Read Online Alice I Have Been: A Novel by Melanie Benjamin - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Melanie Benjamin
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piece of worn, faded fabric draped across one corner. It took me a moment to realize this was the dress; there wasn’t very much to it, not at all like my regular frocks with their flounces and layers—why, the sleeves of the frock I was wearing had three layers to them!
Holding this sliver of cloth—for that was what it seemed to me—my heart began to race. I was very certain that Mamma would not like me to wear this, especially not in front of a gentleman, even Mr. Dodgson. My nightgown had much more fabric to it.
“Shall I—shall I leave my petticoats on, anyway?” I couldn’t control my voice; it warbled like a nightingale. A bug tickled the back of my neck, and I swatted at it. It felt peculiar back here, hidden in this corner by the tent, clutching a strange girl’s dress; it didn’t feel as if I was in my own garden at all. I might as well have been in deepest Africa, a notion that normally would have excited me. At that moment, however, it scarcely registered.
“Oh, no. Would a gypsy girl have petticoats?” Mr. Dodgson’s voice was muffled; I heard the swish of liquid in a container, inhaled the sharp smell of acid.
“I suppose not. What about my chemise?” Imagining myself clad only in this thin layer of cotton, I actually shivered.
“I don’t—your chemise? I’m not sure—at any rate, I don’t think a gypsy girl would have many clothes on except her dress, do you? So just the dress, please.”
“Oh.” I took the dress, held it up to me, then dropped it to the ground. Clutching my own skirt, I fingered the stiff, familiar lace like a good-luck charm. Then I realized something very important.
I realized I had never before undressed myself.
Phoebe performed that task, or one of the Mary Anns. All my buttons were in the back; every night I obediently turned around and waited for someone to unbutton all of them, help me step out of the billowing fabric, unfasten all my petticoats—again, all of which fastened at my back. Every night someone did.
Yet I couldn’t let Mr. Dodgson down. So I resolved to do it myself; I reached behind my shoulder, feeling for the top button; I felt and felt but never did find it, although my shoulder began to ache and little drops of perspiration dribbled down my back. I relaxed, took a deep breath, and tried once more.
Finally I felt the top button, cold and hard, and managed to push it through its hole. But there were so many buttons still to go! My eyes filled with tears, for I didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t want to bother Mr. Dodgson. Oh, what did little gypsy girls do when they had to get undressed? Suddenly that thin layer of clothing made sense; at least they weren’t so dependent upon adults. I hadn’t realized how helpless I myself was, really—no better than the new baby—until this moment.
Blinking my eyes—I resolved not to cry, as I knew my nose would get red and ruin the photograph—I tried once more. Reaching down the middle of my back, I groped and groped for a button, until I thought I heard the telltale rip of fabric splitting. I dropped my arm, panicked. How would I explain a torn dress to Mamma?
“Here, allow me to help,” a kind, soft voice said. I didn’t turn around; I squeezed my eyes shut, letting out my breath in a ragged, soggy burst; not quite tears, though. Then I felt hands—Mr. Dodgson’s hands—upon my back. First one button. Then the next. He carefully—awkwardly—undid all my buttons from the top down, and as the bodice of my dress fell away, I felt the cool breeze tickle my shoulders, working its way down to my waist. Mixed with that breeze was warm, steady breath, and the combination made me shiver.
“Are you cold?” He sounded worried.
“N-no,” I lied.
“You’ll be in the sun soon enough.”
“I know.”
My dress was unbuttoned; I started to wriggle out of it but somehow became tangled up in the hem. Mr. Dodgson steadied me, his hands upon my shoulders; his hands felt both warm and
Holding this sliver of cloth—for that was what it seemed to me—my heart began to race. I was very certain that Mamma would not like me to wear this, especially not in front of a gentleman, even Mr. Dodgson. My nightgown had much more fabric to it.
“Shall I—shall I leave my petticoats on, anyway?” I couldn’t control my voice; it warbled like a nightingale. A bug tickled the back of my neck, and I swatted at it. It felt peculiar back here, hidden in this corner by the tent, clutching a strange girl’s dress; it didn’t feel as if I was in my own garden at all. I might as well have been in deepest Africa, a notion that normally would have excited me. At that moment, however, it scarcely registered.
“Oh, no. Would a gypsy girl have petticoats?” Mr. Dodgson’s voice was muffled; I heard the swish of liquid in a container, inhaled the sharp smell of acid.
“I suppose not. What about my chemise?” Imagining myself clad only in this thin layer of cotton, I actually shivered.
“I don’t—your chemise? I’m not sure—at any rate, I don’t think a gypsy girl would have many clothes on except her dress, do you? So just the dress, please.”
“Oh.” I took the dress, held it up to me, then dropped it to the ground. Clutching my own skirt, I fingered the stiff, familiar lace like a good-luck charm. Then I realized something very important.
I realized I had never before undressed myself.
Phoebe performed that task, or one of the Mary Anns. All my buttons were in the back; every night I obediently turned around and waited for someone to unbutton all of them, help me step out of the billowing fabric, unfasten all my petticoats—again, all of which fastened at my back. Every night someone did.
Yet I couldn’t let Mr. Dodgson down. So I resolved to do it myself; I reached behind my shoulder, feeling for the top button; I felt and felt but never did find it, although my shoulder began to ache and little drops of perspiration dribbled down my back. I relaxed, took a deep breath, and tried once more.
Finally I felt the top button, cold and hard, and managed to push it through its hole. But there were so many buttons still to go! My eyes filled with tears, for I didn’t know what to do, and I didn’t want to bother Mr. Dodgson. Oh, what did little gypsy girls do when they had to get undressed? Suddenly that thin layer of clothing made sense; at least they weren’t so dependent upon adults. I hadn’t realized how helpless I myself was, really—no better than the new baby—until this moment.
Blinking my eyes—I resolved not to cry, as I knew my nose would get red and ruin the photograph—I tried once more. Reaching down the middle of my back, I groped and groped for a button, until I thought I heard the telltale rip of fabric splitting. I dropped my arm, panicked. How would I explain a torn dress to Mamma?
“Here, allow me to help,” a kind, soft voice said. I didn’t turn around; I squeezed my eyes shut, letting out my breath in a ragged, soggy burst; not quite tears, though. Then I felt hands—Mr. Dodgson’s hands—upon my back. First one button. Then the next. He carefully—awkwardly—undid all my buttons from the top down, and as the bodice of my dress fell away, I felt the cool breeze tickle my shoulders, working its way down to my waist. Mixed with that breeze was warm, steady breath, and the combination made me shiver.
“Are you cold?” He sounded worried.
“N-no,” I lied.
“You’ll be in the sun soon enough.”
“I know.”
My dress was unbuttoned; I started to wriggle out of it but somehow became tangled up in the hem. Mr. Dodgson steadied me, his hands upon my shoulders; his hands felt both warm and
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