Chapter 5
HE DID NOT WRITE IT ALL DOWN.
Not the first time I asked, at any rate. Nor the second. I asked every time I saw him—and as our boat trip had taken place just prior to us leaving for Wales and our new house that Papa had built right on the rocky shore, I had to content myself with asking him in the letters I wrote, every week, during the holiday. Then the term started, and life became an endless round of lessons and manners, and Mamma got fat again. (I did wish, this time, it would be a boy.)
Finally, Mr. Dodgson told me that he had started to write it down. He said that he had been thinking about it all the time, fortunately, so he hadn’t forgotten any of the particulars. He said that writing it down was quite different; he had published a few poems and short, silly stories before, under a different name—Lewis Carroll—but nothing like this. Even though it was supposed to be just for me, not for anyone else, he thought it would take some time. When you write things down, he explained, they sometimes take you places you hadn’t planned.
His meaning wasn’t clear to me, but as long as he was writing it down, I didn’t bother trying to puzzle it all out. I assumed I would understand what he was talking about once I read it again; once I saw my name on a page, as a little girl having adventures in a fantastic place underground. I knew I would keep the story with me, always. I thought perhaps I might put it in my mahogany box decorated with bits of sea glass, where I kept all my favorite things—the pearl bracelet Grandmother gave me when I was born; the perfectly black, round pebble I discovered in the Meadow one day; the pink silk thread I found wound through a bird’s nest that had fallen from a tree in the garden; the teaspoon the Queen had used when she and Prince Albert came to the Deanery to visit the Prince of Wales. (To be perfectly truthful, I wasn’t certain it was the actual teaspoon, but I found it on the tray that had been used to clear away the tea things after she left, so it might be.)
They take you places you hadn’t planned.
If it was true in stories, it was also true in life, and it was exactly how I felt that winter; unmoored, discontent, waiting for something to happen, without knowing exactly what it might possibly be. Everyone—everything—seemed to be waiting, too distracted to act properly; fires never behaved in their grates, servants walked out the door during meals, letters were posted but never received.
My family was not exempt from the general restlessness. Ina was now fourteen, established in her own boudoir with her own maid. She was tall for her age and extremely pale; when Harry came home for the Christmas holiday he acted very uneasy around her, as if he had no idea how to treat this strange creature who once had been his little sister. Harry generally had little use for us anyway—we couldn’t play cricket and weren’t interested in his stories about the “fine chaps” at school—but that year the divide appeared sharper. He stayed more with Papa, because Pricks had no idea what to do with him; she acted frightened of him, now that he was taller than she.
On the surface I felt as much like myself as ever, to my great relief. For I studied myself every morning in the looking glass, anxious to see signs that I was turning into a lady, and happy to find none there. My hair was, finally, just a little bit longer, and fluffier on the ends, but still I wore the same straight black fringe across my forehead, framing my dark blue eyes. My chin remained as pointed as ever, and while I was slenderer, I was not very tall. I did not fill out my frocks like Ina did, and I was very happy about that, for it meant I was spared having to wear a corset, at least for a while longer. (Although Ina never complained about hers, for she felt the tight lacing made her face even more pale, as was the fashion.)
Yet sometimes, lying at night in the nursery, listening to Edith’s steady breathing, Rhoda’s soft snores, Phoebe’s gentle murmurings, I did envy Ina her own room. I longed for some privacy so that I might continue to study myself, not just my physical appearance but how I reacted to certain ideas, unfamiliar longings—and I did wonder, then, if that was what it meant to be growing up.
Edith, at nearly nine, was almost as tall as I was. She was becoming the acknowledged beauty with her thick russet hair and fair complexion. But unlike Ina, she didn’t seem to care about how she looked; she wore her prettiness with ease; it fell upon her with the grace of a butterfly perched on her shoulder. She was as easygoing as ever.
Mr. Dodgson never did appear to change. I was conscious of that, more than before; conscious of his age, too. I would do silly sums about it, such as: If I was five the first time we met, that meant he must have been twenty-five. But now I was ten, almost eleven, and he was just thirty-one. For some reason, the difference between thirty-one and eleven seemed much less than the difference between twenty-five and five; I wondered why that was.
Physically, though, he was as ever—perhaps he walked a bit more stiffly, but that was it. As I made special note of his age, I also made special note of his appearance, constantly measuring it against other men of my acquaintance, as if they were all in some sort of competition. Mr. Dodgson’s hair, for example, stayed long and curling and softly brown; comparing him to Mr. Duckworth, whose hair had started to be a bit thin on top, I couldn’t help but think that Mr. Dodgson most resembled a hero of a romance novel.
Mr. Dodgson was also as thin as ever, but no more so; slender was actually the word I found myself using to compare him to Mr. Ruskin, who seemed to grow stouter each time I saw him. Mr. Dodgson, I could imagine upon a white horse—an idealistic Don Quixote on Rocinante, his slender torso leaning forward as he rode bravely toward ferocious giants. Mr. Ruskin, on the other hand, I could only see as Sancho Panza, his stubby legs dangling as he sat astride a flea-bitten mule.
Mr. Dodgson’s dress, as well, remained the same—recently, I had decided that his constant glove-wearing was the sign of a true, refined character—but then gentlemen’s dress usually did. It was only ladies who were forever changing fashions—that winter of 1863, skirts that had been merely bell-shaped a few years before were now positively pyramid-like; so wide that only one or two ladies might easily fit in a carriage, much to the disgust of Bultitude, who had been promoted from the stable to coachman. He had to make many trips in order to fetch ladies to and from parties.
Still, what I most remember about that winter was that Mamma was not at all well; I knew by now that babies somehow came from their mothers’ bodies, which was why with every one she got so fat. Usually, though, she continued her activities almost until the very moment the baby arrived. Not this time; she stayed in her room for days, reclining on a chaise longue near the fire, very ashen, her hair dull and flat. While this naturally cast a pall over the household—it was surprising how much we relied upon her energy and decisiveness; without them, we appeared simply to list about, waiting to be told what to do—there was one benefit.
Mamma suddenly wanted to spend time with me.
I don’t know why she singled me out. Of course she watched Ina carefully, as best she could from her dressing room; Ina was entering into the “dangerous years,” Mamma told me: the years that would decide her future, for better or for worse, and Mamma was determined that it be the former.
While Edith was always a steadying, calming presence, needing nothing more than to be loved and cared for, it was, surprisingly, to me that Mamma turned whenever she wanted to talk, which was quite often. It occurred to me even then that there was a shadow across her thoughts about the coming confinement. She had already borne six children; did she feel the odds were no longer on her side?
At any rate, she often asked Pricks to send me down—even in the middle of lessons—to sit with her. I generally brought a book with me, although she had so many in her room, which was very unusual for the time. We had a great library, naturally, but Mamma said she liked to keep her favorite books near her. They comforted her, she said. I had never before imagined that Mamma might need comfort.
On one of these afternoons—it was gray, and sleet pounded the windows with a dull percussion—we talked of the future. The fire was burning brightly—Mamma was proud of the fact that the Deanery was always warm, no matter the season; she did not skimp on coal—and she reclined heavily beneath a red wool afghan, scarcely stirring, as it made her ill to move her head. She stared moodily into the fire as sparks danced on the hearth, and I wondered what she saw in them.
“Mamma?”
“Yes?”
“What are you thinking of?”
“Oh, so many things. There seem to be so many things left to do.”
“Like what? Didn’t Ina order dinner, as you told her to? I could go talk to Cook, if you wish.”
“No.” She smiled, a gentle smile, the smile she showed only to the family, and then rarely. “I didn’t mean practical things. I forgot how literal you sometimes are.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, dear. Don’t worry so much about all of us. You’ll get a permanent frown—see how you look right now?” She motioned for me to go look in the mirror on her rosewood dressing table; I did, and saw that, indeed, I did have a faint V between my eyes.
I returned to the low velvet stool where I always sat, next to her. There was also a small marble-topped table that was full of the things she needed and wanted—a white etched-glass table lamp burning bright with oil, handkerchiefs, a carafe full of water, a magnifying glass keeping her place in a book (she said her eyes hurt sometimes), a silver bell to summon her maid, a smoky brown bottle of medicine drops.
“No, Alice.” Mamma motioned toward the carafe; I poured her a small glass of water, careful not to spill. “I was thinking about the future. Yours, and Ina’s, and Edith’s, particularly. You’re getting to be young ladies now—Ina already is. But so will you be, soon.”
“Not too soon,” said I, thinking—hoping—that if I kept saying it, it would be true.
“Before you know it,” Mamma insisted, sipping the water, placing the glass on the table. She leaned back against her pillows and closed her eyes for a moment. “Oh, this one is different.”
“This one what?”
“This child.” She indicated her swollen stomach; the rest of her was so thin, while her stomach continued to grow. It seemed unnatural to me, as if there were a monster inside her, feeding off her flesh.
“I’m sorry, Mamma.”
“Alice,” she said with a drowsy smile. Then she opened her eyes, fixing me with a surprisingly fierce gaze. “You’ll marry well,” she whispered. “You will. It’s your right—I’ve worked so hard for you girls.”
“Please don’t worry yourself—shall I ring for Yvonne?” Yvonne was her maid.
“No, no.” She waved her hand impatiently, fretfully, as Rhoda sometimes did when she was too stubborn to nap. “You need to hear this, Alice. I’m relying on you—you have sense, child. I can see that. Despite your faults, you have a fine mind. You don’t get distracted, like Edith, and you don’t convince yourself that there are hidden meanings behind every single word, like Ina.”
I was flattered but troubled. Normally I would have longed to hear Mamma praise me—but not in this fevered, desperate way.
“Perhaps you should wait until you’re better, and then you can tell me—”
“No, there may not be—there’s no point in procrastinating, Alice. You always are one for that.”
“I know.” I sighed, happy to have her find fault with me again, wondering at the topsy-turvy nature of a world in which I would find my mother’s disapproval to be a comfort.
“You need to ensure your sisters and you marry well. Good men, from fine families—but don’t settle. You’re worth something, all three of you. Never forget that. I’ve brought you up to be at home with kings and queens. I don’t want you wasting yourselves on common men.”
“Good men—like Papa?”
“Well, yes.” She smiled. “Your father is a good man, and see what he has accomplished? There’s none his superior at Oxford.”
“What—what makes a man good, like Papa? Why did you—what made you want to marry him?”
“His excellent family, his established academic credentials, his unlimited potential.” Mamma rattled the answer off so quickly, I wondered if she’d been made to memorize it. Then she smiled again, her eyes soft and thoughtful. “Of course, I loved him.”
“He is older than you.” I was very much concerned with age lately. For example, I knew that the Prince of Wales was only three years older than his betrothed.
“Yes, he’s fifteen years my senior. Almost old enough.” Mamma raised an ironic eyebrow.
“What do you mean?”
“Men need more time, Alice. They don’t mature as fast as we do. An older man is an excellent match.”
“Really? Perhaps—perhaps someone twenty years older?”
“Perhaps.”
“How did you know you loved Papa? Did he tell you?”
“Merciful heavens, no! Men never know their own mind—we have to make it up for them. No, child, I told him, although of course, not until we were properly engaged. But I let him know, before. There are ways; you’ll see. Pray remember, Alice—love isn’t all. There is family, and education, and potential. Also property, of course.”
“Oh.” I wasn’t sure what she meant; everyone I knew had some sort of property. Except servants, naturally.
“As well, there must be a—a mutual feeling, I suppose. That’s the proper way to put it, a mutual feeling of respect, and kindness, and sympathy.”
“Kindness and sympathy?”
“Yes. You’ll know it—you’ll see it in his eyes.”
My heart beat fast, my face felt warm as I remembered eyes. Deep blue eyes, eyes that followed me wherever I went; I felt them on me even when I was alone. Especially—especially at night, while my sisters slept and I lay awake, on my back. In the nothingness of my cotton nightgown, not unlike a thin gypsy girl’s frock.
I shook my head. I was not so watchful these days; thoughts could surprise me, shock me. I had no idea where they even came from, yet I felt perfectly capable of following them on my own.
“Poor Bertie,” Mamma murmured.
“Who?”
“The Prince of Wales,” she said. I relaxed, eager to think of someone else, for I suspected my own thoughts were dangerous even as I could not say precisely why.
“Why is he poor?”
“Because royalty never marries for love. Not that that’s everything, of course—and I can’t say that I approve of it being the only reason. But I know Bertie—he gave your father many a nightmare while he was in residence. He’ll never be happy with a sweet little princess, no matter how beautiful.”
“She is, isn’t she?” I had admired the artist’s picture of Princess Alexandra in the newspaper. She was stunning, with dark hair and beautiful big eyes and the tiniest waist I’d ever seen.
“Yes, but that won’t be enough to keep Bertie in tow. But that’s not our problem, is it? The poor Queen—still in mourning.”
I remembered when Prince Albert had died, more than a year ago. Mamma ordered the seamstress to make us up several winter dresses, either black or gray edged in black. I was very happy when we didn’t have to wear them any longer.
“Mamma, how much property, exactly, must a gentleman own to be suitable?” I glanced over at my mother, prepared to do another sum. But her eyes were closed again, and she was breathing steadily.
Slowly rising—careful not to knock a thing over on the table with my wide sleeves—I bent down and kissed her on the forehead; it was clammy, so I blew on it, wishing I could dispel her troubled thoughts, as well. Then I walked over to the window and pulled the heavy brocaded drapes even tighter, trying to drown out the relentless drumming of the sleet.
As I did, I looked across the garden, toward the Old Library with its crooked roof and small windows, where Mr. Dodgson lived. I thought of the Prince of Wales, about to be wed.
It seemed to me—for I was caught up in the wedding fever, too, though I wouldn’t admit it; an illustration of the Prince and his fiancée was currently folded under my pillow, where no one could see—that love was in the very air these days. Perhaps that was what we were waiting for, after all. It blew the bare limbs of the trees; it warmed the stones in the Quad on sunny days. I wanted to believe that happily-ever-after was possible, and not only in fairy tales or stories. Although not in the stories that Mr. Dodgson told—I realized, just then, that his stories were almost always remarkable for their lack of sentiment. Why was that? Did he need someone to—to inspire him, perhaps?
But surely, a storyteller like himself had to believe in happily-ever-after, deep down in his soul. Maybe he could put it into the end of my story; I blushed to call it that, but I did. Not out loud but in the quiet places of my heart. Perhaps it wasn’t too late; after all, he hadn’t written it down.
There was still time to change it, I believed; all I had to do was ask, for he had never denied me anything. Alice could be a tall, pale maiden with short black hair, a faint worried expression. She could walk into the sunset hand in hand with a tall, slender man with blue eyes, curling light brown hair, and they would live happily ever after, just like the Prince and Princess of Wales. Despite what Mamma said, I wanted to believe that they were very much in love. For if princes and princesses couldn’t live a fairy tale, what hope did the rest of us have?
Did I see a light burning in a window across the garden? A light in rooms I had visited so many times, only to think of doing so again made my stomach tremble, my mouth grow dry, my head spin with notions of fairy tales and princes and love and good men? I shut the drapes quickly and turned to go—as if the creatures of the night could see me and read my thoughts.
As I did, I tiptoed past Mamma, the red afghan rising up and down steadily as she slept. I paused, just once, to look at her and guess at the dreams that mothers dreamed—
Wondering if happily-ever-after meant the same thing to them as it did to us.
ON MARCH 10, the Prince and Princess of Wales were wed. There was an explosion of celebrations in Oxford; Mamma was too ill to mind that she could not host any of them, and this malaise troubled me more than the strange confidences we had shared.
Still, she managed to dictate what Ina, Edith, and I were to wear at our one official obligation. We each planted a tree in honor of the marriage; mine was planted in memory of Prince Albert, and I gave a brief speech (which, according to Ina, no one heard, as my voice never rose above a whisper). After, we strolled through the narrow streets of Oxford with Papa and Grandmother Reeve, who was visiting to help Mamma, and we admired all the festivities—the bazaars and lawn games and dancing and music everywhere. I’d never seen so many musicians, many of them in military uniform, with faces to match the scarlet of their coats as they puffed away at their brass instruments. It was chilly despite the sun, but nobody appeared to mind, as there were bonfires on every corner, tended gaily by sweeps and ragmen wearing their very finest, shiniest black frock coats, top hats merrily askew.
Ina was not in a good mood, despite the infectious gaiety around her—strangers clasped hands in the streets, and young men boldly attempted to kiss young women, to Grandmother’s audible horror. For Mamma was permitting me to stay up for the fireworks and illuminations that evening; not only permitting me but allowing me to invite whomever I wished to accompany me. Without hesitation, I invited Mr. Dodgson.
“You’re much too grown-up to be out at night unchaperoned,” Mamma had told Ina that morning—very crossly, as the baby was only a few weeks away. “Why on earth do you care if Alice goes?”
“Because I do want to see the illuminations! It’s so romantic!” Ina flounced about the room; I held my breath as her skirts brushed Mamma’s marble table, almost knocking over the carafe.
“Ina, do be quiet.” Mamma looked as if she was about to be ill; she pressed her lips together and closed her eyes. Ina was startled into stillness.
“Do you want some water, Mamma?” I whispered from my post on the stool.
She shook her head, shuddered quietly, then opened her eyes again; they were dull with fatigue.
“Now.” Her voice was weak yet decisive, an echo of her former self. It vexed me that Ina couldn’t see how ill she was. I wanted to shake my sister until her teeth rattled—but only after we left Mamma’s room. “Now. Alice has been a perfect angel to me and she deserves a treat. I fail to understand why she wants to go with Mr. Dodgson—Mr. Ruskin has made himself available, if she wants.” Here Mamma looked at me, the question in her eyes underscored by the purple smudges beneath them. I wrinkled my nose and shook my head. Mr. Ruskin? Why on earth would he want to escort me? While I’d learned to keep my mouth more or less shut during our lessons, he still appeared to see me not as I was but almost as someone he had already decided me to be.
Also, I was no longer so sheltered from the gossip that circled like a dust storm about him wherever he went, not all of it generated by him, and much of it about him. There were whispers as to the true reason his marriage had been annulled, a reason that no one would actually speak but that caused many heads to nod sagely, even as it made ladies blush and gentlemen snicker. I had no desire to become further acquainted with him, despite the fact that I knew he very much desired to become further acquainted with me. This was not the first request he had made for my company.
“As you wish. Then Mr. Dodgson it is, although for the life of me I do not understand his appeal. If he weren’t such a stammering fool! I suppose it’s the Christian thing to do, to allow him his little friendship with you children. I’m sure he has no friends otherwise except for Mr. Duckworth, but that hardly counts. Mr. Duckworth is pleasant to everyone.”
“See, then, Mamma?” Ina’s fists were clenched, as were mine; neither of us liked to hear Mr. Dodgson run down like this. Why couldn’t others see him the way we did? I marveled, again, at how one man could appear to be so different to so many people.
Ina’s face, at least, remained smooth and sweet, just like her voice. “See how it would be the Christian thing, for me to go tonight, as well? As you said, he has few friends otherwise. We do seem to provide him comfort in that way.”
“Stammering or not, he’s a man and you’re a young lady, Ina. You cannot be out at night together. Not even with Miss Prickett—but as her father is poorly and she’s down at the cottage with him, that’s impossible, anyway. No, you’ll remain with me tonight, and Alice may enjoy the fireworks.”
“Thank you, Mamma!” I forgot myself and jumped up, clapping my hands; Mamma grimaced. “Oh! I’m sorry!”
“It’s all right. Now, please, girls, I need to rest. Enjoy yourselves today, but remember you’re the Dean’s daughters and act accordingly. Oh dear.” Abruptly, she pressed her handkerchief to her mouth, waving us away.
We hurried out just as Yvonne burst into the room carrying a fresh chamber pot covered with a linen towel. I shuddered as poor Mamma summoned Yvonne over to her, her face ashen. Quickly, I shut the door.
“I’m never going to have a baby,” I declared, feeling my own stomach turn in sympathy. “How horrid. And Mamma has had so many of them!”
“I think babies are perfectly lovely.” Ina turned up her nose—but she paled a little as she heard Mamma’s poor racking sounds from behind the door, and we hastened down the hall.
“Maybe they are, but getting them seems awful.”
“Pray, how do you know about that?” Ina turned, folded her arms across her chest in perfect imitation of Pricks, and stared at me, her eyes narrow and suspicious.
“I—well, I—” Here it was; another thing I did not know, was too young to know, could never hope to know, but Ina, of course, did. I couldn’t bear to see her standing there looking so superior, so I lied. “Of course I know about babies. I’ve known for ages.”
“How, precisely?”
“Honestly, Ina, I can’t possibly remember everything—”
“Did someone tell you?”
“Well—”
“Or did someone show you?”
“Yes! That’s it—someone showed me.”
“Someone older than you?”
“Naturally!”
“How long have you known?”
“How long have you known?” I countered, and was rewarded with Ina’s startled look, a pink flush coloring her cheeks.
“I—well, I’m not quite sure—at any rate, I do know.”
“Well, then.” I brushed past her, as we needed to change for the tree-planting ceremony; Mamma had chosen new identical dresses of light blue taffeta, with black scallop edging up the front of the bodice and along the hem. “We both know. Imagine that, Ina—you’re not the only one who knows something!”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be sure of that, Alice.” Ina followed, serenely; she paused in front of a gilded mirror hanging on the wall and smoothed her hair down with one of her secret smiles. “I know things, I see things. More than you do. I’ll only say this—be careful tonight with Mr. Dodgson.”
“What?” I stopped, confused. “What do you mean? Be careful of what?”
“I’m simply concerned for you, Alice. I’m your elder sister, and I’m concerned about you, about this family—but mainly about you. Do remember that—remember that I’m always thinking of you.”
“Fine, but—what did you mean about Mr. Dodgson?”
Ina continued to look in the mirror. Her reflected gaze caught mine, and for a moment it was as if a different person entirely was living on the other side of the gilt frame; a different—dangerous—person. Not my sister.
That person would not answer me, except to place a finger upon her lips and smile.
——
WHEN MR. DODGSON called for me that evening, accompanied by his brother Edwin, who was visiting, I remembered that smile, that sinister gesture. Despite my warm cloak, I couldn’t help but shudder.
However, as soon as we left the Deanery—which had taken on a dark, sick atmosphere for me lately, I realized; Mamma’s illness, and Ina’s unaccountable actions and my own troubling thoughts, combined with the usual depressing gray of an Oxford winter—I felt my spirits lighten. The night was ablaze with spectacle; music was still in the air—I wondered if the musicians had paused for a moment’s breath or at least for dinner—and the possibility of love was everywhere. The Prince of Wales was married! There would be more little princes and princesses, someday a new King and Queen. England would never die; it was the greatest nation on earth, and Oxford was the crown jewel. I was so proud of my country, proud of my home. There was nothing to fear, only everything to celebrate.
“Edwin, may I present Miss Alice Liddell?” Mr. Dodgson gestured to his younger brother, a pale, blurry copy of himself. They had the same lopsided eyes, but Edwin’s were more so; the same small mouth that curved slightly down at the ends, only Edwin’s appeared to hang slightly open.
By now, I had met several of Mr. Dodgson’s siblings; two of his brothers, Skeffington and Wilfred, were undergraduates and had sometimes accompanied us on rowing trips. (Neither of them sang, though, and they both sighed, extremely loudly, whenever I dropped an oar.) Once two of Mr. Dodgson’s sisters came to visit him, and I thought them awfully fat and nosy. (The fattest one, Fanny, had asked me if my mother dressed me in silk petticoats!)
I was a bit doubtful about Edwin then; although I told myself that one should keep an open mind.
“I’m very happy to meet you,” I said, borrowing one of Ina’s fake smiles as I curtsied.
“It’s a pleasure.” Edwin bowed.
“Where shall we go first, Alice?” Mr. Dodgson took my hand—both of ours were gloved, but still I could remember how his hand had felt that day in the garden, dry but soft, cool yet warm. I clung to his hand tightly, as if I could feel it that way again. “Every college has an illumination—I’m told Merton is especially nice.”
“Can’t we simply wander? I don’t want to be in any hurry.”
“That’s a perfect plan. We shall wander and enjoy the night and wi-wish the Royal Couple much happiness.”
We crossed the Quad—there were more than a few students teetering on the curved stone edges of the fountain, slick with moisture, and I did hope one of them might fall in, but regretfully, none did. As we passed through the great iron gate separating the Quad from St. Aldate’s, we found ourselves in the midst of a noisy, pushing crowd. We had no choice but to follow it.
“Alice, don’t let go,” Mr. Dodgson instructed me.
“I won’t,” I told him. Edwin grabbed my other hand, too, and I was glad, for I was afraid I might get swept away only to be kidnapped by a gang of child thieves, just like Oliver Twist, although I’d never once heard of a gang of child thieves in Oxford. Still, the crowds were so enormous—looking about, I didn’t recognize anyone, which was so unusual as to be slightly thrilling—that I felt tonight, of all nights, it might be a possibility.
Just as I was warming to the idea—if I were kidnapped by a gang of child thieves, I was certain that eventually I’d be found out to be a lady, just as Oliver had been found out to be a gentleman, although hopefully not before being coached on the finer points of pickpocketing—we turned the corner into the High Street, and the crowd had room to spread out. I took a deep breath, just as everyone looked up at once and started exclaiming. Directly overhead, high above the steep, uneven roofs, there were rockets and flares sizzling so that the very sky looked about to catch fire. A sharp scent burned the insides of my nostrils, like a thousand matches all lit at once.
“Oh!” I halted in my tracks, causing Mr. Dodgson and Edwin to stumble. But then Edwin let go of my hand, and I was holding on only to Mr. Dodgson.
“Isn’t it grand?” he asked, following my gaze. I could only nod. I’d never seen the sky so brightly lit, not even in London; enormous rushlights were in every conceivable location—hanging on sides of buildings, affixed to the sides of horse troughs, even stuck in the ground—and they were all burning so intensely, I could feel the heat as I passed each one.
Suddenly a flaming pinwheel careened across the sky, showering sparks all over the crowd. There were shrieks and laughter, and one lady shouted, “Arthur, me skin’s on fire!” and Arthur shouted back, “Ain’t it always, love?” Then there was more laughter.
Mr. Dodgson gripped my hand more firmly. “Let’s move on, shall we?”
“But the poor thing’s on fire—” I craned my neck, trying to see who might be aflame. Mr. Dodgson pulled me through the crowd with surprising force. Edwin followed, his face a bright scarlet; I wondered if he was hot because of all the fireworks.
The crowds tonight were different. Earlier, everyone had been very stiff and proper in their finest clothing, even the poor people, some in dreadfully old short jackets and unfashionably narrow dresses. But tonight everything—everyone—was more relaxed; limp collars, wrinkled skirts, broken hat feathers that dangled tiredly. This morning the crowds had been happy but restrained, almost trying to ape the dignity of royalty; tonight people were shouting their joy, slurring their pride, dancing their congratulations to the Royal Couple.
There were bold romantics, too. We passed a couple in a darkened doorway; the man was kissing the back of the lady’s neck. She had her eyes closed so that I couldn’t determine if she was enjoying it or not; she then turned to him, lifting her lips to meet his, her arm arching gracefully about his neck. No one saw them but me, and I felt responsible for their secret; my heart began to swell with the importance of keeping it. Yet I couldn’t stop myself from looking back; somehow the sight of the two of them, pressed together in the doorway, caused my skin to burn more hotly than any fireworks.
“What is it, Alice?” Mr. Dodgson, his hand still in mine, looked down at me. Edwin was a few steps ahead.
“Nothing, it’s simply—it’s simply that everyone’s in love,” I blurted, unable to keep the secret, after all.
Mr. Dodgson raised his eyebrows but smiled. “Romance is in the air, as they say?”
“Everyone’s so nice tonight. Everything’s so nice. Isn’t it? Isn’t it perfectly lovely?” I felt giddy with the beauty of it all. The fireworks, the music—every band seemed to be playing a different Viennese waltz—the illuminations filling every open space. Some were dancing light-filled displays of pictures of the Prince and Princess; others had names or sentiments spelled out with blazing candles in different colored glass lamps.
Most of all, I was enchanted by all the couples strolling arm in arm, sitting in happy conversation on benches—standing in darkened doorways, eyes closed.
“Perfectly. You should see yourself.” Mr. Dodgson’s voice sounded dreamy; as dreamy as it had been that day in the garden, which was, I realized with a sudden awareness of the passage of time, the last day we had been alone together—until now. “Shining hair, shining eyes, shining heart.”
I didn’t know what to say, because it was exactly what I wanted to hear. I yearned to be part of the magic of this night, too. I yearned to be special, I yearned to be beautiful—I yearned to be loved.
For some reason, I resisted showing him how happy he made me; I looked down at my shoes instead. Miraculously, my stockings were still up and my black leather shoes unscuffed. Another sign I was changing, growing; lately, my clothes, my hair, my entire appearance, managed to stay more or less intact.
“Soon I’ll be a young lady,” I murmured, immediately hating myself for sounding exactly like Ina. Why on earth did I say that? It simply popped out.
“Yes.” Mr. Dodgson steered me over to an empty bench; he pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the seat, as there was a half-empty glass of ale perched on the arm. He put the glass on the ground, and we sat down. Edwin had wandered on ahead, toward a booth that was selling commemorative cups and trinkets.
“That’s what Mamma said, anyway,” I continued—desperately wishing I hadn’t, unable to stop myself. “I’ll be eleven, you know, this coming birthday. Almost old enough for—” I couldn’t finish my thought, for it wasn’t completely formed. My head spun with so many choices; what wouldn’t I be old enough for?
“Old enough? Can one ever be old enough? Or will there always be something just out of reach?” Mr. Dodgson smiled, looking amused at himself, and while normally I would have followed along with his game, tonight I felt impatient with it. It seemed ridiculous, when there were so many more serious things to discuss. For a moment, I could almost see him through Mamma’s eyes: an odd man, living in his head, speaking nonsense.
But only for a moment. He caught his breath, as if he’d only just realized what I had really said. Then he shut his eyes; when he opened them they were startlingly blue and clear and focused, seeing only me. I had to turn away, for I knew he was looking at me differently now, and even though this was what I had wanted, I was frightened of the change. “Old enough, perhaps, to think of l-l-love? Like the Prince and Princess of Wales?”
Our knees were touching; I was aware of the warmth and sturdiness of his body through his woolen trousers. Still, I couldn’t look in his eyes.
“Yes, I do think that—I mean, well, tonight one can’t—one can’t help it.”
“It’s natural, then, isn’t it? For one to imagine, to hope?” he asked so softly that I had to look up, because I needed to confirm he had said it. He wasn’t looking at me now; he appeared to be talking to someone else. Yet there was no one else to hear him; only me. “It’s quite natural to dream.”
“Like before? When you talked of your headaches, and your dreams of—of—” Something prevented me from saying it out loud; inside, however, a bold, surprising part of my heart was whispering, me.
“Yes, in a way.” He did turn to me, finally; his eyes were soft and shining, and magical lights were reflected in them—the flickering candlelight of the lantern behind us, the stars, the multicolored fireworks punctuating the sky above.
“My dreams are different now,” he continued, his voice a monotone, so unlike the way it had sounded on the river the day he began my story. “They frighten me at first. But then I see them as they really are, so pure and sacred, as love truly is, truly can be, and I think—I hope—that it can be that way, but then I’m frightened again.”
“You mustn’t be afraid,” I said impulsively, wondering how often he was; aching because I could never be there for him in his darkest moments.
“I mustn’t?” His eyes—they were so hopeful; they studied my face, looking for an answer I wasn’t sure I possessed.
I shook my head. “I do wish I could help you.” I felt tears in my eyes, tears of frustration, for never being able to truly help the ones I loved.
“Dear Alice.” Mr. Dodgson smiled, a crooked, sad smile, sadder than usual. “Do you know how very much you help, simply by being?”
“I do?”
“Yes. Simply by being, by never growing up, by remaining my wild gypsy girl.”
“But I am growing up—I just said so. You just said so. I’m almost a young lady.”
“But you won’t change, will you, Alice? Not like the others? You’re different—you were old when you were young, so it makes sense that you’ll be young when you grow old.”
I couldn’t reply. To follow his logic was to allow myself to follow a dream of my own, a dream I wasn’t sure I was permitted. Instead, I took his hand—his gloved hand; I could make out his long, tapered fingers. I longed to touch his fingers with my own, trace them, see how much longer they were than mine. I played with his hand, turning it over, laying my palm against his palm, soft leather against soft leather, yet through the layers both of our hands felt warm and alive. I heard him swallow, as if his throat was suddenly dry; I felt his pulse beating, brushing up against my own, but still it wasn’t enough. Why were there so many barriers between us, always? Barriers of clothing, of etiquette, of time and age and reason. Yet wasn’t I his wild child? His dream gypsy? Before, I had needed permission to roll in the grass, to feel life against my naked skin; no longer.
I bent my hand back, ever so slightly; our wrists touched. Flesh against flesh. He caught his breath in a ragged gasp.
I did not. Marveling at the sight of our bare wrists touching—mine was pink and tender, his pale and sinewy, with soft brown hairs that tickled—I was amazed at my boldness. I couldn’t help wonder—what else could I do? What else could I win? Once again I felt victorious, for I possessed something; I possessed a man’s heart, as well as his hand. I knew it, as surely as I knew that the Prince and Princess of Wales would live happily ever after. I knew, in that moment, I could say anything I wanted and he would believe it. I could do anything I wished, and he would only applaud it. I could ask for anything I wished, and he would have to grant it. Knowing this, I did not seek permission any longer.
“Wait for me,” I whispered, naming my dream.
Mr. Dodgson’s mouth trembled; so did his hand. I simply covered it with my own and pressed down until he stopped.
“W-what?”
“Wait for me.”
“I don’t—what is it you’re asking—”
I removed my hand from his. I placed it back in my lap. Then I looked up at him with no fear, no worry, no childish doubt. I met his gaze evenly, for the first time not waiting for him to tell me how I felt, what I should do, how I should act. His eyes were full of tears; his heart was full of wonder. I knew, because mine was, too.
“You do know,” I whispered. But I wouldn’t, couldn’t, say it out loud; say that he must wait for me until I was older, then we could be together always in the way that men and women were together. I didn’t know exactly how, but he had already touched me with hands that trembled; had already seen me wild with abandon; had seen me gentle and ladylike, too. While I knew that each instance had been entirely proper and harmless, still, I felt again that others might not see it that way. Not when I was almost eleven, and he was thirty-one.
When I was older, however; when I was fifteen and he thirty-five (there—I was doing sums again!), no one would care. No explanations would be needed. We would be free.
“Oh, Alice,” he whispered—resting his head upon mine, his breath warm against my forehead. I closed my eyes, just like the lady in the doorway.
“Alice? Mr. Dodgson?”
Mr. Dodgson gasped, pushing me away, as we both looked up, only to see—
Pricks. Who was staring down at us, her breathing labored, her nostrils flaring.
“Miss Prickett!” He tugged on his waistcoat, bolting up; his face was scarlet, the ends of his hair alive and electric, and his hands gripped his hat so tightly I worried he might crush it. He bowed too hastily, nearly hitting his head on the back of the bench.
“Hello, Pricks,” I said coolly. Why was I so self-possessed, so calm—so like Ina? I had no idea; I only knew that somehow, I was stronger than Mr. Dodgson at that moment. “Is your father doing better?”
“Quite.” Pricks looked from me to Mr. Dodgson, her little eyes—like a pig’s, I realized in my detachment—wide and afraid. I could sense her fear, even as I didn’t understand it; she was fidgeting, tugging at her wide skirt, pulling up her gloves, fingering the buttons on her threadbare cloak.
“I’m sorry—is your father poorly?” Mr. Dodgson had recovered somewhat, although he now appeared to be very intent on not meeting my gaze, or Pricks’s. He looked everywhere but at either of us.
“Thank you very much for asking. Yes, he was, but he appears to be improving. I decided to come home tonight, in order to see some of the celebration. It was very quiet down at the cottage, you know. We’re quite isolated.” Pricks smiled desperately at him, that violent, openmouthed smile.
“How fortunate for us,” Mr. Dodgson said automatically. “Now we’ll be four.”
“Four?”
“My brother Edwin is with us. Oh, here he is—Edwin, please allow me to introduce Miss Prickett, Alice’s go-go-governess.”
Edwin, his arms laden with commemorative cups and ribbons and a tea cozy, came strolling up. He bowed, grinning as he indicated his hat, unable to remove it.
“It’s my pleasure,” Edwin said.
“Shall we see more of the illuminations?” I stood, buttoning the top button of my wool cloak, for the air had a definite chill to it now.
“I don’t wish to intrude,” Pricks began, lowering her head—looking up at Mr. Dodgson through her pale, thin eyelashes.
“Nonsense. It’s an honor,” he said flatly.
“Yes,” I agreed, stepping over to Mr. Dodgson and sliding my hand in his. He grasped mine firmly, tucking it under his arm.
“Edwin, let me help you with your bounty—what on earth did you buy?” He turned to his brother.
Edwin grinned again, and I liked him in that minute. He seemed so easy to please, and I envied him his purchases. I hoped Edwin might offer to give me something, even as I realized it wouldn’t be good manners to accept. Still, I did think the cup with the Prince and Princess’s initials on it was lovely.
“Just a few novelties. I couldn’t help it—everyone was selling them.”
“Well, Alice and I will help carry, so you may escort Miss Prickett,” Mr. Dodgson said, handing me the tea cozy with the Princess’s face embroidered on it.
“To tell the truth, I’m rather tired,” Pricks said. She did look it; her shoulders slumped, and her mouth drooped. “Thank you very much, Mr. Dodgson, but I think I’ll return to the Deanery now. Alice, perhaps you should accompany me? It’s very late.”
She tried. She tried to behave like my governess; she knit her brows together, cocked her head in that schoolroom way of hers, as if she was waiting for me to conjugate a verb. She was not my superior tonight, however; she wasn’t even my equal. I knew something she did not—and it was the most important thing in the world.
I knew how to make Mr. Dodgson tremble. I knew how to make him wonder. I knew how to make him wait.
For he would, surely. I knew it as we waved good-bye to Pricks, who weaved her lonely way in and out of the crowd, past couples strolling arm in arm, past couples standing motionless, simply gazing at each other. She clutched her ugly green cloak about her, hugging her own elbows for warmth, or for companionship. I did pity her.
I was not alone; I would never be alone. Mr. Dodgson and I resumed our walk past the illuminations, stopping to marvel at one in particular that had been erected in the small quad in front of the stone edifice of the Examinations buildings. It spelled out, in a blaze of colored lamps, May They Be Happy. As we admired the flickering spectacle—not a flame on the enormous platform was extinguished, and there were clever little mirrors nestled among the lamps and leaves of the garlands, which created a magical halo effect around the entire thing—I heard Mr. Dodgson whisper, “May we all deserve happiness.”
“Oh, but we will!” I looked up, my cheeks radiant from the heat of all the lights. In that moment, holding the hand of my chosen, I was so confident, so wise; my heart felt ready to break with the joy of my new understanding of the power of love, and its astounding ability to make the strong weak, and the weak strong.
Instead, my heart nearly broke at the look on Mr. Dodgson’s face as he gazed down at me, his eyes dark in the amber glow of the dancing lights. He did not reflect back our shared joy; rather, the corners of his eyes, his mouth, his chin, even, seemed pulled down with sorrow. He stared at me as if I wasn’t standing right there beside him, my hand in his; instead, he blinked at me as if I was a dream—and he was about to awaken.
“Will you write my story now?” I asked wildly, suddenly afraid. So afraid, I needed to remind him of how tied we were together, and that was the first thing that came to mind. “Do you remember how it begins?”
“That’s not the problem, dear Alice,” he said with a sad smile. He brushed a square of burned paper—the air, the ground, was filled with scorched scraps—from my shoulder. “The problem is knowing how it will end.”
I shook my head, exasperated but indulgently so. This man! Why did he worry over our story? The thing to do was simply write it, live it; be it.
I turned back to the illumination. One of the garlands had caught fire, and a man was busy throwing sand on it; in his hurry, he had knocked over several of the lamps. The “Happy” was slightly askew, apart from the other words.
It didn’t look as if it belonged anymore.