"She followed McTwisp." The hatter explains simply, once again sipping away happily on a cup of Mr. Ascot's finest import tea. Mr. Hightopp seems to have a great love of tea, and Hamish fully intends to cater to that love so long as it keeps the man happy and not destroying his house (especially not in front of Mrs. Kingsleigh and the Manchesters, because then they'd lose all respect for him and probably be extremely insulted that he'd led them into the same room with a madman and they'd never associate with his family again. Oh, he is already giving himself nightmares), even if it means using up his father's private stash of expensive brands that Alice had brought for him as a gift. He'd pay for it eventually, but right now it is working and Hamish will worry about his father's outrage later. The hatter is still talking. "Curious child she is, curious indeed. Followed McTwisp and got herself in a right spot of trouble with the bloody big head–her head wasn't so big back then, but still rather large–just as I had. But I met Alice before the trial, she just showed up during tea time, and me and Thackery and Mally, we were right fine with that and let her join us (though I must admit Mally slept through most of it, the lazy dear. Tried to tell a story but Alice wouldn't let her get a word in, silly). Didn't stay long, though, she didn't. But still."
There doesn't seem to be any more words forthcoming from the hatter after those last two short ones, but there doesn't really have to be, as Hamish is sure anyone in the room can interpret what the gleam in the hatter's eyes mean. She hadn't stayed long, but she'd stayed long enough, and Tarrant Hightopp will never forget that little girl.
Hamish saw Lowell out the corner of his eye, a disgusted face with no attempt to disguise it painting his features. But Hamish looks at the hatter and doesn't feel disgusted by the shine in his eyes at the mention of his first meeting with Alice. From the sound of it, Hatta himself hadn't found his meeting with Alice that odd at all, but it is the memory of it, the later realization of its importance, that has stayed with him.
In Hamish's eyes, it is as pure as love comes, and despite all his envy and the pain it causes him inside, Hamish can't hate the hatter for it.
Hamish's own love had been like a yoke on Alice's shoulders, holding her down and confining her, so overly protective and oppressive that Alice had probably never noticed that, beneath all the pomposity and conformity, it had actually been love. It had been the way Hamish had been taught to love, the only way he'd known how, and it hadn't been the kind of love that would resound with Alice's heart. Instead, it had confused her, chained her, tried to choke out all of the odd things that society viewed as abnormal but that made Alice beautiful and unique and totally and completely Alice. And it had been wrong.
Suppressing a sigh, Hamish turns away from Lowell's uncomprehending disgust and makes a note to himself to talk to him later. Lowell loves his wife in his own way as well, just as every man has his own way of loving. It hadn't always been the best love, still isn't perfect, but it is there, small and slowly growing thanks Alice's prodding and Margaret's undying devotion. He'll understand eventually, but Hamish isn't looking forward to trying to explain. He still doesn't think he understands it all, not really. But there is just something in him that says this is right, and that he needs to be prepared for the fact that, however odd or insane he may be, this man's being belongs to Alice, and it is going to be up to Alice in just what way she will lay that claim to him.
Hamish really hopes she won't turn him away. He doesn't think Tarrant Hightopp would survive it. And then he thinks about what he'd just thought, and is shocked at himself. Hoping for the success of a rival in love? Hoping for Alice to accept this potentially dangerous madman? Have I lost my mind?
Turning his eyes to the window in hopes that the blue sky will help clear his mind, Hamish instead finds himself confirming his insanity. Because there can't possibly be a cat floating outside the second story window. A gray cat with almost florescent blue stripes. And a grin. A huge, toothy grin.
As if reading his (questionably vacated) mind, the cat meets Hamish's wide stare with its own big, green eyes, and vanishes into a wisp of smoke.
"Hamish, are you alright?"
Blinking, as though this is going to help restore his senses, Hamish brings his attention back to the table, refusing to acknowledge for a second that what he'd just seen could in any possible imagining be real. It is the stress. Yes, all the stress of the day is finally catching up to him. He needs a rest like his mother.
"I'm sorry, I seem to have distracted myself. You were saying?" It is only after he's gotten the sentence out that Hamish realizes he is, in fact, talking to the Hatter. Tarrant is the one who'd asked if he was alright. The man who is half mad himself, asking if Hamish is alright! The incredulity of it!
But the hatter is not privy to Hamish's thoughts (thank goodness, they are quite confusing enough without someone else to comment on them, especially someone as colorful as Tarrant Hightopp) and only continues to watch him worriedly (worrying about Hamish, really? The man should have his own cell in an asylum, and he is looking at Hamish with such an expression? This day is just getting worse and worse...). "Are you quite sure, Hamish? You look a bit pale."
Hamish is well aware that he always looks pale (like a proper English gentleman, prone to teatime indoors and very little prolonged contact with sunlight. Besides, he has a naturally light complexion, being a ginger, and has sensitive skin. And again, how does this eccentric man have any place in making such comments when his skin is almost bleach white, and thus twice as pale as Hamish himself, not to mention blotted with dark circles under his eyes and the patches of blood on his hands—Hamish had almost forgotten about the blood, had the man hurt himself again when tearing up his living room? For it is looking rather fresh—but Hamish is getting off his line of thought and that won't do. Where had he been? Ah, yes—does the hatter not gaze in the mirror every day and see how ill he looks, for if he associates Hamish's paleness with not feeling well, he must certainly realize that he himself looks far worse for the wear! Ah, Hamish is hurting his own head again, trying to apply logic to Hatta's reasoning) and wonders how his guest seems to gauge that he's gotten paler, though he certainly doesn't doubt he is, as his little bout with insanity is quite disconcerting.
...And when had he started addressing Hamish by his first name? If Tarrant had known Alice as a child and been older than her then, he is certainly older than Hamish and thus it might be within the rules of etiquette for him to call him such—except that Hamish is a Lord. Does the Hatter's distinguished title outrank him? He can think of no other reason the milliner would address him so casually, unless he isn't aware of proper etiquette at all (he hadn't known what a week was, after all, so why should Hamish expect him to know what everyone else in London knows? He probably shouldn't make any assumptions about this man's knowledge for it seems to be horribly lacking). Could a hatter really outrank a Lord, if he is employed by foreign royalty? How is the monarchy and Lordship organized where Hatta comes from?
But in all Hamish's pondering, he seems to have answered automatically, and, reassured, the Hatter has now continued his conversation with Helen and Margaret. Really, talking while he is thinking without thinking about what he is saying is not a good habit to be kindling, he needs to stop that.
"It's all so hard to believe," Helen is saying, looking winded by the knowledge she is accumulating about her daughter's escapades as a mere child, and right under her family's nose, apparently. "Alice followed this McTwisp—a stranger!—to your home country? And he didn't notice?"
"Oh no, McTwisp was running very late for a date with the Red Queen, so he wasn't paying little Alice any mind at all. And it's not very far from here to Underland, there are many ways to get there, though people from here rarely ever notice, the silly dears." Hatta replies with a bit of a mischievous smile, running his finger along the edge of his tea cup absentmindedly. "It might seem odd to you, and it is certainly odd to Alice, and I can see why. Londonland-er, London."
He gives Hamish a nod and a smile, proud of himself for remembering the correct name for the city. Hamish, while waiting for their guests to arrive, had explained to Tarrant that he is not, in fact, the king of London, or England itself, and while a lord he is not royalty, his backyard is not its own little kingdom, and London is merely a city, not its own country or "Londonland," as he called it.
"London is so very different from Underland, even though I've seen so very little of London so far, Hamish is already had to explain lots of things to me."
"I wasn't aware of any neighboring countries quite that close, that a child could just follow someone—and right across a border, too!" Lowell is still glowering at the Hatter suspiciously across the table, and has apparently taken it upon himself to call attention to anything remotely odd about Hatta's story (which, Hamish muses, is almost everything, so Lowell has his work cut out for him, but really, Hamish doesn't want to sit around all day and listen to Lowell bark about every little detail he thinks he can discredit. Though this line of thought does seem to be a logical one, and one Hamish also wants an answer to, so he leaves Lowell to his question without a fuss).
Mr. Hightopp frowns (something he seems to do often around Lowell, and that doesn't bode well). "Why, there's one right out in the backyard."
"One what?" Margaret asks, confused.
"A rabbit hole."
"What does a rabbit hole have to do with our current conversation?" Lowell demands, annoyed.
"Everything, obviously." Tarrant replies, his expression turning sour. "Why don't you make any sense?"
"Why don't I—?"
Sensing this conversation isn't going anywhere good, Hamish decides it is (once again—he is also sensing a pattern to this) time to intervene, but before he can, Margaret speaks up again, wide eyed. "That is how Alice used to say she got to her 'Wonderland'—she said she fell down a rabbit hole."
Helen looks at her eldest daughter oddly, as does her husband, and then she also comments. "Didn't Alice mention something about falling down a hole when you proposed, Hamish?"
Hamish stiffens, not at all liking to think back on the moment where all his dreams were crushed into the dirt under the heel of the women he had thought to spend his life with, but he nods, remembering every painful word very clearly from that day.
"I fell down a hole and hit my head," Alice had replied to her mother's worried inquisition. Her next sentence had been the one that cut at Hamish's very heart, and—
"...proposed?"
Hamish finds his gaze drawn to the hatter quite suddenly, snapped from his own pain by the sight of the torment that is flashing—literally, green swimming in a storm of gold—in the eyes of the madman. He looks frozen on the spot, staring unblinkingly at Hamish, only his eyes showing the chaos churning within. "You... and Alice...?"