Alice I Have Been: A Novel

by Melanie Benjamin

  “Although I admit, I was surprised not to find you with long yellow hair.” He reached up and fingered a wayward strand of my plain black hair with a smile.

  I slapped his hand away with a look. I sometimes felt that his illness made him too reckless, as if he believed he could not afford to move at the pace that propriety demanded. “Yes, well, I didn’t actually pose for the illustrations, of course. Those came later. Originally, it was intended simply to be a story shared by two—by two friends.” I concentrated on keeping my voice steady, unconcerned. “Naturally, I’m very happy that it turned into something much bigger, and that it has brought joy to so many people.”

  “Are you happy that it has brought me to you? That’s how it seems to me now. That it is all part of some greater plan.” Leo paused as his valet rushed ahead to open the entrance door. We walked out into the foggy October afternoon, both of us opening our umbrellas and holding them aloft. They offered just enough protection from the steady drizzle, although we had to raise our voices to continue our conversation.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, isn’t it interesting that Duckworth became my tutor? It’s as if it was all leading to you and me, in some mystical way. That he was there, with you, when the story was told, and now here I am, with you. Do you mind, Alice? Do you mind very much that I’m so happy to be with you?”

  He leaned close to me, so close that his head was beneath my umbrella; I felt his breath blow warm upon my face. He smiled down at me, such a sweet, earnest expression in his eyes, and my heart surged within my breast, contained only by my tight bodice. I could not hold his gaze; I was no longer as bold as I had been as a child, when I was not afraid to claim the things I desired.

  “No, I don’t mind,” I whispered as timidly as any lady; even Ina would have approved. Yet I also couldn’t prevent a happy, sure smile from escaping.

  Perhaps I was not the lady either of us believed me to be, at that.

  Satisfied, Leo returned to his own umbrella and took my arm, as any gentleman would under the soggy circumstances, guiding me firmly across the puddles that were gathering between the cobblestones. We were on St. Aldate’s now; Sophie and his valet followed, a proper three steps behind.

  “It’s so odd, to realize that Dodgson is Lewis Carroll. Before I came here, I imagined that Lewis Carroll was a kind older-uncle sort. Jolly, plump, with whiskers. To find that he’s simply a fussy mathematics professor—and not a very good or popular one at that! Although Duckworth always speaks fondly of him; they’re great friends, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, I believe they still are, although I haven’t seen Mr. Duckworth in years, not since he went up to London.” With effort, I slowed my breathing; with every passing reference to Mr. Dodgson, it had sped up so that it was matching the accelerating raindrops on my umbrella. Even so, I couldn’t prevent myself from shivering.

  “Old Duck’s the same as ever—oh, my poor dear, you must be freezing!” Leo stopped, looking at me in alarm.

  “I am, rather.”

  “Then you must go right home. Come, I’ll escort you.” He made as if to shepherd me across the street, to the entrance of the Quad.

  “Oh, no! No—you need to rest, and it’s so wretched out. I’ll be fine. You’ll be home much more quickly if we part now.”

  “Will I see you tomorrow night?”

  “Of course!” I flashed him a reassuring smile. “Mamma is delighted that you’re coming. She got the whole evening up just for you.”

  “Then, tomorrow.” Leo took my hand, pressed his lips against it, and bowed. I curtsied and watched as he walked away, a slight, jauntily commanding figure beneath his large black umbrella, trailed by his somber valet, who was bareheaded, his thin hair plastered to his skull by the rain.

  Sophie and I crossed the street, pushing our way through a sea of umbrellas—there was no hope for it; my skirt was now thoroughly drenched, as well as my shoes, and felt as if it weighed twelve stone. Just before we reached the entrance to the Quad, I looked up at windows north of the tower. There was light, shadows of objects behind curtains, but I didn’t see any movement there.

  Still, I couldn’t help but feel as if I was being watched, as I’d been watched ever since I was a little girl playing croquet with my sisters in the garden. Only I wasn’t a little girl anymore. And my games were much more complicated.

  “SO, TELL ME,” Mr. Ruskin purred, taking my arm and pulling me into a corner. “Will I be addressing you as Her Royal Highness anytime soon?”

  We were in the dining room of the Deanery, brightly lit by two enormous chandeliers, the candles flickering gaily; refreshments were being served between musical acts. Mamma, her dark hair shimmering with a few threads of silver now, was hovering, handsome as ever in emerald green satin, with a boldly low neckline showing off her formidable décolletage. She was eyeing the refreshments, set out upon the table and sideboard—platters of cold tongue, pyramids of fruit in two low brass epergnes, delicate china plates of jellies and ices, and great cut-glass bowls of punch. She looked up anxiously, and moved a platter of tongue precisely as a dollop of wax was about to drip onto it.

  Papa was holding court just outside the room; he was in the middle of a story about little Lionel, only six, and showing much academic promise. At long last, Papa had a son whose intellect could be hoped to match his own. Harry, kind and generous as he was, had not lived up to that expectation.

  Mamma had survived her childbearing years, and our family was now complete with the addition of Violet, Eric, and Lionel. Complete, and now, also, expanded; Ina had married last year, to a nobleman from Scotland, William Skene. His family held many estates, to Mamma’s everlasting delight, while William was also an academic close to Papa’s heart. He had been a fellow at All Souls College when he met Ina. Thus, they lived in Oxford for part of the year.

  “Mr. Ruskin,” I murmured. “If that were true, you would be the first to know it.”

  “Deception, Miss Alice, does not become you.” He looked at me from beneath those unruly eyebrows, his blue eyes glittering. “I would be the last to know it.”

  “From my lips only; to be sure, you would hear it from some other. One of your sources, perhaps?” I smiled wickedly, moving away from the table into the hallway, to the staircase, which was draped with picturesque couples. The ladies were in jewel-toned evening dresses of the current fashion (tightly fitted bodices and front skirts, pulled back to beribboned bustles cascading with lace and bows; low necklines, tiny puffs of sleeves, and short gloves of lace or net). The attending gentlemen—holding dinner plates for their partners—were in black tailcoats, white vests, and white shirts with the new winged collar. The round-globed gaslights, recently installed in the Deanery, threw off hazy yellow light against the dark flowered wallpaper, although Mamma still insisted upon candles being lit as well.

  “Don’t be coy with me, Alice,” Mr. Ruskin grumbled, following so closely that he stepped on the train of my peacock-blue Worth gown, a birthday present from Ina and Mr. Skene. “I observed the two of you at my lecture. Very cozy, you were. I wonder if the Queen is aware?”

  “I’m confident that Leo—the Prince—hides nothing of importance from her.”

  “Leo?” Mr. Ruskin’s eyebrows shot up to his hairline.

  “The Prince,” I repeated firmly, my face burning at my mistake.

  “Hmmph. So the Queen approves?”

  “I said he hides nothing of importance. He and I are friends; that is all.” With a great effort, I swallowed my rising unease and favored him with a coquettish smile, one I knew had a soothing effect upon him. I used it often during our art lessons, whenever he leaned too closely over my shoulder. While I still enjoyed painting, I continued my lessons, dutifully accompanied by Edith, who did not share my talent, simply because they remained the only course of study open to me. The end of my schoolgirl years was marked by my Grand Tour; even as I was traveling through Europe with my sisters, unaccompanied, for the first time, by eit
her of our parents, I worried how I would occupy myself once we returned. I was grateful to be in Oxford, at least, where young ladies attending lectures and reading books wasn’t quite as shocking as it would have been in a more fashionable place, such as London.

  However, my pursuit of art meant that I was thrown, more and more, into the company of Mr. Ruskin. Hence my reliance upon certain coquettish smiles and playful phrases.

  This evening, unfortunately, he was having none of them.

  “You and the Prince are merely friends, my dear? I find that very hard to believe. How can any man ever content himself with friendship?” Stepping off my train, he pressed close against me so that his breath blew chills across the back of my neck. “Especially when it comes to Alice in Wonderland? Do you think the Queen knows all about that business?”

  “I do wish you wouldn’t call me that,” I hissed, squirming, attempting to get away. He had pressed me into a corner behind the stairs; I had no choice but to confront him. “And pray tell me what you mean by ‘that business.’”

  Mr. Ruskin smirked, his generous mouth tipping up at the corners, half concealed by his unruly sideburns, which were heavily perfumed with a sweet, overripe fragrance; I turned my head, nauseated.

  “Now, Alice, don’t look like that. We’re friends, you and I. We have much in common, and I believe I can help.”

  “Help?” I looked down at him; he was starting to stoop with age, and I had grown tall in these last years. Surveying his figure—filled out in the shoulders, at the hips, yet strangely slim at the waist, suggesting a corset—I managed to conceal a smirk. “I wasn’t aware I was in need of rescue.”

  “Dear Alice—dear, innocent, naïve Alice.” He chuckled, sounding like the benign scholar so many people believed him to be. “Is Mr. Dodgson aware of your new friendship?”

  I stiffened, drawing myself up to my full height; I was my mother’s daughter, after all. I rapped my fan against Mr. Ruskin’s shoulder, pushing him away.

  “I have no need for deceit. I’m sure that Mr. Dodgson, like all my friends, would only wish me great happiness. That is, were there any occasion for it, which there is not.”

  “How bewitching,” Mr. Ruskin purred, stepping aside, releasing me. “That you believe, even now, in Wonderland. It’s one of your many charms, my dear.”

  I whirled around, about to contradict him, for I had long since stopped believing in a land where reality could not intrude. Then I paused. Since Leo had arrived, had insinuated himself into my life, my heart, I realized I had allowed myself to believe once more.

  His Royal Highness, the Prince Leopold, had appeared in a swirl of ceremony, one more Royal pupil for my father to welcome to Christ Church; I was mildly curious about him, as I remembered the Prince of Wales telling me of this youngest brother when I was very small. Mindful of the past and heeding Mamma’s warnings for the future, at first I was resigned to remain in shadows, watching with amusement as she pushed Edith toward the dapper young Prince, seating them next to each other at dinners and concerts, arranging romantic musical evenings like tonight.

  The Prince, however, did not play his assigned role. He saw me in the shadows, ignored my mother—who was not used to being ignored—and insisted upon pulling me into the sun. Where I realized, to my great surprise, that I still wanted to believe in fairy tales, after all.

  Yet how could they come true while I remained here in Oxford, trapped by my past, trapped by my very name, even? Trapped by eyes, eyes everywhere; eyes once kind. Now, however—I did not know. I didn’t want to know. I wanted only to forget.

  “Alice, where have you been?” Edith came gliding up, her hair—a darker auburn now—arranged in cascading curls held off her smooth white brow with diamond clips. Her deep green eyes took in my discomfort at once; she placed her hand on Mr. Ruskin’s arm and dimpled prettily at him.

  “Mr. Ruskin! I’ve been looking for you everywhere! I’m very angry at Alice for monopolizing you!”

  “Dear girl! Dear, dear girl!” He preened and twittered like a malicious magpie. Stroking his sideburns, he allowed himself to be steered away by Edith.

  “Oh, Alice! Ruskin! There you are!” Prince Leopold joined us, unfortunately before Edith could succeed. Leo’s smile, when he saw me, was pure happiness; I wondered, not for the first time, what he saw when he looked at me to make him smile this way.

  “Your Royal Highness.” Mr. Ruskin bowed, as Edith and I curtsied.

  “Oh, do stop it. We see each other with too much frequency here at Oxford; we must dispense with such formalities.”

  “I don’t recall your brother, the Prince of Wales, expressing himself so when he was a student, Sir,” Mr. Ruskin replied.

  “No, Bertie wouldn’t,” was all that Leopold had to say about the matter. “I’m so very glad I caught the two of you together,” he continued with an impish grin. “I made a wager with Miss Alice here—yes, I am a very corrupting influence—and I must see it through.”

  “Oh, Prince Leopold!” I shook my head, laughing—attempting to pull him away from Mr. Ruskin.

  “Come now, Alice. I’m no welsher.”

  “What? You two made a wager concerning me?” There was no use for it; of course Mr. Ruskin’s considerable vanity was now involved. I shook my head at Leo, who was watching me with laughing—innocent—eyes.

  “Mr. Ruskin,” I began, my voice as light and merry as I could make it. “As you observed, I had the pleasure of attending your typically brilliant lecture yesterday. Somehow, I fail to see what your opinion concerning the current, declining state of English society—which, after all, is hardly an original opinion, at that—has to do with Sir Joshua Reynolds’s valuable discourses. There. Where is my half crown?” I held my hand out to Leo; he laughed, reached inside his pocket, and tucked a coin into my palm, folding my fingers over it with a lingering, possessive gesture. Mr. Ruskin’s sharp eyes did not fail to observe this discreet ceremony.

  “Well, as usual, it’s delightful to hear a lady’s—hardly original, in its own way—opinion about a scholarly subject.” Mr. Ruskin did not quite manage to conceal his contempt with a smile. “Miss Alice, would you do me the pleasure of further enlightening me? I would very much like to continue our conversation.” He raised his bushy white eyebrows. “Tomorrow afternoon, perhaps? In my rooms, for tea?”

  “Oh dear! I believe I have a dressmaker’s appointment?” I looked at Edith, who nodded much too vigorously; she was not as skilled a liar as her elder sister.

  “Yes, I’m sure of it, Alice. I remember it’s been scheduled for days.”

  “I think you can postpone it for an old friend, can’t you? You, who have so many old friends scattered about?” Ruskin bowed, finally allowing Edith to drag him away—but not before he whispered in my ear, as he brushed past me, “Alone.”

  I shivered, turning to Leo, longing to grab his hand and run away to—where, exactly? There was no place for us to go; there were so many eyes upon us. Mamma’s eyes, too, worriedly watched the two of us; I could see her brow knit, her lips press themselves tightly together as she stood in the doorway to the dining room. I looked away. I did not want to see my thoughts confirmed in my mother’s face.

  “Strange fellow. Whatever did he mean?” Leo watched as Edith skillfully steered Mr. Ruskin back toward the refreshment table.

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “Alice, are you ill? You look pale.”

  “No, no, I’m perfectly fine. Although I’ll never hear the end of it from Mamma if I monopolize you—she so wants to enjoy your company.”

  “I sat next to her all during the Bach quintet. I brought her a glass of punch. I promised her I’d be her guest of honor at a winter ball. Now I must claim the reward for my patience.” He stroked the top of my satin glove, pressing my hand against his chest; I allowed this liberty only long enough for me to feel his heart beat against the palm of my hand, before I gently pulled it away.

  “Oh, Leo,” I said, wishing I could hide my fac
e against his shoulder; hide my shame, my past, my fears.

  “What? Alice—are you crying? Whatever is wrong, my darling?” He pulled me to him, looking into my face, his eyes round with alarm. One strand of dark yellow hair fell across his forehead, giving him such a youthful look.

  I shook my head, blinked away my tears, and glanced around the room, desperate to find something amusing to lighten my thoughts.

  But I did not find such distraction, and knew we had lingered too long in our private alcove; with calm determination, I moved toward the hallway, which was lined with family photographs, particularly of the three identically dressed Liddell girls when they were very small.

  “What a tableau!” Leo paused in front of one photograph; it was of the three of us, Ina, Edith, and me, in identical short lacy dresses with pantalets and ankle socks, strumming tiny guitars, or machetes. Of the three of us, I was the only one looking right at the camera—or rather, right at Mr. Dodgson. Yet I did not remember taking the photograph; it must have been in his rooms, probably at the instigation of Mamma.

  “Mamma was fond of dressing us up and having us photographed,” I told Leo now. “She did not mind Mr. Dodgson at those times.”

  “Mr. Dodgson took the photographs?” Leo still gazed at the picture, and I smiled, wondering what he saw in my younger self.

  “Yes, he’s very skilled.”

  “A man of many talents. And a man of obvious discernment, choosing you as his muse again and again!” Still looking at the photograph, Leo slipped his hand in mine, and I allowed it to linger there for a moment more than usual before I moved away.

  “I’m not sure about that, it was simply convenient back then as we all were such great friends, living practically next door to each other,” I murmured, watching Mamma start to make her way toward us.

  “I wish to have a photograph of you.” Leo turned to me just as Mamma joined us. She bowed—but paled, as she must have heard what he said.