Read Online Alice I Have Been: A Novel by Melanie Benjamin - Free Book Online

couldn’t conceal my disappointment; I did get so weary of being me.
    “Just as you, but that’s a wonderful thing. Just Alice.” Mr. Dodgson smiled, and I felt somewhat better.
    “I do despise my hair so.” I didn’t stifle my sigh as I shook my head, feeling the ends of my hair brush the back of my neck. I so longed to feel the weight of hair hanging down my back.
    Mr. Dodgson laughed.
    “Don’t you know? Your hair is part of what makes you special! I could photograph every little girl in Oxford, and they’d all have the same kind of hair—long curls with bows. You stand out, of all of them. That’s why I want to photograph you—only you could be my gypsy girl.”
    “Oh!” I hadn’t thought of it that way, and the notion tickled my insides until I smiled. I beamed at him as he busied himself with the tripod and camera. However did he do it? How did he make me feel so special? I wondered if he had anyone in his life to do the same for him; I knew that he probably didn’t. He did seem so very lonely at times.
    “Your—your hair is very nice, too. And I like your gloves.” I didn’t, though. They were always either black or gray, as strange and off-putting as he himself often appeared to others. He did not appear that way to me, however, and so I vowed, from that moment, to tell him so as often as possible.
    Every person, no matter how old, no matter how odd, needed someone like that in their lives, I thought.
    Mr. Dodgson paused; his eyes widened, and his color deepened. I believed I saw his hands tremble. “Tha-thank you, Alice,” was all he said. Then he busied himself with his camera, and while I was nearly shivering as I stood motionless, watching, he worked so energetically that eventually he removed his hat, his black coat, and placed them carefully upon a stone bench. He pushed his white shirtsleeves up as well, but never did he remove his gray gloves.
    “Now, stand in the corner, please.”
    “Like this?” I posed, my hands by my sides, experience having taught me it was easier to hold still that way.
    “Yes, but turn to your left—not that much! Just a little. Turn your head back toward me. Can you hold that?”
    Steadying myself on my feet, I pressed my hands down upon my skirt. My neck already felt stiff, but I would not tell him. “Yes, I think so.”
    “Well done! Now relax a moment, but don’t move. I’ll just go prepare the plate.” He dashed beneath the tent, although part of him—his rear part—stuck out. I didn’t dare laugh.
    Instead, I glanced back toward the Deanery to see if there was movement in any of the windows. The tree branches obscured most of the windows from view, which was a relief; if I couldn’t see them, they couldn’t see me. So I relaxed and allowed myself to wonder what the gypsy-girl dress looked like. I did hope that it had smudges on it, and that it might be torn.
    “Now, back to your pose!” Mr. Dodgson emerged from the tent, the plate holder in his hand. Pushing it into the back of the camera, he waited for me to take a big breath. Then he removed the round lens cover and began to count. “One, three, two, four, six, five, eight, seven, ten, nine—” and I felt it was very unfair of him to be so silly when I had to keep still, concentrating on the lens, that round, unblinking eye. Finally he got to forty-five, and he placed the cover back over the lens; I let out my breath in a big laugh. He ran to embrace me—“There’s a good girl!”—then hurried back to the camera, pulling out the lens holder and rushing it to the tent.
    “May I bathe it?” I asked, shaking my arms and legs, twisting my neck. I did so enjoy washing the plate in its tray, waiting for the picture to emerge.
    “Not this time, I’ve already started. Next one, I promise.”
    “Where’s my dress? Shall I change?”
    “Just on the other side of the tent. Go ahead, but try not to jostle it, please.”
    “I won’t!”
    I walked carefully around the tent and found a