Chapter 9
JANUARY 23, 1876
Dearest Heart, I am wretched with worry over you. I must maintain a detached, dignified air, outwardly expressing mild concern, for naturally, as the daughter of the Dean, I would be properly anxious to hear word of your welfare.
Yet “properly anxious” does not come close to revealing the anguish in my heart. I ache to be by your side; I envy the doctors who have the privilege of caring for you. O, were it my hand that mopped your brow, held your hand, brought you nourishing soups! Can you see, then, how wild I am? Can you imagine Miss Alice Liddell actually carrying in a tureen of soup with her lily-white hands?
I would do more, were it possible; were it my right. I would launder your bed linen; I would slaughter the chicken myself, grind it up—is that how it’s done? I have no idea!—to make the soup; I would walk any number of miles to fetch you the finest medicine. If only I were allowed.
I am not, however. I must content myself with hearing, from Papa, the infrequent updates—for they would be frequent enough only if they were every minute!—your secretary so kindly sends. I must go about my business here in Oxford, smilingly, willingly, in the grand manner Mamma has so assiduously cultivated, as if I have nothing more pressing upon my mind than what frock to wear, which carriage to summon.
You must know that my thoughts, my heart, are not here but in Osborne, where you lie, and that every second of every day I long to be there in the flesh as well.
You will improve; you must. And when you do, I will be here, certain to make a most undignified fool of myself when I throw myself at you, and weep, and beg for your kiss, your caress.
Until that very satisfactory, if rather sentimental, time, I remain yours, as always.
Yours only, in fact. You’ve quite spoilt me for anyone else, so you see, you must get well or else I’ll become a tragic spinster, and I’m sure you don’t wish to be responsible for that!
Please come soon,
my dearest heart.
Your Alice
BLINKING MY EYES—FOR I WOULD NOT ALLOW A SINGLE splash of a single tear to spoil my words—I took the heavy bronze blotter and carefully applied it to the notepaper. I then folded the letter neatly in thirds, reached inside my desk, and produced a packet of similar letters, bound with a black silk ribbon. Pressing it to my lips—ridiculous, I knew, but I needed to indulge my feelings this black, cold winter day—I slipped this newest letter into the ribbon and placed it back in my drawer.
One day I would share with Leo these letters, these photographs of my heart, my despair. But I could not risk doing so now; I had no idea if he was well enough to read his own correspondence or if his secretary must do so for him. I only knew that he lay ill with typhoid fever at Osborne House, the Queen’s home on the Isle of Wight, where the Royal Family spent Christmas; that he had taken ill prior to the holiday, and that his condition had not improved in weeks. So far there had been no indication that his hemophilia played any part in his current illness, but like a shadow, it was in the back of all our minds.
I dipped my pen in the bronze inkwell, reached for another sheet of notepaper, ready to begin the letter that I would actually post. But instead of putting my pen to paper, I found myself gazing at the small frame on my desk: the photograph of Leo that Mr. Dodgson took that afternoon in November when we all sat for him.
The photograph was a good likeness; he was seated, clasping his walking stick, his face turned slightly away from the camera, tilted up. The round eyes, the neat mustache, the trim figure—all were well represented. But there was no life in them. Leo was all spirit, all bravery in the face of his illness; that was his charm, and no photograph could capture that.
Then again, the photograph of me from that afternoon—the photograph that I couldn’t help but hope was at Leo’s bedside as he lay ill, although I had no way of knowing—was just as flat and dull. Although Leo refused to admit it; even so, I knew he had been disappointed by it.
How could the result have been otherwise?
Mr. Dodgson had warned Mamma that the year was late, and so the light would be weak; though he had recently persuaded the college to build a rooftop studio for him, complete with skylights, he could not guarantee the outcome. Leo, however, insisted on going through with the plan anyway. So it was that on a rare sunny November morning, four of us—Mamma, Edith, Prince Leopold, and myself—found ourselves climbing the dark, narrow stairs in the building across the Quad from the Deanery, until we reached a black door with the words “The Rev. C. L. Dodgson” painted upon them.
Edith reached for my hand then; I squeezed it gratefully, for my chest felt as if my corset had been laced too tightly, my heart was pounding so. I had not been in Mr. Dodgson’s rooms since I was eleven; then, I used to run to his rooms, throw myself in his arms without thought. Now—I felt so many memories, both good and bad, clear and confused, swirling about me, constricting my breath, my vision even, that I wasn’t sure my legs would even carry me over the threshold.
What was Mamma thinking? I could not tell, for she would not look at me. She had, however, kept up a loud and merry conversation with the Prince ever since we left the Deanery; our visit had not gone unnoticed by anyone in the Quad. I knew that Mr. Ruskin would pepper me with questions on the morrow.
Leo rapped on the door with his walking stick; a harried-looking housekeeper opened the door and showed us in, taking our cloaks until she was no longer visible beneath them, and then Mr. Dodgson himself appeared, leading us toward his sitting room.
I had a sense of many rooms, off both sides of the hall; this arrangement was certainly larger than his old rooms over the library, where I remembered the lone sitting room being cramped and overstuffed with objects.
The sitting room I found myself in now was not cramped; it was large and spacious with an inviting red sofa and a large fireplace surrounded by red and white tiles depicting the most unusual creatures—dragons and sea snakes and odd Viking-like boats. There was room for all of us to sit easily, yet I stood, awkward as a child at a stranger’s birthday party, unsure what to do.
“Pl-pl-please sit down, Miss Alice,” a hesitant voice said softly, and looking up, I briefly met his gaze. The eyes were just as blue, the one slightly higher than the other, now framed by cobwebby lines, the hair curling although shot through with gray. He still wore the black frock coat of his youth; he still wore gray gloves.
Gesturing with those gloves, he showed me an empty chair, and I sat on it. Biting my suddenly trembling lip, I stared at my own hands, clenched tightly upon my lap.
“My dear Mr. Dodgson, it’s a pleasure to visit you at home. I’m afraid we’ve seen too little of each other since I’ve matriculated, but that’s the way it often is, isn’t it?” Leo sat next to Mamma on the sofa, his arms resting expansively across the top, as if these were his own rooms. His manner was always so easy; he was at home wherever he went.
“Sir, it’s an honor.” Mr. Dodgson bowed stiffly, and I was reminded of how often I teased him, when I was young, that he walked as if he had a poker stuck down the back of his coat. What a rude little girl I had been! However did he put up with me?
Just then Mr. Dodgson caught me staring at him; his cheeks reddened, and I wondered if he had been thinking the same thing.
I turned away, intent upon my surroundings, while Leo engaged Mr. Dodgson in small talk concerning the university. Mamma chimed in, as if there was nothing more on her mind than academic politics; this obviously startled Mr. Dodgson, who seemed, at first, stunned by her loquacity. Edith smiled and nodded, throwing occasional anxious glances my way.
While they chatted, I surveyed the room. Even though it was large, it was a bachelor’s suite, pure and simple. The few tables were uncluttered, their surfaces bare, not covered with fussy doilies; the backs of chairs were bereft of antimacassars. There were not many adornments other than a black vase of peacock feathers near the fireplace, some small watercolors, mainly of the university. And one framed print of the frontispiece of Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, hanging on a wall; it wasn’t very big, and certainly not in any place of honor. Indeed, it seemed rather lost, as if there were supposed to be other prints surrounding it.
It was a fastidious, scrupulously clean room, but despite its size, there was something stifling about it. In its very fastidiousness I recognized, with a surprising pang, that there was no room here for anyone else. Had he ever intended to share his home—his life—with a woman? Any woman?
However, I soon understood that if there was no room for a wife, there was definitely room for a child—or rather, children. For after closer inspection, I saw that the room was stuffed with toys, just as his old sitting room had been. Now, however, they were not out in the open, strewn about, but rather piled tidily in cupboards, lined up with precision on a window seat, peeking out of hidden corners. China and rag dolls, stuffed animals, a wooden Noah’s Ark, music boxes of all shapes and sizes. One in particular I remembered from my childhood: a square contraption with a large handle, rather like a hand-cranked organ. There were a variety of tunes it could play, I recalled; he used to keep the circular music cards in a separate box, neatly categorized. “The Last Rose of Summer” had been my favorite song; I had a sudden wild desire to look for the box to see if he still had it.
So his rooms had not changed with time. Had he? That I could not answer. For I was afraid to study him closely; afraid to speak to him, for fear of finding out. Yet I felt his eyes upon me more than once as I surveyed his room; was he trying to see me here as I was now, or as I once had been? Did I look out of place to him, now that I was grown? Or did I look familiar, achingly so—like a dream?
The air was oppressive, and I longed to open a window.
“Alice?” Someone was speaking to me. With a small shake of my head, I turned to find Leo looking at me with a slightly puzzled expression; I was so happy to find him here—I believe I had forgotten all about him—I nearly burst into tears. Instead, I simply smiled at him, feeling my heart slow down, my head clear of memories; I recognized myself in his eyes, the woman I was now. Not the little girl I used to be.
“Yes, Sir?”
“I was just saying how extraordinary it is that Lewis Carroll and the real Alice live practically across the street from one another! It’s so odd that neither of you speaks of the book, yet surely it’s a pleasant association?”
“Allow me to answer for Alice,” Mamma said, and I had no choice but to do so. Quickly I glanced at Mr. Dodgson; he had busied himself with straightening a painting, his slim shoulders unnaturally hunched and tense with the effort. “Sir, it’s a fine tribute, of course, but naturally we don’t speak of it outside of the family. It’s simply not done, to call attention to Alice in such a public way—of course you understand, being a gentleman! As for Mr. Dodgson, well, I’m sure I cannot speak for him.” Although Mamma did look as if she wanted to, for she fixed him with such a glare that I was surprised Leo didn’t comment upon it.
“I will always remember our day on the river fondly, and be grateful that Alice urged me to write the story down,” Mr. Dodgson said softly, still not looking at us. “I have many pleasant memories of our fr-fr-friendship. The books are but one memento.” Finally he turned around; I would not look into his face, would not look at his sad smile that I knew so well. I couldn’t; my own vision was blurred with tears that I tried to blink away before Leo saw them. What caused my heart to ache so? Was it loss? Regret?
Or guilt? For despite the toys, the music boxes, there was such a lonely emptiness to these rooms; betrayal, frozen in time, chilled the very air. Being a child, I had had no choice but to grow up, while he remained exactly as he had been. Before.
“And now may I propose we take the photographs? I do fear losing the light,” Mr. Dodgson said, leading the way down a narrow passage to even narrower stairs. We all followed, climbing the stairs until we found ourselves in a light, airy space—I had to blink at the unexpected brightness.
This was his studio: a wall of windows on one side, brick on the other, skylights in the ceiling. There were the trunks of costumes, just as I remembered them; there was the brown leather valise in which he carried his developing chemicals; there was the camera. The same camera made of rosewood with that same large, unblinking eye that had once captured my soul.
There was also another room, the door shut tightly: his darkroom, I assumed.
He had accumulated more props—sofas, chairs, tables, ladders, and even some painted backdrops, perhaps left over from college theatricals. Obviously he was still pursuing his hobby; with a slight itch of irritation, I spied a small pink satin slipper—turned up at the toe in the Arabian fashion—peeking out of one of the costume trunks. Who was his favorite subject now? I wondered.
“Who would like to sit first?” Mr. Dodgson asked, removing his frock coat, rolling up his shirtsleeves—and pulling off his gloves. The sight of his hands, pale, slender, with those dark smudges still on the fingertips, caused my stomach to flutter, my legs to tremble. I sat down abruptly upon a chair, mindful of Mamma’s suspicious glare.
“I’m sure His Royal Highness would love to see Edith sit first, as she photographs so beautifully,” Mamma said, turning away from me, and for once I did not mind her presumption. Although I saw that Leo—with one golden eyebrow arched in exasperation—did.
Mr. Dodgson motioned for Edith to sit down upon a leather high-backed chair; he arranged her just so, and the photograph was taken; he counted to forty-five softly, almost under his breath, and I remembered how he used to be so silly about it when we were young. Mamma then urged Leo to sit with Edith for a photograph, which he did with politely concealed impatience; then Mr. Dodgson requested a photograph of Leo alone, for his own collection.
“Now Alice must sit,” Leo said eagerly, when Mr. Dodgson emerged from the darkroom with a newly prepared plate. Mr. Dodgson nodded, concentrating upon fitting the plate into the back of the camera, and nearly dropping it.
I walked to the chair, slowly; I felt all eyes upon me, and wondered what they were all looking for, what they were all waiting for me to do. I sat upon the chair, turned to Mr. Dodgson, and awaited his instructions.
“C-c-could you—per-perhaps, if you will—I’m not certain, bu-bu-but I believe if you j-j-just—” For the first time in my memory, he could not control his stammer; finally he simply stopped trying to talk and shook his head. He was unable to tell me what to do; he was as terrified as I was.
I wanted to go to him and tell him it was all right—just as I had when I was a little girl and I ached at his sadness and knew only I could save him. But it wasn’t all right between us, and it never would be again, and the reason for that hung heavy on everyone’s minds, all of us gathered in this odd rooftop space fitted with strange costumes and unnaturally colored painted backdrops of make-believe places.
There was only one person who did not feel the unbearable weight of the past in that room.
“Why don’t you lean back?” a voice suggested. Blindly, I turned in its direction and saw, despite hot tears, that it was Leo. Leo who walked over to me, placed one hand upon my shoulder, and with the other brushed a strand of hair back from my face tenderly; I closed my eyes, leaning into him, and wished the two of us were somewhere—anywhere—else, alone.
Mamma cleared her throat, and my eyes flew open—catching Mr. Dodgson’s surprise as he stared at the two of us. Surprise, and some other emotion that I did not want to understand; my face burned, and I gently pushed Leo away. With a steadying breath, I straightened in the chair, tilted my head down, and looked up—seeking some safe, anonymous spot on the wall behind the camera upon which to concentrate.
Look at me, Alice. Look only at me—the words echoed strangely in my ears, and I wasn’t sure who had said them, or if I was remembering another time and place. So I kept my eyes trained on the wall and willed myself not to move.
Mr. Dodgson removed the lens cover and counted to forty-five, his voice soft, monosyllabic. With a swift movement, he removed the glass plate and hurried it to the darkroom. I exhaled—I must have been holding my breath the entire time—and rose. Our group was suddenly silent, awkward, without Mr. Dodgson. Even Leo did not seem to know what to do.
“That’s it, then,” Mr. Dodgson said, emerging from the darkroom. He limped over to retrieve his frock coat and gloves and put them back on while we all mutely stared, still waiting for something. Had we done what we needed to do? Was there something missing? Something unsaid?
Of course there was. The air was oppressive with what was not being said; the unspoken words—accusations, pleas, reasons, questions—bounced around the bright space until I longed to cover my ears. Even Leo seemed to sense it now, as he shifted his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other, clearing his throat softly.
“I no longer print my own pictures; I send them out,” Mr. Dodgson finally said. “As soon as I get them back, I’ll send you all copies.”
“Fine, fine—I can’t thank you enough.” Leo recovered his self-possession with evident relief. Laughing heartily, he shook hands with Mr. Dodgson. “I do so look forward to the photographs. And we must see each other more; perhaps at one of the many enjoyable evenings at the Deanery?” He turned to Mamma.
“Naturally,” she replied, her voice as smooth and cold as ice. Mr. Dodgson bowed, but his faint, wry smile betrayed that he did not expect any such invitation to be forthcoming.
We left him in his sitting room, standing in front of the fireplace, his back toward us as he warmed his gloved hands in front of the flames. When the photograph arrived a week later, I held my breath when I pulled back the brown paper: What secret part of me had his camera captured this time?
The sad, lost part of me; the part that needed rescue. My dispirited eyes did not meet the camera, my face was pale, my mouth a small, grim pout. I could not share Leo’s enthusiasm for it, although I was happy to know that my likeness would reside in a silver frame on his desk, just as his resided in a silver frame on mine.
And now I could not help but wonder if it was all I would ever have of him; with a jolt, my thoughts returned to the awful uncertainty of the present, where fear was as oppressive as the unspoken accusations of the past. Still, I cleared my disorderly thoughts with a stern shake of the head, gripped my pen firmly, and began the letter required of me, the measured, circumspect letter from the daughter of the Dean to a favorite student.
HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS, THE PRINCE LEOPOLD
Dear Sir,
I write with much concern, inquiring as to your health and telling you that your friends here at Oxford miss you dearly. The holidays have been a bleak affair, indeed, as the knowledge of your illness hung over every celebration. I must tell you that Papa is very worried and was heard to mutter, “Dear fellow, dear fellow,” the last time your secretary posted a letter about your condition
“Alice?” With a soft rap on my bedroom door, Edith opened it, popping her head inside. “Am I bothering you? I felt as if you might want company.”
“Are there any letters? News?” I jumped up—nearly flinging my pen across the room before I collected myself and placed it back in the inkwell. I ran to the door and pulled Edith inside, my hand gripping her arm so tightly she exclaimed.
Gently, she removed my hand and placed her arm about my shoulders. “No, I’m sorry, dearest, Papa has received no letter yet today.”
“Oh.” I allowed my sister to steer me toward a soft chair by the hearth; she pushed me down in it, kneeling beside me, taking my hands in her own.
“Alice, your hands are like ice!” She began to rub them vigorously. “Have you eaten today?”
“I don’t know.” Dully, I stared into the fire, not truly seeing, aware only of the soft popping of embers. My thoughts would allow me to see nothing but Leopold lying on a bed, his face pale, his beautiful, sympathetic eyes closed, his luxurious yellow lashes grazing his cheeks; dying, perhaps, or already—
I shut my eyes, twisted my head, and could not prevent a small moan from escaping my heart. Every nerve, every bone, felt raw, rigid, from trying to contain my true feelings for so long. Why could I not be there? Why could I not simply commandeer a carriage—no, a train!—and fly to Osborne, steal a boat, row myself out to the island, and march right up to the house, demanding to be taken inside?
Heartsick. I truly knew the meaning of the word, for my heart was sick, ill, wrung with worry; I felt, at times, as if I simply could not go on living, for the poor instrument would give out, unable to absorb any more of my fear and longing. My voice must be mute, but my heart was not; it cried out with every beat.
“Mamma desires you to come down for dinner tonight,” Edith said softly, still stroking my hands.
“Desires?”
“Commands, if you will. She will not hear of you staying in your room another evening. You know how she feels about that, and I’m afraid—I’m afraid that she refuses to see your distress, as she is unwilling to acknowledge your true feelings for the Prince.”
“Naturally. I suppose she wishes me to do a merry dance for everyone’s amusement, as well?”
“Alice,” Edith soothed, laying her cheek against my hand. “At least your wit is intact. You’re not so far gone as I feared.”
I smiled at my sister, her face so sweetly furrowed with concern. “No, I’m not so far gone as that. I know it does no one—least of all, Leo—any good to mope about in my room. But, oh, I do so long to be with him! Why am I never allowed to be with the ones I love when they suffer? I can’t bear to think of him afraid, in pain, without me—what if … what if he needs me, cries out for me—I’m stronger than he is, oh, so much stronger, I would give him my strength, if only I were allowed!” My heart rose up, choking my throat, flooding my eyes with tears; I couldn’t stop them; I allowed them to wash over me, unburdening my heart, giving voice, finally, to my fear and longing. I held my sister close—she was so warm, alive in my arms—and allowed myself to weep until I was empty, finally, relieved of my silence. It was a blessing, despite the pain. I felt a strange sense of calm wash over me as I wiped away my tears.
“Oh, I wish I could give him my strength as well,” Edith said, wiping away not a few tears of her own as she wriggled out of my arms. She pulled the other chair closer to me and sat down—but still, she held my hand. “I would, you know.”
“I know.” I smiled; Edith was the picture of health, rosy-cheeked, prettily plump in a country dairymaid way. I was inclined to thinness, unfortunately; my features were much too sharp, and my unwillingness to eat these last few weeks had not improved my looks. If—when—Leo did return, I would certainly scare him away. There were purplish smudges under my eyes that even candlelight could not disguise.
“What is the time?” I asked, suddenly aware of the gathering darkness outside my window.
Edith consulted the diamond watch pinned to her dress. “Four-thirty.”
“I must go.” With an effort, I pushed myself out of my chair and walked over to my dressing table. Pinching my cheeks, smoothing my hair, and pinning up a few strands, I did the best I could to make myself presentable. Then I rang for Sophie.
“Alice, do you have to go today? Wouldn’t he—wouldn’t he understand if you sent a note saying you were ill?” Edith’s eyes grew darker, clouded over with worry; suspicion, too. I turned away, so she couldn’t see my face.
“No, Mr. Ruskin is a demanding taskmaster. He feels I am not working as hard as I might with my sketching. But truly, it’s a welcome distraction. When I’m there, I—I don’t think of Leo at all!” Spinning around, I smiled tightly and faced my sister once more.
Yet I did not deceive her; shaking her head, she placed her hand upon my arm, just as Sophie knocked on the door and entered, bringing my fur wrap, hat, and muff.
“Alice, wouldn’t you like me to come with you today, at least? Mr. Ruskin enjoys my company,” Edith said, her voice low and concerned.
“Of course he does. But it’s simply a private drawing lesson, and there’s no need for you to be bored.” I turned around while Sophie buttoned my wrap, and heard my sister’s stifled, worried sigh.
“Well, do try to enjoy yourself, if you can. I’ll come get you if there’s any word from Osborne.”
“Oh, do, please! Thank you!” I flung my arms around her, kissed her on the cheek, and hurried out, leaving Edith standing near my dressing table, her face troubled.
As I flew down the stairs—Mr. Ruskin did not like me to be tardy—Mamma suddenly appeared at the foot of the staircase. It was uncanny how she did that, how she sometimes managed to simply appear, no sound, no whooshing of her skirts or creaking of her corset, to give her away.
“Alice.”
“Yes, Mamma?”
“I trust you’re feeling better?” She tilted her head, studying me with her cool, appraising eye.
“Yes, Mamma.”
“Good. I don’t approve of young ladies eating alone. You’ll be down for dinner, then.”
“Of course, Mamma.” I brushed past her, pulling on my black leather gloves; Sophie tiptoed past, and I could sense her trembling. I’m not sure she had ever said one word to Mamma in all the time she’d been with me.
“Alice—wait.”
There was a catch—a hesitation—in my mother’s voice that startled me, and persuaded me to pause just as I selected an umbrella from the massive Chinese urn beside the front door. “Yes?”
I didn’t turn around; I stood there, my heart beating wildly in some kind of hope, some kind of anticipation, as I heard Mamma take a step toward me.
“Will you—that is, I wanted to tell you that we’ve not had any updates from Osborne this afternoon. In case Mr. Ruskin were to inquire.”
Tears sprang to my eyes; I longed—I ached—to run to my mother, throw myself in her arms, and be folded up in them, rocked gently, loved. I wanted to be a little girl again, her sole trouble a scrape upon her knee that could be healed only by a mother’s kiss.
Yet—when had I ever been that girl? When had my mother ever given me such comfort? I was remembering someone else’s childhood, not my own.
“Thank you, Mamma,” I whispered. Then I left, not daring to look back.