Hamish Ascot, for the first time in his life, really thinks he understands how Alice Kingsleigh feels under the scrutiny of a society that doesn't understand her.
His mother is glaring down her nose at him from across the room, and he is struck by the fact that Alice has told him (more than once) that he often makes this very same look at her when she is behaving "out of sorts," as he would put it. He holds his own head as high as his dignity can manage, ignoring his mother's disapproval as best he can (which is difficult, as his mother's disapproval is not something he is used to bearing, but reflecting and enforcing).
It is just another testament to how much Alice Kingsleigh has shaped his life that his mother is the one giving him that look now.
He can't blame her, though. Hamish knows he must be losing his own mind, allowing this strange man into his—their—home. But, all the same, the moment Alice's name had slipped through the rambling lips of the outrageous Scotsman, Hamish had known there would be no turning the him out.
Not if he is a friend of Alice's.
And, despite a very embarrassing rejection in front of practically everyone, Hamish still can't shake his love for the young lady. She is, after all, the woman he had thought he would spend his life with; a thought that had been instilled since early childhood.
Being rejected hadn't been something that had ever occurred to him—though, upon reflection of Alice's habit of doing everything that is unexpected, it should have. Or something along those lines.
He is giving himself a headache, and the odd man with the vibrant orange hair's nervous twitching and rambling isn't helping.
"Please," Hamish cringes at his own politeness, as he is sure this strange man does not merit or even deserve it. Only for Alice's friend, he reminds himself. "Sir-"
Realizing, belatedly, that he still doesn't know the name of his "guest", he pauses, waiting for it to be offered.
The man doesn't seem to notice, and continues his ramblings, which—to Hamish's worry—are growing more and more vehement, and after that episode in the garden—
"—an i' i'nna doin me nau' good ta' ezel 'ere ifin she made 'er choice, naught for usal, ef she be pickin' ya slurvish lot, e'en ef I bein plum gallymoggers BUT NAH ENUF TA' TELL THA GIRL 'NUNZ' SHUD A TOLD 'ER 'NUNZ'-"
Growing very, very worried, Hamish claps his hands loudly between himself and the growling man. "Sir!"
Instantly the man snaps his mouth shut, and Hamish could have sworn his eyes flash—but then the pale stranger is smiling like a dumb child, trailing off lightly, "—nunz, scrum, size, fez… I'm fine."
I most certainly believe you are not, sir, Hamish thinks to himself. But, then again, he has heard many people speak the same of Alice, in whispers, and he, in his foolishness, has tried to protect her from herself and make her conform to "sane" standards. But Alice will not be suppressed, for Alice is Alice, and will be Alice, and no other. Maybe he is the mad one, having tried to take that from her.
He is not going to even try it with what is shaping up to be Alice's mad friend.
Getting back to proper etiquette (for Hamish knows nothing else), he replies, "Yes, well sir, I am Hamish Ascot. Might I have your name?"
The man stands, with none of his earlier nervousness or anger, and smoothly whips his large, rather tattered top-hat from his head and bows. "Tarrant Hightopp, Milliner to White Queen Mirana, of the High Court of Marmoreal, one Hero of Underland in respect to the Frabjous Day, humble servant of The Alice."
Hamish vaguely hears his mother's sharp intake of breath at the long and obviously distinguished title of the supposed madman before them, but he is more taken with the way Tarrant Hightopp has said Alice's name: reverently, breathlessly, like it is a holy title, the sound a caress on his lips.
No one has ever spoken so highly of Alice in all of Hamish's life as this man has with only two words. Not even Charles Kingsleigh, who had adored his youngest daughter to no end and had doted, with pride, on her and her eccentricities (most of which she had undoubtedly inherited from him). Not Helen, who, despite doing her best to never tarnish the Kingsleigh family name, has never been one to take hearing any of her precious ones spoken ill of, even if she herself thought that her husband and her little girl where odd—that is something she loves about them both, even if they had frustrated her to no end.
No, the way this man's eyes sparkles as he repositions his hat (with much unnecessary flourish, but that can be expected of a hatter showing off his work, can't it?) and the way he obviously reveres Alice makes Hamish feel like his love pales in comparison—and Hamish had (again, foolishly) once believed there is no man alive (God rest Mr. Kingsleigh's soul) who could or would ever love Alice as much as he does (though Mr. Ascot had once joked he'd give him a run for his money, for Hamish's father would always see Alice as his daughter, marriage or not).
But no, he shouldn't be jumping to conclusions so quickly. He's barely learned the man's name, let alone his relationship with Alice—or even if they are referring to the same Alice (not that there is any real doubt that there are any other Alices about the area who would befriend such an... eccentric looking—and behaving—foreigner; polite words are coming with a bit of difficulty at this point).
It is then that Hamish clicks his tiring emotions off and starts sifting through the facts he's just been given. His mother has been much quicker on the uptake than he.
Lady Ascot takes a hesitant step forward, forcing a pleasantly curious smile and failing only slightly. "A milliner for royalty, are you Mr. Hightopp? I'm afraid I don't recall the country you spoke off, but as much as dear Alice travels-"
So she's 'dear Alice' now, is she mother? Hamish wants to sigh at her petulance. His mother has never been too extremely keen on having Alice as Hamish's bride, though when faced with all the good it would do the family as presented by his father (for Alice Kingsleigh is a prize, to be sure—Lord Ascot hadn't always thought Charles Kingsleigh sane, but he had enough sense about him to know bringing his son with him on business trips to the Kingsleigh household couldn't not be beneficial, though he'd had no idea how true that would become) she'd warmed up to the 'arrangement' slightly. Everyone in his family, and even Alice's, to be honest, had just assumed that, since Alice is such an odd girl and she and Hamish had been "friends" since childhood, that he would always be the one with her, as he had always been (he hadn't bothered to correct them on the fact that, though he and Alice were always thought to play together, they had rarely spent any time together after they were left alone).
How wrong that had turned out to be.
But his thoughts are getting away with him again, as they often do when he thinks of Alice (and only when he thinks of Alice, for Hamish has been raised to be a serious man to balance out Alice's dreamery, and is not often taken with thoughtful fancies). His mother is listening closely to Mr. Hightopp's surprisingly innocent voice prattle on.
"-and now, I know I promised myself I'd be patient, but I just couldn't wait any longer, in case Alice had once again forgotten her own promise to come back, and I figured me breaking my promise to myself (since I'd never break a promise to Alice, so it is a good thing she'd had no part in it) is much better than Alice breaking hers, as she is Alice and as such is so frightfully good-hearted that I'm sure she would be very cross with herself over the whole matter, and as she is the Champion, she shouldn't be chastised for such things—not even by her own self, for no one would want to be chastised by the Champion, such a dishonorable punishment, and I'd hate to see Alice make herself cry, for she almost drowned Nivens once, crying so hard, but she wasn't much her own size then, and obviously didn't have her muchness about her, and Alice isn't hardly Alice without her muchness, Absolem agrees with me on this, and Absolem rarely agrees with anyone on anything even when they agree with him. And speaking of Absolem, he told me he found Alice out and about some six months ago, sailing and such. Sailing! Is there nothing Alice can't do?"
When the hatter actually pauses, looking at them curiously, Hamish decides that this man is much more prone to talking than Alice is, but just as much of a scatterbrain, and he is going to need to keep him on track if they want to learn anything. Taking this opportunity, he asks politely, "Might I inquire as to how and when you met Alice, Mr. Hightopp?"
The other man slowly frowns. "I could be asking you the same thing. You say you know Alice, but I have no proof of that. And even if you do, Alice spoke as though she never much liked it here, so that means you must not have been very good to her. And as happy as I am that Alice came to Underland and I met her in all her great Alice-ness, Ah sorely wudna tolerate anaone who hasna made Alice's life anathin but the perfect it shuda been-"
Starting to recognize the growl of Scottish brogue in the hatter's voice, Hamish quickly decides it is time to interrupt, etiquette sacrificed for the better. "I'm afraid Alice is out sailing at the moment. She and my father are on a business trip to China, though they sent word last that they were on their way home. Still, it will be some weeks before they return."
Hamish locks eyes with Tarrant Hightopp and stares, shocked, as the man's eyes truly do turn colors while his face seems to battle with his emotions. And then, suddenly, he is all innocent smiles again, gap-toothed and polite. "What's a week?"
Hamish thinks that is an odd question, but he isn't so ignorant of other cultures that he doesn't realize they might not use the same words for things (though this is something that he probably should have learned before coming to England). "Seven days makes a week, sir."
The man's face twitches. "And how long is a day here, normally?"
Hamish's frown deepens slightly. "Twenty-four hours."
Again, a twitch. "And an hour is..."
"Sixty minutes."
"And Time always runs on schedule here, not fickle or prone to dilly-dally?"
Now Hamish is worried. This is most definitely not a normal question. "No, sir. Sixty minutes is always an hour, sixty seconds are always a minute, and there are always twenty-four hours in a day, as well as seven days in a week."
The hatter's smile falls, and his eyes dim. Even his clothes seem to lose some of their outrageous pomp—but that just isn't possible...
"My father said he sometimes believed in six impossible things before breakfast."
He remembers Alice's face as she'd said that, dancing in his arms and smiling, laughing melodically as she talked about what it would be like to fly. It had been precisely ten minutes after that that he had gotten down on one knee in that gazebo...
...and it had been another ten after that when Alice had looked him in the eyes and said "I'm sorry, Hamish. I can't marry you. You're not the right man for me. And there's that trouble with your digestion."
(Really, what on earth had his digestion had to do with anything? Had she really had to bring that up?)
Was the idea that she could marry Hamish, live happily, that he could be the man for her been so impossible that even Alice couldn't have believed in it?
Hamish abruptly draws a loud breath up through his nose. Now isn't the time to be thinking such things. He has a crazy man to worry about. And said crazy man is speaking distractedly.
"So Alice won't be back..."
"For at least two more weeks, maybe more." Hamish finishes, eyeing the now sad milliner. He looks so downtrodden, it is almost pitiable.
But-
"Then I suppose I'll just go to Alice's home and wait there until she returns!" He pips up, looking chipper at the prospect.
Hamish flushes. "You can't just go up to the Kingsleigh's and demand to stay there and wait for her!"
The other man frowns. "Why not?"
"It's not polite and it's not proper." Hamish seethes, feeling like he is a kid again, trying to talk Alice out of one of her crazy dream-schemes. "A man just can't come calling on a single woman's home like that, and he especially can't stay there, even if said woman isn't home. Besides, you would be a burden on Mrs. Kingsleigh, Lowell, and Margaret."
"Who?"
Now Hamish is getting annoyed. This man is Alice's friend, but he doesn't know her family? "Alice's mother Helen, obviously, as well as her sister, Margaret, and Margaret's husband, Lowell Manchester. They tend to stay with Mrs. Kingsleigh when Alice is away, so that she won't be alone."
"Why would Alice's mother be alone? Isn't her father home?"
Hamish stares in horror at the man, unable to believe he doesn't know of Charles Kingsleigh's death over a year ago. When Mr. Hightopp starts speaking again, Hamish thinks he is going to correct himself and apologize for being so foolish as to forget Mr. Kingsleigh's death, but instead he finds himself horribly offended. "Oh, I know! How silly of me—Alice spoke highly to Absolem of her father, and he to me, though it took some time to get anything out of him as Absolem always has to be so wise and such, though I'm not at all sure he isn't just doing it to show off, but I take it Alice's father is the sort to be just as muchy as she is, and thus out on the seas as well?"
Hamish clenches his sweaty palms at his sides, trying both to make sense of what was just said and, in figuring it out (mostly), not to be appalled. "Charles Kingsleigh is indeed much like his daughter, and I'm sure he would have loved to travel the world, but I'm afraid Mr. Kingsleigh is no longer among us."
The hatter frowns again. "Isn't that what I just said?"
Hamish feels himself sag in the shoulders at the incredulity of it all. "I mean to say-"
"Well, if you meant to say it then why didn't you from the start?" Mr. Hightopp snaps.
If he isn't the moodiest man I've ever met!
Hamish fights to keep his composure, raising his head high again and straitening his posture, deciding to be blunt. "Charles Kingsleigh passed from this world over a year ago."
"And to what world did he go?" The hatter asks, sounding as annoyed as Hamish feels.
Having lost all patience, Hamish replies, "The world of the dead, Mr. Hightopp."
It takes all of five seconds, watching his eyes slowly drain from a washed out green to a dangerously golden yellow, for the Hatter to have another incident.
This one, Hamish later reflected, was much worse than the first one in the garden.