After Alice (18 page)

 

CHAPTER 44

R
hoda brought the tea. Lydia chose to sit at a distance. She pretended not to notice that her father indicated that she should pour. The governess took up the teapot with vigor.

“Was the visit with Mr. Darwin what you would have hoped?” asked Miss Armstrong.

Mr. Clowd slid his head peculiarly, describing with his chin a sort of S-­curve that had fallen into italics. It resembled neither a nod nor a negative shaking. Or perhaps it was meant to be both at once. The governess continued. “You are a brave man, Mr. Clowd.”

“Bravery has nothing to do with times like this,” he replied. “One gets on with it. Mr. Darwin is circumspect in his remarks. But it's clear he can't reconcile the instability of the species—­transmutation, or evolution, as it's now being called—­with the faith of his fathers. I believe he can no longer conceive of a benign Godhead who could allow his daughter Annie such suffering. He tried with great delicacy not to go this far in his consoling words, but I'm not a fool.”

“If it is spiritual solace you seek, you might turn to Vicar Boyce.”

“He
is
a fool.”

Miss Armstrong tolerated this attack upon her beloved employer with alarming equanimity. Lydia sank in her chair, curving her spine in a way that would have elicited a correction from her mother.

Miss Armstrong stirred her tea. “You must rely on your own instincts, Mr. Clowd. As the American, Emerson, wrote in his First Series, ‘Character is centrality, the impossibility of being displaced or overset.' ”

“I did not imagine a governess might read Emerson's
Essays
.”

“She might do. But the essayist's point is about the urgency of not being dislodged from one's deepest beliefs. No matter how beset one might be.”

“Perhaps Emerson's comment is wrong. Perhaps we are meant and made to shift our beliefs. If it is a choice between being consistent or being willfully blind . . .”

“If we are ‘made' or ‘meant,' then someone must have made or meant us. But in any case, if you abandon the faith you shared with your dear departed wife, where does that leave her?”

“It leaves her wherever she is,” he admitted, looking at the carpet. “Missing. Unaccounted for in heaven and no longer registered upon the earth.”

This was intolerable. Lydia said, “I have no use for tea, after all. My mother died, Miss Armstrong. She is, consequently, dead. She had a big head like mine and Alice's and it's my opinion that it simply exploded.”

“For shame,” said Miss Armstrong, but mildly. It was not her place.

Lydia's father said, “You aren't welcome, Lydia, if you're inclined to be discourteous. Go locate Alice as you ought to have done earlier. And that boy, too. It's time they were home.” When Lydia didn't arise, Mr. Clowd turned back to Miss Armstrong. “Darwin found Siam charming. Darwin told us that one of his first friends at Edinburgh was a black man, a former slave, who taught him how to stuff and mount birds. I believe Darwin's deep aversion to slavery must date from this time. He had a falling-­out with the master of the
Beagle
over a difference of opinion on the subject, as I've been told.”

“It seems inconceivable to me that there can be more than one opinion on the matter.”

“Mr. Winter wouldn't have had to rescue that child if everyone agreed with you. Mr. Winter's hope in visiting Mr. Darwin was to solicit a testimony from the great man in support of Negro emancipation.”

“I don't know the American mind, but I should imagine that the remarks of the prophet of evolution would not be persuasive to those in the disassociated southern states.”

“Perhaps not. Still, as Americans go, he seems a kind young gentleman, that Mr. Winter.”

“I wouldn't have had the chance to notice.”

What a liar you are, thought Lydia. The room fell silent as the adults sipped their tea. Mrs. Brummidge or Rhoda must have gone to the garden well. The sound of the flywheel muttered into the windows like the whirrings of a mechanical insect out there in the slackening sunlight.

Mr. Clowd observed, “Darwin's professor, a certain Mr. Sedgwick at Cambridge, wrote him to say he feared that the popularization of his notions would serve to ‘brutalize humanity.' I think those were the words.”

“We are quite brutal enough, I fear.” Miss Armstrong hefted up the tray of scones and proffered it to her host. “Had Ada done her job, there'd be nice fresh marmalade for these.”

Mr. Clowd shook his head as if to clear away evidence of the futility of human affairs. “How is Ada coming along, then? I haven't laid eyes on her since the ser­vices.”

“Frankly, I don't hold that the iron corset and brace will succeed in correcting her posture, nor promote elegance of movement. Thus improving, eventually one must allow, her hopes for marriage and its subsequent rewards.” Miss Armstrong flushed a tempered pink at the mention of marital satisfactions. She sat a bit more upright upon her cushion, perhaps without being aware that it looked as if she were taking pride in the architecture of her own uncorrupted spine.

“She's an odd little clod, from what I've seen.”

“The arrival in the Vicar's household of a beloved infant boy has, I fear, delighted the Vicar and exhausted his inattentive wife to the point that correct governance of Ada has gone into arrears. I have spoken too freely, perhaps.”

“I thought it was your job to govern Ada.”

“Indeed it is.” Miss Armstrong settled her teacup. “I have allowed myself to be delayed out of respect for your grief, Mr. Clowd. No opportunity to acknowledge your loss had hitherto presented itself to me. I am indeed a governess. I shall be off at once. Perhaps we might walk together, Miss Lydia?” She stood. Mr. Clowd stood. They both turned to Lydia Clowd.

“I'm not walking with a governess, I have no need of one,
myself,
” said Lydia with a doomy and suggestive intonation meant to wound, and wound it did. But Mr. Clowd put his hand out to comfort Miss Armstrong's elbow. “Oh, is there no end to the bonnyclabber of it all?” asked Lydia. Expecting no answer, she proceeded out the door of the parlor, leaving her father inappropriately alone with the governess of the Boyce household, and to Hell with them both.

 

CHAPTER 45

W
ithout Siam, Ada hurried around a stand of creamy viburnum. The sound of the assembly grew faint. It became distant, screened off, the way the sound of the sea at Sandown was hushed when Miss Armstrong closed a window, complaining of the breeze. Ada felt as if a great glass box had descended from the sky to muffle the proceedings of the trial, if trial it were. Or the performance. Or, she thought, to muffle her.

A great glass box upon her! Ada noted that lately her thinking had gone colorful.

The viburnum formed a sort of closed grove. A wind turned itself over in the canes. The flowers lifted and settled in succession, as if they were whitecaps churning upon a shore. Poking out from them was a beached bathing machine, its steps descending to the grass. A figure in great black robes was sitting on the top step looking disagreeable. Ada knew at once who it must be, but she had no idea how Her Majesty might have got here. She was far too substantial to fall down any hole.

“We are lost,” said Queen Victoria. “Wherever we meant to be, we are not there.”

“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty. Is there any way I might help?”

The Queen of England said, “We doubt it very much indeed. Go away. Come back. Where is the Solent, do you suppose?”

“I'm not very good at maps, Your Majesty.”

“We find our-­self in a garden among a set of lunatics and one-­offs. Amusing, and novel to be sure, but we are disturbed by the diversion from protocol. Have you a sweetie?”

Ada had nothing to offer the Queen. “This is a garden party, not a bathing strand. Still, I believe you would find something to eat shortly if you came down.”

“We don't hunt for food like commoners. Food is brought us. Though perhaps we ought not to partake, for fear this is an underworld of some sort and we should be detained for seven years, or at least until springtime. We are like unto Persephone. We don't suppose—­that is, it would be too much to hope for—­you haven't by any chance seen the Prince Consort among this rabble?” To herself she mumbled, “We should be very cross indeed to find the Prince Consort had condescended to join this motley host.”

Ada knew that Prince Albert was dead, and the widowed Queen was steeped in mourning. “I have no reason to think that dead ­people are at large,” said the girl cautiously. “That is to say, I haven't seen any. Unless you're dead yourself.”

“We never would. We have obligations. We carry on.” The Queen's rolled shoulders were like balls of yeasty bread that wanted punching down. Her intelligent eyes in their pouches regarded Ada warily. “We imagine we are indulging in some regrettable dream, provoked perhaps by a suspicious element in last night's prawn bisque.”

“I don't believe this is a dream,” said Ada, “but if it is, you'd hardly be in
my
dream. I don't even know you. Shall I try to go find the Hatter? Perhaps he managed to cadge some cakes from the table after all, and he'd be willing to share.”

“We saw some mad creature go by arm in arm with a rangy hare. We would care for no confections discovered in those pockets. But what have you in
your
pinafore pockets?”

Ada was glad she had put the seaweed packet in her shoe. “My pockets are empty,” she said truthfully.

The Queen sighed, and then brightened up. “But did you see the Tweedle twins, Dum and Dee? Oh, they made us laugh. We
were
amused.”

“I haven't had the pleasure.” Ada didn't want to be rude, but the need to intercept Alice seemed to be more urgent with every moment that she dallied. “Would you excuse me?”

Queen Victoria put one elbow on her knee and rested her set of chins in her fist. She looked every inch the potentate in her waxy black bathing skirts, a crown of diamonds and pearls pinned into her greying tresses so it wouldn't float away in the event of a surprise submersion. She was thoughtful and sad. “I had no childhood,” she said to Ada. “I was groomed to be Queen from the time I was five. No one read stories to me, only tracts of English history. I sometimes have the urge to go back and study childhood from inside it, so that I might be a better mother to the younger ones. Now the Prince of Wales has grown into a man, and I didn't know so much as a patty-­cake rhyme to teach him. No one had taught it to me.”

“I could teach you that. It's a quick one, and very satisfying.” Ada climbed upon the lower wooden step and took hold of Her Majesty's hands, which were clammy and not quite as clean as she would have imagined. Ada said, “Repeat after me.”

“Repeat after me,” said Queen Victoria obediently.

“Patty Cake, Patty Cake,

Baker's Man;

That I will Master

As fast I can;

Prick it and prick it

And mark it with a V—­”

(Ada edited as she went, in deference to the Crown of England.)

“And there will be enough for Her Royal Majesty Queen of England, Supreme Governor of the Church of England, Defender of the Faith, and so on and so on, and me.”

“You?” said the Queen. “I wasn't imagining I would share. I have become hungrier than ever.” She shook her head. Ada could hear the wattles on her cheeks softly wuffing. “Even in our dreams, it seems, the Prince Consort is gone. What satisfaction is left to us?” She stood up with determination and effort. “We shall retire into private life even in our dreams.”

“You have your nation to govern. And your children to raise. And it's not too late to read the books you missed in childhood,” said Ada.

“Have you anything to recommend?”

Ada considered
The History of the Fairchild Family
. Unrewarding and macabre. What about those uplifting tales of child martyrs that her father was always pressing upon her? Perhaps not for a widow. “You want something nonsensical,” said Ada. “Keep looking. It will come along.”

“We need something to return our stolen childhood to us,” said Queen Victoria sadly. “We do hope it is not too late for that.”

“It's very late,” said the White Rabbit, appearing just then by the wheels of the bathing carriage and looking at his watch. “You've missed the marionettes entirely. They've all been executed and are pausing for a refreshment before the second show. But the trial is about to start, and I must be there, as I have important evidence.”

Ada did not know if he was addressing the Queen of England or herself, but the Queen had disappeared into the cabin. The sound of soft snores had begun to issue out on little clouds that smelled like prawn bisque. “Take me with you,” Ada said, and grabbed his proffered paw.

 

CHAPTER 46

I
t did not seem as if they ran at all, but merely that the leafy viburnum parted. The white blooms fluttered away like moths. They stood at the back of a paneled hall. It must be the one that had turned into a forest and back again, as to the left of the judge's bench stood the pedestal of the overgrown glass-­topped table. Ada craned to see if the key was still there. It was, farther away than ever. Whatever advantage
this
key promised—­a key to all understandings or a key to the larder—­it was still out of reach. The table was a living thing and its central post was a tree trunk, growing by inches like Jack's beanstalk. Soon the key would be out of sight in the clouds above her head, and Ada would never escape. “I am required at the bench,” said the White Rabbit. “If you need me, shout and scream and jump up and down. I may not deign to notice you, mind. You've become common.”

“According to Miss Armstrong, I'm ungovernable,” said Ada. “But I won't shout and scream, thank you very much. I've learned not to follow advice.”

“Very sensible, too,” said the White Rabbit. “I never would.” He looked her over with a twitch of his whiskers. “I think I like Alice better than you.”

“I do, too,” she said, “but I'm not on trial, am I?”

“Not yet,” he said. He bounded away.

Now, at last, over the shoulders of various animals and other creatures, Ada caught sight of Alice. She was standing before the bench in a very Alice-­like way. Her elbows were neatly drawn in at her waist. Her hands were calmly cupped, one in the other. She seemed neither alarmed nor bored, just attentive. Ada wanted to wave and catch her friend's attention, but she didn't dare.

The judge was the King of Hearts. The Queen of Hearts was marching back and forth in front of the members of the jury, hitting each one on the head with a flamingo. The flamingo and its chosen victim both squawked upon impact. Perhaps Ada could sidle around the various raucous creatures and collect Alice quietly, when no one was looking? Then they might make their escape.

The only thing that stopped Ada was the presence of Siam back in the garden. If she stood just so, she could still see the door in the wall, which was now the
door not a door,
but ajar. The light inside the garden was glamorous and fresh. Siam was waiting, somewhere. If she could only position Siam within her sight, she might manage to apprehend both Siam and Alice at once. Though what they three might do when joined together against the world!—­for all the edu­cation this day had afforded, she could not yet imagine.

“Call the first witness,” said the King of Hearts.

“First witness,” shrilled the White Rabbit.

The White Queen's head emerged from a pile of chattering oysters near Ada. “Oh, my, you're alive,” said Ada gratefully. She reached over and helped the White Queen climb out of the
mêlée
.

“It's nearly time to get back to the Duchess's kitchen,” said the White Queen. “I imagine the baby has turned into quite the little hog by now. It will need its hoofs trimmed. Babies want tending, you know. And there's supper to put on.”

“Would you like your cloak back?”

“You need it more than I do, dearie. Save it as a souvenir, if you get out of here alive.”

“Oh, I'll manage that,” said Ada. “I do think using it as a lift in my heel has evened me up. I feel quite the new person.”

“So do I. I think I may be a Lady Clothilde, or perhaps a cockle vendor named Mopsy Maeve.” The White Queen shook Ada's hand with formality and feeling. “I
never
give advice, but were I you, I should go through the ceiling.” She didn't lift her head but just pointed with one ivory finger. “It's the only way out of this madhouse, you know. Coming, I'm coming,” she called to the White Rabbit when he'd begun to shriek for her. “And I have testimony that is going to blow the lid off this affair, believe me.” She shook the last remaining oysters from the folds in her garments. She walked forward, a little bit of unorthodox regency. Very sure of herself, and content because of it.

“Good-­bye,” whispered Ada. She imagined, if she did manage to escape, that the ones she would miss were the White Queen and the White Knight. Generally adults were a failure, but these two managed failure well.

But should she find a way to take the Queen's advice, when advice around here was regularly unreliable? In any event, it seemed that the chances to escape were drawing in. She must find Siam and urge him to come with her.

She ducked through the door into the garden. The place was still and beautiful, but the only life it had was of the inanimate sort. No caterpillar upon the rose made nasty comment, no rose replied. The sunless shadows were deepening. The trees had grown extra boughs. Great drooping swaths of greenery, like theatre curtains, came folding in. Nothing could be heard from the courtroom behind her, though the door was still open; it had not yet swung closed. All was as still and silent as the world in the slowed growth in a photograph. Though the leaves swayed, they made no rustling.

“Siam,” she said, almost frightened to break the silence. “It's time to go.”

He was there beside her. At first he looked at the ground. “I ain't going,” he said in a mumbly voice.

“You can't stay here, Siam, because I can't stay. I have to get Alice back to her father. He would suffer so if she didn't return. He's had too much to bear already this year. You must come with me, or you'll be left here all alone. I mean, with them.”

“They cain't hurt me any strength. I been hurt enough elsewhere.” His chin poked up, his eyes were guarded and brave. “Whatever mind I got, it made up.”

“You'll miss the world.”

“Little left to miss.”

“Your memories, though. Siam! They'll haunt you.”

“Thought of that. I don't want those memories. I going back to the Wood of No Names. I do make myself a hut in there, I know the how-­to.”

Ada didn't feel she could do everything that needed to be done. Who was she, anyway, to say that he was wrong? But she had no time to argue. “I must return to the courtroom, if it hasn't drifted away already. Siam. If you change your mind, come through the door.”

His expression was wry and unreadable. Maybe if she were an adult she might interpret it. She couldn't grow up on command though, finish the job while he stood there looking like—­like that. It was getting late.

“I won't say good-­bye, in the hopes you'll have a change of heart.”

“Change of mind, change of heart. What I need, change of skin.”

She threw her arms around him, wordlessly. She ducked away.

For once the transmuting world had not revised itself, at least in no way Ada could tell. She tiptoed behind a tea-­cart piled high with celery and boot-­laces. She peered about. A pack of playing cards was assembling at the front of the room. At the bench, the King of Hearts was trying to win at noughts and crosses, using a salamander as a pen and a slice of bread as a paper. He poked the salamander's tail in a vaguely familiar pot of marmalade, but the salamander kept twisting about and licking the juicy compote off its tail before the King could make a mark on the bread. “Very tricky game, this,” he was muttering to himself, “but I'll master it yet.”

“I've so enjoyed myself, we must do it again sometime,” the White Queen was saying to the King of Hearts. “I especially enjoyed the recitation and the Highland Fling. I never saw a Highland flung so far as that! Now, if you'll excuse me, I have one very tired little piggy at home who needs some mash slung his way. It's not his fault, you know. That he is such a little brute. Being birthed is hard work.”

“So is being dead,” replied the King of Hearts.

“Call the next witness,” whispered the Queen of Hearts to the White Rabbit.

“Alice!” cried the White Rabbit.

“If you please,” said Alice. “I won't come. I have nothing to say today.”

“But you must,” said the King of Hearts, absentmindedly sucking the tip of the salamander's tail. “Otherwise we're all at sixteens and sevens.”

“That's sixes and sevens, I do believe,” Alice corrected him.

“No, we left the sixes in the larder, and we brought the sixteens by mistake. Nothing adds up. Do you see what I am up against? Now come here and take your place like a good girl, and do as you're told.”

“I'll come,” said Alice, “but I can't promise to be useful.”

“Little girls often lie,” said the King of Hearts helpfully. “You may be useful despite yourself.”

Ada found herself thinking, Alice, don't fuss; just go there and do their bidding. No one can pay attention for more than a few moments in this place.

“Do as he says, or your head will spin,” roared the Queen of Hearts.

“Stuff and nonsense,” said Alice with what, to Ada, seemed uncharacteristic insolence. But who knew what sort of a day
she
had had?

The Queen of Hearts turned crimson. “Hold your tongue!”

“I won't,” said Alice.

“Off with her head!” shouted the Queen.

“Who cares for you?” asked Alice. “You're nothing but a pack of cards.”

An upheaval, a commotion, a seism shuddered the room. The standing army brought several suits against Alice. Ada watched Alice raise her arm to her eyes to fend them off. She fell backward against a marble statue of a dodo. She slumped against it, limp, rag-­like. Her eyes were closed and didn't open.

“Call the next witness!” said the White Rabbit to himself, and did so. “The Jabberwock!”