silver frame on a low round table, was the photograph of me as Mr. Dodgson’s beggar girl.

“Where did you get that?” With shaking, suddenly icy hands, I picked up the photograph. Staring up at me was the picture of myself, at age seven, clad in the torn gypsy girl’s dress. One hand was on my hip, the other lazily extended as my younger self gazed at the camera with a defiant smirk, the triumphant glare of a child who has discovered herself to be a woman.

Closing my eyes, clutching the photograph to my chest—it was cold and heavy against my breast—a rush of memories overtook me, causing the room to spin with their fury. Unlike that other photograph, the one that charmed Leo so, suddenly I recalled every detail of this one. I remembered the chill autumn day, I remembered changing behind the tent, far from the eyes of everyone except Mr. Dodgson; I felt, once more, his bare hand upon my shoulder, my waist; the grass between my tender toes. How long ago it seemed! How little I knew then of the ways of the world, but looking into those glittering dark eyes—so different from the eyes that stared warily back at me from the looking glass every morning—I saw that I had imagined myself to have known so very much. About men, about women, about dreams and desires; about the future.

His letters—the letters that he wrote, after that day; unbidden fragments of thought, of dreams, came to me:
Do you remember how it felt, to roll about on the grass while I watched?

Those letters, those dreams, were long gone now. I’d seen them burn with my own eyes; they burned in the grate of the nursery hearth, bitterly torn and prodded by the poker in Mamma’s hand as she railed and wept and forbade me to do the same.

Yet here was the picture, the one tangible relic that remained. I had so longed to see it, before; I recalled how I had never been able to bring myself to ask him for it. In my childish innocence, I had believed it would remain in his possession. The creation of this image had been so intimate. I had not wanted strangers’ eyes—Mr. Ruskin’s eyes!—to see the result.

I had wanted to live forever as a gypsy girl; I had wanted to live forever as a child, tumbling down a rabbit hole. I had been granted both wishes, only to find immortality was not what it had promised to be; instead of a passport to the future, it was a yoke that bound me to the past.

“Yes, that’s you,” Mr. Ruskin said.

“I know—I’m merely startled, that’s all, to see it after—after all this time.”

“Charming, isn’t it? I was taken with it the first time I laid eyes on it.”

“When was that, pray?”

“Oh, years ago. Not long after it was taken, if I recall.”

“He—Mr. Dodgson—gave this to you?”

“He had many copies printed. You’re quite famous, my dear, among lovers of photography.”

“Others have seen it?” I looked up in alarm; I fought an impulse to shield myself as if it were I, at twenty-three, standing half clad, vulnerable, and not the image of my seven-year-old self.

“Why so surprised?” Mr. Ruskin looked down his aristocratic nose at me and smiled. It was not a kind smile; it was the expression of a cat that had cornered a mouse, and was not yet decided whether to play with it or devour it.

“I don’t know, it’s ridiculous, I suppose—of course, I had to have known he intended others to see it.”

“Don’t be angry, Alice.” Remarkably, it was he who now appeared hurt; he lowered his head in a pout, looking up at me with his beseeching eyes. Apparently, his theatrics were not limited to the lecture hall. “I had no idea you would be so upset. If I had, I would never have accepted the photograph. But you and Mr. Dodgson are such good friends—or rather, I suppose, past tense is more appropriate?”

“I believe you know the answer to that already.” I was in no mood for his games; I forced myself to place the photograph down, dispassionately, without further histrionics. I was becoming quite the bashful maiden, after all. Ina would have been delighted to observe how close I’d come to a proper swoon.

As I returned the photograph to its place, I noticed a small painting next to it. It was of a young girl with arched eyebrows, light blue eyes, reddish yellow hair. Her pale, ethereal face was almost otherworldly. I suspected I knew her identity; it was an open secret among everyone at Oxford.

Mr. Ruskin had his own dark past, his own scandalous affair. The circumstances were heartbreaking—the young woman whose childhood portrait I beheld had recently died, insane; she was a religious zealot, it was rumored, and had spurned Mr. Ruskin for God. Yet somehow, I could not find it in my heart to pity Mr. Ruskin. I could never convince myself of the sincerity of his emotions; he was too eager to draw on every aspect of his life, no matter how tragic, as a means to further his fame.

“Sit, Alice, and please do me the honor of pouring out.” He took his own seat and watched as I did the same.

“It will be my pleasure.” I picked up the teapot and poured two cups, adding lemon to his, as prompted.

“There,” he pronounced, settling into the depths of his high-backed wing chair; the sides of it were so deep, a person could completely disappear from view. “Isn’t this cozy?”

“Quite.” I stirred my own tea and sipped quietly; it was fine tea, slightly spicy, bracing. I could not fault him on his hospitality. He certainly knew how to set a stage.

“We are old friends, you and I, are we not?”

“If you say so.”

“If I say so? Alice, why will you persist in being so enigmatic? Ah, but that is part of your charm, of course. Still, I sometimes wonder if you like me, even just a little?”

“Surely someone of your fame and influence need not question the devotion of one such as me?”

“Again with the prevarication!” He slapped his knee in delight; I smiled demurely into my teacup, now sure of my hold over him. “Alice, I cannot deny that I find you most charming. I also feel compelled to tell you that I see much danger in your current path. There—finally, an honest reaction! I see the hesitation in your eyes. Would you like me to continue?”

I set my teacup down and folded my hands in my lap. Staring into the mesmerizing flames of the fire—they were dancing with the hypnotic motion of a snake being charmed—I pondered his question. Would I like him to continue? No, certainly not. Still, he found me charming—I had always known this, ever since I was small—and as such, might behave in the manner of a spurned suitor if I did not listen. And there was no denying that he had great influence, not only here at the university but with the Royal Family; several of them were patrons of the new school for drawing he had just established. Leo himself was a trustee.