Chapter 10
UNREAL. 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.
“There’s a good girl,” Mr. Ruskin said, as I poured the tea out once more—feeling quite as if I had only imagined doing so earlier. “I must say, Alice, you look pale today. I supposed you’d be practically blooming with the return of Leopold, which I understand took place this afternoon at a certain Dean’s residence, heh?” He chuckled softly. “I must caution you not to get caught up in the excitement; it’s imperative that you two remain discreet. But you can trust me; I’m on your side. I’m always on the side of romance.” He sipped his tea, his manner easy and expansive.
I attempted to do the same, although I couldn’t taste mine; it might have been scalding, it might have been cold. My lips, my tongue, were too numb to tell.
“What do you say to a game of Beggar My Neighbor? I’m rather in the mood for cards today, as my head aches. I find that mindless games are best for a poor head, don’t you?” With a bright smile, he nodded toward the cabinet where the cards were stored; I rose, retrieved them, and returned. He shuffled, I cut, and he dealt.
I said not a word the rest of that afternoon, but he didn’t appear to notice. I sat before his fire, playing a child’s game with the eminent Mr. Ruskin, who laughed happily, greedily, when he took my cards.
When I left to go, he asked me to give Leopold his best and kissed me on the cheek with the careless affection of a kind uncle. And were it not for the stain on my skirt, the extra care with which Mrs. Thompson bade me good evening, I could scarcely believe that anything odd had happened, after all.
Yet when I left the building, I glanced up. Mr. Ruskin was standing in the window looking at me, the portrait of Rose La Touche in his hands; turning away, I began to run as fast as I could.
I was nearly to Merton Street, not caring if Sophie had managed to keep up, as I bent my head toward the ground, struggling to collect my thoughts and arrange them into a manageable packet that I could tuck within my bodice, out of sight, when I heard my name.
“Alice—Mi-Mi-Miss Alice, tha-tha-that is, is that you?”
I looked up; I had nearly run into a man. A tall, slender man with blue eyes, one higher than the other; he wore nothing more than his usual frock coat and gray gloves, even though the air was still chilly with the memory of winter.
“Oh!” I couldn’t prevent myself from taking a step backward, discovering a sniffling Sophie to be much closer than I had anticipated. “Hello, Mr. Dodgson.”
He raised his hat and bowed. “I trust I’m not keeping you; you appear to be in a hurry.”
“No, not at all. I’m on my way from Mr. Ruskin’s, where I—I had a drawing lesson.” Across the street, a gentleman opened the door to a pub; light and music briefly spilled out in the gutter, and I shivered suddenly at the gay tinkling of a piano.
“Are you well?” Mr. Dodgson asked, alarmed. I saw him reach his hand out, as of old—ready to help, ready to comfort; with a shock of confusion I recalled his habit of bending down and sniffing the top of my head when I was small.
I took another step away even as he snatched his hand back and hid it behind his waist. “Yes, I’m fine, and I do hope that you are, as well,” I murmured, embarrassed for us both.
“I am, thank you. Tell me, have you had word of Prince Leopold? He’s such a great fa-favorite here. We’re all eager for his return.”
His soft voice was hesitant, devoid of any archness or duplicity. Steeling myself to look, finally, into Mr. Dodgson’s eyes as I had not been able to do in his rooms, I raised my head.
His eyes were blue and kind and without suspicion, I felt. Yet I told myself I did not know him any longer. We had both changed so much.
“It’s very good of you to ask,” I said finally, for that was the truth, at least. “Indeed, the Prince has just arrived back at Oxford this very afternoon.” Was it just this afternoon? What very mysterious things days were—what had Mr. Dodgson once said? Sometimes they fly by, and other times they seem to last forever, yet they are all exactly twenty-four hours. There’s quite a lot we don’t know about them. “Do you remember—?” I began, then stopped, catching my breath. There could be no comfort in shared memories for the two of us.
“Well, I’m very happy to hear about the Prince. Truly, I am.”
Again I steeled myself to search his eyes; again I found nothing but kindness there.
“Thank you. I’ll be sure to let the Prince know you asked—that is, I’ll be sure to have Papa do so. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m expected home from my drawing lesson.”
“Good evening, then.” Mr. Dodgson stepped aside, allowing me to proceed. With a grateful smile, I nodded and hurried on a few steps—until his voice stopped me once more.
“W-where is your sketchbook, Alice?”
I paused, looked at my hands—my muff my only possession, Sophie certainly not carrying anything. I bit my lip, cursed my stupidity, and turned around with one of Ina’s coy smiles upon my lips.
“Oh dear, I must have forgotten it! Sophie, do run back to Mr. Ruskin’s and fetch it, will you?”
“But miss, you never—”
“At once, Sophie.”
With a gasp and a start, she trotted back down the path we had just walked, her faded red coat barely visible in the gathering darkness.
I shrugged and turned to go with a disapproving click of my tongue at the mindless ways of servants, when Mr. Dodgson called after me once more.
“Do-do-do be careful, Alice. Whatever game he’s playing with you—he’s not entirely reliable, if you understand.”
I froze, unsure to whom he was referring. Leo? Mr. Ruskin?
“I’m sorry, I know it’s none of my business,” he said hastily. “Please forgive me.”
“No—that is, there is nothing to forgive. I appreciate your concern, but pray don’t trouble yourself further. It’s not as if I—it’s not as if we’re—it’s simply not necessary.”
“It’s not as if we’re friends any longer, is that what you mean?”
His voice was gentle, coaxing, sad. I knew there would be sadness in his eyes, too; sorrow in the way his smile turned down at the ends.
But I did not turn around to see. I simply continued on my way home, faster than before.
Eager to put more distance between myself and my past.