Chapter 11
I RETURNED TO MR. RUSKIN’S THE NEXT WEEK, AND HE WAS himself—by turns gruff and garrulous; petulant and dignified. He called me by my own name and never once referred to the past, his or mine. Then he left for a visit to his home in the Lakes, and I was free. Free to indulge myself in long talks with Leo about topics grave and topics small, it hardly mattered; our minds were so well matched, as well matched as our hearts, that we simply enjoyed the conversation, regardless. Between the two of us, we knew, we could solve the world’s problems. All we needed was enough time.
There were moments we didn’t talk; often he would sit and watch me while I sketched the river, or the new flowers in the Meadow, and once I even tried to reproduce his likeness. But my hand—usually so steady with a pencil—would not behave; while I managed to capture his eyes and his nose passably well, his mouth was impossible, for I could not look at it without wanting to feel it upon my own. I had to give up, finally, and tell him that his mustache needed a proper trimming before I would sketch him again.
That spring the air was always soft and warm, the flowers in bloom more fragrant than ever before, the promise of summer so poignant, so tangible, it brought tears to my eyes to think of it. I slept every night with my window flung open, as if to let summer—to let God, even—know that I was ready, waiting, for all the goodness, the promise, to come.
Yet when Mr. Ruskin returned and summoned me once again, I found that in his drawing room, at least, winter still resided. His windows remained shuttered against the fresh air, and his fire burned as bright as ever. The room was stifling, so hot I felt as if I were being suffocated by my own clothing. Despite my pleadings, he would not open a window.
“It’ll do you good to keep inside where it’s warm. All that traipsing about in the woods, the Meadow—I know, I see. So you’ve decided to forgo my advice about discretion?”
“We have decided not to hide our feelings for each other, true. Although there is no need for further speculation.”
“Hmm. And the Queen?”
“Her Majesty has been most anxious about her son’s health and is happy to hear that he is in such fine spirits. Now, how was your visit to the Lakes? I’m sure it was quite lovely this time of year. I do hope you were able to rest some; you’ve seemed rather—tired, of late.”
“I’m fine, I’m fine.” He waved his hand at me in dismissal; he was kneeling before a cabinet along the wall, searching for something.
I shut my eyes against the fire, the too-familiar tea things. I was weary of this room, weary of these visits—I could not see that he got much pleasure out of them, despite his insistence—but I was afraid to ask when my duty might be considered discharged. He seemed agitated this afternoon—scarcely drinking his tea, jumping in and out of his chair like a jack-in-the-box—although I told myself it could also be merely that he was well rested and energized after his holiday.
“Ah! Here it is!” He leaped up, a large black leather book in his hand. Opening the front cover, he flipped through a page or two, then brought it over to me, dropping it in my lap without warning.
“What is this?” The heavy thing nearly slid off my skirt, but I grabbed it just in time; it was an album. A photograph album.
“Look! Look inside!” With a strange laugh, he started to pace back and forth behind my chair.
I sighed, then opened the album. On the first page was pasted a copy of the photograph of me, as the beggar girl. I shut the album. “I’ve seen this before.”
“No, no—you have to continue! Look!” He leaned over my shoulder and opened it again. “Keep going!”
Pressing my lips together, I turned the page. On it was a photograph of a young girl in a cape; from an open window, she was descending a rope ladder. The next page showed another young girl, this time reclining on a sofa, a sofa I recognized. It was Mr. Dodgson’s sofa, from his studio.
I continued turning pages. The photographs were all of young girls—all about the same age as I had been when the beggar-girl photograph was taken. I recognized them all, not by the subject—I had no idea who most of these girls were—but by the photographer. No one but Mr. Dodgson could persuade children to pose like this.
Looking at these other photographs, of these other girls—one of whom was wearing the pink slipper I had spied in Mr. Dodgson’s studio—I felt a rage slowly boiling up inside me; a rage of jealousy. Had he told them of his dreams? Had he spoken of happiness in that sad way of his, had his eyes grown soft with desire? Now, as a woman, I could at last recognize it for what it was, for I recognized it in my own eyes, reflected in Leo’s. I recognized it, too, in the gypsy girl’s eyes, glittering from the photograph.
I was his dream child, alone; only. No matter that he himself had outgrown my dreams; I needed to believe I was still the only one who haunted his. I’d spent my entire life believing it, despite the wreckage that had followed in the dreamers’ wake.
I shoved the album off my lap; it fell to the floor with a thud, as behind me, Mr. Ruskin cackled with delight.
“Ah—you see it, don’t you? You see how he is? You thought you were the only one, didn’t you, my pet? I wager you even convinced yourself you were special, that your friendship was sacred. Yet he’s spent the rest of his life trying to replace you, and he has—you see! You see it in the photographs. What do you think of that, then?”
“I think it’s very odd of you to show me this. What is your purpose?” Impatiently, I launched myself out of the chair, too angry, too confused, to sit any longer; despite the heat, I stalked the floor, childishly desiring to kick all the odd objects that cluttered it—artifacts, footstools, paintings—out of my path. “What can you gain by showing me these photographs?”
“I simply wanted you to see him as he is. I wanted you to see yourself. He used you. Don’t you see?”
“Yes.” I did see; I’d always seen, in a way. My story, for instance—certainly, he’d gained from that, at my expense.
“You were merely an object—a charming object, but an object nonetheless. It will be your downfall, and you aren’t even aware.”
“What do you mean, my downfall?” Spinning around, I faced Mr. Ruskin, unafraid to speak my mind, for I was sick of him; sick of his—
Games. Mr. Dodgson had been trying to warn me. He was watching over me, still.
“I mean that you’ve spoiled yourself for a man who didn’t deserve you, and now you’re unfit for one who does. That’s your greatest fear, isn’t it?”
I didn’t answer. Once, I would have agreed with him. But these last few weeks had seemed like a rebirth, a second chance; I was beginning to see myself through Leo’s eyes.
“Ah, I’m correct, of course. I’m always right in these matters!” Still, Mr. Ruskin could detect even my smallest doubt; his eyes glittered in triumph.
“I am not spoiled, as you call it—I am not! I would never have encouraged Leo if I believed that, for I think much too highly of him. Why do you say such things, such awful things, about us all? You keep me coming here on the promise of friendship, that you will protect me.”
“And I have. I just want you to see how different I am from him. I’m constant. My love is pure. I never tried to replace you with another. You’re my only, my pet, my puss—can’t you see, Rose, that I’m not like the others?”
“I’m not Rose.” I tried to control my voice—I did not want to summon Mrs. Thompson or Sophie—but I needed to make myself heard, once and for all; I needed to make myself known. “I’m Alice. Not the beggar girl, not the girl in the story, not the girl in the portrait you are looking at now, instead of me!” With a cry, I swept Rose’s image off the table; it fell to the floor, the little wooden easel on which it resided snapping in two.
Mr. Ruskin dropped to his knees, making a sound like an animal howling. He grabbed the canvas and held it to his heart.
“Why would you do that? Why would you try to destroy the one thing I have left? Rose, my Rosa, my little puss—why do you grieve me so?”
“I am not Rose!”
“Don’t say that—don’t say that. I need you to be her, don’t you see? I need you to be my Rose, she is you, she lives in you, you are one and the same, just as Dodgson and I are. You’re no better than us, at that; we’re all a group of sinners. Even Rose, pure, sweet Rose—she sinned, and she died.”
“You’re not the same as him. And I will not be her. I will not let you bring me down to your level, your shame. I will not be like that.”
“You are already,” he sneered; I felt his accusation like a dagger, plunging deep within a heart that tried, for once, to reject it. Because of Leo—Leo was so kind, so good; he saw the goodness in me, too. He would not love me if he did not see.
“No, you’re wrong.” I knelt beside him; he was rocking with the portrait still clutched to his chest; it was pathetic, but he smiled so viciously, I could not have pity for him. “Mr. Ruskin, you must stop this—you don’t know how cruel you are! Rose is dead, and I’m not her. I’m Alice. And I don’t deserve—”
“Alice in Wonderland!” he taunted; now I saw that his eyes were opaque, confused, his clothes slightly askew; his vest was buttoned wrong, his shirt had a yellow stain around the collar. His whiskers were more unruly than usual; they did not reek of perfume but rather of stale food.
“Oh, Mr. Ruskin—you’re—you’re truly not yourself. Let me help you—”
“What did they tell you?” Abruptly, his eyes hardened; he dropped the portrait, stood without my assistance, and leered down at me. “What did they tell you about me?”
“I don’t know what you’re—”
Grabbing my arm, he pulled me to my feet with a vicious sneer. “I know what they told you. Effie, Effie told you, didn’t she?”
“Effie? Your wife? I’ve never met her!” I tried to pull away, but despite his frail appearance, he was stronger than I. Much stronger.
“Did that filthy whore tell you filthy lies? Did she?”
“Do not speak to me this way. Please let me go.”
“Did that filthy whore tell you about our wedding night? Did she tell you I couldn’t satisfy her? Did she? Because it’s a lie, a damned lie, and I can prove it. By God, I can prove it—” Releasing me, he began to remove his coat.
I was horrified—terrified—wanting to leave yet feeling I could not, not when he was in this state. How could I ever face him again if I allowed him to continue to debase himself, debase me?
Just as he threw his coat down, muttering, “Whores lie, they lie standing up and they lie on their backs, it’s all the same,” I set my jaw, took a determined step forward, and slapped him across his face. My hand stung from the force of it; he drew back, his eyes glittering dangerously; he made as if to grab my wrist, but then, all color draining from his face, he sank down upon his knees. He buried his face in his hands and began to sob; I remained standing, willing my breathing to slow down; my stays felt tight as a vise around my lungs, but I would not allow myself to entertain any thought of fainting.
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Ruskin sobbed, not trying to hide his shame. “I’m sorry. Alice—please forgive me.”
“Forgive you for what? For nearly assaulting me? Or for calling me a sinner?”
“For both. For everything.”
I was silent; I could help him, but I would not be his salvation.
“Please?”
“You understand I cannot come back here?”
“No!” Anguished, he walked over to me on his knees and grasped my hands. He pulled them to his lips, kissing them passionately. “No! I will behave, I promise. This—this was simply because I’ve been so tired. I will not take advantage of you in this way again, you may be assured. But I’ve grown so fond of our afternoons, and I’m so very lonely at times—”
“No. I cannot. You are tired, I can see.” I pulled my hands away from his, with a great effort; his strength, once more, surprised me—and frightened me enough to stand firm in my resolve. “You need to rest. The term is nearly over; Commemoration is soon. You must go back to the Lakes and rest. But I will not return.”
“I have done nothing but rest, and still my mind tortures me. I need you, don’t you see? I need you to tell me these things so I can get better. You need me, too, or don’t you recall? What was it you called it—your debt for my discretion? I have been discreet. You are near to landing your Prince. I would not wish anything to prevent you your happiness, Alice.”
“And it’s precisely because of our friendship that I cannot return. Further visits would only cause your mind greater distress, until the time when you might say—or do—something that would cause us both great harm. Greater harm than anything you might threaten. You don’t wish for that to happen, do you?”
“No.” His brow was furrowed; his voice low, considering. “No, I would not wish for that to happen.”
“I place all my trust in your discretion, as you may with mine. I will not tell a soul of your recent—illness.” With a calm I did not feel, I smiled at him. “And I place all my hope for happiness in your continued friendship.”
“I am most appreciative of your trust. I am most touched.”
Suddenly it dawned on me that he was still upon his knees. Embarrassed, I turned away while he rose. I gave him time to gather himself before turning back, willing myself not to run out of the room as fast as I could but to linger over my farewell, as any—friend—might do.
“I will see you quite soon, I’m sure of it. We’ll meet at the Commemoration ceremonies, and naturally, Papa and Mamma will have you over to dine, as they so often do.”
“Yes, I would think so. The Deanery’s hospitality is never wanting.”
“Good afternoon, then, Mr. Ruskin?” Why I felt I needed his permission to leave, I do not know. I sought it, all the same.
“Good afternoon, Alice.” With a cold stare, a furrow of his brow, he—reluctantly—bestowed it.
He bowed, I curtsied, and then I left his room forever, feeling his gaze follow me out the door, then down the narrow quad. I longed to run home, propelled by the soft breeze, for I could not shake the feeling that he might follow me and try to lure me back, ensnaring me further. I did not run, however; to Sophie’s surprised relief, I walked as prim and proper as a Quaker going to Meeting, careful not to draw any attention to myself.
When I arrived home, I quickly ran up to my room. I changed my clothes, washed my hands, tried to rid myself of any trace of him and his sick, wayward thoughts, his intent.
Then I sat at my dressing table, staring into the looking glass for a very long time. My eyes grew red, raw with the strain of searching my face; searching for the goodness I prayed that Leo would still find there.
I sat there until day turned into night, and then night turned back into day. Yet try as I might, I could no longer see it.