Hamish supposes that if anything he's said would push the Hatter over the edge, it would be this (and since he's already caused quite a few fits from Hatta, he fully expects this one to be much, much worse, and the prior ones had been bad enough—and this one was going to be in front of Mrs. Kingsleigh, Margaret, and Lowell, something he had hoped very much to avoid).
Hamish and Hatter sit there, both seemingly frozen to the spot, eyes locked in wide shock—Hamish's in anticipation, Hatter's in pain. He should say something to head this off, Hamish knows, to stop this panic and clear up the misunderstanding—but that meant saying, out loud, that Alice had shot him down, and it is always so painful to form those words (it hurts bad enough just to think them) and he can't bring himself to open his mouth. Instead, he waits, rooted to his chair, for Hatta to explode again.
So it makes him jump when it is an unexpected voice he hears next: Helen's, full of apology and sympathy.
"Oh, I'm sorry, Hamish. That was rude of me. I am sorry for the way Alice acted back then, but that girl just does as she pleases, as did her father. You would have made a wonderful addition to the family, it's a shame Alice wasn't ready for marriage."
Ah, yes, Helen Kingsleigh's little explanation for Alice's looking him straight in the eye and telling him that he wasn't the man for her: Alice just isn't ready for marriage. She wants to follow in her father's footsteps, work like women just don't work, travel the world and not be tied down with anymore family than she already has. When she's gotten all that out of her system, when she's spread her father's dream from coast to coast, she'll settle down, and hopefully her pretty face won't have faded before then.
Hamish thinks that Mrs. Kingsleigh probably believes that as much as he does, which he doesn't at all, and that says something. Maybe it's true that Alice isn't ready for marriage, that maybe she'll think more about it once she has made her father's company the most successful business on the high seas, but that isn't why she'd turned down Hamish. She'd said it right, as much as it pains him: He really isn't the right man for her, and that's all there is too it. True, he is much closer to being a man worthy of her now that he'd matured a bit, but he still isn't anywhere near what Alice needs or even wants, and he highly doubts he will ever be, because he will always be proper Hamish Ascot, and she will ever be flighty Alice Kingsleigh, and they will never mesh together the way he had dreamed, no matter how much he wants them to.
Still stiff, Hamish again only nods at Mrs. Kingsleigh, not wanting to appear rude but still having a hard time swallowing down the lump in his throat at speaking about Alice's rejection of him. And, of course, he has yet to take his eyes off of Tarrant Hightopp. He's worried Helen's words haven't made themselves past the sea of grief that is consuming the Hatter to make a difference, but slowly he sees the gold fade slightly out of Hatta's eyes, green once again becoming the predominant color, though still much murkier than it had been earlier.
Hamish lets out a nasal sigh, realizing he is once again hallucinating, for people's eye colors just do not change depending on their emotions (in fact, they don't change at all, not normally). Is madness contagious? Hamish wonders bitterly. His thoughts are left without an answer as Margaret seems to realize where Hamish's true attention lay, and is suddenly herself as full of concern as her mother.
"Hatta, sir, are you alright?"
The Hatter's lips move softly, but no words are forthcoming for several seconds until the madman's lip twitches and Hamish catches a whispered "fez" before the smile hitches into place and his guest once again replies with, "I'm fine."
Everyone at the table, including Hamish himself, is staring at the Hatter as though they are hesitant to believe him (and after everything Hamish has seen today, he knows they have good reason not to) but ever oblivious to the concern for his sanity that his responses tend to evoke, Hatta merely asks, "Now where was I?" before resuming his ramblings, none of which Hamish has a clear enough head to even attempt to follow.
There is a knock on the door that saves Hamish the humiliation of being drawn into a conversation he hasn't been listening to, and one of the servants steps in, holding a pad of paper while shifting ever so slightly and casting minute glances at the Hatter that makes Hamish painfully aware of what his topic is going to be before he even opens his mouth. "Young Lord, sir, we've... ah... that is to say, the... er... the repairs in the living room are going to require some... um... you'll be needing to order some... supplies and such, sir."
"Yes, of course." Hamish replies quickly, his fake smile almost cracking his face with how lightning fast it claims its ground over his formerly slumped features. He rises from his seat quickly and is signing the pro-offered pages before the servant has even released his grip on them. "Want this done, we do, see to it it's all completed as soon as possible—try to upgrade it a bit, but stick to mother's preferences, shall we? Speaking of mother, I'd like to have this all done and forgotten when she wakes up, surprise her with the new things, so be quick about it, understood?"
"Yes, sir, right away, sir."
"There's a good man." Hamish hands the papers back and practically shoves the servant out of the room. He is praying, praying hard, that no one will ask questions about the servant, the papers, the living room, or the "repairs" when he turns around.
Hamish stops dead in his tracks.
The is a mouse on the top of Hatta's top hat.
A white mouse standing upright on two legs and sporting a tiny pink dress.
I suppose mice in dresses are more plausible than floating cats, Hamish thinks haltingly as his brain tries to process the scene. The mouse merely narrows it's rather large, glossy eyes at him before turning around (rather proudly, he thinks, with its little back straight and tall) and shuffling off the edge of the back of the hat, disappearing from view.
Cats and mice, Hamish blinks rapidly, maybe there's some sort of strange symbolism in all these hallucinations.
Before anyone can ask if he is all right (which is quickly becoming the most popular phrase of the approaching evening, Hamish thinks he'd pull some of his meticulously combed hair out if he hears it again) he gives a nod (more to reassure himself than anyone else) and says, "Right then, very sorry about the interruption. Shall we continue?" despite still having no idea what the Hatter had been talking about before the servant had knocked. Still, it's polite to ask him to continue where he'd left off and Hamish is always careful to be courteous to his guests, no matter how off his rocker they may be driving him.
"Actually," Helen smiles warmly, her gaze once again turning to Hatta, who's face lights up like a child's at the motherly look. "I was just going to ask if Hatta would care to come by my home. It's not a very big place, but both my girls spent a great deal of time here as children, and I thought maybe you'd want to see Alice's home. I've got some old drawings of hers tucked away I think might interest you, sir."
Admittedly, Hamish hadn't made the connection before now, but as soon as Mrs. Kingsleigh mentions Alice's drawings, he knows exactly what she's talking about—and he isn't happy about it, not at all. But Margaret is beginning to look excited, and Lowell is eying her suspiciously (for if Margaret is excited, there is the chance of her being let down from such a good mood, and that doesn't bode well for her husband, so he wants to make sure that whatever this excitement is about, it ends well, for a disappointed Margaret makes for a very testy Lowell, and Hamish hates dealing with Lowell after he's spent a few hours cheering his wife up and then comes to the young Lord to vent his own exhausted frustration at the effort of the whole endeavor, as though it is all an inconvenience and he's extremely relieved to have his chipper bride back to normal again, for Hamish knows he's just pretending to be tired and really just wants to talk about his wife, which rather grates on Hamish, for he has no wife at all, despite having pursued the sister of the one who is inevitably to topic of conversation when Lowell is involved, as Hamish had soon realized when Lowell had suddenly decided to drop all his old friends and make Hamish his new buddy, for whatever reason—Hamish is willing to bet it had something to do with the evil glares and whispered conversations in private between Lowell and his sister-in-law, the poor bloke).
"That sounds splendid!" The Hatter replies jovially, clasping his hands with enthusiasm. And with that, the group of them shuffle back down the stairs, having already sent a servant ahead to ready the carriage. It is only after he guides the group past the living room without drawing attention to it that Hamish relaxes a bit—but only a bit.
Hamish is acting suspicious. Lowell would have crossed his arms over his chest to reflect his eyebrows, which are pulled down in disapproval, but Margaret has her hands threaded through his elbow, so he suppresses the urge. He doesn't know what's going on, and he doesn't like that he doesn't know, and he doesn't like this strange man who is suddenly gaining the approval of his wife and mother-in-law, and he also doesn't like the way Hamish is behaving.
After the servant had come in to talk to Hamish about buying supplies and such, Lowell had decided he very much wanted to see the living room and its repairs for himself, and he would have, too (easily, for Hamish isn't exactly subtle in his distractions, nor sharp in coming up with split-second excuses), if not for the looking-glass in the hallway.
Well, it isn't exactly because of the looking-glass, for looking-glasses are rather commonplace and ordinary, and it is barely something he even registers that one is hanging on the wall as he starts past it. No, it isn't the glass itself that makes him stop in his tracks and gape. It's the reflection in it—or, more precisely, the lack thereof.
He does not see his own face in the looking-glass. Instead, the surface appears misty and a bit wet, as though—impossibly—it is starting to melt right there in the frame. But through that fog, he sees something far stranger.
Beautiful, yes, but strange still, for a fair woman with a pale completion and turrets of wavy white hair stares sternly back at him through the mysterious glass. It strikes him instantly that she has a shine to her eyes, kindness and laughter that shows through despite the set of her face, strength and determination wrapped around a gentle soul.
Eyes like his Margaret's.
And then said Margaret gives his arm a tug, looking up at him from his elbow. "Lowell, why'd you stop, dear?"
He glances once more at the looking-glass, but there's no ghostly face, no eerie fog, and no melting reflection—only his own incredulous expression gazing back at him. He turns his attention back to his wife, muttering "Sorry, no reason" with a smile as they began walking again. As she accepts his dismissal easily and smiles right back, Lowell can still see the same things in her eyes as he had the ghostly white woman's.
And it scares him.