Chapter 8
THE NEXT AFTERNOON I DRESSED IN MY MOST SOMBER dress, a wine-colored wool with tightly buttoned sleeves, high neck, and lace trim; I pinned my plainest hat in place and left the Deanery—Sophie trotting behind me—rejoicing that I did not have to walk across the Quad, where I was sure to feel his gaze upon me with every step.
Mr. Dodgson had moved to different rooms some years previous. He no longer lived across the garden from the back of the Deanery; he now had larger quarters across the Quad from the front of the Deanery.
Our meetings, in the years since that summer day, had been few, always strained, always in public—and always commented upon by others; Mr. Ruskin was considerate enough to inform me of that. Yet they were inevitable, as long as we both lived in such close proximity. For Oxford was, despite its deserved academic reputation, simply a village, after all. The students might come and go, society as a whole might change all around us—a new, bustling middle class was rising out of the ranks of the poor, demanding to be taken seriously—but the established citizens of Oxford remained the same. Prone to the same quarrels, the same jealousies, the same social maneuverings as any hamlet one might read of in the novels of Mr. Trollope.
Mr. Dodgson had aged, finally; considerably. He was a graying, stiff-limbed figure now, thin, with a pronounced limp. When we met in public, as was inevitable, we were always polite. Never did our eyes truly meet, though, except from across a greater distance; across the Quad, across a crowded lecture hall, across the packed congregation in the cathedral. And always I felt his eyes upon me when I walked to my own front door; I felt them pick me, once again, out of all the people in the Quad and follow me until I reached the safety of the Deanery. No longer did this bring me happiness, make me feel special and loved; now I was afraid. Afraid that he could see me, after all—see the real me, as his camera had done so often—and know the truth.
And I watched, myself. I watched him go on picnics with other little girls. I watched him escort them to his new rooms, accompanied by their governesses. I watched him take them rowing on the Isis, and I couldn’t help but wonder—did he tell them stories? Capture their souls, their desires, with his camera?
Did he feel my eyes upon him, too?
I had no idea. The only thing I knew for sure was there was no escaping him; with the publication of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, which was what Lewis Carroll decided to call Alice’s Adventures Under Ground, our lives were seemingly bound together for eternity. The book was an instant classic, and Mr. Dodgson dutifully sent me every edition, including foreign printings; when he published Through the Looking-Glass, he sent me that, as well. In his odd, indirect way, he persisted in dedicating both books to me.
What was I to make of that? That I remained, forever, a child of seven, courtesy of the man who had caused me to grow up sooner than I had ever wished? I’d spent years trying to figure out this last, most confounding, puzzle of his. I doubted I’d ever be able to solve it.
Still, he haunted me. Everywhere I went; everyone I met. His eyes, his words, were upon me always. Alice in Wonderland. I would never be anything but.
Not even to Leo, I thought with a sigh. That was who he came to Oxford ready to fall in love with, I knew. An invalid all his life, shut off from the world until now, wasn’t it natural that he fall in love with a girl spun from dreams, from words, from pictures; not from flesh and blood and dubious experience?
Sometimes, I wondered—did he dream of me as I was, the pale young woman with straight black hair, cut in a fringe? Or did he dream of me as a girl in a pinafore with long yellow hair? I could never ask him; I was afraid to know the answer.
“Sophie, do keep up,” I snapped, marching down the path in front of the library, turning right onto Merton Street, much narrower and less crowded than the High or St. Aldate’s; there were few shops, mainly university buildings. I despised the necessity of being chaperoned wherever I went, but I, of all women, could not risk censure, no matter the circumstances. Fortunately, Sophie was a simple creature, and easily distracted by servant gossip; the promise of tea and a cake with Mr. Ruskin’s equally gossipy housekeeper would keep her occupied while I met with the eminent scholar himself.
Quickly I attained Corpus Christi, the small college adjacent to Christ Church—both colleges bordered the Meadow—where Mr. Ruskin’s rooms were located. The heel of my boot rapping sharply against the walk, I headed down an intimate little rectangular stone quad to the Fellows building, the largest building in Corpus. I always thought the fa?ade resembled Buckingham Palace, with the pitched roof at the center above faux columns.
I paused, although I was not out of breath despite my tightly laced stays, and readjusted my hat. Sophie, however, was mopping her brow with the sleeve of her coat. “Miss, how quickly you do walk!”
“You’re simply out of condition. Now go on, quick, up the stairs and knock on the door.”
“Yes, miss.”
I followed her up a staircase to the first floor; she knocked on the door and was admitted by a plump, red-faced housekeeper with a comical air of regality.
“Miss Alice Liddell, to see Mr. Ruskin!” Sophie exclaimed, breathless.
“Do come in,” the housekeeper intoned.
Brushing past, I handed her my card, removed my hat and coat and bestowed them upon Sophie, and waited to be shown into Mr. Ruskin’s drawing room. “Sophie, as it is teatime, I’m certain that you won’t mind stopping in the kitchen and having a bit of cake with Mr. Ruskin’s housekeeper.”
“Oh, thank you, miss! That will be lovely!”
“Well, then.” I nodded at her as the housekeeper opened the door to the drawing room with a stiff curtsy.
“My dear little friend!” Mr. Ruskin rose from an easy chair in front of the fire and met me halfway across the room. He was wearing his usual attire: outdated black frock coat, bright blue tie, rough tweed pants.
“Pray, don’t act so surprised. I believe this was a command performance, was it not?” I allowed him to kiss me on both cheeks, in the continental fashion, while wondering just when he had acquired this habit. It must have been on his last trip to Italy.
“Just when did you get so very suspicious, my lovely? You remind me of your dear mamma more and more each day.” He chuckled with pleasure and gestured toward another chair near the fire. There was a table set up between the two chairs, laden with tea things: two fragile cups of distinctly Italian decoration, a matching teapot, plates, silver, and delicate cakes.
Removing my gloves, I surveyed his drawing room. I’d managed not to be coerced into visiting here in the four years he’d been in residence; Edith and I took our lessons at the Deanery. Yet I admit I had been curious to see his rooms, as I’d heard so much about the odd décor. Indeed, this was a singularly eclectic room; overfilled with books, etchings, and especially paintings and photographs, on easels, hanging from walls, on the floor, slanted against furniture. In addition, there were two cabinets full of rocks of every shape and hue, each carefully labeled. In short, the room resembled nothing more than a museum exhibit.
With a smile—for there was something oddly charming about the juxtaposition of cold, scientific artifacts and the abstract, light-filled Turner landscapes he loved so well—I made to sit down. Before I could do so, I froze.
For there, in a simple silver frame on a low round table, was the photograph of me as Mr. Dodgson’s beggar girl.
“Where did you get that?” With shaking, suddenly icy hands, I picked up the photograph. Staring up at me was the picture of myself, at age seven, clad in the torn gypsy girl’s dress. One hand was on my hip, the other lazily extended as my younger self gazed at the camera with a defiant smirk, the triumphant glare of a child who has discovered herself to be a woman.
Closing my eyes, clutching the photograph to my chest—it was cold and heavy against my breast—a rush of memories overtook me, causing the room to spin with their fury. Unlike that other photograph, the one that charmed Leo so, suddenly I recalled every detail of this one. I remembered the chill autumn day, I remembered changing behind the tent, far from the eyes of everyone except Mr. Dodgson; I felt, once more, his bare hand upon my shoulder, my waist; the grass between my tender toes. How long ago it seemed! How little I knew then of the ways of the world, but looking into those glittering dark eyes—so different from the eyes that stared warily back at me from the looking glass every morning—I saw that I had imagined myself to have known so very much. About men, about women, about dreams and desires; about the future.
His letters—the letters that he wrote, after that day; unbidden fragments of thought, of dreams, came to me: Do you remember how it felt, to roll about on the grass while I watched?
Those letters, those dreams, were long gone now. I’d seen them burn with my own eyes; they burned in the grate of the nursery hearth, bitterly torn and prodded by the poker in Mamma’s hand as she railed and wept and forbade me to do the same.
Yet here was the picture, the one tangible relic that remained. I had so longed to see it, before; I recalled how I had never been able to bring myself to ask him for it. In my childish innocence, I had believed it would remain in his possession. The creation of this image had been so intimate. I had not wanted strangers’ eyes—Mr. Ruskin’s eyes!—to see the result.
I had wanted to live forever as a gypsy girl; I had wanted to live forever as a child, tumbling down a rabbit hole. I had been granted both wishes, only to find immortality was not what it had promised to be; instead of a passport to the future, it was a yoke that bound me to the past.
“Yes, that’s you,” Mr. Ruskin said.
“I know—I’m merely startled, that’s all, to see it after—after all this time.”
“Charming, isn’t it? I was taken with it the first time I laid eyes on it.”
“When was that, pray?”
“Oh, years ago. Not long after it was taken, if I recall.”
“He—Mr. Dodgson—gave this to you?”
“He had many copies printed. You’re quite famous, my dear, among lovers of photography.”
“Others have seen it?” I looked up in alarm; I fought an impulse to shield myself as if it were I, at twenty-three, standing half clad, vulnerable, and not the image of my seven-year-old self.
“Why so surprised?” Mr. Ruskin looked down his aristocratic nose at me and smiled. It was not a kind smile; it was the expression of a cat that had cornered a mouse, and was not yet decided whether to play with it or devour it.
“I don’t know, it’s ridiculous, I suppose—of course, I had to have known he intended others to see it.”
“Don’t be angry, Alice.” Remarkably, it was he who now appeared hurt; he lowered his head in a pout, looking up at me with his beseeching eyes. Apparently, his theatrics were not limited to the lecture hall. “I had no idea you would be so upset. If I had, I would never have accepted the photograph. But you and Mr. Dodgson are such good friends—or rather, I suppose, past tense is more appropriate?”
“I believe you know the answer to that already.” I was in no mood for his games; I forced myself to place the photograph down, dispassionately, without further histrionics. I was becoming quite the bashful maiden, after all. Ina would have been delighted to observe how close I’d come to a proper swoon.
As I returned the photograph to its place, I noticed a small painting next to it. It was of a young girl with arched eyebrows, light blue eyes, reddish yellow hair. Her pale, ethereal face was almost otherworldly. I suspected I knew her identity; it was an open secret among everyone at Oxford.
Mr. Ruskin had his own dark past, his own scandalous affair. The circumstances were heartbreaking—the young woman whose childhood portrait I beheld had recently died, insane; she was a religious zealot, it was rumored, and had spurned Mr. Ruskin for God. Yet somehow, I could not find it in my heart to pity Mr. Ruskin. I could never convince myself of the sincerity of his emotions; he was too eager to draw on every aspect of his life, no matter how tragic, as a means to further his fame.
“Sit, Alice, and please do me the honor of pouring out.” He took his own seat and watched as I did the same.
“It will be my pleasure.” I picked up the teapot and poured two cups, adding lemon to his, as prompted.
“There,” he pronounced, settling into the depths of his high-backed wing chair; the sides of it were so deep, a person could completely disappear from view. “Isn’t this cozy?”
“Quite.” I stirred my own tea and sipped quietly; it was fine tea, slightly spicy, bracing. I could not fault him on his hospitality. He certainly knew how to set a stage.
“We are old friends, you and I, are we not?”
“If you say so.”
“If I say so? Alice, why will you persist in being so enigmatic? Ah, but that is part of your charm, of course. Still, I sometimes wonder if you like me, even just a little?”
“Surely someone of your fame and influence need not question the devotion of one such as me?”
“Again with the prevarication!” He slapped his knee in delight; I smiled demurely into my teacup, now sure of my hold over him. “Alice, I cannot deny that I find you most charming. I also feel compelled to tell you that I see much danger in your current path. There—finally, an honest reaction! I see the hesitation in your eyes. Would you like me to continue?”
I set my teacup down and folded my hands in my lap. Staring into the mesmerizing flames of the fire—they were dancing with the hypnotic motion of a snake being charmed—I pondered his question. Would I like him to continue? No, certainly not. Still, he found me charming—I had always known this, ever since I was small—and as such, might behave in the manner of a spurned suitor if I did not listen. And there was no denying that he had great influence, not only here at the university but with the Royal Family; several of them were patrons of the new school for drawing he had just established. Leo himself was a trustee.
I glanced at him, perched so benignly in his chair. There had been rumors, many rumors, concerning my friendship with Mr. Dodgson, the source of the obvious breach between him and my family. Rumors that had not, thus far, reached Leo’s ears, or the ears of his courtiers; last night had confirmed that. And who was the source of most of the rumors flying up and down the hallowed halls of learning?
The man sitting next to me, stirring his tea, spilling it on his trousers, shaking his head at his own foolishness—all the while grinning like a certain cat from a certain cherished children’s book.
Would I never be rid of the thing?
“Proceed,” I said with a regal nod.
“There’s a wise girl!” Mr. Ruskin stroked his whiskers, releasing a whiff of perfume. “First, let me be so bold as to satisfy a curiosity of long standing. Is it true that Dodgson asked your parents for your hand, all those years ago?”
A shock went through me; my heart pounded so hard, I could hear nothing but the roaring of my own pulse in my ears. I had not reckoned on him being quite so blunt; that was not the way we spoke to each other.
He saw my distress yet did not attempt to alleviate it. He simply remained in his chair, watching me with eyes that glittered with the firelight. He reached for a tea cake and popped it into his mouth, chewing with gusto.
“I—that is, that is very rude of you to ask such a thing!”
“I know, I know, and I do apologize. But I cannot help you if I do not have all the facts.”
“Facts? Facts concerning what?”
“Concerning your past, my dear. Don’t be a fool. Do you think that you could possibly entertain the notion of marrying a son of Victoria’s without inviting scrupulous attention to your previous actions?”
“I have told you, I entertain no such thing. Prince Leopold and I are simply very good friends.”
“I give your formidable mamma much more credit than that. I cannot imagine that she would let a catch like Leopold slip through her capable fingers without a fight.”
“I believe it’s well known that the Queen seeks only Royal matches for her children,” I replied, finding strange comfort in one of my greatest fears. While I did not want to believe this to be true, it was quite useful in deflecting attention from my—friendship—with her youngest son.
“With Leopold’s dreadful infirmity, not to mention his being so far down the line of succession, I cannot help but think that Victoria might relax her standards in this case. Your mother certainly knows this. As do you, I’d venture.”
My cheeks flamed, hearing my dearest heart spoken of in this manner, so coldly, so surgically. I didn’t mind Mr. Ruskin gossiping about me—at least, within the privacy of this room—but I deplored hearing him gossip about Leo. Leo was too fine, too pure, to be caught up in one of Mr. Ruskin’s verbal snares.
“I daresay, Edith would be better suited for such a match—were it being considered. Which, I assure you, it is not.” I sipped more tea. My throat, my tongue, my lips, even, were unquenchably dry.
“True, were it not for the fact she loves another, and he her.” Mr. Ruskin’s eyes sparkled with triumph.
How did he know about Edith? Even Mamma didn’t suspect. “I tell you, once more, there is nothing between Prince Leopold and myself,” I repeated; as if restating that one simple sentence, over and over, would convince him, although I knew it would not.
“I see you neither confirm nor deny your sister’s plans. Mamma has taught you well. All right, it’s obvious that you will not concede your position willingly. I cannot pretend to be surprised, so I’ll get to the point. Relax, my dear, close your eyes—I can see you’re tired, your left eye is twitching—and listen while I propose my little plan.”
Touching my left eye—he was correct; a little muscle at the outer edge of it was pulsing against my fingertips—I decided to do as he said. I needed to know, finally, what I was up against.
“Now. The facts are thus: You are in love with Leo, and he with you. Don’t continue to protest,” he said, as my hands rose, once more, in response. “I have eyes; despite what you so obviously believe, I have a heart.”
My eyes flew open, surprised. Perhaps, after all, he did.
“Yes, my dear—I see your astonishment. I could go into details, if you wish, of my own recent—disappointment.” He glanced at the table, at the miniature of the young woman. With a great effort—a visible stiffening of his shoulders, an intake of breath—he continued. “Indeed, in time, I imagine I will. But first I need to know about your own. Did Dodgson ask for your hand, as it is rumored?”
“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head, trying, once again, to find the truth of that afternoon and all that came after. Yet always it was hidden from me. I was too young, everyone insisted. I had no way of remembering.
I wished that one day, when I was far away from here—with Leo, the one person in my life who offered me hope, not regret—I would be able to recall, and know, the truth. A truth of my very own.
“I honestly don’t know,” I repeated, looking up at Mr. Ruskin, speaking plainly, finally; hoping he would do the same, for my head ached, the light was fading, and I longed to be alone with my tangled thoughts. “You would have to ask Mr. Dodgson, for I was so very young, and Mamma refused to let me talk with him, or correspond with him.”
“I did ask him.”
My heart raced; I felt on the verge of knowing, at last, and I was both afraid and excited at the same time. I leaned forward eagerly, as if to embrace my own history—or to run from it, as fast as I possibly could.
“What—what did he say?”
“He said I would have to ask you.”
“What? No! How could he? How could I possibly know? Do you actually believe my mother would tell me such a thing, if he had? Do you actually believe we talk about such things? I shouldn’t even be discussing them with you!”
“No, I don’t believe that, but perhaps Mr. Dodgson does.”
“Then—then he does not know my family, after all.”
“That’s no surprise; he has never been one to dwell in the land of reality.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said tiredly, not believing my own words. “It’s been so long, I only wish to be allowed to find my own happiness. What does it matter anymore?”
“It matters if you truly love your young prince. Can you not see that even the slightest whisper of rumor or scandal would ruin that happiness?”
“Of course. Of course I see—what do you take me for, a simpleton?”
“No, I would never do that.”
He rose and walked over to me, standing behind my chair so that I could only hear his voice, not study his expression. “I do wish you happiness, Alice. You must believe me. Even if the facts of your—little drama—are unclear, they still matter. Perception is reality, especially when it comes to affairs of the heart.”
Another memory stirred. “You’re very fond of saying that,” I told him.
“Well, it’s true. Now, I quite understand why you’re unwilling to confess your romance to me. You’re wise to keep it secret, although I must advise that you do a better job of it than you did the other day at the lecture. The Prince is not accustomed to being out in the public, not as his siblings are; the Queen did an admirable job of keeping him protected while she could, but I’m afraid the result is he’s not as cautious as he should be. I doubt he’s ever been in love before, you know—poor chap never had a chance. You must be the sensible one.”
I bit my lip, conceding his point.
“Here’s what I propose. I can make certain that your young prince remains in the dark, concerning any—secrets—you may have. Should anything reach his ears, I can negate the effect—as I said, the Royal Family holds me in esteem. I can also make certain that Dodgson remains ignorant, too; he’s the most obtuse man I’ve ever met. I can hardly imagine that he sees the romance that is blossoming in front of his very windows.”
I was silent. I couldn’t allow myself to believe that; not with those eyes upon me, always; not knowing, as Mr. Ruskin did not, that soon I would be back in his rooms.
“You’ve been very cautious up until now, I have to admit that. Staying in the background, when Ina was out, and then married. You’ve been very wise.”
“You’re not, if you believe that was all of my own doing. I wasn’t allowed much freedom until very recently. Packed off to the Continent like a disgrace—oh, of course it was all very proper, the three Liddell girls on their Grand Tour, just like every other fashionable young lady! But Mamma would have been very happy had I found some quiet count in France and not come back. Yet I did, and I suppose she realized she couldn’t keep me shut up in the attic like a lunatic; I had to emerge eventually. So.” I took a sip of tea, flush with my confession. Why I chose to deliver it to Mr. Ruskin, I could not imagine; his frankness must have disarmed me.
“I truly had no idea,” he said. He was silent for a long moment; the only sounds were the creak of the boards as he paced the floor behind me, the snap of the fire in the hearth; the distant laughter of Sophie and the housekeeper, the soft tick of a mantel clock. Finally I rose, put my gloves on, signaling the end of the interview. I was determined to return matters to a businesslike footing: no swooning for me.
“So, tell me what you desire, in return for your discretion. That is what this interview is about, isn’t it?”
“First so coy, now so blunt. I’ll never be able to predict your behavior, my dear Miss Liddell.”
“I’ll choose to take that as a compliment. Now, tell me what my debt will be.”
“Only yourself.”
“Me?” I laughed; it was so very predictable. “I will spare us both the cheap novel melodrama of assuming you want to seduce me.”
“Oh, Alice, you do amuse me.” Mr. Ruskin chuckled admiringly. “No, I don’t wish to seduce you. I merely desire your company. We have a great deal in common, you and I.” Here he glanced, once more, at the small portrait on the table. “Both of us have past friends with whom we can no longer commune, share the best parts of ourselves.” He trailed off, still staring at the clear-eyed maiden.
“Rose La Touche,” I stated. It was no longer a question in my mind. “There are few secrets here at Oxford. Even about you.” Despite my vow to remain as detached as possible, I could not help but place my hand upon his arm when I saw the tears brightening his eyes.
“She was my Alice, in a way. Men like me, like Dodgson, we need a muse, a way to stay young, and vital. We’re no good on our own.”
“But I’m—I’m no longer a child. How can I help you now?”
He turned to me, his eyes cloudy with tears and sadness, veiled with a lost dream, and I knew that he was not looking at me; he was looking at—he was looking for—someone else.
“Come to me,” Mr. Ruskin whispered. “Simply come to me, now and again, and sit by my fire, and let me gaze at you. Let me talk. And then—” Finally he shook himself, shook off his demons, with a tremor of his head; it appeared to start from his feet, moving up the entire length of his stooped, beaten body. “And then, I will help you with the Prince. I give you my word.”
I was silent. I could not see my way; it was as if I were trapped in a maze of trees, a dark, oppressive forest, only the trees were my past—and now, Mr. Ruskin’s past. They stopped my progress at every turn as I strained to find my way out of the dark and into the light, where Leo was waiting to carry me, finally, away.
What other choice did I have? Leo would graduate in the spring; it was only a little while that I had to pose as Mr. Ruskin’s friend. And as a friend, he would be helpful; as an enemy, he would be maliciously destructive. That much I knew.
“I will,” I said finally, my voice flat, expressionless. “I will come to you. As a friend. Nothing more.”
“That is all I ask.” He smiled sadly, leaning in to kiss my cheek, his lips dry and rough. I shut my eyes against him, although I could not shut my senses against his sickening perfume—a combination of lavender and rose and heliotrope, more flowers than a bride would wear.
“Till next time.” I pushed him away—gently—and gave him my hand; he took it, clasped it warmly, then lifted it to his lips, kissing it with a passion that startled me; it was as if my hand offered salvation, and he was a dying sinner.
“This time next week,” Mr. Ruskin said, releasing me with the same passion; turning away to stare moodily at the small table, where my photograph and Rose’s portrait sat like twin sirens.
Hesitating, I waited for him to show me out, but he did not move. Finally I turned and crossed the floor with a heavy step, a heavier heart.
I knew I would grow to despise this room and all that I had so recently found charming in it. I knew I would grow to despise Mr. Ruskin.
I knew, also, I would grow to despise myself.