Alice I Have Been: A Novel Read online

  “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 e
xactly 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.