Alice I Have Been: A Novel

by Melanie Benjamin

  “I believe so.” I couldn’t look at him, but my mouth—as if tied by a thread to my soaring heart—turned up in joy. This was the first time he had alluded to the future and to the possibility of the Queen’s blessing.

  “It means that we will be together, I promise. I have been away from you too long; I never mean to be away from you again.”

  “I am yours, you know. Oh, Leo, if you only saw the letters I wrote to you! I didn’t dare post them, but—oh, you would laugh, I was so foolish! But that’s all in the past now. You’re here, and you’re well, and there’s nothing more I need in the world.” I searched his eyes for my reward: my reward for keeping silent, for not giving way to my fears, for not giving Mamma any reason to scold or lecture; for submitting to Mr. Ruskin.

  I sought, and I found; his eyes bright with tears, Leo put his finger to my lips, kissed my forehead, and murmured, “And there’s nothing more I need, for I have found my true love. My Alice; my heart can speak no other name.”

  I closed my eyes and knew I would never be happier than I was in that moment; that moment when I allowed myself to deserve happiness, after all.

  “Leopold! Is that Leopold?” Papa was rounding the last stair step; Leo and I jumped up and managed to release each other just as he came into view. “My dear boy, my dear boy! I am so happy to see you well and strong!” With a cry, a hasty wipe of a tear, Papa bounded toward Leo, who likewise moved toward him. They clasped shoulders, shook hands, and I was so happy to see their obvious affection for each other.

  Mamma joined them; she, too, had a welcome smile on her face, although she could not prevent herself from searching me, for—what? I no longer knew what she was looking for when she studied me this way: signs, scratches, everyday wear and tear? Betrayal?

  I did not have time to linger, however; it was nearly five o’clock, and I was expected elsewhere. I bade farewell to Leo; when he kissed my hand, I could not prevent myself from imagining him kissing me elsewhere; my throat, the back of my neck ached with the desire. With a great effort, I managed to withdraw my hand and say good-bye. Then I hurried off to Mr. Ruskin’s, Sophie in tow.

  “You’ve been kissed,” he said immediately upon greeting me. He thrust his lower lip out in a sulk and stomped over to his chair.

  “Indeed, I have. Rhoda kissed me on the cheek this morning, when I lent her my new green riding habit.” My face was flushed, my lips still throbbing from Leo’s kisses, but I managed to take my seat with a demure smile, pouring out, as usual. The tea looked exceptionally hot today; the porcelain pot was very warm to the touch and stung my hands.

  “That’s not what I mean. This tea is too hot.” He tasted his, made a face, and set his cup back down upon the table with such force that the tea splashed out, ruining a cake.

  “Now look what you’ve done.” I began to mop it up with a napkin.

  “Don’t scold me. I’m not a child. Nor am I infirm,” he grumbled, his face reddening so that he did, indeed, resemble a small boy holding his breath to have his way.

  “Nor are you acting sensibly. Do behave.”

  “There you go again! Do this, do that. I tell you, you’ve been kissed, that’s what. You have that look about you—bruised, ready, and ripe for plucking. Who is he? Who?”

  “I will not continue this line of conversation,” said I, feeling ice surge through my veins, cooling my skin, allowing me to gain control of the situation. “I neglected to give you your lemon; that will cool your tea.”

  “It was him, I suppose, wasn’t it?” Mr. Ruskin grumbled, blowing on his cup so that his whiskers practically stood on end.

  I couldn’t suppress a smile, remembering the passion of Leo’s greeting; I felt my skin suffuse with heat.

  “Aha! I thought so. Lucky devil. Just look at you, all rosy and twittering like a bird. A lovely little bird. Why him? Why him and not me?” Again he set his cup down on the table, this time so hard that he shattered it. Tea was everywhere: on the table, the flowered rug, splattering the fire screen, splashing my skirt.

  “What on earth?” I looked at him, aghast. He did not resemble a little boy any longer; his eyes were hard, his brows thunderclouds, his mouth twisted up in a horrible grimace.

  “Why him? Because he’s younger, is that why?”

  “Why would you ask such a thing?”

  “Ah—see, look at you! I was right. You’ve been kissed by him, that man—Dodgson! Haven’t you? Don’t deny it, my pet. I’ll not have that.”

  “Mr.—Mr. Dodgson?”

  “Yes, Mr. Dodgson. Why him and not me?”

  “What are you talking about?” I froze, halfway out of my chair; too many thoughts, memories, rushed through my mind; lips and hands and hopes and dreams, summer days, the look in Leo’s innocent eyes when he told me I was his, just minutes ago, could it possibly be?

  “Dodgson. Why him, why allow his kisses, when you know I want to pet you, too? Ever since you were a little girl, I watched you. Alice, Alice, lovely Alice in Wonderland. What is it about him that charms you so? He’s a stuttering fool, but you chose him.”

  “I don’t know what you’re—that is, he’s not—Mr. Dodgson? What can you possibly mean? I told you he’s no longer—I thought you were referring to, to—” But I could not say Leo’s name.

  “Little girls and their charms,” he sneered, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. “So innocent, they seem. Yet seductive, too. You wanted his attention—you asked for it, just as you’re asking for it now. You knew what you were doing that summer afternoon, didn’t you?”

  I shut my eyes against the memories—the rhythmic swaying of a train, the velvety blackness of heat-induced sleep, the confused awakening. Ina’s eyes, round and unblinking, seeing what she wanted to see; what I wanted her to see—

  “No!” I shook my head. “No! I was too young! I can’t possibly remember—I was too young!”

  “That’s what she said, too.” Still he sat, glaring at me.

  “Who?”

  “Rose. My Rosie, my pet, my puss. On a summer afternoon. Always, always it’s a summer afternoon, isn’t it? She’s too young, she says. She won’t walk with me, she says, even though I ask and I ask and you won’t talk. Your parents won’t permit it. Why?” Now he was standing, pacing, his hair wild, as wild as his eyes. There was a tremor in his hands that he did not bother to hide.

  “My parents? Whatever do you mean? Why would you ask them?”

  “Because I’m a gentleman, that’s why!” He shouted it, shocking me out of my frozen state; finally I was able to rise from the chair, shaking out my stained skirt with trembling hands; on trembling legs I began to inch toward the door.

  “Mr. Ruskin, I’m afraid you’re not well today. I should leave you to rest—”

  “No!” Abruptly, he stopped, blocking my path; he swung around, staring at me with anguished eyes, clenched fists. I jumped back, my heart pounding, my skin prickling with fear. “No! Not when I’ve got you here—got you back! You’re always leaving, always slipping out of my grasp, first Alice, now my puss, my pet—Rosie, please don’t go! I’ll be good now; I’ll do whatever you say. Please.” Great, slow tears rolled down his suddenly sunken cheeks; he wiped them with his coat sleeves, sniffling, shuffling, as forlorn as a little boy.

  With a shock, I comprehended the situation. He was sick. Sick, tired, confused; I took a step toward him, holding out my hand, as one would do to a wounded animal.

  “Mr. Ruskin, please, I’m not Rose. I’m Alice. Alice Liddell. Don’t you remember?”

  He stared at my hand, his gaze moving up my arm to my face. His great white brows furrowing, he glared at me.

  “Of course I remember. What do you mean? Where’s the tea? Alice, I believe I asked you to pour out. Look at you—did you spill it? Let me ring for Mrs. Thompson.”

  He rang for Mrs. Thompson, who hurried in, took one look at the hearth, and scurried back out, returning with a pail of water, a rag, a dustpan. With efficient cheerfulness, she cleaned up the
spill and brought in fresh tea.

  While she was on her knees picking up the pieces of the shattered cup—it had a pattern of dark blue forget-me-nots—she paused and looked at Mr. Ruskin. He was staring out the window toward the Meadow, which was pale green in its first blush of spring; the days were lengthier now, so it was no longer dark at teatime. Mrs. Thompson then looked at me. I was standing, useless, in the middle of the room, unable to do anything but watch her try to put everything back together again. She caught my gaze, furrowed her brow, as if trying to piece together a difficult puzzle, and gave me a cautious, careful smile. Then she finished her task and left without another glance.

  “Now, pour, please, and do a better job of it this time. Tell me, when is Edith going to announce her engagement? Poor Aubrey is beside himself.” Mr. Ruskin returned to his chair, rubbing his hands together briskly as he looked at the cakes on the table beside him.

  Slowly—moving as if underwater, against a heavy current, sights and sounds strangely muffled and distorted—I returned to my chair. Everything around me seemed perfectly normal, remarkably undisturbed: the fire dancing in the hearth, fresh new tea things on the tray, Mr. Ruskin looking at the cakes in anticipation. The only clue that something bizarre, something unsettling, had occurred was the sight of the ugly splotches of tea, still wet, clinging to my light wool skirt.

  “There’s a good girl,” Mr. Ruskin said, as I poured the tea out once more—feeling quite as if I had only imagined doing so earlier. “I must say, Alice, you look pale today. I supposed you’d be practically blooming with the return of Leopold, which I understand took place this afternoon at a certain Dean’s residence, heh?” He chuckled softly. “I must caution you not to get caught up in the excitement; it’s imperative that you two remain discreet. But you can trust me; I’m on your side. I’m always on the side of romance.” He sipped his tea, his manner easy and expansive.

  I attempted to do the same, although I couldn’t taste mine; it might have been scalding, it might have been cold. My lips, my tongue, were too numb to tell.

  “What do you say to a game of Beggar My Neighbor? I’m rather in the mood for cards today, as my head aches. I find that mindless games are best for a poor head, don’t you?” With a bright smile, he nodded toward the cabinet where the cards were stored; I rose, retrieved them, and returned. He shuffled, I cut, and he dealt.

  I said not a word the rest of that afternoon, but he didn’t appear to notice. I sat before his fire, playing a child’s game with the eminent Mr. Ruskin, who laughed happily, greedily, when he took my cards.

  When I left to go, he asked me to give Leopold his best and kissed me on the cheek with the careless affection of a kind uncle. And were it not for the stain on my skirt, the extra care with which Mrs. Thompson bade me good evening, I could scarcely believe that anything odd had happened, after all.

  Yet when I left the building, I glanced up. Mr. Ruskin was standing in the window looking at me, the portrait of Rose La Touche in his hands; turning away, I began to run as fast as I could.

  I was nearly to Merton Street, not caring if Sophie had managed to keep up, as I bent my head toward the ground, struggling to collect my thoughts and arrange them into a manageable packet that I could tuck within my bodice, out of sight, when I heard my name.

  “Alice—Mi-Mi-Miss Alice, tha-tha-that is, is that you?”

  I looked up; I had nearly run into a man. A tall, slender man with blue eyes, one higher than the other; he wore nothing more than his usual frock coat and gray gloves, even though the air was still chilly with the memory of winter.

  “Oh!” I couldn’t prevent myself from taking a step backward, discovering a sniffling Sophie to be much closer than I had anticipated. “Hello, Mr. Dodgson.”

  He raised his hat and bowed. “I trust I’m not keeping you; you appear to be in a hurry.”

  “No, not at all. I’m on my way from Mr. Ruskin’s, where I—I had a drawing lesson.” Across the street, a gentleman opened the door to a pub; light and music briefly spilled out in the gutter, and I shivered suddenly at the gay tinkling of a piano.

  “Are you well?” Mr. Dodgson asked, alarmed. I saw him reach his hand out, as of old—ready to help, ready to comfort; with a shock of confusion I recalled his habit of bending down and sniffing the top of my head when I was small.

  I took another step away even as he snatched his hand back and hid it behind his waist. “Yes, I’m fine, and I do hope that you are, as well,” I murmured, embarrassed for us both.

  “I am, thank you. Tell me, have you had word of Prince Leopold? He’s such a great fa-favorite here. We’re all eager for his return.”

  His soft voice was hesitant, devoid of any archness or duplicity. Steeling myself to look, finally, into Mr. Dodgson’s eyes as I had not been able to do in his rooms, I raised my head.

  His eyes were blue and kind and without suspicion, I felt. Yet I told myself I did not know him any longer. We had both changed so much.

  “It’s very good of you to ask,” I said finally, for that was the truth, at least. “Indeed, the Prince has just arrived back at Oxford this very afternoon.” Was it just this afternoon? What very mysterious things days were—what had Mr. Dodgson once said? Sometimes they fly by, and other times they seem to last forever, yet they are all exactly twenty-four hours. There’s quite a lot we don’t know about them. “Do you remember—?” I began, then stopped, catching my breath. There could be no comfort in shared memories for the two of us.

  “Well, I’m very happy to hear about the Prince. Truly, I am.”

  Again I steeled myself to search his eyes; again I found nothing but kindness there.

  “Thank you. I’ll be sure to let the Prince know you asked—that is, I’ll be sure to have Papa do so. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m expected home from my drawing lesson.”

  “Good evening, then.” Mr. Dodgson stepped aside, allowing me to proceed. With a grateful smile, I nodded and hurried on a few steps—until his voice stopped me once more.

  “W-where is your sketchbook, Alice?”

  I paused, looked at my hands—my muff my only possession, Sophie certainly not carrying anything. I bit my lip, cursed my stupidity, and turned around with one of Ina’s coy smiles upon my lips.

  “Oh dear, I must have forgotten it! Sophie, do run back to Mr. Ruskin’s and fetch it, will you?”

  “But miss, you never—”

  “At once, Sophie.”

  With a gasp and a start, she trotted back down the path we had just walked, her faded red coat barely visible in the gathering darkness.

  I shrugged and turned to go with a disapproving click of my tongue at the mindless ways of servants, when Mr. Dodgson called after me once more.

  “Do-do-do be careful, Alice. Whatever game he’s playing with you—he’s not entirely reliable, if you understand.”

  I froze, unsure to whom he was referring. Leo? Mr. Ruskin?

  “I’m sorry, I know it’s none of my business,” he said hastily. “Please forgive me.”

  “No—that is, there is nothing to forgive. I appreciate your concern, but pray don’t trouble yourself further. It’s not as if I—it’s not as if we’re—it’s simply not necessary.”

  “It’s not as if we’re friends any longer, is that what you mean?”

  His voice was gentle, coaxing, sad. I knew there would be sadness in his eyes, too; sorrow in the way his smile turned down at the ends.

  But I did not turn around to see. I simply continued on my way home, faster than before.

  Eager to put more distance between myself and my past.

  Chapter 11

  • • •

  I RETURNED TO MR. RUSKIN’S THE NEXT WEEK, AND HE WAS himself—by turns gruff and garrulous; petulant and dignified. He called me by my own name and never once referred to the past, his or mine. Then he left for a visit to his home in the Lakes, and I was free. Free to indulge myself in long talks with Leo about topics grave and topics small, it hardly mattered; our
minds were so well matched, as well matched as our hearts, that we simply enjoyed the conversation, regardless. Between the two of us, we knew, we could solve the world’s problems. All we needed was enough time.

  There were moments we didn’t talk; often he would sit and watch me while I sketched the river, or the new flowers in the Meadow, and once I even tried to reproduce his likeness. But my hand—usually so steady with a pencil—would not behave; while I managed to capture his eyes and his nose passably well, his mouth was impossible, for I could not look at it without wanting to feel it upon my own. I had to give up, finally, and tell him that his mustache needed a proper trimming before I would sketch him again.

  That spring the air was always soft and warm, the flowers in bloom more fragrant than ever before, the promise of summer so poignant, so tangible, it brought tears to my eyes to think of it. I slept every night with my window flung open, as if to let summer—to let God, even—know that I was ready, waiting, for all the goodness, the promise, to come.

  Yet when Mr. Ruskin returned and summoned me once again, I found that in his drawing room, at least, winter still resided. His windows remained shuttered against the fresh air, and his fire burned as bright as ever. The room was stifling, so hot I felt as if I were being suffocated by my own clothing. Despite my pleadings, he would not open a window.

  “It’ll do you good to keep inside where it’s warm. All that traipsing about in the woods, the Meadow—I know, I see. So you’ve decided to forgo my advice about discretion?”

  “We have decided not to hide our feelings for each other, true. Although there is no need for further speculation.”

  “Hmm. And the Queen?”

  “Her Majesty has been most anxious about her son’s health and is happy to hear that he is in such fine spirits. Now, how was your visit to the Lakes? I’m sure it was quite lovely this time of year. I do hope you were able to rest some; you’ve seemed rather—tired, of late.”