Heart and Sole, Chapter 7
NOTES: OK, it's a slightly longer chapter this time... but considering what happens in it, you guys might not be thanking me. Angst ahoy!
*~*~*~*
The thing Alice likes best about her newly improved shoes (at which the White Queen had raised her very dark and perfectly groomed brows) is how very much they remind her of the colorful workmanship of the Hatter’s top hat. Besides which, each passing day is a step in his direction. She fancies that, with these boots on her feet, she is fated to be with him again soon.
With this revelation comes a sense of peace (but also trembling excitement) which drives her to make the most of her days. She chats with the baker of Whotchworks, assists an elderly goose with weeding her garden, and pays several visits to Cordwain. Before he inevitably orders her to make him a pot of tea, he permits her to poke around in his workshop. Sometimes she even helps him a bit.
“Finger ‘n’ hand me them nippers, Alishin,” he grunts, glaring bug-eyed at the leather stretched over the wooden shoe form.
She does, sighing. She shakes her head in amused tolerance as he begins tugging at the boot-in-making. Alice has lost track of the number of times she has politely informed him of her name. He seems determined to mispronounce it.
“Yeh’ll b’back tah-marreh, aye, Alishin?” he grunts without looking up from the shoe he’s currently jerking and yerking from inside-out to inside-in-and-outside-out.
“No, sir, I’m afraid I won’t. We’re heading back to Marmoreal tomorrow.”
“Uh-hum. Tah-marreh,” he grumbles distractedly.
Although she suspects he hadn’t really heard what she’d said, Alice lets him be. She doesn’t doubt that she’ll see him again, perhaps for more shoe repairs once she’s worn through the soles of these. Because of this, she isn’t disappointed when Cordwain does not join the crowd in the village the next morning to wish them fairfarren. After much fanfare, Alice is once again ensconced in the carriage with the queen and Mally, bouncing gracefully down the road to the White Queen’s Castle.
“What do you think of a champion’s role now, dear Alice?” the queen inquires kindly as they enter Tulgey Wood.
Alice blinks, startled. “Is that why…?”
The queen answers her question before she can sort out the words she’ll need to complete it. “I would have no objection were you to follow your interests in other directions. I was hoping this little trip would aid you in identifying the things nearest and dearest to your heart.”
Alice grins, thinking of the Hatter. “Yes, it has. Although…” She frowns down at her white uniform and the sword at her side. “If I were to resign from being your champion, what would I do at Marmoreal?”
“Hmm,” the queen replies with a nod. “Yes, we shall have to think on that.”
Still, it seems like a small detail and utterly unimportant when compared with the man (and marzipan muffins) waiting for her in Marmoreal. She has time to do something useful with her life. So long as the Hatter stands with her, she can face anything. Smiling, she looks out the window and takes a deep breath as her heart swells with anticipation and excitement and readiness. Alice sighs happily as she realizes that she does feel ready. Ready for the future. Ready for him.
“I’m going to tell the Hatter,” Alice murmurs to Mally sometime later as the White Queen dozes against the carriage’s comfortable cushions.
“Tell ‘im…?” Mally prompts, although Alice can see from her expression that she already suspects. Perhaps this is merely a test to see if she is really Alice enough - if she has enough Muchness - to say it aloud.
She does. “I love him.”
Mally pats her arm and nods with friendly encouragement. “I’ve got yer back, Alice. Ain’t no one interruptin’ yah wi’ me standin’ watch a’th’door!”
They make brief stops at several farm houses along the way. Sometimes the White Guard helps with whatever needs doing and sometimes they merely visit with the owners. Alice talks to a very familiar hedgehog who, squeaking happily, introduces her to its mate and three little ones.
Little ones. Yes, they are a possibility if the Hatter shares her feelings. She’s still not sure if she’s completely ready for that, but the vision of him with three little ones - perhaps a little boy clinging to his papa’s knee and a little girl with her arms wrapped around his neck, blowing raspberries against his cheek, and the Hatter himself smile-giggle-snorting at a toddler with her papa’s top hat drooping down around her ears as she grabs for his bandaged fingers with sticky hands…
It is only a vision, but it steals her breath away. Her heart thumps painfully in her chest. For the first time in her life, she wants that. She wants him and their children and laughter and the sound of small, running feet. The dream of it is so new it is painful.
Luckily, the bouncing of the carriage seems to loosen up the tight knot that her heart had become. Little by little, it becomes easier to breathe, to smile, to imagine herself saying, “I love you, Hatter.” The fantasy ends there as she can’t bring herself to picture his reply although she glimpses the hint of a delighted smile before she plays the scene over again and again.
When they crest the final hill before Marmoreal Castle, Alice feels her mouth go dry and her heart race and her hands chill. She is - undeniably - a nervous wreck.
Is this why men rarely propose to ladies they love? Is this why so few love matches are made? This terrible anticipation and unbearable fear? Dear flora and fauna of Underland but it will destroy her if he doesn’t return her affection. But no, no that won’t happen. She recalls his smiles which have always been warm when aimed at her and she recalls the way his hand had gripped hers that night in the graveyard and how very happy he’d been when she had chosen to stay in Underland… with him.
When the carriage rolls to a stop, Alice has to clutch the seat cushions to keep from climbing over the queen, reaching through the window to open the carriage door herself and race up to the Hatter and….!
The door opens. Alice’s feet jiggle impatiently. Mally climbs up to her shoulder and gets a good grip on Alice’s tunic. The queen gracefully descends. When the monkey footman pokes his head into the carriage next, Alice nearly bowls the poor thing over in her rush to disembark. She stumbles onto the white drive and glances about, noting the crowd of courtiers whom the queen is serenely addressing. She looks past them as she tries not to run down the drive, searching for a Hatter-shaped riot of color, but she sees no such figure.
“Well, perhaps he’s in the middle of a hat,” she muses, not slowing her loping steps as she mounts the stairs and enters the castle. Her scabbard still clinks at her side, banging against the back of her thigh with every running step. She ignores it.
“Excuse me,” she says to a squirrel who is dusting one of the marble busts in the grand gallery. “Where can I find the Hatter’s workshop?”
The creature chirps and points down one of the many halls branching off from the room.
“Thank you!” Alice calls over her shoulder, already trotting in that direction.
The hallway seems to stretch longer and longer with every step she takes. Pulse thrumming and breaths whistling, Alice follows the sound of bobbins being selected, the clatter of a sewing machine, the soft thump of a hat stand being moved…
And then she is there. The door before her is closed, but the placard clearly labels the room beyond as the Hat Shop in fine, scrolling calligraphy. Alice takes a deep breath and glances at Mally who gives her an encouraging pat on the cheek.
“Go get ‘im, Alice,” the dormouse whispers.
Alice offers a shaking, clammy palm to Mally and carefully sets her down on the floor in the hall. She then straightens and raps softly on the door. She waits a moment, but when no shout of protest is made, Alice eases the door open and peers inside.
“Hatter?” she queries and then, locating him at the far worktable, lets herself into the room. “I’m back! I mean, we’re back, but as there’s just me here now… um…”
He glances up from his work, giving her a happy grin. “Yes, yes, I can see you are here, Alice,” he lisps, his hands still working with breathtaking speed on a white cap. “And earlier than I anticipated!” He turns his attention back to the creation in his hands, frowning slightly with some Hatter-ish thought.
Alice feels suddenly unsure now as she approaches him. She’d expected a warmer greeting. Perhaps some enthusiastic gestures and, well, a completely and utterly improper embrace would have been nice… but that had clearly been too much to hope for. Still, he’d seemed happy enough to see her. Summoning a smile, Alice says, “I seem to have inconvenienced you.”
“Oh, no inconvenience,” he replies then tilts his head to the side as if listening to something in the distance.
Ping!
A delicate, silver chime sounds and the Hatter puts down the cap with a smile. “Now you are on time,” he tells her, striding from the work area to the room’s modest hearth. There he removes a gleaming kettle from the fire - Alice can only assume that Marmoreal kettles are not so crass as to whistle when they boil - and sees to the porcelain teapot.
Although he had not invited her to, Alice wanders over to the table which has been set for two and studies the Hatter as he steeps the tea leaves, lifts the silver lid on a tray of edibles - tiny muffins, marzipan by the smell of them - and then pulls out a chair.
“Would you care to sit down?”
She nods dumbly and tries not to bang her knees against the table legs as he pushes her seat in for her.
“There, now, tell me all about your journey, Alice!” he invites. “Your boots appear to have had a very colorful adventure.”
Alice grins. “Yes! I met the most wonderful cobbler named-”
“Cordwain?” the Hatter supplies, grinning as he pours the tea. “Thackery’s uncle is a very colorful shoemaker.”
“Yes! Have you met him?”
“Once upon a market day, I believe,” he replies, passing her a cup of perfectly Hightopp-brewed tea. Their fingers brush inadvertently during the exchange.
Slightly flustered from the brief touch of warm, rough skin and frayed bandages, she clears her throat and searches for something - anything! - to say next. “Did - did you know that Herald, one of the queen’s bishops, is partial to-?”
“Horticulture?”
His playful tone slays her sudden case of nerves. Alice harrumphs through her grin. If it’s a game he wants… “And Quagmoor’s Town Bully is a-”
“Bull frog?”
“And the queen actually-”
“Belched at dinner?”
Alice sits back with a huff. “Are you going to tell my adventures or shall I?”
He giggles. “So sorry, Alice. By all means, please continue.”
“Well, here’s something you may not know.” She bullies forward before her trembling hands and fluttering stomach can somehow conspire together to tie up her tongue. “I’m in love with you.”
For a moment, the words seem to stop time itself. Alice holds her breath. The Hatter’s grin freezes on his face. And then he twirls his fingers, shaking back his lace cuffs and says, “Alice, have you received any correspondence recently?”
Still holding her breath, waiting for his reaction, she somehow manages to comprehend his non sequitur and then shakes her head.
“Ah. I see. Sugar cube?”
Alice stares at him as he passes the dish.
He waits for a moment, but when Alice makes no move toward it, he replaces it on the table. “Perhaps not with the first cup, then.”
She watches as he plucks up one for himself and drops it in his tea.
“Hatter…” she whispers carefully, wary of making too loud a noise and awakening the heartache she can feel just there lurking in the pit of her stomach, waiting to roar up and swallow her heart.
“Did you know your fi-an-cé was here the other day?” the Hatter remarks as if changing the topic of conversation from the recent string of sunny days to another equally mundane matter. “Crashed right through the closet and spilled the buttons.”
“He’s not my fiancé,” Alice objects, daring to hope that this is all some sort of misunderstanding. Hoping that once this issue is cleared up, the Hatter will-
He nods. “Yes, yes, I’d thought so! He was far too officious and concerned with his own self-importance to speak for you. I’m glad you’ve let him go. Now, if you should require another fi-an-cé,” the Hatter continues, pronouncing the word strangely, as if it is three words of equal importance instead of one word with three syllables. Alice disregards his irregular enunciation. Her heart is suddenly in her throat and it’s making it very difficult for her to breathe and could he possibly be saying what she hopes to hear? The wait is only momentary, but it is the longest moment of her life, she’s sure! And then she hears: “I would suggest asking Nivens for a recommendation.”
For a moment, she simply cannot sort out his words, cannot make sense of them. “What? Nivens?” And then Alice hears herself blurt out, “Why not you?”
The Hatter blinks at her, looking thoroughly and unflatteringly startled. “Oh, no, I’m afraid I can’t recommend anyone in good faith. Nivens on the other hand-”
Alice forces herself to focus on his words and permits herself to say the first thing that comes to mind. These are the only things keeping her from falling apart as it becomes increasingly obvious that- “No, why can’t you be my fiancé?”
Alice decides she will die of shame later. She cannot seem to stop the momentum of this conversation and she’s not sure she wants to. Certainly, when it comes to a halt it will be a train wreck unlike any that have ever occurred in Underland before.
“Alice, please. I am a hatter. And you are fully capable of speaking for yourself, so I must confess it rather puzzles me that you would be willing to pay for such a service from that Fee On Say.”
Finally, Alice understands. The relief is glorious… until she realizes that the Hatter’s misunderstanding of the concept of a fiancé doesn’t help her navigate this strange moment. With all their words twisting up and turning her around, Alice reluctantly decides that there’s probably only one way to be perfectly clear on how she feels for him and desperately hopes he feels for her.
She stands, her chair legs scooting back with a hiccup-y screech. The Hatter’s brows rise in surprise as she steps around the table. She braces herself on its linen-covered surface with one hand and supports herself against his jacketed shoulder with the other. Before her gathered Muchness can scatter, Alice leans in and presses her lips to his. Deliberately this time.
He doesn’t move away, which is somewhat encouraging. Slowly, moving one hand at a time, she frames his face with her palms as she brushes her lips against his. Alice does not know much about kissing, but she knows that the longer this moment lasts, the more she can put off the aftermath of it, which she is beginning to suspect she will not care for.
Her fingers curl a little, holding him tightly in place, and she begs him in silence to kiss her back.
He doesn’t.
When she cannot bear his inaction any longer, she steps back and forces her hands to drop to her sides. Silence, despite not being invited to tea, stretches and yawns between them.
Alice feels no inclination whatsoever to speak. Her mind is blank with dawning horror.
The Hatter glances toward the fire and then at the table. When his gaze alights on Alice’s table setting, he declares with forced cheer, “You haven’t drunk your tea yet, Alice.” And then, reaching for the pastry tray, offers, “Muffin?”
Alice shakes her head. “I just kissed you.”
The Hatter’s grin stretches wider, as if she has committed some grave social gaffe. Something worse than kissing him in the first place. “And I’m rather trying to politely ignore it,” he responds, sitting perfectly still. His hands do not fidget. His brows do not twitch. His lips do not smile.
The world seems to simply stop.
She gasps out, “But you… care for me and I for you and…”
“And while I’m not heartless,” he gently interjects, his expression saddening, “I’m terribly afraid that what you wish of me simply isn’t… Rather, I do not…”
“I stayed,” she mouths, heat blossoming in her face and threatening to incinerate her. “You asked me to stay…”
“Alice, please…” Slowly he shakes his head. But more than that, Alice is drawn to the horror of his hands lying flat on the table. Motionless and relaxed. When she takes a small, experimental step back, he does not reach for her. “Alice, I’m sorry but I cannot.”
Perhaps his tone is kind. Perhaps his look is warm. Alice doesn’t hear or see it. Nodding, she turns on her heel and flees the room. Although he does not think as much of her as she’d hoped, she will not lose whatever regard he may still miraculously hold for her by letting him see her cry.
*~*~*~*
“Hamish, it’s so good of you to come. Please, sit down.”
Around the knot in his throat, Hamish coughs out, “Thank you, Madam Kingsleigh.”
“Tea?”
He nods and tries not to stare at his hostess who had so kindly and readily received him. He feels his conscience sting from shame. Ever since Alice’s inexplicable disappearance and Hamish’s visit with her in that impossible realm with its talking beasts and automatons, it has become increasingly difficult for him to avoid the very real fact that Alice had left people behind here in London. People who, presumably, have not been given the opportunity to visit with Alice as he has. His most recent foray into that odd world had pushed him down this street and up the steps of the Kingsleigh residence. He owes it to Helen Kingsleigh to try to ease her mind if at all possible.
According to Hamish’s mother, Madam Kingsleigh has been making excuses for Alice for the last three fortnights, but he can only imagine the strain she must be under, how concerned she must be for her daughter’s safety and wellbeing. Hamish briefly toys with the idea of sharing his inexplicable experiences with her, but no. No, nothing good would come from sharing those… episodes. However, he had been standing right next to the woman when Alice had disappeared. She does not have to pretend with him. Surely that amounts to something.
“How are you, Madam?” he asks, accepting the cup of earl grey with lemon.
She glances toward the window and squints into the weak sunlight which filters into the room through the lace draperies. “As well as can be expected considering…”
When her voice trails off, Hamish wrestles for something comforting to say, but he dithers too long.
Drawing a deep breath, Helen Kingsleigh asks, “Did she really…? There in the hall, did Alice really…?”
Hamish winces as the woman’s voice breaks in the midst of uttering Alice’s name. He nods woefully. “Yes, she disappeared right before our eyes.”
“I still can’t believe it. Every morning, I go to her room expecting to see her talking to her reflection in the looking glass or writing in her diary or humming some oddment of tune but there’s… no one. Only silence.”
“It’s enough to drive one mad,” Hamish hears himself contribute.
Helen blinks at him, her expression shuttering. “Do you think I am?”
“Please do not take offense, Madam Kingsleigh. I meant only-”
“No, no, it’s all right. Charles would have encouraged it, I think. Madness.” Regarding the place setting, she remarks, “It’s a pity he’s not here to see it.”
Neither is Alice, Hamish thinks and presses his lips together tightly so that he does not inadvertently speak it.
“How is it I’ve lost half of my family in so short a time?” she whispers softly.
Unsure if she’d meant for him to hear, Hamish elects to take a noisy sip of tea.
“I’ve hired a runner from Bow Street,” she informs him, a steely note in her tone.
Hamish blinks. “What did you tell him about the nature of her disappearance?”
“What I thought he would believe: my fanciful and rebellious daughter has perhaps played an elaborate trick on us all, an illusion. He’s looking into establishments which hire magicians and other such entertainers. Perhaps they’ve seen a girl who looks like…”
“A very sound idea. I suppose it’s too soon to hear definitively one way or the other?”
Something in his tone must have reached through Helen’s grief and confusion. She looks up suddenly, her gaze moving over him appraisingly. “Perhaps… I’m not the only one concerned about Alice, Hamish?”
Setting down his cup, he rubs a hand over his face and slouches unforgivably in his chair. “Sometimes,” he whispers, horrified that he’s truly admitting to this, “I think I see her, hear her. Her presence is so strong and I…”
Helen sniffs tellingly, while reaching discretely for her handkerchief. “I know. She seems just around the corner.”
“Or on the other side of the looking glass,” he mutters, weary to the bone from all the strangeness and uncertainty.
“Yes. Sometimes I think I see her looking back at me.”
“We shall find answers, Madam,” Hamish swears rashly.
Helen nods, her throat working and eyes glistening. “Yes, we… Yes, I believe-” Hamish flinches when her voice cracks, halving the word. With a flutter of fabric, she clumsily retrieves her napkin from her lap and nearly upsets the tea service in her haste to gain her feet. “Please excuse me for a moment, Hamish,” she whispers in a rush.
He stands as she strides from the room, her handkerchief already being pressed alternately to one eye and then the other. He thinks he hears a single sniffle and the sound of it wrenches open a wound in his conscience. He should not have spoken so rashly. Perhaps he should not have come here at all. In fact, he-
Sniff-sniff…
Hamish frowns and glances at the doorway as a set of sniffles invade the room. No one is crying in the doorway, however. And when he steps forward to investigate the hall, he finds that, too, is empty. Puzzled, he turns back to the room and follows the sound of someone sobbing softly until he is standing beside a wardrobe. Both doors are closed and he tells himself that they ought to remain so. Why, if this is another one of his wholly inappropriate episodes he doesn’t want to encourage it!
“Alice?” a small, soft voice says.
“You heard.” Sniffle. “Through the door.”
“Aye. I’m so sorry, Alice. We both thought…”
“We?” Alice prompts, alarm entering her tone.
“Th’ queen an’ I,” her companion says. “We coul’ both see tha’ th’Atter was fond o’ yah. An’ we ‘oped he woul’…”
Alice’s bubble of laughter is cruel and it makes Hamish flinch. “Love me back?” she supplies with such mockery in her tone that Hamish wishes the Hatter were standing before him this very instant so he could kill that bloody mad orange rotter with his bare hands!
“I’m so sorry, Alice,” her companion repeats, clearly at a loss for words.
“So am I, Mally. So am I.”
Alice’s companion - Mally - sighs expressively. “Wha’ll yah do now?”
There’s a long, hushed moment. Hamish recognizes it. Once or twice, he’d come upon a thoughtful Alice and the silence had sounded precisely like this.
“Repairs,” she says softly but with a thread of determination in her voice. “I’ve a cobbler to see about a broken sole.”
Her words are utterly mad and nonsensical, but Hamish can’t help but ache at the pain in her voice. He reaches for the latch on the wardrobe door, wondering if he dares open it and climb inside so that he might join Alice wherever she is and-
And what? Offer her a handkerchief? His shoulder?
He pauses, considering that.
Yes, he decides. He would like to offer her that much. They are friends after all.
He grips the wardrobe latch with purpose, his expression drawing into a frown of determination and then-
The sound of footsteps in the hallway makes him jump. He drops his hand as if the metal handle on the door had burned him. A mere moment later, his hostess reenters the room.
“I’m terribly sorry for that display, Hamish,” Madam Kingsleigh says, meeting his gaze with dry - if slightly reddened - eyes.
Hamish straightens away from the wardrobe and hastens to the table to hold out her chair for her, his mind racing and chest aching in response to what he’d heard. Or rather, in response to what he believes he’d heard. Perhaps it is a kindness, then, that Alice’s mother has not been given these glimpses into her daughter’s new life. It goes without saying that he must not mention these things he sees and hears to her. She would think him mad - which, perhaps, he is - and accuse him of being vicious and cruel, preying upon her uncertainties in such a way.
Yes, it is best to keep what he thinks he may know of Alice’s whereabouts and wellbeing a secret. Besides which, he cannot imagine Mrs. Kingsleigh welcoming the news that her daughter’s affections had just been spurred by a mad hatter.
As Hamish retakes his seat with forced composure, Helen offers him more tea which he declines.
She takes a sip from her own cup and then, squaring her shoulders, begins their visit anew. “Now, Hamish. I’ve heard from your mother that you’ve taken a very active interest in the trading company. I believe she mentioned an excursion to China?”
Hamish nods. The reminder of Alice’s legacy and her heartache makes his own heart twist - wringing itself - within his chest. “But the implementation of that enterprise may be some time off in the future yet,” he replies.
As Helen seems to relax - no doubt glad of his continued presence in town, glad that there is one other person with whom she can confide - Hamish tries not to think of the arrangements he’d made at the wharf offices which had been confirmed with the delivery of yesterday’s post. He’ll be aboard and the venture will be underway by the end of the month.
Clearing his throat, he puts forth his best effort at a smile and insipid teatime conversation, “Mother’s birthday will be upon me soon and I’ve no notion of what would please her. Any advice you could offer on the subject would be most welcome, Madam Kingsleigh.”
*~*~*~*
NOTES:
+ “Alishin” is a shoemaking term (of Scottish origin, I believe). It’s one of the many names for an awl.
+ “Jerk and yerk” describes the act of peeling the sewn leather off of the shoe mold (or “last”) and turning it right side out (so that the sole can be added).
Dictionary of shoemaking terms