Chapter 1
OXFORD, 1859
OFF WITH THEIR—LEGS. THAT WAS THE CURIOUS NOTION I had as a child.
That certain people—queens, generally—lost their heads was understood to be a historical fact.
But in my world, legs were missing with alarming regularity as well. The men in their long academic robes, the women in their voluminous skirts; everyone skimming, floating, like puffs of cotton in the air—that is the first, and most vivid, memory of my childhood.
I knew, of course, that children possessed legs; yet the legs seemed to disappear as their owners grew up, and if I never questioned the logic of this it must be because, even then, I understood that Oxford was a kingdom unto itself. It was different from, and superior to, the rest of the globe (which of course meant Britain, for those were the years when the sun never set on Victoria’s empire), complete with its own rules, language, and even time; all the clocks in Oxford were set five minutes ahead of Greenwich mean time.
Naturally, it follows that if Oxford was its own kingdom, then I was its princess—one of three, to be precise—because my mother was, as everyone knew, its queen.
Remarkable for a woman who bore ten children—one would have assumed she was perpetually in a state of bearing a child, or waiting for a child, or getting over a child—Mamma made certain that the Deanery was the social center of Christ Church, which was of course the social center of Oxford. No one dared give a party or a bazaar or a dance without her approval. At times she even graciously made room for other queens; Victoria herself once stayed with us, although not even her plump, imperious personage intimidated Mamma.
Papa was merely the Dean of Christ Church, responsible for the education and religious upbringing of hundreds of gentlemen, including the sons of that same queen. Even when I was so young that the only place I could look was up, for I was all too well acquainted with the ground, I knew that he was quite important. Instructors would bow to him, scholars would pale in his presence, princes deferred to him; entire halls full of young men would rise upon his entrance, as well as his departure.
While at home he could scarcely make himself heard; he was entirely eclipsed by Mamma, and entirely happy to be so. There was even a silly rhyme that made the rounds of Christ Church in those days—
I am the Dean, and this is Mrs. Liddell
She plays the first, and I the second fiddle
This did not reach my ears, however, until much later. For as the daughter of the Dean and Mrs. Liddell, I was sheltered, at least for a time, from most of the gossip that was the chief occupation of some of the finest scholarly minds of the age.
Privileged was how I would describe my early years, if only because I was told that they were such. I knew no life before Oxford, although Papa was, even then, a rising academic: domestic chaplain to Prince Albert, headmaster of the Westminster School in London. I was baptized in the Abbey, the fourth child, second daughter.
Ina was not baptized in the Abbey. I may have reminded her of this with some regularity.
While we still lived in London, an older brother, Arthur, died of scarlet fever. Papa had difficulty speaking of him later; his kind face, with the aristocratic nose and decided chin (which I, unfortunately, inherited) would grow quizzical, his brow furrowing, as if he—such a learned man—could not understand the simplest, most frequently asked question of all:
Why?
I don’t recall that Mamma ever spoke of it one way or another. Although surely that can’t be true.
When I was scarcely four—in 1856—we arrived in Oxford, upon Papa’s appointment as Dean of Christ Church. By then the family included Harry, the eldest, followed by Lorina, myself, and Edith—the three princesses. Ina was three years older than I, Edith two years younger. All of us—along with servants, fine china, heirloom silver, imported linens, and all the other necessities of a distinguished household—moved into the Deanery, which Papa had arranged to be enlarged and remodeled to accommodate our growing family. Even so, it was never quite large enough for Mamma’s ambitions.
It was in this world, this Oxford, that my first memories were made. It was a peculiar world for a little girl, in many ways; there were few children my age, as all the students and dons at the time were supposed to be celibate. Only the deans, the senior members of the college, were allowed to marry, and most of them were of an age where children weren’t possible. Papa was rather the exception to the rule, and I believe that he was proud of the fact.
Perhaps that was why there were so many of us.
Each night, after I was snug in bed, Old Tom, the bell in the imposing tower that was the centerpiece of Christ Church, tolled one hundred and one times (signifying the original number of students at the college); even as I struggled to remain awake for the first chime, I rarely made it all the way through to the end. Our home, the Deanery, was opposite the tower, our front entrance part of the pale stone fortress of buildings bordering the flat green Quad; we also had a private entrance opening up to the back garden. Quite literally, we lived among the students; I remember walking with Ina and Edith—three little maids all in a row, always dressed exactly alike, crisp white frocks in summer, rich velvets in winter—in the Quad with our governess, Miss Prickett, as young men removed their caps and bowed low, exaggeratedly, at our approach.
People in Oxford spoke in solemn, measured tones. Centuries-old traditions demanded to be followed, whether or not they made much sense. To me, still coddled in the nursery world of a proper Victorian childhood, they often did not; that is precisely why I wouldn’t have changed them for the world. I was no ordinary little girl, I fervently believed, and Oxford only reinforced this notion. Every year on the first of May, we all gathered at dawn on the gray stones of Magdalen Bridge, sheltered by huge trees in the early burst of bloom, listening to the whisper of the river Isis down below. Magically, just as the first glow of sun painted the sky from purple to pink, a choir of pure, young male voices would float down upon us, singing ancient hymns to welcome summer.
My birthday was on the fourth of May; I cannot deny that as a child, I secretly believed this hallowed ceremony was somehow in honor of me.
Pricks—Miss Prickett—did not share this belief. She adored Edith, as did everyone; Edith was the most compliant creature on earth, and her swirls of russet red hair only helped endear her to everyone she met. Yet Pricks practically worshipped Ina; as the eldest, the most refined, she could do no wrong.
As for me, in the middle—the only one with pin-straight hair; Mamma deplored how it hung on my neck like seaweed, so she chopped it off, short with a heavy fringe that made me feel as vulnerable as a baby bird before it grows feathers—I must admit, Pricks tolerated me. Barely.
“Alice, what on earth did you do to your frock? Look at your sisters—they haven’t managed to get awful dirt stains on their hems! Whatever were you doing?”
“I was playing in dirt,” said I, frustrated by my need to state the obvious.
“Playing in dirt? On your knees? In a white frock? Who would do such a thing—white stains so!”
“Then why do we wear it, when you know we’re going out to the garden to play? Why don’t we wear brown frocks, or green, or perhaps even—”
“Brown? Who ever heard of wearing brown in May? You’ll wear white, as your mother wishes. Brown. What can I do with such a child?” Whereupon Pricks would throw up her hands to the heavens, as if God alone could tell her what to do with me.
I suspected He couldn’t. I had once overheard Papa say that “God Himself broke the mold when it came to that one,” and I knew, somehow, that he meant me. Even in a house full of children, I was the only one ever referred to in such a singular way.
I was rather proud of that, to tell the truth.
Pricks was prickly. That’s why I named her Pricks; it had nothing to do with her last name. Pricks exclaimed a lot; she threw her hands up a lot. She bristled when I asked her the most natural questions, such as why the wart on her face had a hair growing out of it whereas the wart on her hand did not.
“Alice,” Ina would murmur, patting her long brown curls. Oh, how I longed to have curls! The greatest tragedy of my life, at age seven, was that I had short black hair exactly like a boy. “That’s simply not spoken of.”
“What is?”
“Warts. Pricks can’t help it. It’s not very nice of you to talk about it.”
“Do you think she slept with a frog when she was little?”
“I—well, perhaps.” I could tell Ina was interested in spite of herself; she relaxed her pose—sitting on the windowsill of the schoolroom, hands folded properly in her lap, head bowed in perfect ladylike composure—and actually swung her feet to and fro. “Still, ladies don’t talk of such things.”
“You’re not a lady. You’re only ten.”
“And you’re seven. I’ll always be older than you.” She clapped her hands with delight, while I scowled and longed to pull her hair. How unfair, how tragic, the world was; I would always be younger than her.
“But you’ll always be older than me,” Edith whispered, sliding her moist little hand in mine. I gave it a squeeze, as thanks.
“Oh, look, there’s Mr. Dodgson!” Ina jumped up and pressed her face against the windowpane; Edith and I joined her, although Edith had to climb up onto the cushioned window seat in order to see.
The three of us watched—the windowpane, warm from the sun, smooth against my forehead—as a tall, slim man, dressed all in black from the top of his hat to the toes of his leather boots, wandered into view. He was strolling, hands in pockets, across the generous garden that separated the Deanery from the library. Stopping to examine flowers, hedges, he refused to walk in any sort of straight path, altogether acting like someone hoping to be discovered.
Just then Papa ran into the picture, gown flapping behind him like giant insect wings. He consulted his watch, dangling precariously on its gold chain, with a shake of his head; a huge book was tucked under his left arm. Papa was always running late. I held my breath as he nearly ran Mr. Dodgson down; fortunately, at the last possible moment he swerved around him, not even noticing when Mr. Dodgson raised his hat and bowed.
Mr. Dodgson looked up, then, and saw us in the window; Ina gasped and ducked out of sight, mortified to have been caught spying on him. Ina always behaved so oddly in his presence; she basked in his attention, schemed of ways to encourage it, and then, at the very last minute, always pulled back. Yet whenever I pointed this out to her, merely trying to be helpful, she had a tendency to pull my hair or pinch my arm.
That didn’t prevent me from continuing to comment upon it, however. If she didn’t want my help, that was her misfortune.
I shook my head at her and then tugged on the creaky sash of the window until it opened enough for me to stick my head out.
“Hullo, Mr. Dodgson!”
“Hullo, Miss Alice, Miss Edith.” He bowed in his usual stiff way. I had recently informed him that he walked as if he had a poker stuck down the back of his jacket. He had thought about this, considered it gravely, and agreed that he did, but that he couldn’t help it.
I thought this was a reasonable response and left it at that.
“Alice!” Pricks bustled over—no doubt summoned by Ina, who was standing well away from the window, her arms crossed over her chest, glaring at me. “What on earth are you doing? Young ladies do not shout out of windows like monkeys!”
“Oh, I do wish I was a monkey!” I forgot about Mr. Dodgson for a moment; monkeys were my favorite animals, along with kittens, rabbits, hedgehogs, mice, and lizards. “Wouldn’t that be smashing?”
“Alice! Wherever did you hear that word? Young ladies do not say ‘smashing.’” Pricks reached over my head to push down the window. However, when she saw Mr. Dodgson smiling up at us, she hesitated. “Oh!”
“W-w-w-ould the young ladies like to join me for a pleasant st-stroll around the Quad?” He doffed his hat. “Accompanied by you, of course,” he added hastily. I shook my head in sympathy; his stammer was worse than ever. Poor Mr. Dodgson! (Or—Do-Do-Dodgson, as it sounded coming from him.) Still, he never appeared too upset about it, unlike Pricks and her warts; she was always trying some new cream or lotion to be rid of them.
“Oh, well.” Pricks smiled in that unexpected, scary way of hers; she bent slightly at the waist and twisted her face up almost as if she was going to be ill, but then, at the last minute, a smile appeared, a wide, snapping smile that revealed most of her teeth.
Patting her hair, smoothing her skirts, she swung around and surveyed the three of us, frowning at my dirty hem. “Alice, go ask Phoebe to change you at once. All three of you will have to change, I suppose—I might as well do the same.”
“But why? I’ll only get dirty again.” Once more, I did not see why I had to remind her of the obvious.
“Because your mother will have a—will be quite disappointed, if I allow you out looking like that.”
I was forced to admit that she had a point. Mamma would certainly make a fuss if she saw me, the Dean’s daughter, outside in anything other than a stiff, freshly laundered white frock, the more frills, the better.
Pricks turned back to the window and whispered loudly, “We would be happy to accompany you, thank you so much, Mr. Dodgson. We’ll join you directly.”
“He can’t hear, you know,” I reminded her. “He doesn’t hear out of his right ear. You have to shout.”
“Oh, but I—oh, go ahead, Alice, but don’t shout. Just—speak loudly.”
I shook my head. Pricks was so exceedingly proper all the time, except when it came to Mr. Dodgson. Only he could make her behave in such a manner that I could almost, if I scrunched my eyes and tried very hard, imagine that she had once been a real little girl, like me.
“We would be happy to accommodate you,” I said loudly, slowly, my voice as deep as Papa’s when he gave a sermon. “We shall join you directly.” Then I bowed.
Mr. Dodgson looked up at me, opened his mouth, and laughed. He was still laughing as he sat down on a bench to wait, after first taking care to pull his trousers up at the knees; men did this, I knew, to keep their trousers from creasing. I wasn’t altogether sure why I knew that; it was one of the many bits of useful information I was just now aware that I possessed. When I was six, I had known nothing. Now that I was seven, however, I couldn’t help but be impressed by how very wise I was growing.
“Come, girls!” Pricks clapped her wide brown hands. “Change quickly!” She bustled us out of the schoolroom, looking back at the blackboard with a sigh. “We really should get back to geography—it’s such a lovely afternoon, though. We’ll study botany instead. That will be a pleasant change.” And she smiled, violently, suddenly, to herself.
I wondered again at the ability of adults to turn every single pleasurable experience into a lesson. Did they do this only for our benefit? Or when they were alone, at the dining table or gathered for one of Mamma’s musical entertainments, did they, even then, stop to say, “This tea is very delicious. Are you aware that it comes from India, the subcontinent, which has been a part of the Crown since the rebellion of 1857?”
I believed I was on the cusp of discovering the answer, for I was starting to be included in some of the entertainments held here at the Deanery. Only a month ago, Mamma had allowed Ina, Edith, and me to perform “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” for her guests. Mr. Ruskin, in particular, had pronounced himself impressed; he reached out to pat my hair as I walked past him, after we had curtsied good night.
Although he patted my hair, he had actually gasped at Edith’s—“Look at those titian curls!” he exclaimed. I remembered to ask him what “titian” meant, during our last drawing lesson; he sucked in his breath and informed me my education was appalling but never did answer me. Not even after I pointed out that he had just missed an excellent opportunity to improve it.
“Alice, do hurry!” Ina grabbed my arm and pulled me down the wide gallery, lined on one side with the oil paintings of the English landscape that Papa so admired, on the other with an ornately carved banister crowned with ferocious lions at either end, as finials. “We mustn’t leave Mr. Dodgson waiting!”
“Why ever not? He doesn’t have anything else to do.” I fervently believed that; while I knew, vaguely, that he taught mathematics at the college, I understood that this was not his chief occupation. No, he was ours more than the students’. He was our playmate, our guide on many excursions, our galley slave (he often took us rowing on the Isis, where we loved to pretend that we were Nelson and his men, while Mr. Dodgson did his best to maneuver us about as if we were at the battle of Trafalgar).
It was only recently so. My brother, Harry, along with Ina, had been his favored companions since the day he first made our acquaintance by seeking permission to photograph the Deanery from the garden; Mamma was fond of saying Mr. Dodgson showed up one day with his infernal camera and never really left. Edith and I were only summoned occasionally from the nursery, most often to be photographed. Harry went away to school this year, however, and Mr. Dodgson appeared, finally, to notice Edith and me, and to ask for us, along with Ina, when he called.
Ina did not appreciate this development, I knew. There was nothing she could do about it, and she never let Mr. Dodgson notice her resentment; she was, I had to admit, absolutely brilliant at presenting a sweet, simple face to the world, no matter her true feelings. Just as a lady should, Pricks never wearied of reminding me.
“You silly little girl. Of course Mr. Dodgson has other things to do. Loads and loads of things. He’s a very important man.” Pulling me into the nursery, Ina started unbuttoning the back of my dress, while Phoebe, our nurse, flew about, opening up cupboards until she found three identical white frocks, flounced with pink satin ribbons, the buttons covered in the same pink satin.
“I don’t think so,” I replied, remembering how Mamma had referred to Mr. Dodgson as “that nuisance of a mathematics tutor, a more obtuse man I have never met.” Even though Papa corrected her—“Now, my dear, he is a don”—he had done it mildly. Papa was capable of standing up to Mamma, I knew, when he felt strongly about something. But evidently he did not feel strongly about Mr. Dodgson.
“Oh, Alice, why did you have to go and muddy your frock?” Ina was now stepping out of her own; her petticoats swayed to and fro as she crossed her arms over her chemise and glared at me. The way her eyebrows angled, high and disapproving, and the way her small mouth pursed, as if she was sucking on a lemon, made her almost always look cross, to be perfectly honest. “Those blue stripes on the bodice suit me so well! I despise the pink.”
“I’m sorry.” I genuinely was; I disliked getting dressed more than once a day. It was too much of an ordeal, what with all the buttoning and fastening and layer upon layer of stiff, scratchy underclothing. Chemise, pantalets, not one, not two, but three petticoats, stockings that I never could coax into staying smooth and high; my garters always came undone.
It would only get worse, I thought gloomily. One day I would have to wear a corset.
“C’mere, lamb,” Phoebe said to Edith, who was kneeling in front of her dollhouse, a headless rag doll in her hand. “Let’s get you into your fine feathers.”
“It’s so much fuss, simply to go outside.” I raised my arms; Mary Ann, one of the maids, dropped the beribboned dress over my head.
“Are we ready?”
I turned toward the door; Pricks was standing there, in her new blue silk dress with yellow piping down the bodice that did not go well with her brown complexion, not at all. Still, she looked quite pleased with herself; she had even managed to add a pouf of false hair to the back of her head, so that it stuck out from behind her straw hat like the fuzzy tail of a bumblebee.
“Yes, Pricks,” I said as Mary Ann buttoned up my last glove. Phoebe handed me a pink parasol. “Although what if Mr. Dodgson wants to take us to the Meadow? Perhaps to allow us to roll down a hill? I’ll only stain my dress again, in that case.”
“Mr. Dodgson won’t do any such thing. He’s a gentleman,” Pricks said with a sniff.
Again, I wondered just what part of him Pricks and Ina could see that I could not. It was almost as if we knew two different people, both with the name Charles Lutwidge Dodgson. That was his full name; he had told it to me, after I confided that mine was Alice Pleasance Liddell, which I found rather a long name to write. However, he pointed out that his was longer by one letter, and that cheered me immensely.
I suspected, in a deep, serious part of me no one else knew I possessed, at least so far, which was somewhat worrisome, that Mr. Dodgson was the kind of person who would allow me to roll down a hill. I felt he was the only person on earth, actually, who would; he was my one chance to do this, to do other things that I desired, even things I did not yet know but somehow, I felt he did.
I felt it most when he looked at me as he stood behind his camera, holding the cap to the lens, counting slowly, his eyes never moving from mine as he exposed the plate. There was something about his eyes—the color of the periwinkle that grew at the base of the trees in the Meadow, such a deep blue—that made me feel as if he could see my dearest wishes, my darkest thoughts, before they made themselves known to me. And that simply by seeing them, he was also giving me permission to follow them. Perhaps he was even showing me the way. For I wasn’t very comfortable with the dark thoughts—muddled, nameless thoughts—that sometimes came to me when I relaxed my watchfulness.
I was always on guard, you see. One had to be vigilant; for what, I did not know.
“Alice, come!”
Pricks, Ina, and Edith—predictably clutching her parasol too high, in the middle of the handle; she was such a baby!—were already at the end of the gallery, descending the staircase; I ran after them and immediately felt my right stocking start to sag down my shin.
“Miss Prickett!”
The three of them froze; I took advantage of this moment to sneak into my rightful place, between Ina and Edith.
“Yes, madam?” Pricks turned, her eyes cast down. She curtsied as my mother walked slowly from the library down the front hall, confronting our little group at the bottom of the stairs.
“May I ask where you are taking my daughters?” Mamma smiled as she said this, but the smile did not make it up to her eyes; they were wide, wary—not inclined to believe what they saw, I knew from experience. Such as the time I broke the china shepherdess that always perched, much too nervously, near the edge of the library mantel. Even though I had the foresight to pick up a shard of china—the faded pink china bow of the shepherdess’s apron—and plant it in Ina’s shoe that night, hoping to incriminate her instead, I did not fool Mamma.
Perhaps there would be an advantage to having such a sharp mother someday; that’s what she said, after she punished me by making me take my meals alone in the schoolroom for a week. Still, even for a child so prone to daydreaming, I could not imagine the circumstances under which this could ever be true.
“We’re going out for an expedition, madam. A little botany expedition. It’s such a lovely day.” Pricks raised her gaze to meet my mother’s; she was always a trifle nervous around her but, unlike the rest of the household, had so far avoided being reduced to trembling tears. There was some hint of steel in her character, I had to admit, although she was careful to act completely obedient, always, to Mamma.
Mamma dabbed her upper lip with her handkerchief; it was warm for late May, and despite being tightly bound, a few strands of her black hair had escaped, lying damp and flat against her high forehead. She was fatter than usual because soon another baby would join us. I wasn’t precisely sure what her being fat had to do with a baby, but that was how it was explained to me, and when I asked what the one had to do with the other, she would not say. She told me only that young ladies weren’t supposed to ask such questions.
Still, I couldn’t help but suspect that one very important piece of information was being withheld; I vowed, someday, to discover just what it was. Perhaps Mr. Dodgson would tell me.
“I don’t suppose Mr. Dodgson has anything to do with this?”
I jumped; had Mamma read my mind? But no. She was talking to Pricks.
“Mr. Dodgson suggested it, yes,” Pricks said without apology.
“The girls already took their exercise this morning, did they not?” Now Mamma singled me out with her black-eyed gaze; I felt her look me over, head to toe, searching for stains and tears as evidence.
Pricks could have lied, given how neat I looked now, but she didn’t. “Yes,” was all she answered, choosing to leave the rest up to Mamma.
Suddenly Mamma looked so tired; she closed her eyes, pressed her handkerchief against her forehead. I felt sorry for her. Babies must be very trying to get ready for.
“Oh, do go ahead. Just don’t let the girls romp—and Alice, please try not to get dirty.”
“I’ll try, Mamma.”
She smiled then, her eyes still closed. “Good girl.” Then she slowly climbed the stairs, her wide skirts, in the jeweled red she favored, whispering as she brushed past us. As she went by me, she patted the top of my head.
“Now, girls.” Pricks pulled her left glove up as high as it would go; it was rather a habit of hers, as she was always anxious to conceal that wart. Personally, however, I would have been more concerned about the one with the hair growing out of it.
Mary Ann held the door open for us, and we walked outside. Adjusting my parasol, I blinked at the sudden brightness of the sun; inside the Deanery everything was so gloomy and muted, with heavy sculpted carpeting and oppressive flowered paper, dark wood paneling and banisters. It was always a shock to go outside.
“Miss P-Prickett, what a pleasure.” Mr. Dodgson had walked around from the garden and was waiting for us. He removed his tall black hat, revealing his long brown hair, plastered down on the top of his head but with ends as curly as Edith’s. He bowed; Pricks giggled, and I couldn’t help but be embarrassed for her.
Ina must have felt the same, for she bit her lip and stared down at her shoes. Edith was too distracted by a butterfly to notice.
“Miss Liddell, Miss Alice, Miss Edith.” Mr. Dodgson shook each of our hands, so solemnly that I had to laugh. As if the last time we’d seen him, he hadn’t been standing on a chair in his room, swatting a mechanical bat with a broom and pretending to be Phoebe, who was terrified of anything with wings.
“What are we going to do today? I don’t want to simply stroll about the Quad.” I flung myself at him; his arms, as always, were ready to catch me. He held me close as I wrapped my arms about his waist; he was slender, so that I could reach all the way around him. I couldn’t do that with Papa; I only got halfway around him.
Mr. Dodgson’s vest scratched against my cheek as he bent down to meet me; he paused a minute to smell the top of my head. He was fond of doing that, I’d noticed lately. While I could perceive no harm in it, as long as he didn’t have a cold, still I couldn’t prevent a little shiver from chasing itself up and down the back of my neck. It wasn’t a frightful shiver, such as the kind that stole over me whenever I had to walk down the gallery at night, past the ferocious carved lions, my candle weak and ineffective against the dark.
No, this shiver was more curious. As if it might lead me to some immense danger, or some immense delight, I couldn’t decide which. One day I might want to know; not today.
He released me and turned toward Ina, who had been glaring at us. Suddenly she blushed, took a step back, hung her head, and smiled one of her maddeningly teasing smiles, as if she knew a secret she wanted you to find out.
I would never, ever ask her what it was, however. That would only be giving in.
Mr. Dodgson shrugged, hugged Edith, who had toddled over, bored with the butterfly, and then he straightened up.
“Any suggestions? I’ve the entire afternoon to be at your disposal.”
“Can we go rowing?” I asked. “It’s awfully hot!”
“No, I promised Mr. Duckworth we wouldn’t go again until he could join us, as he’s heard me talk so much about our fun times,” Mr. Dodgson said. “You wouldn’t want me to break that promise, would you?”
“Oh, no!” I shook my head so vigorously that the ends of my hair tickled my ears. I did like Mr. Duckworth, who had a splendid singing voice; we had recently met him at tea in Mr. Dodgson’s rooms, where he sang bits from an Italian opera for us. To be honest, I was surprised to meet him there, even if he was another fellow at college. I wasn’t accustomed to seeing Mr. Dodgson with other adults, except on the rare occasions Mamma invited him to parties at the Deanery. “No, we mustn’t break a promise to him!”
“I did tell Mrs. Liddell that I was taking the girls out for a botany expedition,” Pricks said.
“Ah, b-b-botany. A fine excuse for an outing. Especially when accompanied by a mathematics professor.”
Pricks laughed and took Mr. Dodgson’s arm, which he offered to her after first stifling a small sigh, I noticed. I don’t believe, though, that Pricks did.
“Would you like to go to the Meadow, my ladies?” he called over his shoulder.
“Oh, yes!” I jumped up and down, and I’m afraid I did shout, causing more than a few students, heads together in earnest discussion, to look my way. Mr. Dodgson only laughed, even while Ina and Pricks stiffened. “Might we roll down a hill?”
“I’m not sure what that has to do with botany, Alice,” Mr. Dodgson said. “D-d-do enlighten me.”
“Well.” Frowning, I tried not to step on grasshoppers as I walked, as I knew from experience they made a mess when squished. “We would be rolling on grass, which is a plant. We could study the grass after, to see if it got flat or not. That would be scientific.”
Ina laughed at me, and I resisted the urge to poke her with my parasol, but only because we were still in the Quad and Mamma might be watching from the window.
Mr. Dodgson did not laugh. He released Pricks’s arm—she did not appear to like that, as she let out a sigh she didn’t bother to stifle—and clasped his gloved hands behind his back. I wondered why he always wore gloves, inside and out, even when it was hot; I had to, of course, because I was a girl. Men, however, did not have so many requirements, so it made no sense to me.
Mr. Dodgson nodded slowly, giving my answer thoughtful consideration, which was one reason why I liked him so. He was the only adult who ever did.
“That is an interesting answer. I do wonder if the weight of a little girl would be enough, but then we must consider the f-force of the roll itself, as a factor.”
“Exactly!” I was excited now, and pleased with myself for coming up with such a brilliant experiment; I couldn’t prevent myself from skipping a step or two, to Ina’s great annoyance.
“Then again, there’s another factor we must consider. Can you tell me what it is?”
“Bugs,” crowed Edith happily. She loved bugs of all types and longed to have an ant farm in the nursery. Phoebe wouldn’t hear of it, though, despite my many attempts to explain to her that ants did not have wings.
“No, not bugs.”
“The wind?” Ina asked, in spite of herself; I resisted the urge to stick my tongue out at her.
We had crossed the hot, treeless Quad, passing the great fountain in the middle with its bronze statue of Mercury, and were now under the towering stone arch that marked the entrance. Turning left, we proceeded down the narrow, noisy street of St. Aldate ’s, with all its lovely shops. I did hope we would stop to buy sweets; I patted the tuppence in my pocket, just in case.
“No, the wind would not be a factor.” Mr. Dodgson raised his voice in an effort to be heard over the clatter of carts and horses on cobblestones, the clang of bells on shop doors, the steady hum of conversation tickling my ears.
“The rain from yesterday?” I asked.
“No, not the rain—although, yes, I suppose on another day that could be a mi-mitigating factor. Not today, though; the sun is too bright.”
“Then what? What is the other factor?” Despite my belief that lessons should never interfere with play, I was curious. So curious, in fact, that I didn’t even notice we’d passed the sweet shop until we were two doors past, when a lady carrying a basket containing a large fish bumped into me. She apologized with a curtsy—the fish merely stared sadly up at the sky—and hurried away.
“No one has stopped to consider the effect of grass stains upon white—what is it? Cotton? Linen?” Stopping, he bent down and fingered the hem of Ina’s dress; she stiffened, and I saw her shoulders tremble slightly.
“It is muslin,” Pricks said with a patient smile. “Gentlemen never can tell the difference.”
“Which is only as it should be. At any rate, grass stains plus little girls’ white dresses equal a very—agitated—mother.”
“True,” I had to admit with a sigh. “Very true. Mamma did ask me, particularly, not to get dirty. And I did just get dirty this morning.”
“As I’m sure you’ll get dirty tomorrow. However, I do not wish to hasten the inevitable. So we shall not roll down the hill. Not today, at any rate,” Mr. Dodgson said with a sad smile; all his smiles were just a little sad around the edges, as if he knew happiness never could last very long. Whenever he smiled, I wanted to pat his hand or lean my head against his shoulder to cheer him up.
“But perhaps someday?” I slid my hand in his and was grateful for his sympathetic squeeze.
“Perhaps.” There was a sudden commotion; the lady with the fish dropped it in the middle of the street with a cry, and Edith ran toward it, eager to aid in its capture. I would have followed, but just as I started to go—right behind Ina and Pricks, who called out, “Edith, it’s not proper to play with someone’s dinner!”—Mr. Dodgson bent down and caught my elbow.
“But cheer up, my Alice. I do have a lovely surprise for you.”
I stopped, my heart racing, both at the excitement of the fish, now flopping weakly in a gutter while a raggedy man poked at it with a stick, and at the tempting words Mr. Dodgson had uttered. His hand still caressed my elbow and I felt, at that moment, that I would go anywhere, do anything he asked, as long as it remained only the two of us, no one else allowed.
“Is it a secret just for me?” I whispered, unable to look in his eyes for fear I was wrong.
“Just for you,” he whispered back. So I found that I could look in his eyes, his kind, loving eyes that picked me, out of three identically dressed little girls, and saw only me, despite all my many failings as recited daily by Pricks and Ina and Mamma. My heart was glad, so glad; it wanted to leap out of my chest and tell him so, but it had to content itself with my words.
“Oh, that sounds so nice! What is it? When will I know?”
“Soon. I’ll send you a note soon, when the perfect day presents itself.”
“But how will you know it’s perfect?”
“It shall say to me, ‘Mr. Do-Do-Dodgson, I command you to go fetch Alice, because this day belongs to her, it cannot belong to another, and the three of us—you, Alice, and myself—must spend it together, in order to remember it always.’”
“How can a day spend itself?” My head spun with the notion of Mr. Dodgson talking to the day; would he be addressing the sun, the clouds, the air itself? Just what did a day look like? Did it have a very deep voice? Or a merry voice, like the laughing tinkle of the little clock on Mamma’s desk, the one with the ballerinas that spun around in a circle?
“Days are very mysterious things, of course. 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.”
I did so want to know how a day spent itself, but I decided to leave it for another—day. Then I laughed, thinking I had made a pun, although I wasn’t exactly sure; when Mr. Dodgson inquired as to why I was laughing, I shook my head, not wanting to explain.
He didn’t appear to mind; he smiled and stood up straight, still holding my hand, as we waited for Pricks and Ina to retrieve Edith.
“Oh, did she get anything on her dress?” I studied her anxiously; with Mamma’s request weighing upon my conscience, I felt somehow responsible for the spotlessness of the entire party.
“Not a thing, thank heavens!” Pricks studied the bottom of her own skirt, which was now damp and muddy. “Oh, these streets! Mud and water and horses and fish and who knows what else!”
“Then let us hasten to the Meadow, where the fresh air will dry your skirt, Edith can chase butterflies and not fish, Alice can look at the hill but not roll down it, and Ina can sit prettily under a tree and look thoughtful.”
Edith clapped her hands; Ina blushed and smiled; Pricks pulled her glove up high over her wrist and touched the false knot of hair sticking out from her bonnet.
I tugged on Mr. Dodgson’s jacket. “What will you do?”
“I’ll tell stories, I suppose. Don’t I always?”
I nodded, happy. Yes, he did tell stories; intricate stories about us, about Oxford, about the people we knew, the places we saw every day, but somehow he managed to arrange them all into faraway places, lands we’d never seen before yet recognized all the same.
“Isn’t that a sweet family?” I heard a lady say as we crossed St. Aldate’s—Pricks raising her skirts with much exaggeration as she stepped over piles of fresh horse manure, as the dairy wagon had just passed—to get to the wide, tree-lined Broad Walk, which bordered the Meadow.
The lady was obviously not from Oxford; everyone here knew that we were the three Liddell girls. I laughed, even as Pricks gave a sudden start. She raised her chin, surprising me by looking very soft and almost pretty, with glistening eyes, a smile not quite so sudden and terrible; not all her teeth were showing. I wondered why she didn’t correct the lady; I supposed it was one of those instinctive manners she was always going on about.
Ina almost said something; I could see her struggle as her face reddened, her mouth opened, and she looked at Pricks and Mr. Dodgson, as if seeking their permission. However, Pricks chose that moment to stumble and lean more heavily upon Mr. Dodgson’s arm. I held my breath; she certainly was bigger than he, even without her swaying skirt, and I feared he might topple over. By some miracle he didn’t; he grimaced a bit, but held on bravely.
Ina’s eyes narrowed. I could see her storing this picture away, as she sometimes did; I knew my sister hoarded information the way squirrels hoarded nuts. Not useful information, either, such as why Phoebe always dipped her food into tea before she ate it (she said she had soft teeth and didn’t want to lose them before she got too old to catch a husband).
No, Ina was more interested in quiet things, looks and sighs and passing touches. The way a man sat on a sofa next to a lady; the distance between them; the silence. She could find meaning in such things, and she sometimes talked about them with me, but mainly—as I never could understand what they meant, and didn’t feel like trying very hard to learn—she stored them away. For some future use that I could not help but fear, as little as I understood it.
So we passed our afternoon companionably, doing precisely what Mr. Dodgson had predicted. Sheltered by the tall chestnut trees, Ina posed on a low stone bench, patted her curls a lot, and looked dreamy; Edith tried to catch every insect she saw; Pricks fanned her skirts out in a very energetic attempt to dry that one damp splotch. I looked longingly at a pretty slope, just the right height, with no dangerous tree roots sticking out; the grass was so very green and tempting, but somehow, I remembered my promise to Mamma. So I contented myself with picking buttercups for her, although I still ended up losing one glove and soiling the other.
Mr. Dodgson reclined on the grass—gentlemen did not mind stains as much as ladies; this was another important piece of information I now possessed—and told stories. Some silly tales, I soon forgot what they were; they were the same as all the other stories he told, long and winding and full of talking animals and people behaving strangely, although somehow recognizably. I felt I might know whom he was talking about really—the lecturing fish certainly sounded familiar, the way he droned on and on about heaven and the narrow path that leads to it—but in the end, I had to give up. It was too warm to think. I was too drowsy.
He did make me sit up straight, once, with just a look, a sudden, intense look, almost as if he were afraid I might disappear and he wanted to remember me. When I felt myself blush, wondering why I felt so strangely, he blinked, and I relaxed. With a smile, he put a finger to his lips, and I knew he was referring to our secret; my insides bubbled over with happiness, making me giggle out loud.
Immediately, however, I stopped. Ina’s face pinched up; her small mouth set itself in a tight, disapproving line. Her eyes grew cold and still. They reminded me of Mr. Dodgson’s camera lens, unblinking, unemotional.
Those eyes remembered, recorded everything, including things like secrets; including things like sympathetic hearts that were, as yet, barely noticeable even to those who possessed them.