Alice I Have Been: A Novel

by Melanie Benjamin

  “I’m sorry, my dear!” He slowed, turning to smile at me—he was so eager, his smile seemed to take over his entire face. “I quite forgot that ladies’ clothing is so devilishly—well, so devilishly constraining. Although I do think you look lovely tonight—have I told you?”

  “Several times. But I’ll never tire of hearing it.”

  “Be careful what you wish for!” With another smile—another twinkle of his blue eyes—he turned down a different passage; it was unlit, narrow, the floor uneven, and I could not see my hand before me. All I could do was trust in Leo to guide me, and I was glad to do so.

  “Watch your step!” I heard the creak of a door, then stubbed my toe up against a small stair. Following him blindly, I stepped up, then out—into the night. Blinking at the relative brightness—the moon was not quite full, yet it shone purposefully down upon us—I found that we were in the large open-air market behind the Council Hall. It was empty tonight, of course, although the ground was still scattered with straw, and there were a few permanent wooden stalls as well as several benches. Leo led me to one, and laughed as I sank down upon it, finally able to catch my breath.

  “I’m sorry, truly, but I was so eager, you know, to have you entirely to myself!”

  “Sir, I am most gratified, but do we dare it? We’re quite unchaperoned!” I smiled up at him; he was no longer laughing. The solemn look in his eyes chased away my own smile; I studied him with the same gravity, for I knew I would want to remember this moment for the rest of my life.

  “Alice.” He knelt beside me; I wondered, oddly, if he would dirty the knees of his trousers. “Dearest Alice, please give me your hand.”

  Trembling, I did as he asked.

  “Darling, I had the most amazing communication this evening from Mamma. She sends her best wishes, naturally.”

  “How very kind of her,” I said automatically, wishing he would get to the point while also, strangely, happy to linger in the sweet anticipation of the moment; just to see the love light in his eyes, those hopeful, thoughtful eyes, filled all the aching, empty places of my heart up with a quiet joy.

  “Yes, well—she knows, now, how very—fond—I am of you. I’ve taken great care in telling her. I’m afraid I’ve been rather a boring correspondent, as I’ve had just one single subject. You.”

  “Oh, is the Queen very tired of me?”

  “I daresay—particularly as I even enlisted others in my cause.”

  “You have?”

  “Yes—I didn’t want to trust our happiness to my own feeble pen. That was what I was referring to, with Mr. Ruskin. I asked him, as well as Duckworth—your old friends, of course—to write to her, also. She respects them, and she knows their great regard for your father, their long association with your family. I felt that would be the wisest course, don’t you agree?”

  Did a cloud veil the moon, or was it fear that darkened the night, chilling my bones? Yet I told myself that Leo would not be on his knees beside me if the Queen had not given him reason to hope. What could Mr. Duckworth say, after all? He was a good man. He was also Mr. Dodgson’s closest friend.

  But Mr. Dodgson was kind, I had seen it in his eyes; he wanted me to be happy—may we be happy—

  “Oh, Leo!” My heart fluttered, sickeningly, to my feet. And why hadn’t Mr. Ruskin mentioned this to me before? If he intended to aid us, would he not have told me?

  “What is it, dear? You look so distressed—is it the cold? Here, do take my coat—I forgot about your wrap.” With a sweet, worried shake of his head—entirely in the manner of one delighted to find himself suddenly responsible for another—he removed his jacket and placed it about my shoulders.

  “Thank you,” I said, looking up at him; his hands lingered upon my shoulders as he bent down to kiss me, gently, almost reverently.

  But then his lips—his soft, full lips—sought more; he sank down beside me on the bench, wrapped me in his arms, and took my love as insistently as I could give it. I sought, too—pulling away with a little gasp, my limbs limp, only his arms holding me up, I suddenly needed more; I met his lips, tasted his tongue, with a hunger of my own. My arm arched gracefully about his neck—a strange liquid thrill shot through my womb, and I cried out, even as I sought more.

  And he was eager to provide it; he leaned into me, pressing down upon my body almost until I could no longer hold myself upright; I sank down, down, down until my back nearly touched the bench.

  “I—I—oh, darling!” Suddenly he sprang back, wrenched away, and pushed at my shoulders, his hands trembling. Leo shook his head, as if to clear it; I searched his face, still wanting more; still wanting to possess him, possess him so absolutely that nothing he could hear—not from the Queen, nor Mr. Duckworth, nor Mr. Ruskin—could ever keep us apart.

  “Yes, Leo?” Struggling to sit upright, I felt my hair falling down the back of my neck, and I saw Edith’s diamond clip sparkling on the ground near the bench. I studied him anxiously; wanting so very much to please him.

  “I’m afraid—that is, we mustn’t do much more of—that, at least not now. Not until—not until later, my dear.” He clenched his hands into fists, holding them tight for a long moment before finally relaxing them and turning back to smile at me. I noticed, however, that he was still breathing heavily.

  “Oh! Yes, of course, I quite understand.” I did understand that it was different with men; their passions were more difficult to control.

  “Although I must say, dear Alice, you do kiss quite well. Almost as if you’ve been kissed before, many times!” Now he was teasing me, I knew; his eyes glittered and coaxed, until I was forced to smile, despite my sudden queasiness.

  “Well, I have been—you’ve kissed me yourself!”

  “Ah, I’m much more accomplished than I’ve been led to believe.” He—very gingerly, as if I might be too warm to touch—placed his hand upon mine and sat quietly for a moment, until his breathing came more regularly.

  “Now, then, you’ve quite gotten me off track. I do believe I was speaking very seriously about a matter of great importance to us both.”

  “Yes, of course—do go on.” I tried to match the lightness of his tone, even as I fought off a rising bubble of panic. Had I been overeager? Had I scared him away? I had always been confident around Leo, knowing I was his equal in so many ways. Suddenly, I was very unsure of myself. I did not feel on equal footing, not at all; I was so close to my heart’s desire that I was unable to think, to choose, to act, for fear of chasing it away.

  “As I said—before I was so spectacularly interrupted—I’ve written Mamma, and she understands where my heart lies. With you, of course, my Alice. And this afternoon, then, I received a letter from her, a most encouraging letter—”

  “Alice! Alice!” It was a strange voice calling my name; startled, Leo and I both looked up. Someone was running toward us, across the great expanse of the marketplace.

  “What? Who’s there?” We rose, and I tried to make out the approaching figure, sprinting, as if to a fire, calling my name.

  “Alice—there you are! We’ve been looking everywhere! Come quickly—we must leave right away!” It was William Skene, his shirt untucked, his coat half off his shoulders; he bent over, hands upon his knees, struggling to catch his breath before he looked at me—I saw, even in the moonlight, that his face was deathly pale.

  “What? What is it?”

  “Edith. It’s Edith—quick, we must go back to the Deanery. Your parents have already left with Ina and Rhoda—I’m to take you in my carriage.”

  “Edith?” I could only repeat her name, for it did not register in my brain. Edith? Edith was home, in bed; I had just waltzed around her room, getting ready for this night. “What about Edith?”

  “She’s ill—very, very ill. Dr. Acland has gone, too. Come—we can’t tarry. Prince Leopold, help me!”

  I did not understand what he meant, but somehow Leo was pushing me—gently, yet forcibly—toward William, who was hurrying back across the mar
ket square. Then I was in front of the Corn Exchange, being lifted into the carriage—I heard my brother-in-law yell to his driver to hurry, there was no time to waste—and somehow I found the presence of mind to lean out of the carriage window and look, one more time, at Leo as the horses pulled away. I realized, too late, that I was still wrapped in his jacket; it smelled like moonlight, like warm breezes, faded jasmine. My own scent, I realized; it had mixed and lingered with his. I smelled myself upon his coat.

  Leo was standing at the curb, just under a streetlamp; the light shone down upon him, making his hair a golden halo but obscuring his face so I could not see his eyes. He raised his arm in farewell, opened his mouth as if to speak.

  We rounded the street corner before I could hear what he said, but I was sure that it was just one word—

  Alice.

  Chapter 13

  • • •

  PERITONITIS. MEASLES. PERITONITIS.

  Dr. Acland could not make up his mind as to the cause of Edith’s sudden decline. He felt her pulse, looked at her dilated pupils, and palpated her stomach, even cut her wrist to study her blood. In the end, all he could do was shake his head and try to make her comfortable. Yet he could not even do that. In her half-conscious state she moaned, she writhed, she gasped and pleaded with words that did not make sense even as they pierced the heart.

  I sat next to her; I would not leave her for a minute. Mamma sat on the other side of the bed. But the men—Papa, devastated; ashen Aubrey—could not take it. They stood outside the room and talked in low, unbelieving murmurs, while Ina officiously declared that she was there to tend to them, for there was no place for her in the sickroom.

  During my vigil, I did not weep. Neither did Mamma. We sat, silent sentries, and did not speak, not to each other; we did both try to comfort Edith, try to soothe her, try to bring her back from her purgatory of pain, but there was no reaching her. The poor, pale face—there were some outbreaks of spots, but not many—was drenched in sweat, her hair, dark with perspiration, spread out over her pillow; her entire body seemed twisted, wrung out like a wet dish towel. She rarely opened her eyes, and when she did, they were a dull, muddy color, clouded over with pain. I know she did not see us. All I could pray for was that she felt us; felt my hand in hers as I tried so very hard to pass my strength on to her frail, tortured body.

  Even during my vigil—did I sleep? Eat? I do not recall—I was aware of one thing.

  I was aware that Leo had not called.

  I had expected him to be here; if not here, precisely—knowing his own tendency to sickness—then at least sending me notes of comfort and hope. I had expected him, at the very least, to call asking about Edith, for he was very fond of her, as was everyone who knew her gentle spirit.

  His absence was conspicuous; I even heard Papa, outside in the hall, remark upon it.

  Mamma did not. She spoke to me only once, after a particularly anguished spell during which Edith’s limbs went rigid, her back arched off the mattress in agony; I pressed my lips together, holding in a cry of my own to see my sister so. I asked, finally, for God to put a stop to it, however best He saw fit; I vowed I would never ask for anything again—for what else would I need, if Leo were by my side?—if only she didn’t have to suffer.

  After Edith went limp again, unconscious but mercifully out of pain, Mamma sagged in her chair, pressing her handkerchief to her mouth and giving way to a heartbreaking moan. When I looked over at her, with eyes too full of my sister’s agony to truly see anything else, she removed her handkerchief and said, “Why couldn’t it be you? You’ve never brought me anything but pain, while she has brought me nothing but joy.”

  I knew she spoke the truth as she saw it; I also knew I would remember her words, and cry against their cruelty later. Later, when I had emotion, strength, to spare for myself.

  But at that moment I could only listen, and stare at my mother, and be grateful, at least, that here was one child she would truly mourn.

  The second day of our vigil, I was told, very sternly by Dr. Acland, that I must get some fresh air or else there would be another patient on his hands. So I rose—my neck was stiff, the small of my back ached, and I felt, immediately, dizzy upon my feet—and somehow stumbled out of Edith’s room, pleading with Dr. Acland to come get me the minute she awoke, or—

  I would not give voice to the alternative; I would not. I shut my eyes but could not prevent the hot, tired tears from rolling down my cheeks. I drifted down the stairs—I do not know how, for my legs were as numb as my other senses—and found myself outside, in the garden. It was a beautiful day, I thought automatically, looking up at the bright sun, the blue sky, noting that the roses were almost in bloom. I must fetch Edith, for she would enjoy it so—

  Falling down upon a stone bench, I buried my face in my hands and allowed my fears to take over, driving all hope from my heart. How could she recover? I knew she could not. Yet it was too cruel to contemplate, my sister being taken just as her life was starting; I recalled the wedding dress she had recently ordered, the excitement in her eyes as she sketched out the flowers she would carry in her bridal bouquet. My heart could not bear it, but I could not stop trying, somehow, to understand; she was healthy, she was strong, she was in love. How could this happen? Wasn’t goodness—wasn’t love—enough for God?

  My stomach lurched, pushing bile up in my throat; I retched, although nothing came up but sobs—huge, racking sobs that shook my very bones, rattled my weary heart. I could not bear to lose my sister—I already felt an empty ache in my chest where she should be, as if I’d carried her around with me always, and I knew, of course, that I had. Who would I turn to if she wasn’t there? What would I ever do with all that emptiness? My sister was my only friend, except for Leo, and he was not here, either. Where was he? What could his absence mean? I couldn’t bear to lose him, too—oh, I could not possibly bear any more!

  And then he was standing before me. I looked up, blinking through my tears, not at all sure it was him—it could have been an apparition, a dream of him, so golden was his hair as the sun shone through it—but then my arms were about his neck, my head upon his shoulder, and he was stroking my forehead, murmuring my name.

  “Leo, Leo, where were you? I needed you so—but you’re here now.” I was babbling, too exhausted to try to collect my thoughts; every nerve was raw, worn to a frazzle.

  “Dearest, I’m so sorry. I—I had—that is, how is she? Tell me, how is Edith?” Gently, he lowered me to the bench and sat beside me, my head still upon his shoulder. I closed my eyes, felt his strength and his protection, and I wanted to remain there forever. If I did, then everything would be all right; Edith would simply be waiting for me in her room, pouting about not being able to go to the ball. And Leo and I would always be together, and the burden of being myself—watched, watchful, and so very, very careful—would be lifted from me.

  “She’s—oh, Leo, she’s so ill! She’s delirious, burning with fever, racked with pain, and Dr. Acland won’t say it, but I know—I know—he despairs!” Each word was wrenched from my heart, until it could give no more and I had nothing left but tears, steadily shredding the remnants of my poor heart apart.

  “Shhh, shhh—don’t speak,” he whispered.

  We sat for the longest time, until my sobs subsided, leaving my ribs aching, my chest in spasms. There was a warm breeze ruffling the thin flowered muslin of my dress; I looked at my sleeves in wonder, not knowing just when I had changed from my ball gown.

  As I continued my observations—to my astonishment, I heard carriages clattering in the distance, horses neighing, a bell ringing from far off; time had not stopped, after all, and outside of Edith’s room the world was continuing its business—I saw that Leo had changed, too. Not simply his attire—he was wearing an ordinary white linen suit, already crumpling from the heat of the June day—but also his behavior. While he held me, it felt almost like an obligation; there was a hesitation in his manner. He had not looked into my eyes once.


  Pushing myself away from him, patting my wayward hair, I searched about for a handkerchief but found I had none; without a word, he handed me his own, and I attempted to dry my eyes.

  “What is it?” I asked, my voice thick; my eyes felt raw and hot. “What happened? There is something strange in your behavior.”

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned away, passed his hand over his eyes, and sat staring at a far-off tree—a willow—for a few moments. When he turned back to me, finally, I saw that there were tears in his eyes.

  “I cannot—I cannot bear to add to your distress at this time,” he said, his voice anguished, his face twisted up as if in pain. “I cannot.”

  “Yet you must.” It was not a question. The dread that had been in my heart—my poor, battered heart—for weeks, heightened by his absence these past two days, settled over me, numbing my senses, dulling my voice.

  “Yes, I’m afraid I—I must.” He clenched his fists, stiffened his body; I saw that he was making a great effort not to fall apart himself. Despite my own pain, I was touched.

  “You heard from the Queen.”

  “Yes.”

  “She does not approve of our—of me.”

  “Please don’t keep—please let me speak, let me shoulder the burden of this, at least, for you’ve had so very much to bear!” Again he turned from me, unable to control his voice.

  I could only nod, wishing I could shake this strange detachment; realizing it was probably a blessing that I could not.

  “Mamma has decided it’s best for me to look to royalty for a match, like my siblings. I had hoped that my—circumstances—might have persuaded her otherwise, and she did give me reason to hope that. The other night, at the ball—I had received a letter earlier indicating this reason. Ultimately, however, she felt she must not deviate from her plans.” Now Leo’s voice matched my own in dullness; he had obviously rehearsed this speech, or memorized it word for word from her letter.