Chapter Nineteen: The Next Hightopp (1)

[manniness]

Another two-chapter post.  I suppose I could cut out 400 words to make it fit but, eh, why bother?


*~*~*~*

“Alice!”

At the sound of her sister’s nearly-scandalized tone, Alice looks up from the slice of pound cake she’d been unknowingly contemplating. In truth, her mind is still spinning out the possibilities that Lowell’s imminent departure has opened up. She wonders if Hamish might... Or if she or Tarrant should perhaps mention something to Margaret... But no. It’s too soon. Lowell hasn’t even left the country yet!

Perhaps, if there ever were an occasion for an unnecessary slice of cake, this would be it. Still, Alice knows she shouldn’t, not with the typical early London winter making her usual brisk walks impossible.

No, no more cake this week, Alice!

Well, no more today.

And then, recalling the cook’s truly heavenly puddings, amends: No more cake until after dinner.

Blast it all, but maybe Alice should have spent the duration of her pregnancy in Underland. At least there, when the food calls her name it’s not a product of her overactive imagination (or, perhaps, lack of willpower)! Of course the food Up Here doesn’t speak. Not like Thackery’s Contrary Crumpets and Gooseberry Guilters and... Yes, perhaps being forced to subsist on a diet that talks back would have been a much Better option all around...

“Alice!”

“Hm? Oh, sorry. Where’s the fire?” Not in the lavatory – which Margaret had just purportedly visited – she hopes!

Margaret sits down in her chair and holds out her hands in front of her over the demolished tea service. “They’re gone! Completely gone!” she exclaims, wide eyed.

And, indeed, they are. The bruises that had marred her sister’s skin and had initiated the much-needed but much-more-dreaded and utterly-unplanned revelations of her husband’s Otherness have disappeared.

Margaret continues, speaking as if she can’t trust the reality of her own skin and senses, “That ointment you used...”

“I told you they’d be taken care of by the end of teatime,” she replies drolly.

“But this is...” Margaret visibly flounders.

Alice resists the urge to accuse her of being flunderwhapped... aloud.

“Impossible?” Alice gently suggests. Then she smiles and glancing in her husband’s direction, winks. “Only if you believe it is,” she concludes and is rewarded with a wide hatter grin and a boyish giggle.

“But how...? This is impossible, Alice! How could you... and I... and it... and it shouldn’t have worked so well! Not at all!”

Tarrant barks out a cackle. “That is nearly word-for-word what Ascot said the other day! Why, by the time we’d traveled back to the townhouse all those cuts and scratches and so on had made themselves quite scarce!” Why Alice doesn’t think to Pinch him or Nudge him to shut off his ramble at this point, she doesn’t know. Later, she blames her pregnancy, for certainly if she weren’t utilizing so much brain power fending off unnecessary helpings of sweets, she would have managed to circumvent that particular revelation!

“Of course,” Tarrant blithely continues, “poor chap was too exhausted to really notice his renewed health until much later, but... Alice! I must warn you: that man is after something called a trade agreement and he’s looking rather... fiercely Muchy about it!”

No, Alice’s only though at this point is how she’s ever going to successfully deal with a fiercely Muchy Hamish Ascot. (Which she has to admit is a rather alarming thing to contemplate, indeed!) It’s only after Margaret inhales sharply and straightens in her chair that she realizes what had just Slipped out...

Margaret turns to Tarrant, who is playing with Winslow’s bare toes. The toddler squeals and giggles, twitching and writhing with delight in Helen’s tolerant embrace.

“Tarrant?” Margaret asks pointedly.

“Hm? Oh! I beg your pardon, madam!” he fairly shouts, withdrawing his fingers at once. “I meant no harm! I was simply investigating things that begin with the unique sensation of ticklishness. It’s a favorite pastime of Alice’s – this particular topic of contemplation – and perhaps her Curiosity is paying me a visit today—”

“Along with my good sense,” Alice mutters, chastising herself for not finding a way to keep Tarrant from mentioning Hamish’s suspicious injuries.

“Tarrant,” Margaret interrupts with urgency. “What’s all this about Hamish being injured?”

“Oh, but he isn’t any longer! Marvelous thing, Pain Paste... if it can be called a Thing. Perhaps it’s more of a substance than a...” Margaret’s Look must be really something because Tarrant stops right there. “Ahem... Yes, yes, Ascot is fit as a fish’s fin!”

“But he was injured?” she demands. “What happened last week that he would require...? And... Is this whatever-it-is the reason he hasn’t been by yet to take you off to the club today?”

“Er, no, madam. That would be because today is Thursday. If my shoes are correct, that is.”

Alice glances at her husband’s boots and notes the particular shade of the leather. “I believe they are,” she replies, knowing they’re not quite dark enough to be Friday shoes yet, but are certainly not light enough to be considered a pair of Wednesday boots.

“You still haven’t answered my inquiry, sir!” Margaret continues, ignoring the shoes and their fascinating weekly color shift entirely. “Why was Hamish in need of this... pain paste?”

Tarrant fidgets. “Ah, um, well...”

“Alice?” Margaret demands when Tarrant’s yellow-green gaze flicks nervously in her direction.

Alice sighs. Oh, what an inconvenient time for Tarrant’s mad genius to go on holiday! “I’m afraid I’ve given my word not to speak of the incident.”

“Tarrant?” Margaret barks, irritated. Taking the slight pinching around her mouth as evidence, Alice knows her sister senses the battle is Lost.

“Me as well, madam. I was permitted to tell only Alice.”

“Mother? Do you know anything about this?”

“Thankfully, no,” Helen replies blandly, her attention on coordinating a game of patty-cake with her barefoot grandson. “But if you’re so concerned, dear, might I suggest addressing Hamish yourself on the matter?”

“Yes. Yes, thank you. I shall.”

She does.

The next day, when Hamish arrives to collect Tarrant and take him to the club to resume their fencing (Tarrant’s lip never fails to curl into a mocking, half-hearted snarl at the word) lessons, Margaret beats the lethargic Mr. Brown to the front door and, throwing it open, demands, “What foolishness were you engaged in last week that resulted in you being injured, Hamish?”

There’s a beat of shocked silence which rolls lazily down the hall, bumping against the grandfather clock and making it chime (or perhaps that’s only the half-hour being marked), then flopping into the library where Alice is curled up on the sofa with Tarrant, an open newspaper between them.

“I... Well, I... Whoever said I was injured, madam? As you can see, I’m in perfect health!”

“Yes, thanks to that miracle ointment my sister brought with her! Why were you in need of it?”

This time, the silence is contemplative. It picks itself up off the floor, leans over the threshold and cocks its head, as if studying Margaret Manchester with Great Interest.

“And... may I ask,” Hamish returns in a slow, speculative tone, “how it is you came to be aware of the existence of that wonder cure?” In the time it – no doubt – takes Margaret’s expression to twitch with guilt, Hamish’s Speculation turns into Upset: “Were you in need of it?”

Apparently, her sister’s struggle with Shame and Frustration is more than answer enough:

“Manchester!” Alice’s eyes widen at the sound of... Dear Fates, had Hamish’s voice just... cracked?

“What did he do?!” he demands to know. And then: “How dare he lay a hand on you un-gently! Why, I’ll run that gutless fiend through this time and never mind the bloody rules of engagement! I’ll march down to that pier this instant and...! His boat’s not sailed yet! Yes, I’ll just... Driver!”

Alice can feel herself gaping as she glances up at Tarrant. He meets her astonished gaze with wide eyes and an equally startled expression.

“Hamish Ascot!” Margaret shouts back. “Have you been dueling my husband?”

Alice winces. Certainly, Mr. Brown, the cook, the chambermaid working upstairs, the neighbors, and the street vendors around the corner had heard that!

“Madam, I have!”

If Alice’s jaw hadn’t already unhinged, it certainly would have done so upon hearing that!

“Whatever for?”

There’s a long pause and then a last offensive: “Lady Manchester, if you do not know, what good would be accomplished in telling you?”

“For one thing, I won’t allow you to set foot in this house until you do!”

“Well! Then it appears we are at an impasse, madam. Hightopp!”

Alice glances over her shoulder at her husband, expecting him to give her an apologetic look before he removes himself from the sofa and steps out into the hall. At the very least she expects him to answer! Say something chiding and witty in a delightfully cheerful tone!

But Tarrant does none of those things.

Alice glimpses a smug grin on his face as he curls his arm tighter around her shoulders and pointedly turns back to the newspaper spread out over Alice’s stomach.

“I don’t think he heard you.” Margaret’s reply is composed of dulcet tones that dance down the hall rather... Dangerously. “Perhaps you ought to bellow a bit louder?”

Hamish blusters, “Oh! For the love of...!!”

“Margaret Manchester?” Tarrant suggests, sotto voce.

Alice bites back a bark of laughter.

And perhaps it’s the pressure of her contained humor that kicks the Idea loose, but suddenly, Alice thinks of Tarrant’s “unwitting” confession the day before concerning Hamish’s use of the Pain Paste and...

“You utterly, undeniably diabolically brilliant mad hatter!” Alice hisses. “You set all this in motion with that slip about Hamish needing the pain paste!”

“But of course,” he replies. “I was rather surprised you didn’t try to stop me. Are you feeling quite... Collected, Alice?”

“No, not hardly! I’m an absolute oblivious twit these days!” she huffs. Then feels the need to point out: “You do realize they could kill each other on the front step, don’t you?”

“Shush, my Alice. I sense an Ultimatum coming!”

It does: “So, let’s have it, sir! Either fire when ready or disclose the extent of your utter foolishness!”

And Hamish Ascot – much-more-Muchier Hamish Ascot – answers that dare:

“Foolishness! Is it foolishness to attempt to assist a dear friend’s husband with the tidying up of his priorities? With the securing of his finances? With the care and continuation of his family’s future? Foolishness is it?”

“And just why would Lowell require that kind of assistance?”

Hamish counters more quietly, but not by much: “Why would his father send him off to America to open an office we all know to be fiction?”

This time, it takes Alice a moment to realize this new breed of Silence is in fact one arisen from Shock and dawning Shame. The moment stretches taut with tension.

“Perhaps... you’d better come in after all, Hamish,” Margaret replies almost too quietly for Alice to hear.

The door closes. Their footsteps draw closer but Alice doesn’t move away from Tarrant’s embrace. Nor does he offer to let her go.

The library door slides open and Hamish gestures a shaken-looking Margaret to precede him. She does and takes a seat beside Alice. Alice reaches for her sister’s limp hand and squeezes her fingers.

After nearly a minute, Margaret draws a shaking breath and dispenses with the most obvious theory:

“It can’t be that Lowell has a bastard child. If so... the mother would have been sent away. Not Lowell.” Margaret stares straight ahead for a moment more. And then she muses woodenly, “Did he have an affair with a married woman? Of higher standing?”

Alice honestly doesn’t know and, reluctantly, admits her ignorance. “I’ve no idea, dear sister. But I don’t believe that was the primary reason for him being sent away. In fact, would the woman’s husband not be permitted to challenge him for the insult? I doubt even Lord Manchester could circumvent that.”

Margaret nods, her brows drawing together. “Then I... I don’t understand...” But she does – or, at least, she’s beginning to! – for she looks up at Hamish who is hovering awkwardly in the middle of the room as if waiting for the firing squad to cock their hammers.

“You offered my husband a loan.”

“Yes, madam.”

“Why?”

Bluntly, Hamish answers, “He needed the money.”

“Money his father couldn’t give him?!”

“Money his father refused to give him any longer.”

“Any... longer?”

Hamish releases a long breath and crosses the room to kneel at Margaret’s feet. In a move that is brazenly forward and yet so utterly appropriate for the moment, Hamish gathers Margaret’s other hand in his own and explains, “According to the man I hired to... look into your family’s welfare, Manchester was but weeks away from gaol. Debtor’s prison. I’m so very sorry, Margaret.”

Margaret stares at their hands. “Gaol?”

“I’m very much afraid so.”

“But how could I not... know?”

Hamish hesitates.

Alice forces herself to say the hateful words that the man who loves her sister cannot bring himself to utter:

“Are you sure you didn’t? Think about it, Margaret. When was the last time you entertained any of his friends? The Manchesters themselves? You know that Society forgives nearly everything except...”

“Except a lost fortune. Yes. I know.” She closes her eyes. Takes a deep breath. Shudders. “I knew. You’re right, Alice. I knew.”

Again, Margaret draws another deep breath. When she opens her eyes, she fixes her clear stare upon Hamish who is still kneeling at her feet, his hand now trapped in her grasp. “You offered Lowell a loan?”

“I did.”

“Why didn’t he accept it?”

Hamish swallows. Noticeably. But, ever noble, ever honorable, he gives her the truth she seeks, despite what it will reveal of him: “I believe it was the terms of the contract, Lady Manchester.” He clears his throat and continues. “Those being, were he unable to repay the loan by the first of the year, he was to disclose to you the extent of his personal bankruptcy and... if you desired it, consent to a divorce and also relinquish Winslow into your care unconditionally.”

Margaret’s breaths have become soft gasps at the utter... the undeniable... the unavoidable Implications of Hamish’s intentions.

But he has not finished yet. “Your husband took exception. We dueled.” He pauses a moment, gathering his thoughts for what must be said next. “I am sorry my attempts to... assist only exacerbated the situation. I had hoped he would turn around, you see. You deserve so much better than he had – thus far – been capable of. And, as your dear father could not confront his foolishness, I... took it upon myself to...”

Alice aches for him; Hamish has bared his soul and very nearly his heart, but...

Margaret says nothing to this.

Hamish swallows. His expression twists. He pulls his hand from Margaret’s abruptly and stands. His tone is hard with self-reproach and mortification, “I fought Manchester’s foolishness with my own, it seems. I do not ask you to forgive me, but I offer my sincerest apologies. Whatever they are worth at this point.”

He turns toward Tarrant. “Hightopp,” he says brusquely, ignoring Margaret’s unwavering, blank stare. “Are we going to the club today or not?”

Alice sends a Nudge along the heart line. Margaret needs her, needs her sister, needs to speak of things a woman can only tell another woman. And Hamish needs his half-mad friend. “Go,” she urges him.

“Yes, we are!” he declares, gently withdrawing from behind Alice and settling her against the cushions of the sofa. He presses a swift kiss to her hair before standing. His fingertips linger on her shoulder and she feels his Reassurance engulf her.

Yes, they had hoped Margaret would be happy to learn of Hamish’s regard... They had simply assumed it would not happen on the same day she learned of her husband’s utter lack of sense, of responsibility, of... worth.

Hamish waits on the threshold for Tarrant to join him, but before he can make his escape, Margaret poses yet another question the younger Ascot is somehow compelled to answer.

“Hamish? The duel... who won?”

“Neither. It was a draw, madam.”

Alice twitches at the over simplification, at the credit Hamish is giving Lowell despite the bastard’s utter inability to deserve it.

Margaret looks up at him, pins him there in the doorway with her stare. “No, it wasn’t.”

“I...”

“Lowell fought for the sake of his own selfish pride,” she explains. “The same cannot be said for you.”

Hamish has no answer to this. No verbal response at any rate. He merely nods his head, bows to Margaret, pivots smartly on his heel and leads Tarrant from the room. And when Alice wraps an arm around her sister’s shoulders, her hand still grasped in Alice’s gloved left, Margaret leans against her sister and – finally – cries. Her tears are silent.

Alice’s heart is breaking for her: her sister’s (and their father’s) dream of Lowell is no more. The extent of his utter selfishness tears the belly out of every promise that man had ever made her sister.

Of course there are tears.

Of course Hamish’s veiled declaration is met with misery.

But then Alice remembers something Very Important:

She remembers traveling through the looking glass with Mirana’s help. She remembers seeing her mother again in the guise of a not-dream. She remembers soothing her and speaking of fond, found friends and someone... someone who loves her...

No, the moment Alice had realized Tarrant’s love for her had not been a joyous moment, either. It had been filled with pain, with the tearing, wrenching, wretchedness of making a Choice. While one dream had died, another had been born. But that, Alice realizes, is more often than not the way of things.

Through the pain, Alice had Seen clearly. She’d found herself facing a choice between a life of stagnation and a life of promise. It had taken less than an instant for her to choose.

“Lowell had fought for the sake of his own selfish pride... The same cannot be said for you.”

Margaret has Seen her choices: staying loyal to a man who has failed her or opening her life to a man who loves her, enough to Sacrifice for her.

Alice knows her sister understands that choice. And when the pain has lessened – when the tide is out and the sorrow at sea – Margaret will make it.

It will be no less difficult than Alice’s had been.

But it will be Margaret’s and that is considerably more than her sister had ever expected to have again. And Alice senses that is why her sister weeps... not from a lack of hope...

... but from a sudden influx of too Much of it.

 

*~*~*~*

 

Alice is falling asleep against his shoulder... again.

Tarrant Feels it as her consciousness fades, as her emotions diffuse and unfocus, as her weight settles against him completely, as the arm which she’d curled around his waist loosens until it lies slack against the back of the bench.

The sounds that whisper through the house – Margaret playing with Winslow and Helen commenting on the news downstairs, Anne dusting the hall, Mrs. Cray cleaning out the stove – and the sounds that eke through the walls and windows from the street – the traffic of feet and horses and brash drivers – all conspire with the knocking of the loom to send Alice to Sleep.

In fact, there is only one sound that is absent in this murmured symphony, Tarrant thinks: Hamish Ascot’s pompous declarations and blustery back-peddling (which he does – no, no, had done – quite a bit of in Margaret Manchester’s presence!) and harrumphs of concession. Yes, there is a Hamish-shaped hole in this soft noise.

“Don’t worry,” Alice had assured him. “I know my sister. She just needs time to... find her Muchness.”

Yes, yes, of course! Why, he can imagine his sister-in-law is not enthusiastic about replacing a defective husband as if he were a pair of outmoded boots! These things take Time, he knows. And Margaret’s parting comment to Hamish so long ago... Yes, she’s aware of his motivations. No, she does not regard him as another Lowell. And, most importantly of all – and, as Tarrant is constantly reminding Hamish! – it is what Margaret had not said that must be paid special attention:

She had not said “No.”

She had not said “Never.”

She had not even said “Farewell.”

“Perhaps I shall intrude upon your family for Christmas supper,” Hamish had mused. “Helen is constantly inviting me.”

“Please do!” Tarrant had replied, overjoyed despite not knowing what this “Christmas” is everyone had taken to speaking of!

Alice had been pleased when he’d reported this. “You see? They’ll come around.”

“Yes, yes, but with all the circling they’re doing, it makes one very frustrated and somewhat sick to one’s stomach from dizziness!”

“If you feel that way from just watching, imagine how Margaret and Hamish feel. Let them make their circles, Raven. There’s a reason it’s called a merry-go-round.”

He’d considered that for a moment and then, smiling, he’d concluded, “For the reward which is acquired not despite but because of the circuitous route taken, my Alice?”

“Precisely.”

“Then I ought not interrupt the journey.”

Alice had smiled and wrapped her arm around his waist, had leaned into his shoulder, had closed her eyes and sighed. “Yes. Let them have their mad Caucus Race. It won’t end until it’s over and not a moment before.”

They’d had that conversation a month ago, on an afternoon much like this one. Alice had taken to joining him here, as he’d worked her great-grandmother’s loom, as he’d woven hand’s width after hand’s width of pure white wool. Creating his wife’s tartan had been good practice, he notes, for this one – their littlin’s – is turning out much better!

Now, after two months of practice, he works the machine with skill. Skill his Alice appreciates as the regular, rhythmic movements predictably soothe her into sleep. And he knows she Needs her rest now that she’s finally being permitted to have some. Even after spending all day in bed yesterday, Alice still has not fully recovered her strength. But no, of course she hasn’t! For five continuous, unrelenting days, their littin’ had very nearly Futterwhackened poor Alice breathless! Why, Margaret and Helen had hardly known what to make of it.

“I told you the Hightopps are... different from us,” Alice had gasped when Margaret had sputtered and squawked about more impossible things! “And Tarrant’s known throughout Witzend for doing the very best Futterwhacken. I can hardly expect less from his son or daughter, now can I?”

The very thought of one day teaching a little lass or a little lad how to Futterwhacken had very nearly set his head spinning. Luckily, he’d merely felt his hands spin on his wrists. Once. But Helen and Margaret had seen it, had gasped, and had nominated themselves for preparing an Immediate tea service.

“They’ll be fine,” Alice had assured him once the room had emptied.

“Yes, yes!” he’d agreed, still frowning with Worry. “But will they be fine in time for the arrival of our littlin’? And our queen?”

“I’ll make sure of it,” she’d promised and then gasped as yet another performance had pushed the air from her lungs.

“That—was—quite—Vigorous!” she’d wheezed once it was over and, despite his Concern, Tarrant had giggled.

“Perhaps it runs in the family?” he’d suggested.

Family...!

Tarrant makes a concentrated effort not to pause in his work and disturb Alice’s slumber. He knows the patterns of Alice’s sleep; if he moves her now, she’ll awaken and he must avoid that at all costs. No, no, he must wait until her breaths hitch and her eyes move beneath the delicate lids. Only then will it be safe to return her to their bed down the hall. He continues weaving, rhyming her into dreams with the knocking of the loom. She needs the rest. Just as their littlin’ does.

Five days of fierce Futterwhacken.

Followed by three days of slumber and then...

And then Alice will be able to share their littlin’ with him. And then he will be able to hold that tiny body in his arms. And then...

D’nae stop yer weavin’, lad! Yer lass needs th’rest!

He knows.

Ye’ve o’ly one more day teh go, lad!

He knows that as well.

Yer Alice will be jus’fine!

He’s not so sure about that, but he Hopes...!

Tarrant grits his teeth, squeezes his eyes shut and Banishes the Bad Thoughts to the Back of his mind. It’s a cluttered place, truth be told, and rather dim and shadowy as he’s yet to get around to lighting it. And due to the darkness it’s rather difficult to tidy up so he expects those Bad Thoughts will be stumbling around for quite some time before they manage to find their way back to him. And by then...

Aye, by then yer littl’lad ‘r lass will b’ born.

And Alice will be fine.

Yes, everything will be Fine.

“Fine,” he murmurs, opening his eyes and moving his whole-and-healthy fingertips over the weave. Then he giggles. Fine, indeed! “Yes, yes, a fine weave, indeed!” he rhymes, imagining Alice can hear it in her sleep and have pleasant dreams filled with his nonsense and her Alice-laughter.

A fine weave, indeed!

And it truly is! It’s the best weave he’s ever managed and he’d long passed the required length of fabric weeks ago, but he’d kept on weaving. He’d needed the activity, the distraction, and the closeness of his wife as she’d sat with him and sung songs with him and sometimes rubbed his shoulders.

He gently folds the finished cloth out of the way and muses at what they’ve made together, he and his Alice. This blank canvas will become bright with color, just as their littlin’s life will be.

Never before has Tarrant truly cared for the color White – a shy color, too bashful to commit to one hue or another, no Muchness at all! – but now...! Now...!

Now it is the most perfect color in the entire universe.

It is the color of Hope, of Possibilities, of the Future.

Now Tarrant Hightopp understands why Mirana has always insisted upon surrounding herself with it.

And he’s never been happier knowing that the White Queen herself will be attending the birth of the next Hightopp.

 

*~*~*~*

 

Notes:

 

1. I’m told that being a bit scatterbrained can be a feature of some women’s pregnancies. It certainly is part of Alice’s. So if you think she’s a bit out of character, that’s the reason. Poor Alice. She’s a few sugar cubes shy of a tea service at the beginning of this chapter.