Chapter 6
IN EARLY APRIL, MAMMA HAD A BABY BOY NAMED ALBERT. IN early May, I turned eleven. In late May, Albert died.
So much happened in such a short time. Naturally, we were joyous at the arrival of a new brother; I was so relieved that Mamma was soon up and about and ordering everyone around again. We were very proud, too, when the Prince of Wales agreed to be Albert’s godfather.
However, by my birthday Albert was very ill; so ill there was no birthday celebration, although I told myself that at eleven, I was far too grown-up to mind. Mamma and Papa walked around with worried expressions, Dr. Acland was at the Deanery all the time, and Phoebe wouldn’t leave the nursery for a minute. Rhoda did not understand what was going on; she simply cried all the time for Phoebe. I did feel sorry for her. Up until then, Phoebe was Rhoda’s world. Now she had to suffer under Pricks like the rest of us.
Then Albert was gone. We hadn’t had any time to get to know him—he was so tiny and weak that no one was allowed to hold him. All we knew was a wrinkled, pale face wrapped up in a white crocheted blanket, with lips that were almost blue, his tiny mouth opening up for feeble, raspy cries, like a baby bird.
Papa cried so very much. At night he would trudge up to the schoolroom, where he scarcely ever went otherwise, and wrap up the first child he saw in a great hug, weeping openly, his tears wetting the tops of our heads.
Mamma did not say a word. I tried to be good; I tried to be there for her as I had been before. Yet when I knocked on her dressing room door one evening, a week after the funeral, she opened it with a look of surprise.
“Alice! What do you want?” She was thin again; her hair shiny and tightly bound, with two severe waves off the top of her forehead, like raven’s wings. There were a few new lines around her eyes, but the sickly purple smudges were gone. Her dark eyes saw me but kept me at bay; they looked sharp and suspicious as before.
“I thought—I thought you might want me to sit with you.”
“Whatever for? I’m perfectly fine. You, on the other hand—” She took a step back and surveyed me as if she was trying to figure out how much I might fetch at an auction. “That dress is too short.”
“It’s one of Ina’s, from when Prince Albert died.” I tugged at the waist, which was a bit snug, and attempted to pull down the skirt. The black wool itched and was too warm for May, but we hadn’t gotten our new mourning dresses back from the dressmaker’s.
“Ask Mary Ann to let it out.”
“I will. But—Mamma, I thought—if you wanted to rest, I could—”
“I’m perfectly fine. There’s such a lot to do, and your father isn’t much help right now. I need to go over the list for the Prince and Princess of Wales’s visit in June. They’re staying at the Deanery, and they sent a long list of requirements, and I don’t know how I shall get everything done. Now, go along, child, and I’ll see you in the morning.” She gave me a peck on the cheek and shut the door before I could say a word, her black skirts swishing with the sudden movement.
I stood there, staring at the closed door, the brass knob shiny and polished. I placed the palm of my hand against one of the raised panels, feeling the cool walnut. The door was only a few inches thick, yet the barrier between my mother and me was much greater, impenetrable. It was as if we hadn’t spent those long, intimate winter evenings together at all. Only the fact that my heart stung with mourning for them made them real. I felt tears roll down my cold cheeks, and I realized I hadn’t once seen Mamma cry; I wondered if she was even sad about the baby.
I wondered if she’d ever cry for me, as I did for her.
Then it was summer. Commemoration weekend with all its ceremonies, made more special this year due to the Prince of Wales’s involvement, was upon us. Mamma was in her element, happily brusque and efficient despite her mourning attire; the Deanery was abuzz with excitement, full to the brim with Royal servants and retainers. I don’t recall where they all slept, but I was forever tripping over a uniformed gentleman wearing a sash and looking as if he hadn’t anything to do.
I did not trouble myself too much about them. For through it all—the sadness of baby Albert’s death, and the happy, frantic times of the Royal visit—Mr. Dodgson was a constant presence; I never had to wonder, when I opened my eyes to greet a new day, if I would see him. He was simply always there, stepping into the void that Mamma and Papa had left: Papa by his grief, which had now taken him to a far, lonely place; Mamma by her frenzied social responsibilities.
Truly, I cannot think of those months, those eventful months, without thinking of him. It was as if we both sensed some acceleration of time and chance, and agreed, without a word, to make the most of it. Mamma was too distracted to notice how often he showed up without sending a note beforehand or asking permission. Normally she detested this casual familiarity. Now, however, she didn’t comment upon it, not even to go on about that “nuisance of a mathematics tutor.”
Pricks didn’t protest, either—but neither did she seem to look forward to his visits any longer. She dully accompanied us, sitting quietly, reading a book or working on her knitting, not even rousing herself to remind me to behave like a lady.
Ina was unnaturally silent, as well. She sat apart, like Pricks—but unlike her, she did watch. Her unblinking gray eyes did notice, particularly when Mr. Dodgson would pause in the midst of a story, or a game of croquet, or an afternoon in the garden spent drawing nonsense animals (hippopotahorse, crocoduck, kangalion), and look at me. He looked at me often, and I him; when we caught each other’s gaze, he would often tremble, as if catching a sudden chill. He would then look away, very abruptly.
I did not tremble; I did not look away. What was there to fear? We could enjoy our time together now, and look forward to our time together later. Knowing that my future was settled, I relaxed my watchfulness and allowed myself to think only of the moment, a child once more.
ANOTHER GOLDEN AFTERNOON; another trip on a river. I believed there would be many, many more like it. Why should I not?
This was a large party; ten of us, including Mamma and Papa, which was very unusual. More unusual, still, was the fact that Mamma actually called on Mr. Dodgson beforehand, requesting that he organize the entire excursion. Yet when it came time for the party to gather at Salter’s, where an enormous four-oar boat had been procured, it was obvious that she intended to treat him more like a servant than a guest. That honor was reserved for Lord Newry, a new undergraduate.
Lord Newry was a dashing, vivacious Irish nobleman with black curly hair and drowsy eyes, one of those students who believed that the rules of Oxford did not pertain to him, and in this he was encouraged by Mamma, who was prone to having favorite students, usually those with titles.
What drew such an unlikely group together on that last afternoon? Lord Newry and his friends were loud and boisterous, passing along pocket flasks, scarcely even bothering to conceal this activity, and constantly threatening to upend the boat. The rest of us were still in mourning for Albert; our black muslin dresses looked dreary and cumbersome, like rain clouds, among the white linen suits of the men. Mr. Dodgson somehow found himself in the middle; neither subdued family nor carefree young man. I tried my best to make him feel comfortable, and during the trip downriver I asked him to tell a story, but he refused.
Upon landing at Nuneham—with its landscaped parks, the pale stone manor house, Nuneham Courtney, just in view beyond a hill dotted with trees (Edith always vowed she would live in a house as grand as that someday)—Mr. Dodgson silently but effectively made himself useful. He assisted Mamma in choosing a pleasant site beneath a tall oak tree; he tended the spirit lamps for tea; he frightened away bugs and spiders from the assembled feast. Once we were all gathered for our repast, reclining on gay quilts, he sat quietly apart from the other men. Without thought, Edith and Rhoda and I settled near him, balancing our plates in our laps.
Mamma invited Ina to sit next to her, which happened to be next to Lord Newry. I knew, then, why he had been asked; surprisingly, Ina did not appear to understand our mother’s motives. She chose to sit near Mr. Dodgson as well.
“Lord Newry, please favor us with your impression of your first year at Oxford,” Mamma commanded with a dazzling smile. “We’re eager to hear how you young men are getting on, aren’t we, Dean Liddell?”
“What? Oh, yes, indeed, indeed,” Papa said, pulling his gaze away from the river for a moment. We could hear other parties in the distance, laughing and chatting among the trees; Nuneham was most popular during the summer, as the Earl of Nuneham Courtney very graciously opened the grounds to picnickers every Thursday.
“Your charming hospitality has been a welcome surprise,” Lord Newry began, his eyes sparkling with some suppressed emotion—amusement, I suspected, as his friends caught his gaze, then immediately busied themselves with their plates, piled high with cold poached chicken and lobster in mayonnaise.
“Thank you,” Mamma replied.
“The architecture of the city is, of course, every bit as breathtaking as I had heard.”
“Indeed, indeed.” One of his friends nodded, overly enthusiastic; he nearly knocked over a bottle of lemonade.
“And the pubs are the best I’ve sampled,” another of his friends burst out, while the others laughed heartily and patted him on the back.
“Really?” Mamma’s voice, as well as her spine, grew rigid.
“Gibson!” Lord Newry frowned at his friend, while his eyes danced. “I do apologize for Gibson, madam. It seems he hasn’t been himself of late.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mamma replied. “Is he ill?”
“No, not exactly.” Lord Newry suppressed a grin.
“No, madam, I’m fit as a fiddle,” Gibson sputtered through a mouthful of lobster. “In body, at any rate; I’m not sure about my mind.”
“Yes, the poor devil’s been quite mad ever since he left his heart in a doxy’s bed the first week of term,” another friend snickered, falling over with glee and tipping into my lap; I caught a sour whiff of liquor on his breath.
“Sir!” Mr. Dodgson leaped up, pulling me to my feet, putting himself between the young man and me. “Apologize to the ladies.”
Everyone froze. Peeking around from behind Mr. Dodgson’s back, my heart beating with the twin thrills of being in the company of a bad man (the likes of which I was, regrettably, much too meagerly acquainted with) and being defended by the most noble gentleman on earth, I had to suppress a giggle. For the young man lay on his back, as helpless as an insect at Mr. Dodgson’s feet, even as there was an amused, superior smirk on his face, shiny and red in the heat.
“Mamma?” I asked, unsure what to do. I buried my face in the scratchy folds of Mr. Dodgson’s white waistcoat; his slender back rose and fell with quick, short breaths, and his gloved hands clenched in fists. I’d never seen him quite so angry; then it occurred to me that I’d never seen him angry, period. That he was so on my behalf filled me with a romantic thrill; I was Dulcinea to his Don Quixote. Ina may have been older than me, but she had never had her honor defended. Turning around to catch her eye—she and Edith and Rhoda were staring, mouths agape, like little monkeys—I made note to remind her of this later.
“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Liddell, Dean Liddell, girls.” Lord Newry rose. He faced Mr. Dodgson and bowed, one gentleman to another, although he did not speak his name. “Come, Marshall, let’s walk it off, shall we?” Lord Newry helped his friend to his feet, and they and the others sheepishly took off for a little shelter of saplings, about half an acre distant.
“Mr. Dodgson, I very much appreciate your actions,” Mamma said as she and Papa rose. They both stood looking after the young men. “Would you mind helping the girls? I need to speak to Dean Liddell.” She took Papa’s arm; he had remained so oddly silent during it all, so detached. For the first time, I wished that he had just a little of Mamma’s hard, brittle energy; I was impatient with his grief, and feared he might remain lost in it forever.
Mamma led Papa away, speaking very energetically, while Papa barely nodded, acquiescing to whatever she said. Then he put his hands in his pockets and sat down upon the ground, his short legs in front of him, staring at the river.
Mr. Dodgson, Ina, Edith, and I attempted to tidy up as best we could, but with Rhoda trying to help—she broke two plates, at least, before I stopped keeping count—it took rather longer than usual. When we were finished, I walked over to Papa and laid my cheek against his, feeling his scratchy whiskers, not as luxuriant as they once were; he reached up and patted me, but I didn’t think he even knew which one of his daughters I was. I kissed him anyway, and walked back to the others.
“Well,” Mamma said, pursing her lips in disapproval. “I must say, those young men’s manners are appalling. Still, he is a lord, and one must make allowances. I think, however, it might be best if you girls return home another way. Mr. Dodgson, would you be so kind as to escort them home by way of the railroad? Abingdon Road station isn’t very far, although perhaps too far for Rhoda. I’ll keep her with me.”
“But, Mamma!” Rhoda stamped her foot and shook her glossy brown curls. I liked her more and more each day; I perceived she would become an exceptional ally in my ongoing war with Pricks. “I want to go with Mr. Dodgson!”
“Nonsense.” Mamma raised her formidable eyebrows, and Rhoda subsided with a pout.
“It will be my p-p-pleasure.” Mr. Dodgson bowed in that stiff way of his. “I’m happy to b-b-be of assistance.”
“Yes,” was all Mamma said, already forgetting about him as she glided off to find Lord Newry, her long black skirt trailing in the dry grass, leaving a circular pattern in the flattened stalks.
The four of us—Ina, Edith, Mr. Dodgson, and I—grinned at one another; suddenly the sun took on a happy glow, and the air blew soft with the perfume of wildflowers and new grass. We bade farewell to Papa with affectionate hugs, then trooped our way across the fields, to the narrow lane that led down to Abingdon Road station, a journey of almost two miles. We did not hasten, even though we didn’t possess a timetable; I don’t believe we would have minded if we’d missed the last train altogether. For the day was ours at last; earlier, we’d been only borrowing it.
Did Mr. Dodgson tell us another story that lovely, last day as we strolled along a dusty country lane picking flowers, blowing dandelion fluff, chancing upon nests of rabbits and mice? He did, although it frustrates me that I can’t recall what it was about. It did prompt me, though, to remind him of another story.
“Have you written it down yet?” Breaking a branch off a tree, I dragged it along behind me; it made a satisfying swishing sound in the fine pebbles of the road.
“Written what down?” Mr. Dodgson removed his straw hat, wiping his forehead with his handkerchief. It was rather hot, particularly in my mourning clothes; even though it was late afternoon now—the sun had drifted behind the trees—it felt as if the accumulated heat of the day was trapped within the folds of my black frock, which persisted in sticking to my skin, weighing down my petticoats. Rivulets of perspiration snaked down the front and back of my bodice, my pulse pounded, and my skin felt baked. Looking at my sisters, I knew they were as hot as I; Ina’s curls had lost their spring, while Edith’s had taken on new life, frizzing about her head like lightning.
“I imagine that it’s cooler on the river,” Edith said without envy.
“Have you written my story down?” I persisted. “The Alice story?”
“It’s not the Alice story,” Ina hissed. “It’s just a story. Any old story.”
“I am working very hard on it.” Mr. Dodgson acted as if he had not heard Ina; he had such proper manners! I was very taken with them all of a sudden, given the events of the afternoon. “I assure you, my Alice, it will be done, and you shall have a nice little memento of a lovely day.”
“I told you he would,” I taunted my sister.
“I’ll believe it when I see it,” my sister taunted me.
“Girls,” Mr. Dodgson interposed, automatically. “Let’s play Grandmother’s Trunk. I’ll begin. I went to my grandmother’s trunk and I found an—antipodean aardvark. Now, Edith, your turn.”
“I went to my grandmother’s trunk and I found an antipodean aardvark.” Edith couldn’t stop herself from giggling at the thought. “And a bumblebee,” she added, as one had just alighted upon her hat.
“I went to my grandmother’s trunk and I found an antipodean aardvark, a bumblebee, and a catapult,” Ina continued.
“I went to my grandmother’s trunk and I found an antipodean aardvark, a bumblebee, a catapult, and a dragonfly,” I replied, choosing another stick from the side of the lane, as the one I had been using snapped in two.
I was so content in that moment; those horrible men were gone, I was with my sisters, and with the person who loved me and knew me best in the entire world, I was sure of it. After the tumult of the last few months, swinging so wildly from exquisite highs—the night of the wedding of the Prince and Princess of Wales—to heartbreaking lows—Albert’s death—it was good to have this; this sweet, unhurried reminder that there would be, still, simple days in the sun for us all.
So we trudged along the road playing word games, telling stories; soon enough we rejoiced at the sight of the little white clapboard station, where we knew we could get a cool drink from a bucket and wait for the train in the shade.
After about a quarter of an hour, it slid up with a gentle hiss and a clang, wheels groaning in protest as the brakeman performed his duties; Mr. Dodgson paid our fares, and we climbed aboard a first-class carriage.
“Shall I put the window up or down?” he asked.
“Oh, up! I do hate to get cinders in my eye,” cried Edith.
We settled in on the stiff horsehair-covered seats, Mr. Dodgson sliding in next to me, even though Ina had purposely sat opposite, forcing him to choose. While the journey to Oxford wasn’t long—only five miles or so, less than an hour’s time—almost as soon as the train pulled away, I felt my head nodding, heavy with heat and sleep, gently rocked by the rhythm of the steady train. Ba-dump-ba-dump-ba-dump! it went, over the railroad ties.
My eyes would close, despite my best efforts; I blinked and attempted to focus on Ina, who shifted in her seat and turned toward the window so that her clean, perfect profile was in view, should anyone wish to admire it. Soon, very soon, I did not see her, for my eyes had shut for good, and I was falling, falling—down a rabbit hole? I giggled, murmured an answer to Mr. Dodgson’s gentle inquiry, which I could not quite understand.
I continued falling, falling, finally landing, ever so softly, in a dream. A dream of happiness, a dream of sunshine; of drifting waters and babies snuggled into tiny blankets, rows and rows of them, perched on stalks just like sunflowers, nodding and sleeping with happy smiles on their faces. Soon a great man, gray of hair and short of leg, holding a watch just like Papa’s, was walking along a curving lane, touching each and every one, whispering that it was too soon, too soon for them to go.
Then another man, a slender man with a tall black silk hat, gray gloves, a stiff way about him, was walking along that same lane. It was night now; the babies were gone, replaced by shops and darkened doorways, and there were fireworks splashing the sky with color. “May they be happy,” he said over and over. I thought he meant the babies—until he turned and looked down, his blue eyes sad and brimming over with tears, and in that instant, I knew he meant me. Glancing over his shoulder, I saw a couple in a doorway. She arched her arm, gracefully, about his neck, bringing him closer and closer to her upturned lips.
“Alice,” the man in the hat said, tenderly. “Alice, be happy. Be happy with me.”
“Of course,” I said with a happy sigh. “Of course.”
“Alice?” I felt warm breath upon my forehead, scratchy fabric pillowing my cheek. “Alice, dear? Alice, wake up.” An arm was about my shoulders, gently shaking me.
Did I feel lips in my hair? I nestled my face deeper and deeper, trying to hold on to my dream.
“Alice, wake up,” he said. Reluctantly, my eyes opened; looking up, I saw his face, large and pink and near, so near; soft brown hairs curled over his ear, eyelashes brushed cheeks that were red from the sun, a faint line of perspiration dotted his upper lip. His breath was warm and a little sour, yet it did not repulse me. On the contrary, it made him real—too real for a dream; real enough for a man.
As I searched his face, his lips asked a question, or said my name—either way, the answer was the same; my ears felt hot, full of a sound like the pounding of waves, the roar of a mighty current, or a riptide; my eyes were full, too full to see anything but his eyes, his nose, the down on his cheek.
Arms reaching, gracefully; lips moving, to seek and give the only answer possible.
A man who fancied himself a child and a child who thought she was a woman turned to each other on a hot summer day, mindful of nothing, no one, but each other—not even the sister who sat opposite, watching; the sister who sat silently, remembering.
Meanwhile, time did not stand still for any of them; the train pulled into the station where other people were waiting, too; where other people were watching.
As with a jolt, a clang, a final high, lonesome whistle that pierced the air, sending shivers down everyone’s spines, the train reached the end of its journey.
OVER A YEAR LATER, I received, in the morning post, a green leather-bound copy of a story. Alice’s Adventures Under Ground. I opened it to see the dedication—“A Christmas Gift to a Dear Child, in Memory of a Summer Day,” printed in very ornate script. Chapter one began, Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank.…
I turned to the last page; after the final paragraph of the text, framed by flowers and curlicues, was a photograph of me, cut out from a larger photograph and pasted in. Not a photograph of me as I was, nor even as I had been—Alice, his Alice, his wild gypsy girl.
Simply a portrait of myself in a high-collared white dress, taken when I was seven. I looked at this child with dark circles under her innocent eyes, a decided chin, scraggly hair like a boy’s, and I did not recognize her at all.
I shut the book, took it upstairs to my bedroom, and put it in a drawer.
I did not open it again for a very long time.