Alice I Have Been: A Novel

by Melanie Benjamin

  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.