Chapter Three: The Consultant

[manniness]

 

“Where to now, Mr. Cawlsworth?”

The company’s most recent apprentice shuffles through a veritable novel’s worth of unbound documents and squints at the notes thereon. “Er, it appears we’ll be heading to the fashion district, Miss Kingsleigh.”

“Which shop?”

Again, there’s a great deal of more nerve-grating shuffling. Alice is beginning to suspect that being away at sea most of the year negotiating and overseeing the setup and management of trade posts has put her at a distinct disadvantage when it comes to the London office personnel. She’d assumed that Lord Ascot had suggested she have Cawlsworth perform the duties of her assistant because the man – no, boy! – is a fount of efficiency. But now she realizes it’s far more likely that here sits the son or nephew of a major investor and Lord Ascot simply wants the lad out from underfoot for a day.

Alice suspects she would have gotten considerably more accomplished and in a much more timely manner had she refused his services and simply gone out to visit each of Lord Ascot’s consultants by herself. Already they’re behind schedule and they’ve only met with the glass and pottery expert and the spice and dried goods distributor thus far!

This day will never end at this rate, Alice grouses in silence.

She sighs. “Mr. Cawlsworth? The shop name?”

“Shop? Oh, well, actually, it appears I’m... unable to decipher my own handwriting, Miss Kingsleigh.”

Alice arcs a brow at him.

“I must have copied the schedule while on the train so I...” He clears his throat and hurriedly assures her, “But I’ve given the address to the driver.”

“The illegible address?” is her sarcastic grumble.

“What was that? This traffic is dreadfully loud!”

“Never mind.”

Alice leans back in her seat and lets her eyes rest upon the various gray, rainy scenes that roll by the carriage window. In truth, she’s not all that upset about walking into this meeting more or less blind. She’s had to deal with many similar situations in the past. At least this time she can be reasonably confident that there will not be any language barriers present!

And yet, she muses, as her memories of the previous weekend’s gala return to her, even while speaking English, one can say utter nonsense.

The Hatter is rather skilled at that, actually. He never had told her why he’d never permitted her to find him. He’d never told her what, exactly, it is he wants or hopes to accomplish here in London. She sighs and shakes her head. The man is mad, true. But mad like a fox. It seems odd that he hadn’t even given her a riddle in exchange for her questions:

What had been his intention in keeping her away for so long?

“Why di’ye return teh Underland sae hastenly?”

What does he want from her?

“Alice...”

Bloody-minded, vague, evasive, mad...

She closes her eyes and tries to think of something else other than him. She doesn’t. Can’t. He follows her, stalks her thoughts.

The Hatter is here! In London! her mind screams at her then proceeds to show her image after image of him: his delighted grin, his soulful eyes, his twitching hands, his searching gaze. The torture is relentless.

Stop this! she commands herself. You have his card. You’ll see him again when you have time!

Yes. So there’s really no need to dwell on how fit and dashing he’d looked in that well-cut suit. (Disturbingly so!) There’s no reason to contemplate the gravity with which he’d approached her on those steps, as if he’d been a supplicant daring to submit himself to the Oracle at Delphi. (He’d entranced her in that moment!) There’s no point in considering his non-answers to her inquiries. (Frustratingly, aggravatingly Hatter-ish of him!)

Listless, irritated, and curious – a potentially dangerous combination in a carriage on a stormy day – Alice pulls the Hatter’s calling card from her satchel and turns it over in her hands. There’s just enough diffused light for her to read it but not enough for it to be easily viewed by a certain nosy assistant.

Unlike many other calling cards she’s seen, there is no photograph. In fact, there is not much of anything at all. An address in the center with a vague sketch of The Wonder on the left and a shape that resembles the castle at Mamoreal on the right. Her accomplishments and her dream are both here... with an address, presumably to his shop, in between.

“Call on me at any time, Alice. I am at your disposal, as they say,” he’d murmured, standing with her out in front of the grand house. She’d accepted the card rather than revisit the topic of his incomprehensible reluctance to see her prior to this gala.

“But please, do not dispose of me too... rashly.”

She’d looked up at that and into his hopeful gaze. Beneath her gloved hand his arm had been so warm and solid and strong and real despite the layers of fabric. The breeze had warmed as it had passed him and caressed her face. She had even managed to breathe in at just the right moment and had caught his scent...

He had said nothing else, but his eyes had spoken. They’d told her so many things that she can barely stand to remember them, for each and every one of them conflicts with her experience:

I’ve missed you… And yet he had Refused her again and again.

You fascinate me... And yet he had not trusted her.

I see the world in you... And yet he had built his own – separate and mysterious – without her knowledge or assistance.

They’d waited in weighted, nearly-bursting silence until her mother had stepped out of the house and then Tarrant had helped them both into the carriage, bowing farewell.

“Mr. Hightopp has studios in Paris, Vienna, and Milan as well,” her mother had commented on the way home.

“Hm.”

“Invite him over for dinner this weekend.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Well, he knows how to contact you doesn’t he? You did give him one of those ridiculous cards you’re always carrying around?”

Alice had shaken her head. “He gave me his.”

“Well, then it’s all settled. I’ll have the cook prepare something acceptable for dinner on Saturday.”

Alice hadn’t had the strength to argue. And, thankfully, her mother had been too satisfied to do more than bask in what she’d seen as Alice’s good fortune.

Alice looks down at the card in her gloved hands. She’s almost afraid to touch it with her bare skin. Suppose it crumbles to dust at the slightest brush of her fingertips? Suppose she wakes up when it does? Suppose there had been no gala, no too-civilized Hatter, no end to her unendurable wait?

The carriage begins to slow and, mindful of the rain, Alice tucks the Hatter’s card carefully away in her leather satchel. As Cawlsworth opens the door and then opens the umbrella, Alice leans around him to get a better look at the establishment. She can’t see the sign from this angle, but the windows are cheerful with colors: bolts of exotic fabrics, dresses, suits, hats of all sorts.

They dash from the carriage into the shop and Alice is startled by the... vacuity of it. There are mirrors everywhere, lining the outside of various cherrywood wardrobe doors. Changing rooms. A sitting area. Even a tea table and cart. But there are no wares displayed here. Alice regards the well-lit, comfortable room with raised brows. Even when her father had been enjoying the height of his business’s success, she and her mother and sister would never have been able to afford one dress – much less one for each of them! – from a place like this, a place where everything – every detail right down to the buttons and lace and embroidery thread – is completely and utterly custom-made to suit each individual client’s tastes.

“May I help you?”

Alice turns and smiles at the older man who steps out from behind a well-concealed office door to greet them. “Good afternoon. I’m Alice Kingsleigh,” she introduces herself, extending her hand. “I’ve an appointment with the proprietor on behalf of Lord Ascot, my employer.”

“Ah, yes, thank you for coming,” the elderly clerk greets them, bowing over her gloved fingers. “He’s expecting you. If you’ll come this way?”

With Cawlsworth trailing (and crumpling and rustling the documents he can’t seem to successfully confine to his briefcase) behind her with each step, Alice beings to wonder if it would be unduly cruel to send him out for lunch. (And if they’d managed to stay on schedule today, Alice would have had time to eat something prior to this appointment!) Although, with Cawlsworth’s propensity for paper, he’d undoubtedly return with something wrapped in the morning news and about as appetizing...

“I hope we won’t be inconveniencing any of your clientèle today,” Alice begins sincerely as they follow their guide. “We are terribly late...”

“It’s no trouble at all. Today’s schedule has been cleared for your visit.”

“I... it has?”

“Yes, madam.” The stately, silver-haired man pauses beside a cherrywood panel that must be a door but Alice can see no handles or hinges to mark it as such. “I think you’ll find that my employer is quite... committed to this venture of yours.”

Before Alice can thank him for the reassurance, he pushes open the door and Alice glances within. There, on the other side of a magnificently fine tea table with a silver tea service laid out, a man with ginger hair and wearing a fabulously blue top hat stands from the head of the table.

“Alice!” he exclaims. At her side, Cawlsworth visibly shrinks in the presence of such enthusiasm.

“Yes, it’s me,” she manages and is struck by the parallel between this meeting and the last tea party she’d been dreadfully tardy for. And, for one crazily, breathlessly warped moment, she almost expects him to climb up onto the seat of his chair and tromp down the table top toward her.

However, the Hatter does not clamor onto the table and stomp through the fine, silver tea setting. He navigates around it with lithe grace and greets her at the threshold to what must be a private meeting room for entertaining clients. Stopping before her, he holds out his arm.

A playful light enters his eyes. “Yes, I’d know you anywhere.”

She can’t stop the reluctant smile that curves her lips. Once again, she takes his arm.

His expression illuminates the room. “And, as you can see, we’re still having tea!”

You’ve made a rhyme, you know, she nearly says. Nearly.

“I’m terribly late, I know,” she replies as he leads her toward the seat beside his. Where she had sat before... once upon an Underland.

He pulls it out for her and, as she sits, his breath caresses her hair, warms her ear as he murmurs, “Naughty.”

She glances up at him but his smile is just as innocent as always. With a flutter of hands and a smile of delight, he turns toward her assistant and shakes the man’s hand (which causes several documents to tumble to the floor but Alice doesn’t care). She sits and takes a moment to concentrate on calming her racing heart.

Dear knaves with staves, Lord Ascot’s textiles consultant is none other than Tarrant Hightopp!

 

*~*~*~*

 

“Do you have any questions at this juncture, sir?” Cawlsworth inquires politely.

Alice watches as the Hatter looks over the documents – thankfully un-crumpled, although how they’d survived that fate while being in Cawlsworth’s possession Alice cannot say! – with narrowed eyes and slightly pursed lips.

Alice tries very hard not to stare at his... focused expression.

“In summary,” the Hatter muses as he flips one page over and scans the next, “I would be obligated to participate for a minimum of eight months in a venture which will be headed by Miss Kingsleigh. Is that correct?”

“Yes. Essentially,” Cawlsworth replies when Alice makes no effort to do so herself. “The particulars of the duties you’ll be performing for the company, however...”

“Oh, I’m sure Miss Kingsleigh will be most thorough in her explanation,” he answers easily and with a friendly smile in her direction. “Which I very much look forward to hearing, but I would hate to keep you from your next appointment.”

“That’s very considerate of you, sir,” Cawlsworth begins. “But perhaps we had best go through the details now so that Lord Ascot can be briefed on your decision?”

“Oh! Well, of course, I’ll be going!” The Hatter looks scandalized at the thought of being left behind.

Cawlsworth blinks. “I... see. Very good, sir. However, the contract itself...”

“Mr. Hightopp is right,” Alice gently interrupts. “We’ve other appointments today and, if we leave now, we won’t be as unforgivably late as we were with regards to this one.” She turns toward Cawlsworth completely and smiles blandly. “I shall explain the situation to Lord Ascot. Would you see that the carriage is ready?”

“Oh... yes. Of course, Miss Kingsleigh. Mr. Hightopp –” Cawlsworth extends his hand to the man once more. “It has been a pleasure, sir. The company looks forward to a long and successful association.”

“As do I.”

Alice waits for the door to close. She takes a breath to demand if the Hatter really understands what he’s getting himself into: months at sea, cramped quarters, infrequent and unsatisfying baths, stale food and harsh weather and...

“Alice,” he whispers, stopping beside her chair and crouching down. “You looked surprised to see me.”

“Did I?”

“Yes. It was delightful. You played, you know. I had thought you wouldn’t.”

She supposes she had; she’d participated in his reenactment of that tea party on Griblig Day. Yes, she’d played. “You didn’t walk across the table this time. A pity. I’d thought you might.”

He giggles. “You still enjoy delightfully mad things then, do you Alice?”

Her smile is answer enough.

“Excellent! I’ve something for you, in that case!”

She lays a hand on his shoulder to stop him from rising. “What is it?” she asks.

“Do you remember your request in the workshop? When I’d been working at my trade for... for... her?”

“These are wonderful! You must let me try one on!” Yes, Alice remembers. She nods.

The Hatter gives her a smile filled with equal parts delight, anticipation, and – oddly enough – triumph. “Well! I’ve just the thing!”

Again Alice stops him from standing. “Why don’t you bring it with you when you come over for dinner this evening?” Alice suggests, fully aware of the fact that today is Thursday and not Saturday and a very unworthy mutton stew is most likely on the menu.

The Hatter pauses. Blinks. “Dinner?” he confirms, the expression on his face suddenly apprehensive.

“Yes. My mother would be thrilled if you could join us.”

She cannot decide why it is he seems so relieved. She doesn’t truly think her mother’s disapproval (non-existent though it actually is) would be an impediment to him. Nothing ever has been before.

He is relieved. And then he is worried. “And you, Alice? Would you also be... thrilled if I could join you?”

She stands, ignoring the Hatter’s urgency to aid her with her chair. She slowly closes her satchel and buckles it as she considers her next words. “I also would like to see you there.”

She doesn’t have to look up to know he’s pleased. She can sense it in the air.

He promises, “Then there I shall be. At eight o’clock?”

“Seven thirty. Here is my card.”

Tarrant watches as she withdraws a graphite pencil and scribbles hastily on it – it wouldn’t do for Cawlsworth to poke his head back in the room and see this exchange! – and then offers it to him. The Hatter accepts it reverently and holds it delicately in his gloved fingers. “Thank you, Alice,” he breathes. The only other time she’s seen him wear so joyous a grin had been following the battle on Frabjous Day... right before he’d Futterwhackened. Vigorously. She places a hand on his arm as a preventative measure to that.

“My mother’s name is Helen Kingsleigh and it’s not often I invite gentlemen over for dinner, so she may be a bit... overwhelming.”

“Overprotective?”

“Overzealous.”

His bushy brows arc upward at that. “Alice, how many gentlemen have you entertained in this manner?”

Alice gives him a weak glare. “Why do you ask the questions you already know the answers to?”

“To hear those answers given in your voice, Alice.”

She sighs and confesses. “None. And after this evening, one. You.”

He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and murmurs, “Thank you, Alice.”

“For the invitation? I believe you already expressed your thanks with regards to that.”

“No,” he says, opening his very green eyes and if he could have touched her with a mere look, she knows she would have felt his skin – lips or fingertips – brush her cheek. “Thank you... for your answer.”

 

 

Comments

[inahs.livejournal.com]

I agree with Niphuria. Their very much in character and I adored their playing. I knew they were visiting the Hatter before she saw him! And the ending was so heart-wrenchingly delightful!

“No,” he says, opening his very green eyes and if he could have touched her with a mere look, she knows she would have felt his skin – lips or fingertips – brush her cheek. “Thank you... for your answer.”

But I still want to know what the hell is going on and why is he there, with a successful business and how?! Haha.

I'm loving this story already because its superbly worded, just so Alice and then so Tarrant, also because it's something I never read before from this fandom.

[manniness.livejournal.com]

Hey, I pride myself on this story being Different, so I'm glad you're enjoying that. A couple of chapters on, I encourage you to check out my super-dooper-amazingly-spectacular research notes. Especially if you have any interest in Japanese culture. (^__~)

I adore Helen. And I love writing her as Awesome-Mom!Helen... which I kinda think she is in this story.

And, yes, mystery abounds... what isn't Tarrant saying? What isn't Alice inferring... We will find out! (^__~)

[inahs.livejournal.com]

well i'm glad were of the same mind since I love Different and am glad you wrote this.

Yes, Helen quite agreeable here lol.

I finished the story in one sitting! I couldn't stop.