Alice I Have Been: A Novel (2 page)

Chapter 1
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OXFORD
, 1859

O
FF WITH THEIR—LEGS. THAT WAS THE CURIOUS NOTION
I had as a child.

That certain people—queens, generally—lost their heads was understood to be a historical fact.

But in my world, legs were missing with alarming regularity as well. The men in their long academic robes, the women in their voluminous skirts; everyone skimming, floating, like puffs of cotton in the air—that is the first, and most vivid, memory of my childhood.

I knew, of course, that children possessed legs; yet the legs seemed to disappear as their owners grew up, and if I never questioned the logic of this it must be because, even then, I understood that Oxford was a kingdom unto itself. It was different from, and superior to, the rest of the globe (which of course meant Britain, for those were the years when the sun never set on Victoria’s empire), complete with its own rules, language, and even time; all the clocks in Oxford were set five minutes ahead of Greenwich mean time.

Naturally, it follows that if Oxford was its own kingdom, then I was its princess—one of three, to be precise—because my mother was, as everyone knew, its queen.

Remarkable for a woman who bore ten children—one would have assumed she was perpetually in a state of bearing a child, or waiting for a child, or getting over a child—Mamma made certain that the Deanery was the social center of Christ Church, which was of course the social center of Oxford. No one dared give a party or a bazaar or a dance without her approval. At times she even graciously made room for other queens; Victoria herself once stayed with us, although not even her plump, imperious personage intimidated Mamma.

Papa was merely the Dean of Christ Church, responsible for the education and religious upbringing of hundreds of gentlemen, including the sons of that same queen. Even when I was so young that the only place I could look was up, for I was all too well acquainted with the ground, I knew that he was quite important. Instructors would bow to him, scholars would pale in his presence, princes deferred to him; entire halls full of young men would rise upon his entrance, as well as his departure.

While at home he could scarcely make himself heard; he was entirely eclipsed by Mamma, and entirely happy to be so. There was even a silly rhyme that made the rounds of Christ Church in those days—

I am the Dean, and this is Mrs. Liddell
She plays the first, and I the second fiddle

This did not reach my ears, however, until much later. For as the daughter of the Dean and Mrs. Liddell, I was sheltered, at least for a time, from most of the gossip that was the chief occupation of some of the finest scholarly minds of the age.

Privileged
was how I would describe my early years, if only because I was told that they were such. I knew no life before Oxford, although Papa was, even then, a rising academic: domestic chaplain to Prince Albert, headmaster of the Westminster School in London. I was baptized in the Abbey, the fourth child, second daughter.

Ina was not baptized in the Abbey. I may have reminded her of this with some regularity.

While we still lived in London, an older brother, Arthur, died of scarlet fever. Papa had difficulty speaking of him later; his kind face, with the aristocratic nose and decided chin (which I, unfortunately, inherited) would grow quizzical, his brow furrowing, as if he—such a learned man—could not understand the simplest, most frequently asked question of all:

Why?

I don’t recall that Mamma ever spoke of it one way or another. Although surely that can’t be true.

When I was scarcely four—in 1856—we arrived in Oxford, upon Papa’s appointment as Dean of Christ Church. By then the family included Harry, the eldest, followed by Lorina, myself, and Edith—the three princesses. Ina was three years older than I, Edith two years younger. All of us—along with servants, fine china, heirloom silver, imported linens, and all the other necessities of a distinguished household—moved into the Deanery, which Papa had arranged to be enlarged and remodeled to accommodate our growing family. Even so, it was never quite large enough for Mamma’s ambitions.

It was in this world, this Oxford, that my first memories were made. It was a peculiar world for a little girl, in many ways; there were few children my age, as all the students and dons at the time were supposed to be celibate. Only the deans, the senior members of the college, were allowed to marry, and most of them were of an age where children weren’t possible. Papa was rather the exception to the rule, and I believe that he was proud of the fact.

Perhaps that was why there were so many of us.

Each night, after I was snug in bed, Old Tom, the bell in the imposing tower that was the centerpiece of Christ Church, tolled one hundred and one times (signifying the original number of students at the college); even as I struggled to remain awake for the first chime, I rarely made it all the way through to the end. Our home, the Deanery, was opposite the tower, our front entrance part of the pale stone fortress of buildings bordering the flat green Quad; we also had a private entrance opening up to the back garden. Quite literally, we lived among the students; I remember walking with Ina and Edith—three little maids all in a row, always dressed exactly alike, crisp white frocks in summer, rich velvets in winter—in the Quad with our governess, Miss Prickett, as young men removed their caps and bowed low, exaggeratedly, at our approach.

People in Oxford spoke in solemn, measured tones. Centuries-old traditions demanded to be followed, whether or not they made much sense. To me, still coddled in the nursery world of a proper Victorian childhood, they often did not; that is precisely why I wouldn’t have changed them for the world. I was no ordinary little girl, I fervently believed, and Oxford only reinforced this notion. Every year on the first of May, we all gathered at dawn on the gray stones of Magdalen Bridge, sheltered by huge trees in the early burst of bloom, listening to the whisper of the river Isis down below. Magically, just as the first glow of sun painted the sky from purple to pink, a choir of pure, young male voices would float down upon us, singing ancient hymns to welcome summer.

My birthday was on the fourth of May; I cannot deny that as a child, I secretly believed this hallowed ceremony was somehow in honor of me.

Pricks—Miss Prickett—did not share this belief. She adored Edith, as did everyone; Edith was the most compliant creature on earth, and her swirls of russet red hair only helped endear her to everyone she met. Yet Pricks practically worshipped Ina; as the eldest, the most refined, she could do no wrong.

As for me, in the middle—the only one with pin-straight hair; Mamma deplored how it hung on my neck like seaweed, so she chopped it off, short with a heavy fringe that made me feel as vulnerable as a baby bird before it grows feathers—I must admit, Pricks tolerated me. Barely.

“Alice, what on earth did you do to your frock? Look at your sisters—they haven’t managed to get awful dirt stains on their hems! Whatever were you doing?”

“I was playing in dirt,” said I, frustrated by my need to state the obvious.

“Playing in dirt? On your knees? In a white frock? Who would do such a thing—white
stains
so!”

“Then why do we wear it, when you know we’re going out to the garden to play? Why don’t we wear brown frocks, or green, or perhaps even—”

“Brown? Who ever heard of wearing brown in May? You’ll wear white, as your mother wishes. Brown. What can I do with such a child?” Whereupon Pricks would throw up her hands to the heavens, as if God alone could tell her what to do with me.

I suspected He couldn’t. I had once overheard Papa say that “God Himself broke the mold when it came to that one,” and I knew, somehow, that he meant me. Even in a house full of children, I was the only one ever referred to in such a singular way.

I was rather proud of that, to tell the truth.

Pricks was prickly. That’s why I named her Pricks; it had nothing to do with her last name. Pricks exclaimed a lot; she threw her hands up a lot. She bristled when I asked her the most natural questions, such as why the wart on her face had a hair growing out of it whereas the wart on her hand did not.

“Alice,” Ina would murmur, patting her long brown curls. Oh, how I longed to have curls! The greatest tragedy of my life, at age seven, was that I had short black hair exactly like a boy. “That’s simply not spoken of.”

“What is?”

“Warts. Pricks can’t help it. It’s not very nice of you to talk about it.”

“Do you think she slept with a frog when she was little?”

“I—well, perhaps.” I could tell Ina was interested in spite of herself; she relaxed her pose—sitting on the windowsill of the schoolroom, hands folded properly in her lap, head bowed in perfect ladylike composure—and actually swung her feet to and fro. “Still, ladies don’t talk of such things.”

“You’re not a lady. You’re only ten.”

“And you’re seven. I’ll always be older than you.” She clapped her hands with delight, while I scowled and longed to pull her hair. How unfair, how
tragic
, the world was; I would always be younger than her.

“But you’ll always be older than me,” Edith whispered, sliding her moist little hand in mine. I gave it a squeeze, as thanks.

“Oh, look, there’s Mr. Dodgson!” Ina jumped up and pressed her face against the windowpane; Edith and I joined her, although Edith had to climb up onto the cushioned window seat in order to see.

The three of us watched—the windowpane, warm from the sun, smooth against my forehead—as a tall, slim man, dressed all in black from the top of his hat to the toes of his leather boots, wandered into view. He was strolling, hands in pockets, across the generous garden that separated the Deanery from the library. Stopping to examine flowers, hedges, he refused to walk in any sort of straight path, altogether acting like someone hoping to be discovered.

Just then Papa ran into the picture, gown flapping behind him like giant insect wings. He consulted his watch, dangling precariously on its gold chain, with a shake of his head; a huge book was tucked under his left arm. Papa was always running late. I held my breath as he nearly ran Mr. Dodgson down; fortunately, at the last possible moment he swerved around him, not even noticing when Mr. Dodgson raised his hat and bowed.

Mr. Dodgson looked up, then, and saw us in the window; Ina gasped and ducked out of sight, mortified to have been caught spying on him. Ina always behaved so oddly in his presence; she basked in his attention, schemed of ways to encourage it, and then, at the very last minute, always pulled back. Yet whenever I pointed this out to her, merely trying to be helpful, she had a tendency to pull my hair or pinch my arm.

That didn’t prevent me from continuing to comment upon it, however. If she didn’t want my help, that was her misfortune.

I shook my head at her and then tugged on the creaky sash of the window until it opened enough for me to stick my head out.

“Hullo, Mr. Dodgson!”

“Hullo, Miss Alice, Miss Edith.” He bowed in his usual stiff way. I had recently informed him that he walked as if he had a poker stuck down the back of his jacket. He had thought about this, considered it gravely, and agreed that he did, but that he couldn’t help it.

I thought this was a reasonable response and left it at that.

“Alice!” Pricks bustled over—no doubt summoned by Ina, who was standing well away from the window, her arms crossed over her chest, glaring at me. “What on earth are you doing? Young ladies do not shout out of windows like monkeys!”

“Oh, I do wish I was a monkey!” I forgot about Mr. Dodgson for a moment; monkeys were my favorite animals, along with kittens, rabbits, hedgehogs, mice, and lizards. “Wouldn’t that be smashing?”

“Alice! Wherever did you hear that word? Young ladies do not say ‘smashing.’” Pricks reached over my head to push down the window. However, when she saw Mr. Dodgson smiling up at us, she hesitated. “Oh!”

“W-w-w-ould the young ladies like to join me for a pleasant st-stroll around the Quad?” He doffed his hat. “Accompanied by you, of course,” he added hastily. I shook my head in sympathy; his stammer was worse than ever. Poor Mr. Dodgson! (Or—Do-Do-Dodgson, as it sounded coming from him.) Still, he never appeared too upset about it, unlike Pricks and her warts; she was always trying some new cream or lotion to be rid of them.

“Oh, well.” Pricks smiled in that unexpected, scary way of hers; she bent slightly at the waist and twisted her face up almost as if she was going to be ill, but then, at the last minute, a smile appeared, a wide, snapping smile that revealed most of her teeth.

Patting her hair, smoothing her skirts, she swung around and surveyed the three of us, frowning at my dirty hem. “Alice, go ask Phoebe to change you at once. All three of you will have to change, I suppose—I might as well do the same.”

“But why? I’ll only get dirty again.” Once more, I did not see why I had to remind her of the obvious.

“Because your mother will have a—will be quite disappointed, if I allow you out looking like that.”

I was forced to admit that she had a point. Mamma would certainly make a fuss if she saw me, the Dean’s daughter, outside in anything other than a stiff, freshly laundered white frock, the more frills, the better.

Pricks turned back to the window and whispered loudly, “We would be happy to accompany you, thank you so much, Mr. Dodgson. We’ll join you directly.”

“He can’t hear, you know,” I reminded her. “He doesn’t hear out of his right ear. You have to shout.”

“Oh, but I—oh, go ahead, Alice, but don’t shout. Just—speak loudly.”

I shook my head. Pricks was so exceedingly proper all the time, except when it came to Mr. Dodgson. Only he could make her behave in such a manner that I could almost, if I scrunched my eyes and tried very hard, imagine that she had once been a real little girl, like me.

“We would be happy to accommodate you,” I said loudly, slowly, my voice as deep as Papa’s when he gave a sermon. “We shall join you directly.” Then I bowed.