Who knows? It will be exciting to find out, won’t it?”
I nodded. Of course it would. That was the jolly part about being photographed; one never really knew how it would turn out. There was always that moment in the chemical bath when the image first appeared on the glass plate, like a ghost swimming up from the past, and you didn’t know if the image would be clear and sharp or remain a blur forever. My stomach always was in pleasurable knots at that moment. It was like opening a present, every time.
“Oh, but wait!” I stopped.
“What is it, Alice?” Mr. Dodgson turned around, so patient with me.
“Whatever shall I wear? I don’t have any gypsy clothes!”
“Ah, but I have. An old gypsy herself lent them to me.”
“Really?” I did so want to believe him; believe that an old gypsy woman, with rings and bells and scarves draped all over, had knocked on the door to his rooms and given him a little girl gypsy’s dress.
Yet there was always that watchful part of me that asked, Have you ever chanced upon a gypsy woman in the Quad? On the High Street? In the Meadow? And how would she know where Mr. Dodgson lived? Why would she give him a dress?
Sometimes I despised that part of me.
“Truly she did, Alice. Don’t you believe me?”
I sighed. I did so want to.
“You’re an old soul, Alice. Did you know that? Most children your age would leap at the notion of a gypsy woman. But not you. You’re too wise.”
I didn’t know what to say to him; he looked at me so dreamily, so hopefully. I knew that if I said a word, I’d disappoint him. So I merely smiled, allowing myself to be happy for this moment, this Perfect Day, and relaxed my watchfulness for now.
Opening the weathered gate to the garden, I shrank back from walking directly across it. I kept to the outer stone wall instead, even though it was much farther that way. Mr. Dodgson didn’t ask why. Yet he knew. He knew I didn’t want anyone inside the Deanery to see. I imagined—I hoped —that everyone was too busy to notice us. Still, Mamma would be very angry if she saw me as a gypsy girl in my bare feet. Perhaps even angry enough to drop the baby, and I certainly didn’t want to be responsible for that. However, I was more concerned about Ina and Pricks. If either of them saw me alone with Mr. Dodgson—my stomach fluttered uneasily at the notion. They hadn’t been invited, and the longer they remained ignorant of this, the better for everyone, myself in particular.
“There are your rooms,” said I, when we were halfway around the wall, far enough away from the Deanery—the windows looked like little half-closed eyes along the back of the house—that I felt safe. I pointed up toward the library, directly across the garden from the Deanery. “Did you see us playing croquet yesterday?” I knew he sometimes looked down at us while we played in the garden, but never before had I mentioned it.
“No, I’m afraid I didn’t,” was all he said, and I felt as if this was a subject we should discuss no further, although I was puzzled as to the reason.
It was chilly in the shadows of the garden, as it was October; I hugged myself to keep warm and wondered how cold I’d be in my bare feet. I determined that I would not let Mr. Dodgson see that it worried me.
At last we achieved the corner farthest from the Deanery, well hidden by trees showing off their autumn colors; this was where Mr. Dodgson had set up his equipment. There was his black leather chemical case, and a gauzy awning on poles, shading the corner where two walls met—he used this awning to filter the sun whenever he photographed us outside—and also his dark canvas tent, so cunningly small. It was just my height, so naturally Mr. Dodgson had to stoop very low in order to use it, which never failed to make me laugh.
“Where is my gypsy dress?”
“Behind the tent. But first, let’s set you up and take a photograph of you just as you are.”
“Just as me?” I
I nodded. Of course it would. That was the jolly part about being photographed; one never really knew how it would turn out. There was always that moment in the chemical bath when the image first appeared on the glass plate, like a ghost swimming up from the past, and you didn’t know if the image would be clear and sharp or remain a blur forever. My stomach always was in pleasurable knots at that moment. It was like opening a present, every time.
“Oh, but wait!” I stopped.
“What is it, Alice?” Mr. Dodgson turned around, so patient with me.
“Whatever shall I wear? I don’t have any gypsy clothes!”
“Ah, but I have. An old gypsy herself lent them to me.”
“Really?” I did so want to believe him; believe that an old gypsy woman, with rings and bells and scarves draped all over, had knocked on the door to his rooms and given him a little girl gypsy’s dress.
Yet there was always that watchful part of me that asked, Have you ever chanced upon a gypsy woman in the Quad? On the High Street? In the Meadow? And how would she know where Mr. Dodgson lived? Why would she give him a dress?
Sometimes I despised that part of me.
“Truly she did, Alice. Don’t you believe me?”
I sighed. I did so want to.
“You’re an old soul, Alice. Did you know that? Most children your age would leap at the notion of a gypsy woman. But not you. You’re too wise.”
I didn’t know what to say to him; he looked at me so dreamily, so hopefully. I knew that if I said a word, I’d disappoint him. So I merely smiled, allowing myself to be happy for this moment, this Perfect Day, and relaxed my watchfulness for now.
Opening the weathered gate to the garden, I shrank back from walking directly across it. I kept to the outer stone wall instead, even though it was much farther that way. Mr. Dodgson didn’t ask why. Yet he knew. He knew I didn’t want anyone inside the Deanery to see. I imagined—I hoped —that everyone was too busy to notice us. Still, Mamma would be very angry if she saw me as a gypsy girl in my bare feet. Perhaps even angry enough to drop the baby, and I certainly didn’t want to be responsible for that. However, I was more concerned about Ina and Pricks. If either of them saw me alone with Mr. Dodgson—my stomach fluttered uneasily at the notion. They hadn’t been invited, and the longer they remained ignorant of this, the better for everyone, myself in particular.
“There are your rooms,” said I, when we were halfway around the wall, far enough away from the Deanery—the windows looked like little half-closed eyes along the back of the house—that I felt safe. I pointed up toward the library, directly across the garden from the Deanery. “Did you see us playing croquet yesterday?” I knew he sometimes looked down at us while we played in the garden, but never before had I mentioned it.
“No, I’m afraid I didn’t,” was all he said, and I felt as if this was a subject we should discuss no further, although I was puzzled as to the reason.
It was chilly in the shadows of the garden, as it was October; I hugged myself to keep warm and wondered how cold I’d be in my bare feet. I determined that I would not let Mr. Dodgson see that it worried me.
At last we achieved the corner farthest from the Deanery, well hidden by trees showing off their autumn colors; this was where Mr. Dodgson had set up his equipment. There was his black leather chemical case, and a gauzy awning on poles, shading the corner where two walls met—he used this awning to filter the sun whenever he photographed us outside—and also his dark canvas tent, so cunningly small. It was just my height, so naturally Mr. Dodgson had to stoop very low in order to use it, which never failed to make me laugh.
“Where is my gypsy dress?”
“Behind the tent. But first, let’s set you up and take a photograph of you just as you are.”
“Just as me?” I
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