by Kaye Chazan
"Where do you imagine their little souls go, Mary Ann?" Mrs. Liddell asked her, not turning her eyes from the expanse of grass outside.
Mary Ann hung the dressing gown in the chifferobe. "I'm sure I don't know, ma'am." She frowned at a few spots of blood on the carpet by the bed; she thought she'd got it all when she'd scrubbed the room earlier, but she must have missed some. It wouldn't do to clean it in front of Mrs. Liddell; she was fragile. It could wait until she took another bath. In the meantime, Mary Ann slid the carpet across the floor so that the edge was concealed by the dust ruffle of the bed.
"Maman always said there was a special place for babies' souls," Mrs. Liddell murmured, "but we don't believe in that, of course."
Mary Ann nodded. There was no point in responding. It wasn't her place, and in any case, Mrs. Liddell wouldn't hear her. "Ma'am, I'll be up again after I've seen to the children and Mister John." She folded another afghan over Mrs. Liddell's lap and checked to make sure that she still had her slippers on; cold feet would do no good.
"I might have named her Alice," Mrs. Liddell said faintly to the window glass. "I did so want that little girl."
Mrs. Liddell didn't come down for the rest of the day, and Mary Ann took something up to her rooms, but by the time she'd got the girls into their beds and gone back to fetch the empty tray, Mrs. Liddell's light was out and the tray was untouched. She took it down into the kitchen and saved it in the warmer for Samuel.
Mister John had taken a late supper by himself in the dining room, and in the absence of children and Mrs. Liddell, indulged in smoking a cigar and playing cards on the table runner.
"Mrs. Liddell has retired," she said to him as she cleared his cold plates and the crock of butter. Mister John swiped his cards toward him, unsatisfied with his solitaire lay. He snapped the deck on the wood with a snickersnack and split the deck, flicking the cards in and bridging them until he had a full pile again.
"My wife is quite delicate right now," Mister John said, lifting his cup so that Mary Ann could refill it. "I am sure you understand that she shan't be bothered with anything."
Mary Ann refilled his teacup, pulling the pot up high to make a tall, thin stream, then lowering it before snapping the spout up and ending the flow. "Of course," she replied, setting the teapot down and offering the sugar bowl even though it was within reach of his hand.
Mister John smiled and picked a cube out with his fingers, slipping it in his mouth, his eyes staring at her face. Mary Ann watched the small dart of his tongue, a flash of reddened pink, before his lips parted and she saw his teeth gleaming in the firelight. She wasn't often this near to him, and from here, the smell of his Macassar oil was so strong she wondered why she had never noticed it before. His thin moustache bent when he quirked one side of his mouth up into a smirk.
"What I mean to say is that you shall have to assume some of her... duties." He hid his mouth behind his cup. "Whilst she's abed."
Mary Ann turned down the far lamp and nodded. "Yes, of course."
There was a flicker outside, the wagon lamp on the house cart as it made its way in the darkness. Samuel was at the crossing, and that meant he'd be arriving in ten minutes or so.
She closed the curtains and turned to gather her things. Mister John waved her over and faced her in his chair. "I'm working on a trick," he told her, holding out the cards. "Pick a card."
Mary Ann wiped her hands on her apron and reached out to pull a card from the middle of the deck. Mister John directed her to look at it: the two of spades.
"Put it back in the deck," Mister John said, face placid and intent as his dark eyes watched her hand carefully slide the card back into the middle. Mary Ann folded her hands in front of her and waited. Mister John shuffled the cards, fanned them out, scrolled his hands a few times and winked melodramatically. He stamped his finger on a card in the middle of the pile and slid it to himself.
"This is your card," he said, flipping it over and setting it in front of her.
Mary Ann smiled down at the Queen of Hearts. "Yes, it was."
Mister John swept the card back into the deck. "Sleight of hand, works every time, Mary Ann." He drained his teacup and handed it to her. "That will be all for the evening."
"Very good, sir," Mary Ann replied, bending to retrieve the rest of the service from the sideboard. If she washed up a bit and set out the sauce with the cheesecloth, she'd be finished early again. She'd probably take something small up to Mrs. Liddell anyway.
She could smell the pepper before she even saw the house. Even though she'd dispatched the Footman to deliver the invitation, that business had occurred after breakfast, and it was so long ago in any case, before the arrival of Alice, that the Queen had completely forgotten all about it. But it was too late—invitations had been made, and she didn't dare call the whole thing off. If you called things off here, they had a habit of starting without one. And one always lost.
The door was open, smoke pouring from it, along with the pepper that was all but visible in the air. Her nose was already starting to itch. The Duchess's Footman sat on the ground outside.
"I should let you in," he croaked in the smoke, "if I weren't already out."
"Where is your mistress?" she asked the Footman.
"I don't have a mistress," he replied. "Not even married!"
Why did she never know better? Anything with an animal face and a suit of clothes was nothing but trouble. She strode into the kitchen, sneezing almost immediately. The room was empty but for the Cook, who stirred something in a large cauldron. Without looking, the Cook scooped up the handle of a skillet and threw it behind her.
"This meat's too fresh," the Cook muttered.
"You saw the girl," the Queen said, dispensing with formalities. Not that there were any formalities, anyway. "That girl."
"The little yellow thing, yes, I saw 'er," the Cook replied. "Ran off with the baby. Good riddance to the lot of them."
"Did she speak to the Duchess?" the Queen pressed, glancing about the room. "Is the Duchess here?"
"She's getting ready for her game with the Queen," the Cook said. "You met the Queen, have you?" She lifted a pot and tossed it at the open door. Outside there was a clang and the Footman groaned in protest. "Won't be having none of them frog bastards at my table." To the Queen, she added, "Out back! In the salon!"
The Queen found the back door and left the room just in time to dodge a jam jar aimed at her head. As it was, she found her skirts spattered with what looked to be apricots. Things were always splittering and splattering, it seemed. Just this morning she'd had to change her petticoat when she'd tracked through a pool of blood. Or preserves. It could have been preserves. They were quite similar.
The back door fed into a closed garden, though dried out and dotted with empty crockery. Across the barren dirt, the back house was dark and quiet, but for one set of shutters thrown open to let in the wafting smoke and pepper from the kitchen proper. The Queen could hear the gentle clatter of heels on the wood, the chiming of jewelry being chosen and discarded.
The window was at neck-height, and so she could see a bit in, but what with the smoke and pepper salting the air, and the dimness of the house itself, the Queen couldn't make out anything.
She rapped on the sill. "You're in there. I know you are!"
"Eh? Who is it?" the Duchess groused, poking her head out the window. She was half-dressed, hair in paper curls, one sleeve up, the other dangling past her shoulder. "I am very busy!"
The Queen waited for the woman to look up, then left, and then right before looking down, just below the window.
"You can't be here!" the Duchess said, waving her half-gloved hands so that the fingertips flopped. "It's bad luck to see me before the game!"
"That's a wedding," the Queen said, looking up at the Duchess.
"A wedding! I thought we were playing croquet!" the Duchess exclaimed. "I shall have to recurl my hair and change the lace on my hood!"
"There was a girl here; you
know the one," the Queen said. "And she cannot be here."
The Duchess stopped and tugged on a glove. "If she cannot be here, then how is she here?"
The Queen thought that was a statement worth examining, but much later, after Alice was gone and gone. "Don't play coy with me," she said sharply. "She shouldn't be here. She'll bring him, and that cannot happen."
The Duchess lifted two strands of identical pearls and held them out. "Which do you prefer, the pearls, or the pearls?"
"Never you mind what to wear," said the Queen none too gently, yanking the pearls so that the Duchess almost tumbled out the window head first. "Something has let her in, and she must be expelled forthwith."
The Duchess freed her abused jewels. "You could simply take off her..." And then, seeing the look on the Queen's face, she trailed off, eyes darting about, not entirely sure how to finish the sentence. "Her shoes. Or her... oh dear."
The Queen stuffed one hand in the folds of her skirts. "I am saying to you, that you must find her and expel her."
The Duchess laughed. "I don't think I can. But you can." She winked. "The moral of that is—'Don't cover your own ears when stealing a bell'." And she reached out with both hands and grabbed the shutter handles, slamming them closed.
The Queen punched one of the shutters with her balled fist. She could feel the anger rising inside her, something that always felt like acid, burning its way up her throat until her mouth spilled open and it roiled forth, waves of sound and froth.
"I say I gave you an order!" she bellowed. "I told you what to do!"
"You weren't always queen here," said the Duchess, "and unless you're surrounded by guards, you know no-one is going to listen to you out here."
The Queen often found that no matter what she meant to say, whenever she opened her mouth, all that would come out was, “I'll have your head.” Oh dear. She bit her tongue and let the cut quell something. Foam calmed and flattened until she could open her mouth at the hinge and know that nothing would come out. Something in her fingers subsided and her hands unlocked from fists. Some clock wound down in her hollow chest.
There was a rustle from the window, and if the Queen peered through the slats and blinked a bit, squinting, she could tell that the Duchess was sitting right in front of her. The wood stayed firmly closed.
"I shan't remind you of anything more than that," she said to the painted slats. "I shan't say it out loud."
"Your cat was here," the Duchess remarked suddenly. "Sicked up all through the fresh washing."
"What's the moral of that?" the Queen muttered, thinking about the cat she hadn't seen all day.
"Not everything has a moral," the Duchess said. "Or maybe everything has a moral. That doesn't seem sound, since some people don't like mushrooms." There was a rapping as she beat the dust from something inside. "I do love this pepper."
The Queen looked down at the daffodils she'd trampled to stand at the window.
"Find her again, and get her out of here," the Queen said through the closed shutters. Just as well, all the pepper was making her nose burn. "If you don't—"
"I was never looking for her," said the Duchess through the shutters. "And neither should you be, either. The moral of that is—'We shouldn't expect others to keep a secret that we cannot keep ourselves'."
"Greta," the Queen said softly, working a finger into one of the slats of the shutters. "Greta."
There was the soft press of a palm against her skin. "Oh, all right," the Duchess sighed. "After all, she stole my baby."
When given a choice between a mad Hatter and a mad Hare, Alice wasn't quite sure what would be preferable. And the Cat wasn't terribly helpful in deciding the matter. If either direction was madness, where was the direction home?
"Oh Cheshire-Puss," Alice said tiredly, "How do you know I'm mad?"
"You must be," said the Cat, "or you wouldn't have come here." It rolled on the branch and spread one set of claws like a fan. "I say, who is your mummy?"
Alice felt her face become hot, but if one had enquired as to its cause, she wouldn't have had the faintest reason why. "I don't believe it is any of your business who my mother is, but since I see no reason why not to tell you, she is Mrs. Catherine Liddell."
The Cheshire Cat flicked an ear. "Oh. Oh, I see now."
Mary Ann finished the last of the dishes and wondered how two little girls could make such a mess. Boys were supposed to be the untidy ones, weren't they? Still, there was nothing for it, she figured as she glared at the two spoilt tablecloths wadded up on the floor and the seven serviettes dotted with butter and jam. Children were children.
Samuel was in the stables, putting the horses up. His tea was under a cover on the hob. The kettle, still half-full, ticked as the metal cooled. Mary Ann sniffed the air and wondered where the smell was coming from. It was really rather like something spoilt. All the bad meat had been cooked and seasoned with plenty of pepper, so that should have been all that she could smell, but no matter how pungent what she was doing might be, she could always smell something like sour milk.
Sour milk reminded her of poor Mrs. Liddell, upstairs in her rooms and weeping. Mary Ann had helped her to bind her breasts that morning and taken away the dressing gown spotted with milk. Later, she thought that she might warm some water and unwrap the bandages, perhaps quickly bathe her before wrapping up her breasts again.
It had been four days. The coffin was in the ground, and the children were subdued still, asking about what would happen to mummy's belly. Would it get smaller? Was there still another baby in there?
Mister John had been in the city all day, but he had come home for a late supper by himself again, and these last dishes had been his. Mary Ann rinsed the silver in the tub and set it on the drainboard. It would need polishing in the morning, but it could wait. She had to think of tomorrow's fires, Samuel's supper, laundering the spoiled linens before the stains became impossible. And she was out of lye.
The kitchen door creaked and she turned, startled when Mister John entered the room. She wiped her hands on her apron and folded them in front of her. It really was impossible to get any work done these days, when they came down here without a moment's notice and interrupted everything. It was starting to become infuriating.
"Excellent supper, Mary Ann," Mister John said, plucking a sugar cube from the bowl and sticking it on his tongue, not unlike the way the horses took apples from her.
"Thank you, sir," she said, and stood there. It didn't do to show irritation to him, not if she wanted to keep her place. But upstairs was upstairs, and downstairs was downstairs, wasn't it?
"Sir?" she queried when he didn't leave, but hung about in the kitchen, wandering along the table towards her and the oven. "Will you be needing anything else?"
Mister John shrugged a little, and tugged at his collar. "No, Mary Ann, just making sure everything is running smoothly." He rounded the table and touched the cooling kettle. "Are you getting on?"
"As… as much as I can, sir, yes," she stammered. He closed the space in between them and leant in to her, just a little... too much, actually. "It will be a relief when Mrs. Liddell is well again," she continued, ignoring when he bent down to almost press his nose to her temple. From here she could see the stubble on his neck. "We're worried about her."
"Mmm," Mister John murmured, and Mary Ann took a step back into the table; it hit her in the bottom and she had nowhere else to go. Her hands felt about on either side of the tabletop as Mister John raised one of his and set it on her neck. "I'm sure."
She tried not to move, made her body stiff.
"Come now, Mary Ann, be a dear," Mister John whispered. "Be a dear to me." His other hand slid about her waist and pulled her into him. Something like coconut and brandy wafted across her nose, cancelling out the sour smell.
"Sir?" Mary Ann tried to look past him, but the room was swimming out of focus over his shoulder. Her hand reached up, finally made contact with his chest, and she gave a push, but it was half-hear
ted. She shouldn't be touching him.
Mister John's hand tightened on her waist and then he pulled her down, falling onto the floor. Her knees came out from under her and she tumbled into his lap with a squeal.
"Shhhh. Mary Ann, shhh," Mister John crooned. He let go of her waist and rubbed his hand on her bottom in a circle, each new round pulling her skirts up further and further. She heard the snap of a button being released and the grind of the dirt under his shoes when he flipped her over and down, drawing himself up behind her.
"Sir, please—"
"Shhhh."
"Sir, no, I—"
Something struck her in the back of her head, not hard, but heavy, and then he dropped the orange marmalade jar onto the floor, where it rolled away, towards the oven. Her brain rattled in her skull.