Foundations

"How did you find Hamish, my dear?" her mother asked with practiced disinterest, which Alice knew better than to believe.

"He looked well." Alice shuffled Charlotte's alphabet cards in her hands, although the little girl was already tucked in her bed for the evening and no doubt dreaming of sugar plums and faeries. She attempted to turn the conversation to a safer subject, "He brought Charlotte some boiled sweets."

"Wasn't that uncommonly thoughtful?"

It was unexpected and her spirits were buoyed by the gesture. She had feared Hamish might be as unnerved by her daughter as everyone else seemed to be. She was aware of the whispers. No one truly believed her to have been married, which meant that they believed her child to be illegitimate. She could take any scorn, but heaped upon her daughter? Her face flushed hotly at the thought, but she refused to let the feeling overtake her, focusing instead on the brightly colored cards in her lap.

"She liked him well enough for it," Alice agreed blandly.

Her mother smiled at her over her needlework. "That sounds promising." Alice frowned, but refused to acknowledge her mother's meaning. "A child needs a father," her mother finally pressed, when Alice remained dumb.

"I did well enough without one," Alice responded a little spitefully. She could not help herself: Charlotte had a father. Every day she saw bits and pieces of Tarrant in their daughter. Her love of rhyme books, her growing collection of bobbins, and her soft little lisp. Even her flashes of temper reminded Alice fondly of her husband, as they both repented of their outbursts so quickly afterward and seemed somewhat baffled by their occurrence. No, Charlotte could be no one's child but Tarrant's. The very thought of Hamish fulfilling that role made Alice suspect that her mother was living in a land of faerie far less real than Underland.

"Forgive me. I can see that my opinion is not wanted."

"I'm sorry, Mother." She said it because she was sorry: sorry that she had spoken so harshly, and yet, she could not regret the feeling that inspired it. "I think it's best if you put an end to that hope. Hamish is a grown man, who knows his own mind, and I doubt very much he intends to extend anything but friendly kindness towards me. And you know very well how I feel about the possibility."

Her mother shook her head, "I don't think you yet know what it means to be lonely, my dear."

Her reply was clipped: "I think I do." Only, she could not think of the endless years of loneliness stretching out before her right now unless she wanted to cry herself to sleep. She began again more calmly, "It was good to see Hamish. I was happy he did not seem angry with me, and I would never turn away friendship." But that is all it would ever be.

Yes, she could welcome Hamish's silent offer of friendship. She could not help but think that Tarrant would have found Hamish very odd. All restraint and things unsaid, but there was an peculiar comfort to Hamish's constraint. It spared her having to open herself up, and right now, she was too raw to expose her inner self to the world or even her own mother. He might be just the sort of friend she could actually stand to have.

It had not taken long before the weekly visit to the Kingsleigh residence had become his favorite day of the week. While he had initially feared having nothing to say to a tiny little girl with wide green eyes, as the months passed, he had soon found that Alice's child was quite easy to interact with, rather like her mother had been once.

When he had been shy and awkward, constantly chided by his mother to be more this and less that, Alice had been the wan little girl that sometimes came for tea, who chattered away without much effort on his part—a vast relief from the passel of stronger boys, who could trump him in every sport, turned their noses up at his interest in botany, and mocked his stutter. Of course Alice's chatter had mostly been nonsense, but it was rather intriguing nonsense about floating cats and talking mice and violent queens and tea parties. They were the sorts of things his mother would have shaken her head at, which is why he had never shared any of it with her—and that was no different at the present either, as he kept his visits to the Kingsleighs as beneath his mother's notice as possible.

It was the same sort of nonsense that Charlotte now pontificated on with such unquestioned certainty that it never occurred to him that he might scoff at her reports. He listened to them with quiet reserve, which earned him the little girl's unwavering respect more quickly than even his proffered sweets had done. Listening was no hardship, as he sincerely enjoyed her charming company, but she also proved to be a convenient reason for paying the Kingsleighs an unexpected visit or two outside of his weekly one.

"Charlotte shows great interest in flowers," he observed, as he crossed his leg over his knee, his other boot scratching in the pea gravel of the modest gated garden behind the Kingsleigh townhouse.

Charlotte was bent over amongst the white roses, peeking out of them and whispering something to herself that he could not make out. He would have moved to ask her, but he did not want to leave this afternoon without having accomplished one thing, and that required actually engaging Alice in purposeful conversation. Something which had become somewhat easier with the passage of time, and yet Hamish still felt ill at ease. As he had grown older, he had learnt to deal with uncomfortable situations by acting superior and mildly cross. That was not the impression he wanted to leave Alice with, however.

What he wanted Alice to think of him made his hands shake. She was almost impossible to impress, her standards were so lofty.

Alice smiled indulgently at Charlotte. "Yes, I think she keeps expecting the roses to talk back to her."

He fingered the knob of his cane with his white gloved index finger. "She's told me they do."

"They did you mean," Alice corrected. "They did once, but they don't anymore, for London flowers never have anything to say. Less interesting, I suppose, but also a good deal less cheeky."

He laughed a little awkwardly. He was accustomed to Charlotte's charming flights of fancy, but there was something incongruous about Alice's continued whimsy, when she was so obviously a woman grown. The very thought—the acknowledgement that Alice was a woman, a proper one who had married, shared a man's bed, and had a child—made him look back out towards Charlotte and not the woman before him. He tried very hard not to think such things, but sometimes it was impossible. She was more a woman than he was a man. One tawdry experience in Paris did not make a man. Besides, his mother still insisted on selecting the fabric for his suits.

His mouth was dry, but he did not reach for his glass of lemonade—that would require a steadiness of hand he feared he did not currently possess—before suggesting with measured calm, "Perhaps we could all go to Hyde Park, where she can enjoy the flower beds in bloom." He would like to take the child to see his mother's orchids and her coveted orangery, but he did not think it wise to expose Alice or Charlotte to his mother's cool looks. Alice might take it into her head to give his mother a piece of her mind—a tantalizing but terrifying prospect.

"Yes, that would be lovely, Hamish. I think she'd enjoy that very much."

Would Alice enjoy it too? He could not bring himself to ask. "Day of your choosing next week if you like."

"Any day will do. You know we don't have a fashionable schedule to keep. You're our only friend."

While he did not want Alice to be friendless, the thought of being special to her in this way made his palms begin to sweat inside his gloves.

When he felt brave enough to look away from Alice's daughter's antics and face her once more, he realized that she had grown serious. Hamish felt as if he was being carefully evaluated before she spoke, "There's a whole world you don't know about, Hamish. Are you willing to believe that?"

"Yes, of course." Why, he had never even completed his tour of the Continent, as he had developed the most wracking cough half way through and his mother had become convinced that the Ascot succession was in danger, so he had been obliged to turn back. He was well aware that Alice outdistanced him in terms of experience—all sorts of experiences.

"A world where I could swear to you that flowers will quite happily insult your mode of dress as soon as greet you."

He shifted in his seat. "You've always been very imaginative, Alice, and…"

He could not think how to finish, but she jumped in, sparing him the discomfort of a stretch of silence. "I know you're good enough not to disabuse Charlotte of her notions, but if you would not disabuse me of mine…I'd be very grateful. There's no one I can speak to frankly. No one I can tell about the life we lived."

A lock of her wavy blonde hair had escaped its simple arrangement and she tucked it behind her ear. Hamish was seized with the most impossible urge to perform the service for her, to see if it felt as soft as it looked. But that was impossible, and not just because a pair of gloves prevented him. If he took such a liberty, he would lose her for certain. Alice did not care much for propriety, but she would not welcome such a liberty from him nonetheless. This much he knew.

"At first I didn't want to talk about any of it, but sometimes…I don't need you to believe, but if you could just listen to me if I do feel like talking." She paused to wet her lips, and suddenly his silk cravat felt very tight about his throat. She looked down at her gloved hands, pillowed in her dark skirts. "I seem to have noticed that you're a rather good listener," she said, nodding towards Charlotte. "The strong and silent type," she finished with a quirk of her lips.

Hamish could not help but chuckle. He knew he had never been described thus. Alice had a very odd way of looking at the world. "I'm only quiet, because I'm trying to frame my next sentence, so I won't embarrass myself," he admitted, although he had not intended on making such an avowal. "You don't suffer from that disability."

"No, but Margaret and Mother rather wish sometimes that I did. There are so few people to embarrass nowadays," Alice said with a shrug. "And I do try my best not to give Mother too much pain."

"I've given up almost entirely on trying to satisfy my mother, you know," he added, vaguely hoping that she would be proud of him. Not that he generally did anything shocking.

"Yes, you are here, after all. All of London must think it very odd."

That was his lone rebellion, and if his mother was wise to it, she had not yet said a word. He suspected that her silence on the subject was meant to say volumes. If she should say something, however, he knew very well how he would respond. He sat up further in his chair. "I don't care about that, Alice." Not as much as he should perhaps.

"That's good of you," she said, her shoulders sinking slightly, as if weighed down by something. "I miss it, you know, where Charlotte was born. I miss it a great deal. Especially when people are unkind."

"You could go back." He barely managed to say it, for he did not wish it. He wanted Alice here, where he might come and sit at her side and listen to her confessions. Her only friend. Even if he was a terribly selfish friend, which he suspected he was.

She stared off blankly. "Maybe I'll tell you about it someday." She shook her head. "But, no, I don't think I'll ever go back. Without Tarrant, it was too painful. It would be too painful. A person has to look forward."

In all their time together, she had never spoken her husband's Christian name before. He now had a name for this faceless man: Tarrant.

"I'm being maudlin," Alice said, giving herself a shake. "How can one be maudlin with the perfume of spring in the air? Tinted with the stink of smoke, but spring nonetheless?"

He could not quite bring himself to say anything else about her previous life—as her emotions seemed so close to the surface that they threatened to overwhelm him. Sometimes he had to practice the right thing to say, for it did not always come naturally for him, but there was no time for that now. He felt twitchy, and he longed to latch onto her change of subject. "The air will be better in Hyde Park," he promised. He would promise her almost anything presently, which is why it would be best to cut his visit short before he exposed himself. He could come again tomorrow if he truly wanted. He did not think Alice would mind and Charlotte was always glad to see him.

Yes, Charlotte proved to be very easy for Hamish to befriend. What was the greater surprise, however, was that somehow along the way, he had managed to win Alice over as well.

It taught him to hope. That someday he might be something more to her.

Alice wished she had some knowledge of legal affairs, but even her disastrous experience in business had not fully acquainted her with the law. A lawyer would be expensive. Too expensive. And yet, she had to do something to ensure that her daughter would be protected, taken care of in the event…

"Hamish," she said softly, not entirely wishing to disrupt Hamish and Charlotte, who had been engaged for a quarter of an hour in a game of How, Why, When, and Where. Charlotte may have been four, but she was preternaturally good at games.

He looked up at her from his place on the floor beside her daughter, and the blue of his eyes struck her, as he nervously tossed his head, so that a shock of ginger hair that had fallen out of place went dutifully back in place. "Yes, Alice?" He looked slightly embarrassed, as if he had thought she had not yet noticed that he was arranged on the floor, playing at parlor games with a four year old. He suspected no doubt that she might think it beneath him.

As usual, she felt something other than scorn stir in her chest, as she watched Charlotte happily at play with Hamish. His friendship had been a godsend to their family. The moment of reflection passed, however, and he was scrambling rather gracelessly to his feet so as to join her on the divan.

"Do you think you could assist me with something?" Alice asked, as he sat alongside her.

Alice frowned at his fidgeting hands. Anytime Hamish was asked to be useful, it made him uncomfortable, she had noticed. As if he was more used to thinking of himself as useless.

"What can I help you with?"

"There's a legal matter. A matter of drawing up a will."

His brows drew together. "For your mother?"

"For me, I'm afraid." Alice had not thought it possible for Hamish to grow any paler than he was generally, but she was wrong. The bob of his ascot alerted her to his involuntary swallowing. She reached over and placed her hand over his own. She withdrew it quickly when he jerked as if he had been shocked by a tetchy doorknob. "I'm quite all right, Hamish. It's just that I have Charlotte to consider. I need to set my things in order. I'm trying to be practical."

"You haven't much practice," he responded a little haltingly. "I could recommend someone," he said, recovering some of his composure, "who would be able to draw something up for you."

"Someone who wouldn't expect too much in payment?" Alice asked lightly. "I'm sure you haven't noticed, but we're in rather embarrassed financial straits." Hamish cleared his throat, and she could tell by his shocked face that he considered this statement a greater transgression than even her fanciful stories. It would not be Hamish if this uncommon admission did not make him uncomfortable. "I'm sorry I've said it, Hamish, for your sake, but the fact of the matter is that I need your help…"

"I have a friend," he interrupted. "He'll do it as a favor to me. Say no more."

Alice nodded. "Thank you, Hamish. I knew I could rely on you." He was anything but useless.

"You're worried about Charlotte's future," he added apprehensively, as if he was not sure he should voice her concerns aloud, as if he was unwillingly breaking his own request to say no more. "You needn't be, Alice. If God forbid…" She watched him with great interest as his gaze settled on Charlotte. "I'd see to it that she was taken care of. I wouldn't forget her. You can rely on that," he finished softly.

Alice felt tears sting the corners of her eyes.

"Forgive me," he stammered.

"For what?" she asked, attempting a smile.

"I've overstepped myself."

"No, not at all. You haven't. I'm just…" Should she be astonished? She was.

Alice fumbled in her skirts for a handkerchief. She was not good about carrying them, for she had never had a need as long as she was in Underland. Tarrant always had a great selection on hand in a variety of bright colors, trimmed in fantastical ribbon and lace. She sighed heavily, when she could find none, but just as she was about to give way to unbidden tears, Hamish pressed a starched white handkerchief into her hand.

No, anything but useless.