After Alice (6 page)

 

CHAPTER 15

M
rs. Brummidge poured; Mrs. Brummidge squeezed the lemons; Mrs. Brummidge scooped the sugar; Mrs. Brummidge took a great wooden spoon and stirred the concoction. “Whilst you was out reading and losing track of Alice,” she said to Lydia, “that governess from the Vicarage came sniffing about for Ada Boyce, who'd been sent here with a jar of marmalade. But we never seen her, nor the marmalade, which will be welcome should it ever arrive.”

“Young ladies these days,” said Lydia, deciding how to proceed. “One would think there were gypsies about, the way small girls disappear.”

“Well, our Alice has her own compass, no doubt about that and don't we know it well. But Ada Boyce is docile as a lambkin.”

“A mammoth, compromised lambkin.”

“Don't be snarky. Ada's lighting out on her lonesome vexes her governess no end. You've not seen the poor afflicted child, did you?”

“Well, I did. And then I did not,” said Lydia. “I said as much to Miss Armstrong as she flurried by me after having accosted you for news. She's a high-­spirited ostrich, not made for patience, I think.”

“Well, that
household,
” said Mrs. Brummidge darkly.

“What do you mean?”

“I once went by to borrow some malt vinegar? That time the grocer was gone away? Due to his old gaffer's getting his head split open by a falling chamber pot? The kitchen door of the Vicarage was open to the sun and their cook didn't hear my knock, so I stepped inside.” Mrs. Brummidge looked this way and that, as if there were agents who might hear her spilling testimony against the House of Boyce. “She was drinking
tea
from the
spout
. Oh, it's an ill-­run house, from garret to cistern. I don't wonder Miss Armstrong flusters so.” At this she caught herself. Too much had been said. She finished up with the lemon barley. She whisked a tray from the shelves beneath the window. “Rhoda, look smart. They'll be waiting for this.”

Lydia stood. “Rhoda, keep at your beans.” The kitchen maid was flummoxed, as if caught between a constable and a clergyman and unsure whom to obey. At Lydia's insurrection Mrs. Brummidge took a sluice of air between her teeth and backward-­whistled it in. But she said no more about it. She placed the tray with the lemon barley and some drinking glasses and a plate of morning cake upon the pastry table. She retreated, as if the refreshments were about to detonate. She trained her eyes on the floor. Rhoda settled her rump back on her three-­legged stool.

Lydia didn't speak again, but picked up the tray. She led with her shoulder through the swinging door into the passage. When she was halfway along, she heard Mrs. Brummidge hiss at Rhoda, “Unseemly!” with the same tone of scandal she might have used had she been saying “Strumpet!” or “Baptist!” She does have her opinions, does our Mrs. Brummidge, thought Lydia. She was stymied for a moment at the parlor door, which was closed. How does one knock and open a door while carrying a tray? How did Rhoda ever manage? Balancing one edge of the tray against her bosom, Lydia freed her right hand to knock. Then she went through, into the male preserve of Pater, Mr. Darwin, and that handsome Mr. Winter.

The light was bright. The breeze off the Cherwell delivered an odor of June mud, backwashed with essence of meadow-­grass and a whiff of cow. Mr. Winter was quiet and attentive, lifting on his toes before the open window. His hands were clasped in downward prayer. His eyes did not tilt toward the door. Nor did those of Pater or of Darwin. But Lydia could hardly blame them. They were expecting no one more exotic than Rhoda.

She set the tray down on top of the closed harmonium. Her back turned to them, Lydia listened intently to the men. Darwin seemed to be reading from his own manuscript, line by line. Pater was commenting in words of solemn circumspection. It reminded Lydia of the way the local boys would beat the bounds of the parish every year, with peeled willow wands and high hilarity. Of hilarity there was none from Darwin, nor from dear father, but the intensity of thrashing seemed to her the same. Every yard of statement needed to be tested for soundness. What Mr. Winter was adding, other than devotion to the holy cause of thought, was unclear.

Lydia rotated at the hip, waiting for a pause in the proceedings so she could offer to serve. Mr. Winter against the bright window was a silhouette. His hair was silvery blond and sleek. His form was neater even than it had seemed in the kitchen. How nice that he wasn't lost in one of those sexless black gowns in which the scholars tramped about, hooting in sunshine and huddling in rain.

A patch of shadow in a darker corner of the room shifted from beside the aureole afforded Mr. Winter. Lydia started, making a small, contained movement. Was Alice hiding in here all along? Impossible. But the shape was childlike. “Mercy upon us,” she said with displeasure. Darwin paid no mind. Pater looked up. She could not turn toward Mr. Winter.

“Lydia, whatever are you doing?” said her father.

“I am here to deliver a beverage, Pater, as requested by your other guest. I had been told there was a child. I see I had not been told everything.”

The creature came forward. His countenance was of a very un-­English hue. He was of Africa, or from some plantation in Hispaniola or Barbados or the like. His skin was shiny as oiled mahogany. Hair cropped as if for nits. With undisguised thirst, he cast his glance upon the drink. “Yes, this is meant for you,” she said. His hands came out to clasp the glass before she had filled it. For an instant she saw his hands were gammon-­pink upon the palms. This surprised her, as the boy was otherwise as coal-­dusty as a sweep at the end of his fourth flue of the day.

Darwin went back to his text, her father to his exegetic murmuring. Mr. Winter moved across the carpet so he could speak in a lowered tone. “Miss Lydia, you honor us,” he said.

“No one mentioned the child was a boy,” she replied, in tones even lower, “and an aboriginal at that.”

“May I present him to you? Miss Lydia, this is Siam.” The boy didn't meet her eyes. He downed the lemon drink like a Berber lately crawled from hot Sahara sands.

“What is he doing here? With—­with them? With you?” She realized it might sound uncouth, her inquiry, but she could be considered the mistress of the house, by some accountings anyway. She threw back her shoulders to suggest authority.

“Well, miss, the lad's traveling with me, you see. I'd arrived at Down House to meet the great man. I'd a letter of introduction. To my surprise, despite his recent aversion to travel, Darwin announced he'd made a previous appointment to visit your father”—­at this Mr. Winter's voice became a whisper—­“in his bereavement. My unexpected arrival was timely. I was invited to come along and assist, as Darwin is too frail to travel alone.”

“Yes,” said Lydia, also in private tones, “but—­but. This boy. He seems young to be your servant.”

“No, no; not a servant, you're right about that,” said Mr. Winter hastily, as if that explained everything.

“Mother has been dead for several months. Why has Darwin come now? And why have you bothered to come with him?” Lydia felt she was asking questions too grand for the custom of the parlor; she might well continue with
And why did Mother die, and where did she go?
But she stood looking at Mr. Winter with a ferocity that, though she had no idea of it, was nearly glamorous.

“I understand that your father was kind to Huxley when he was here defending Darwin's theories against the charges of heresy. Darwin has his head in natural science, but everyone has lost someone,” explained the guest, hushedly. “Darwin his daughter Annie, this house its beloved matriarch. The heart is a construct of any waking creature, and Darwin has a heart, too.”

“A heart
and
a mind. I suppose Pater wants to discuss the immortal soul with Mr. Darwin.” She sighed, as if it was a recurrent argument about interior plumbing.

“The great man is not well,” said Mr. Winter. “He lives in his sickroom. Had I not shown up opportunely upon his doorsill, he'd never have managed this trip. I can see it is taking a toll. I should go back to his side.”

The little boy had finished a second glass. “There will be none for the others,” said Lydia rudely. “Though I suppose I can negotiate a fresh supply. How does this scamp come to be with you?”

“He can speak for himself. He speaks English quite well. Perhaps you would like to show him around, now he is comfortable here? He's slightly bored.”

The world of men, always reconvening, asserting itself. The pull of her father's susurrus, Darwin's cautious replies. Mr. Winter preferred that over conversation with her. “Very well,” she said. “Master Siam, is it? You may accompany me. You may tell me something about yourself.”

The lad followed her willingly enough, only pausing at the door to glance bright eyes at his guardian. Mr. Winter had returned to the window. He'd struck up again the posture of acolyte. An Athenian harkening to Socrates. “Come along lest you get lost, too,” said Lydia to the child.

 

CHAPTER 16

A
da hadn't climbed more than a few yards up the strut-­work of the great hall before she saw that the flanking curlicues of plaster were no longer symmetrical. Now they seemed to be teased into variety. The cold molded surface fragmented in her hands as she climbed. It crumbled like old moss, revealing the suppleness of living wood. She turned to look about her. She realized that the hall had turned back into a forest. She was climbing one of dozens of trees growing so closely together that she could see no horizon.

What about the teacup, the tag, she thought. She looked down. Perhaps she could read it from above? But she'd achieved too great a height already. The table below her had lengthened, and covered itself with a cloth, upon which several dozen teacups and quite a few pots of tea were set about in a higglety-­pigglety fashion. She couldn't identify the original teacup among them from this vantage. Well, when I finish seeing where I am, she thought, I shall climb back down and have a spot of tea.

It felt wonderful to climb. Her feet possessed a new and certain stepping-­knowledge that they had never had on paving stones or staircases. At home, the very pattern in the carpet could trip her up, it seemed.

Ada wasn't the type to analyze her moods, generally. Even now she didn't dwell on the idea of elation. But she felt it as she climbed. A promised view often lifts the heart.

She was reaching a point where the canopy was becoming thinner. She had to be careful to settle her foot squarely in each forking branch for fear of cracking it and tumbling earthward. The light intensified. The sky, a peerless blue, seemed very much a shire and not a London sky, she observed. She hoped she might somehow see into the garden where the Ace of Spades had been busy planting Rosa Rugosa.

“I imagine you have the right papers for this neck of the woods?” asked a voice curtly.

Ada craned. “I never thought of the neck of the woods as being near the top of the trees, but I suppose it makes sense.”

“You're approaching the crown of the tree, so of course you're at the neck of the woods,” snapped the voice. Its owner fluttered near. “We've had a serpent scare recently. We can't be too careful. We've hired an agent to ensure security. I imagine he grilled you right proper before allowing you access.”

“That cat with the floating smile?”

“Cat! Mind your tongue! Cat indeed! As if!” The bird shook her wings like a creature emerging from a birdbath. “While serpents are a menace to eggs in the nest, cats are notorious for slaying birds. No, I'm talking about the Head Egg below, the one who cleared your travel papers.”

“I have no papers, and no one cleared them.”

“Perhaps he saw them and cleared them away, and that's why you haven't got them anymore,” said the bird. “If you have­n't got any papers, though, do you actually recall who you are and what you are doing here?”

“If you please, my name is Ada.”

“Adder! I knew it! And a very fat adder at that. You shall find no mercy from
me
!” At this the little bird began to fly in Ada's face, beating and shrieking.

“I'm not an adder, please! I'm a girl.”

The bird returned to a branch and cocked her head to look with one eye, then twisted about to look with a second. “
Another
girl? I'm not sure I believe you. The serpent said she was a girl, too, but I never saw a girl with such a long neck. I imagine she thought
she
was being the neck of the woods. She was only drawing attention to herself in an unseemly fashion, if you ask me.”

Ada had almost forgotten about Alice. “
Have
you seen another girl? Was she called Alice, by any chance?”

“If I knew I wouldn't say. You are all in cahoots, a league of serpents. Go away or I'll call the Head Egg.”

Ada was about to suggest that the bird do just that, as Ada rather liked the notion of a large egg in charge of domestic tranquility. She wanted to see how such a campaign might be carried out. However, just then she heard the noise, not too far off, of breaking branches. A disorganized mechanical ruckus, more or less at the same height as Ada and her interlocutor, though out of sight behind screens of foliage.

“There it is again, that infernal groaning and thwacking. Something has been worrying itself into conniptions over that way. I would go to look but I dassn't leave my nest, not with serpents about.”

“You
can
trust me. I'm no serpent, I'm a girl.”

“A serpent can change its skin, you know, and appear to us in all manner of guises.” This sounded like something the Reverend Boyce would declare. Before Ada could ask herself whether perhaps she
was
a kind of serpent without knowing it, the bird continued. “Whatever it is over there, I hope it comes and catches you. It ratchets, it creaks, it breaks branches. The Bandersnatch, for all I know. Frumiouser and frumiouser, by the sound of it. I wish it would go away. Would you care to be engaged as a Bandersnatch-­snatcher?”

“No, thank you.” Ada shuddered. A storm of tattered leaves rose in the air a short distance away, suggesting proximity of danger. “I may have to do without the view that I'd climbed all the way up here to see. Perhaps I should have minded the instructions. The ceiling did advise me not to look up.”

“That was my doing,” said the bird. “I thought I would advertise against craning and preening, so as to prevent serpents from noticing the eggs in my nest. A new mother would kill to protect her young, you know.” Her feathers drooped. “Of course my strategy didn't keep you out.”

“I've been advised not to take advice,” said Ada, to soothe her.

The bird replied promptly, “Then may
I
advise that you stay and join me in the rearing of my latest clutch of eggs.”

“No, thank you,” said Ada. “I'm afraid of the Bandersnatch, or whatever it is. And I may be late for tea.” She could no longer see the table laid out beneath the limbs of the trees, but she hoped it was still there, and that the tea was still hot.

“It's acceptable to be late for tea in this neck of the woods,” said the bird. “Indeed, it's inevitable, as we never serve tea here. Did you mention you were leaving? If you see the Head Egg, tell him he has fallen down on the job.”

“Oh, I hope he hasn't,” said Ada, beginning to reverse her footsteps. “When an egg falls, well, it can't easily be repaired, even with Mrs. Winslow's Soothing Syrup. ‘All the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't put Humpty together again.' ”

“You
are
a serpent, always on about fallen eggs,” said the bird. “We birds live above reproach.”

“I hope I am not descending to meet reproach,” said Ada, being clever.

“All who descend meet reproach,” said the bird, with fine moral feeling.