Alice I Have Been: A Novel

by Melanie Benjamin

  In my odd detachment—there was a barrier between myself and the rest of the world, I felt; as if I were encased in tin, or glass—I asked the question I would not have been able to otherwise. But I desired information, in the place of emotion.

  “Was there mention of some past business of mine, perhaps? Involving Mr. Dodgson?”

  With a strangled cry, Leo buried his face in his hands and nodded.

  I longed to put my arm around him, to comfort him, for he was in such despair; he was not protected from his pain, as I was. I felt such pity for him.

  “Tell me, who brought it up—Mr. Ruskin or Mr. Duckworth?”

  “Both—both made mention of some—confusion, regarding a break with Mr. Dodgson. Mr. Ruskin was rather more forthcoming, to my surprise; I had not imagined him to have any concerns, given his enthusiasm for my request. Yet he swore that he was acting in your best interest, too, for he feared a renewal of old gossip. But it was put to Mr. Dodgson, to confirm or deny, just this morning.”

  “And?”

  “He did neither. He would not speak of the subject.”

  “He was silent?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.” With a jolt—an oddly mechanical click, as if a missing piece of machinery had finally fallen into place—I remembered. Out of all the things I could not recall of that afternoon so long ago, now, at last, here was one.

  I remembered silence. My own silence, in the face of similar questions. Understanding—or perhaps hoping—that I could not trust my own memories, as words and images of the past filled my eleven-year-old mind with conflicting emotion, I simply took refuge in silence. It was that silence, I knew—that much, now, I knew, despite the kindness I thought I had seen in his eyes—that had wounded Mr. Dodgson forever. I had wounded him, so that when it came his time to clarify, he could not bring himself to speak, either. So, in the end, he might destroy my happiness, as I had destroyed his.

  Wonderland was all we had in common, after all; Wonderland was what was denied the two of us. I had denied him his; he had denied me mine.

  “I’m so very sorry,” I told Leo, finally. Turning to him—steeling myself to receive his pain and rejection—I placed my hand upon his shoulder and accepted my punishment.

  I was not spared it, for his eyes were anguished, large, and reproachful; his mouth was twisted, as if trying not to accuse me of anything further. There were gaunt hollows under his cheeks, and I had the burden of knowing that I had caused him more pain than typhoid fever had done.

  “No!” With a cry he grasped my hand, like a drowning man would a strong rope; he pulled it to his lips and kissed it passionately. “No, I will not believe any of this. You’re still my Alice, my heart—I may not be permitted to have you, but I will not allow myself to think that you are not the woman I know and love. Please tell me that, at least. Please!”

  I knew that no matter what I said, it would not be enough; when you’re on the other side of the looking glass, nothing is as it seems.

  “My love for you is unchanged; my heart—the heart you hold, that you will always possess—is unchanged. I can’t undo what’s been said, what’s been done. I could have—I could have allowed myself to be—used—in order to preserve Mr. Ruskin’s silence, for he is not the friend to either of us that you believe him to be. But I could not do it—and because I could not, you must know that I am the woman you love!”

  Shutting his eyes—either against my words or against the pain they caused—he bit his lip, as if to prevent himself from asking the question that, in the end, would burst out anyway: “Did he—did he ever touch you?”

  “Mr. Ruskin? No.”

  “Then—Dodgson?”

  Hands, upon my shoulders; lips, upon my—

  “I can’t recall—you must believe me! I was just a child—and I don’t—I didn’t understand what I was—what was happening. I only know that he was forbidden to see me, after a time. And that I’ve not been five minutes in his company since, until he took my photograph for you.”

  Stifling a moan, Leo put his finger to my lips, pulled me to him, forgiving me with this gentle act; briefly I felt the peace of lying upon his breast and hearing his heart beating, calling my name. “What will I do?” he whispered, his lips upon my hair. “What will I do without you?”

  “And I you?” Now my protective layers were cracking; I thought of tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day after that; weeks, months, years when I would not be allowed to see him, to hear his voice, to know his thoughts, his heart. I would never again feel as loved as I did in that moment; knowing this, I could not prevent my mind from racing ahead, reminding me of all I would miss. His habit of patting his mustache with two fingers, when he was deep in thought; his merry laugh—as innocent, as pure, as a child’s; his unabashed enjoyment of life, the easy way he gave of himself, his humor, his love.

  The way he said my name—simply Alice. No other words were necessary. I was not “Alice dear,” “Alice my pet,” “Miss Alice;” I was simply his. His Alice.

  “I can’t go. I can’t leave you.” Leo tightened his arms about me. “I don’t have that strength.”

  “Nor do I.” I began to weep, quietly now, tears of benediction. An almost peaceful sadness had overcome me, stealing over my limbs; I longed to linger, to sleep in his arms, until the moment I had to be wrenched from them.

  “Here.” Still holding me against his shoulder, he reached into his breast pocket and then held out his hand; whatever was in it sparkled, catching the rays of the sun.

  “What is it?”

  “Your hair clip. It fell, the other night when—when we were—at any rate, I went back to get it for you.”

  I took the small silver clip, decorated in a starburst of tiny diamonds, and closed my fingers over it; it was cool and surprisingly heavy.

  “It’s Edith’s,” I whispered, shutting my eyes. “She lent it to me. I was so happy—she was so happy—”

  Then I heard a cry from across the garden.

  “Alice, come quickly! Oh, Alice—come before it’s too late!” It was Rhoda, standing at the garden gate, gesturing wildly.

  I shot up, every nerve and muscle suddenly energized; my heart raced, and I knew what lay before me; I knew what I had to do.

  I began to run. Leo held on to my hand until the very last moment, until my fingertips touched his, and then there was nothing between us; nothing but the truth. I heard him call out, “I’ll wait for you, oh, do hurry!”

  “No!” I could not look back. I could only look ahead, my hand tightening about the diamond clip until I felt the sharp end bite into my palm, and even so, I clasped it tighter. The ground was skimming before me, the gate still banging in Rhoda’s wake. “No, don’t wait—for God’s sake, go now, while I can bear it!” For this instant, I could; as soon as I ran through the door of the Deanery—already I heard voices from inside the house, urgent, loud voices, doors slamming, a desperate wail—I knew I would not have the strength to watch him leave me, too.

  And my heart, at that moment, split in two; I gave one half to Leo and one half to my sister and, saying good-bye to both, knew that I would never be whole again.

  MY SISTER EDITH WAS buried on a magnificent June day; the sun was so brilliant, the birds in such full-throated song, one felt either the cruelty of such a day or the comfort of it. She was laid to rest in the wedding dress that had arrived the day before. Rhoda, Violet, and I followed behind her casket, wearing the bridesmaids’ dresses she had chosen. A bridal bouquet rested on top of the casket instead of the usual wreath. Aubrey Harcourt was the chief mourner; his sobs could be heard throughout the service.

  Among the pallbearers was Prince Leopold, the black silk armband on his left arm. Many of those present commented upon how pale and grave he looked, and remarked upon his touching devotion to the Dean’s family.

  Only once did our eyes meet. After the pallbearers had placed the casket at the head of the cathedral, he walked back to take his seat. But before he di
d, he paused, turned to me, and gazed down into my face. I absorbed the sorrow in his beautiful blue eyes, the wordless grief upon his face, and knew for whom he was truly mourning; still gazing into his eyes, I raised my fingers to my lips, kissed them, and finally turned away, my eyes too full of hot tears to see anything but the glorious light shining in through the stained-glass windows.

  My love walked down the aisle, away from me. And I knew I would never see him again.

  Chapter 14

  • • •

  CUFFNELLS, 1914

  ALICE, LISTEN TO THIS. CHAP HERE IS WRITING A BOOK about the late King. Says that the poor old Queen allowed Mrs. Keppel to visit him on his deathbed. What do you think of that?”

  Lowering the front page of the Times, I raised an eyebrow and stared across the table at my husband, who was hidden by his own copy, freshly ironed by his butler. I continued to stare at him until finally he lowered his paper and met my gaze with a sheepish grin. “The Queen was always most understanding about all that—business,” he said. Then he quickly hid his face from me once more.

  “Yes. Isn’t that touching? The Queen was so very understanding about the King’s mistresses—all of them. A most gracious woman, Alexandra.”

  “Would do some people good to emulate her,” my husband grumbled from behind his paper.

  “What’s that, Regi?”

  “Nothing. Always did admire the Queen, that’s all.”

  “Yes.” I sniffed, remembering. “She is a saint, and Mamma was right. Bertie never was satisfied with a sweet little princess.”

  “Your mother was correct about a great many things. Wise woman, she was.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “Always got along so well with her, I did.”

  “Yes.”

  “Not like your father, though.”

  “No.”

  “Listen to this! New Forest walloped Hampshire! Could really use a good off spinner, poor chaps!”

  “Mmm-hmm.” I paid scant attention to him now that he was going on about cricket; still, I glanced over at his plate and saw that he had finished his kippers. Pressing my foot down upon the electric buzzer—neatly hidden by the Brussels carpet—I waited for a maid to appear.

  “Mary Ann, Mr. Hargreaves would like more kippers. And I require more coffee.”

  “Yes, madam.” With a short bob—not a proper curtsy; really, the cheekiness of servants these days!—she left the room, and I went back to the paper. Turning the page, another headline caught my eye; it caught my heart, also, in an icy grip.

  Kaiser Threatens Czar.

  “Regi,” I said, interrupting him in the middle of a description of an especially exciting innings. “When is Alan home on leave?”

  “Don’t know. Imagine later this month, don’t you think?”

  “I have no idea. That is why I asked you.”

  “Right. Well, sorry.”

  “I was just reading this headline about the Kaiser and Russia. Do you—do you believe it will come to war, then?”

  “Couldn’t say—oh.” Finally he lowered his paper and gaped at me; he was white of whiskers now, wrinkled of brow, with the ruddy face of the typical English country gentleman. Realization dawned as visibly as always—starting with his forehead, moving down to his arching eyebrows, slowly comprehending eyes, finally to his mouth, pulling it up in a simple, understanding grin. “Say, you’re worried, aren’t you? About Alan? Well, I imagine it won’t last long, regardless. And he’s a captain now, he’ll be tucked away somewhere safe and sound. After all, he’s no young lad anymore; he’s what? Nearly forty?”

  “Thirty-three. Our eldest son will be thirty-three in October.”

  “Right. Good God, has it been that long?”

  “Yes, it has.” I couldn’t suppress a smile; his emotions may have been slow in coming, but they were always touchingly honest and transparent. He looked simply dumbstruck at the passage of time.

  I resumed my perusal of the paper, but my thoughts did not follow. Good God, indeed. Yes, it had been that long.

  I had been sitting across the breakfast table from Regi for thirty-four years, since 1880; four years after Edith died. Four years after I saw Leo for the last time, at her funeral.

  In those four years, left behind by those I loved, I felt myself stagnate, mired helplessly not only in their shadows but in the shadows of the tall, graceful spires of Oxford itself. I also grew older while, around me, the undergraduates grew younger. I was no longer the beautiful princess of Christ Church, the belle of the Commemoration Ball; I saw the glances, heard the whispers. Bluestocking. Spinster. Old maid.

  Mamma finally lost a tick or two of her phenomenal energy when Edith died. Or was it when Leo left? To be truthful, I wasn’t sure which was the precipitating factor; I know only that when I alone remained, Mamma stopped trying so hard. Ina was married, Edith was dead, and I was “disappointed”—for that was the proper term for a jilted lover in those days; the three little princesses were no more. Neither Rhoda nor Violet ever seemed inclined toward matrimony, for some reason.

  Ultimately, those four years were a blessing. For during them, memories faded, people left, hearts mended. Mr. Ruskin finally broke down, shouting obscenities during a lecture, and had to be forcibly removed from the hall. No one cared about what had happened on a long-forgotten summer afternoon between a fussy mathematics don and the bluestocking daughter of the Dean. The Queen had no more princes left to educate at Christ Church.

  Alice in Wonderland, however, lived on; new editions of the books, theatrical productions, toys and blocks and games. No one seemed to care—or even know—that the real Alice had grown up, was on the verge of growing old, alone.

  Certainly Reginald Gervis Hargreaves, Esq., did not care. Regi Hargreaves did not care about books at all; in fact, he had such little regard for them that it took him six years to matriculate at Oxford, instead of the usual four.

  When did I first meet Regi? I cannot recall, although he insisted it was at that fateful Commemoration Ball of 1876. He claimed he saw me on the Prince’s arm, and that he had never beheld a more beautiful creature in his life. He was in awe—but knew there was no way he could compete against a prince. So he bided his time, and did not seem to notice that I was a fruit rather past my ripeness. He simply hung around until I fell off the tree for good, and he was there to scoop me up.

  Regi was a sportsman, a cricketer, the usual English country squire type; I admit that at first, I found this was refreshingly different and not a little thrilling. He had no title but enough property to impress even Mamma. His family had made money in trade; in textiles, only a generation previous, which of course was slightly scandalous. Rather, it would have been for anyone else but me; in my case, Mamma was willing to overlook this lapse.

  He was tall, broad-shouldered, good-looking, with soft brown hair he parted carelessly in the middle, ruddy skin, a slight over-bite that he hid with a bristly mustache. I knew I would never love him the way I loved Leo; I knew I would never be able to converse with him in the same way, laugh with him, tease him. Regi did not, even then, display much of a sense of humor; I learned quickly to keep my more biting, sarcastic observations to myself, or else risk spending half an evening trying to explain them.

  He proposed in July, after Commemoration, on a rowboat in the middle of the Isis; his proposal was typically Regi:

  “I say, we row together awfully well, don’t we?”

  “Yes, I suppose.”

  “What say we row together always, then? Talking of marriage, I mean. You know.”

  “Oh. Well, yes. I suppose we might as well.”

  “Capital!”

  Despite the comical brevity, I was touched; he had at least tried to be poetic, and given the number of times he repeated the exchange to friends, I could tell he was very proud of himself.

  We were married in September, in Westminster Abbey at my insistence, instead of Christ Church Cathedral. Two days before my wedding—an elaborate affair that am
used more than engaged me, but I viewed it as my farewell gift to Mamma—Leo sent me a brooch; a small diamond horseshoe, for luck. I wore it on my wedding dress of silver brocade and white satin; I wear it still, to this day.

  Regi, far from being jealous, was proud that the Prince thought so highly of his bride that he would send her such an intimate gift. He was so awestruck by royalty that I do not think he would have minded if Leo—or better still, the Prince of Wales himself—had offered to deflower me on our wedding night. Indeed, I believe Regi might even have taken out an advertisement in the Times proclaiming the fact, and preserved the room in all its consummated glory, after.

  Mr. Dodgson, too, sent me a wedding gift; a small watercolor of Tom Quad. It was a very accurate likeness that I could find no reason not to display, unlike many of my wedding gifts. While feebler artistic attempts grace the walls of the servants’ quarters, that particular watercolor resides now in my bedroom.

  Over a year later, Leo married a rather plain princess from a minor European province. He named his first daughter Alice; I named my second son Leopold Reginald, although we called him Rex. Two months before his second child, a son, was born, Leo died from internal hemorrhaging after a fall while staying in France. Mr. Duckworth had the kindness of heart to telegraph me right away, before I could read of it in the newspapers.

  When word of his death reached me, I had to retire to my bedroom and shut the door against Regi and the boys and their untroubled harmony; they had no idea that the sun had just fallen from the sky. For while I had known I would never see Leo again, still I rose every morning taking comfort that he was in the world, awakening to the same rosy dawn, sleeping under the same night sky. We rarely corresponded, and when we did it was always extremely polite and impersonal; but I felt as if he was in my life, and I in his. I felt it because I knew, when I looked at a painting, read a book, observed a rare bird or delicate flower, that he would have looked at it in exactly the way I did; our hearts, our minds, were so sympathetic. So that merely by going on and enjoying life, I was sharing it with him.