wanderamaranth | Best Intentions Chapter Ten (Reply)

Tarrant dressed carefully for dinner that evening. Not that he'd a vast selection of clothing already made, but what was the use of being a milliner if one could not whip oneself up something to wear when one needed? The latest styles at Court confounded him, and he was glad that he would not be required to make a showing there. No, tonight it was just to be he and Alice, here at the Windmill House. It wasn't really a night made special by anything other than Hatter's expanded expectations, he knew…but Alice had been warming to him lately, had she not?

She'd allowed him to dress her hair, she'd finally consented to wearing the gowns he'd provided for her, they'd laughed and joked and teased each other, and it even seemed as if she'd been poised for a kiss, not a few days past...(And oh! How he'd wanted to close that distance between them and press his lips to hers! But he wanted the decision to do such a thing to be hers more so. If Alice kissed him, he wanted it to be because she wanted to kiss him, not because he'd selfishly pushed himself upon her! All he wanted was the smallest sign...a sigh, her body leaning towards his...anything to show him that she might not be completely repulsed by the idea of he and she...)

Yes, he fancied he had much reason for his renewal of hope, and was determined that, at tonight's dinner, he'd finally tell her exactly how he felt about her. He'd tell her that they were not just good friends, but man and wife. Maybe then she would fully realize that he never would have wanted to bring her to Underland against her wishes, that he was just as much of an unwilling party as she was? Maybe then, when he leaned towards her, she'd sway towards him, and then-!

His luxuriously knit silk hose went on first. When he'd explained to the worms the reasoning why he wished for such a large quantity of their product, they'd been most obliging. It was nothing more than a fantasy at this point, he knew, but if Alice were to reach out, if she were to suddenly become curious and wish to explore his hosiery, he didn't want her fingers to find rough wool or unremarkable cotton. Next came his breeches, followed by his voluminous shirt, which was cinched closer to his body than it otherwise would have been by his waistcoat.

A new silken bowtie went around his throat, the same shade as his hose. Tarrant thought it a rather dull having his tie be all one color instead of a lively pattern, but Alice seemed to prefer dull. Was London-town not full of fashions such as these? Did she not still pine for that land, as evidenced by the veritable mountain of letters she'd sent through once she realized it was possible to do so?

Finally his jacket and shoes were put on. The shoes he'd had to unfortunately get from the Royal Cobbler, and that grated a bit on his pride, but he'd not the time to make those and everything else for the evening. When he stood to walk they creaked in protest, not having the same affability of his only other footwear-but they were new, and aside from the occasional protest, they were sedate. Therefore, they would be acceptable.

His hat he left off completely. Instead he bound his hair in a ribbon at the base of his neck, tying it into a smart bow. It felt odd without the familiar weight upon his head, but he was willing to try, at least. The hat was placed on a stand in the corner of his workroom, and he stroked the top of it gently. Nerves bundled, twisted, and churned his stomach. "Wish me luck, Fa," he said, bending at the waist to kiss the edge of the top before turning and quitting the room.

*~*~*~*

The table was already set outside; firecrackerflies and gloworms dotted the clearing; their meal was prepared. Thackery had done the honors, and then taken himself away from the scene. Tarrant was still nervous; this was the night, he told himself. This was the night he told Alice of their marriage, and hoped that she would understand, and forgive him for not speaking to her of it before.

"You look very lovely tonight, Alice," Tarrant told her, as she came into view. Her hair was swept away from her neck and into a loose chignon; she was wearing a dress that he'd crafted for her just the day before. Pulling out her chair for her solicitously, he waited for her to take her seat and then tucked her towards the table.

Their conversation traveled along usually pleasant lines at the first; Alice complimented the meal, and spoke of the beauty of the table settings; Tarrant tried his best to reply, but was distracted by his goal for the evening. Talking petered out between them, until finally:

"I've been meaning to ask you, Hatter..." Alice said, wiping her mouth with her napkin, "about something for quite some time. I wanted to ask before now, you see, as my curiosity was nearly brimming over...but, well then I didn't, and then the longer I waited to ask, the more ridiculous the asking seems to me, and I have my own ideas about it, but those very ideas are so confusing to me, and..." she trailed off, blushing. "I am going about this wretchedly, aren't I?"

What could possibly have his Alice in such a tizzy? She was hardly ever inarticulate. Usually she was able to tell him exactly how she felt about something, with words that were the very spirit of indicativeness!

"When I...awoke here, that first day, I discovered something in my possession that had not been there before."

Stilling, Tarrant nodded his head, just once. He knew where this was going; the very subject he'd wished to discuss with her she was broaching! A glass of water was in his grasp and brought to his lips for a sip; his mouth had gone dry.

"Oh?" he asked, politely, after setting the glass back down. Sweaty palms were wiped on his trouser legs as he smiled at her from across the table.

Alice laid a hand on the tablecloth; her left hand. The puzzle ring glinted in the candlelight, and Tarrant felt the same surge of satisfaction, pride and guilt at seeing it grace her finger as he usually did. Licking his lips, he removed his eyes from the shine of the gold to Alice's hazel eyes.

"This ring. It was on my finger when I awoke. But you knew that already, didn't you, Hatter?"

A shiver, starting from the top of his head and wriggling down to his toes, then back again, wracked Tarrant's body.

"Yes," he admitted.

"How did the ring get on my finger, Tarrant?"

Why was she asking him this now? All of his carefully laid plans shifted like sand stirred by the wind in the Crimson Desert. Just one more evening, he had told himself; one more evening where he tried to build what was between them into something more, something that would hopefully survive the weight of the Truth settling atop it; something not quite so fragile, not so new to Alice.

But he'd promised to not lie to her if she asked him a direct question. She'd used his name, his actual name, besides; Tarrant had to answer her.

"I put it there. On your finger."

Never had his plate seemed so interesting before now! Hatter found that he could not lift his gaze from that round food platter. The hunch of meat on there stood and gave him an encouraging gesture; he could almost hear the words Buck up, laddie! spoken, even if his dinner had not said a single thing.

"Why, Tarrant?"

Picking up his knife, Tarrant cut off a small piece of potato, speared it with the fork in his opposite hand, and then lifted it to his mouth. Alice wanted him to look at her; he could practically feel it. Instead he worked at cutting more of the potato into pieces, and said, "I wanted to." An unknown impulse had him adding, "Tis simply a gewgaw1, Alice."

"This is a simple nothing, Hatta. Have you forgotten I'm a merchant's daughter? That I myself have sailed the seas of Above trading items to earn the very substance of which this ring is crafted from? I know gold when I recognize it, Tarrant."

That same hand that had been taking its rest on the surface of the table floated upward, landed on his wrist, stilling the movements of the knife. "Don't tell me this is a simple gift." Was it his imagination, or was her voice quivering? In a pleading tone, she whispered, "Tarrant, please look at me."

Reluctantly, he did so. His glass face would give him away, he knew, but when she used his given name to make a request, Hatter did not know there of a single thing he would deny her.

"Why that finger? In London, rings on this particular finger mean something...very important."

A chuckle burbled up his throat. "Yes, yes. The thumb is too busy to be set apart. The forefinger and little fingers are only half-protected...the middle finger is called medicus by some, and is too opprobrious for the purpose of honor, so there was only one finger left that would be suitable..."2

Alice knew what he was saying; he could tell by the sudden stillness of her body, the way her fingers twitched upon his jacket sleeve, the sudden flushing of her ears, neck, and chest. This had not been the way he'd wished to tell her! Hazel met green, and he nodded to the question present in them.

"Are you telling me...?"

"Yes, Alice. My Alice..."

Her mouth was trembling, Tarrant noted. The lower lip looked so much fuller than the upper; he'd an urge to reach across, to pull himself towards her, throw aside the food and dishes, and clamber upon her lap. Instead, he forced himself to stay on his side of the table by gripping the edge tightly with both hands. It creaked under the strain, but held.

"Twas not something I ever expected to happen, my Alice," he heard himself babbling, "I wouldn't have chosen you for a wife for myself, never! Not that I wouldn't have chosen you if I'd been able to make such a choice, because a better choice there can not possibly be, but at the first, you were so young, and then, when you returned...why would you wish for a man such as me? Underland knew, though, and Bound us. Underland must have known what you would come to mean to me, and what I hope to come to mean to you, and I really mustn't speak in such an impertinent manner, but I simply can not help myself, my Alice, as I've wanted to tell you for so long that you are mine and I am yours and we belong to one another but I'd expected you to react poorly and you're not and you have no idea how pleased that makes me, Alice, no idea at all what this gift you're giving me means, and I swear-"

He leaned over the table towards her, eager to find out if her taste would be anything like what he had imagined. Would she taste like apple cider and cinnamon snap cookies, or lemon drops and snow? Would she be mellower, cream and lavender with a touch of honey? Or, quite possibly, an amalgam of all of those tastes?

"I swear, I will do all in my power to deserve this. To deserve you."

His mouth watered as he got closer, and closer, close enough that his intent had to be clear-his eyes flicked to her mouth, now just a hair's breadth away from his, and she must want him! She was watching his approach, seemed to be anticipating the moment their lips met as much as he! He'd told himself that he would wait for her to move towards him first, that she must be the one to kiss him, but Tarrant could not wait a moment longer, not while she was sitting there, her chest rapidly rising and falling, that dark look in her eyes, his promises and proclamations fresh from his lips...His heart felt like it could burst from his chest and she was so close but he didn't dare close his eyes because he didn't want to miss a single thing and-

Alice positively flinched-pushed-cowered away from him.

Hatter stopped, his forearm braced on the wingback chair's arm being the only thing holding him upright. Alice scuttled back further, her malt-liquor eyes completely round in her now-colorless face.

"Oh." Tarrant sat back, feeling a thousand ways the fool. "Oh, yes. I see. Of course, I…" Standing abruptly from the table with a clatter of dishes, he ran away, leaving Alice to sit alone amongst the cutlery and crumbling bread crusts.

"Hatter-?" he thought he heard, as he hurried further away, but that could not be the case. Alice did not want him. If Alice did not want him, then there would then be no reason for her to call him back to the table, would there? He made it to the house, threw the door open, and clambered up the stairs to his bedroom. In his state of agitation, he'd not bothered to shut any doors behind him. There was no need, after all. Alice would not follow him. He'd frightened her with his pernicious lust; she was no doubt desirous of his absence from her presence.

Tarrant's eyes fixated upon his wardrobe. There were very few items in it, as he was not a proud Hatter, nor the sort of Man who felt the need to have a new outfit for every day. He had the two jackets (well, not now just two-after the Frabjous Day it was insisted upon by all and sundry that he craft himself a second—no, three now, including the one that he'd made for himself for dinner) and two pairs of trousers, and that was all…unless one counted the other outfit hiding in the bottom drawer.

That particular outfit, though, Tarrant had tried very hard not to count as an actual part of his wardrobe. It was for a very special occasion, and was not to be included with the riff-raff of his everyday clothes, nor even to rest on the same shelf as his battle-tartan. No, this whole outfit-stockings, socks, shoes, jacket, waistcoat, gloves-had its own drawer, lined with cedar and sprinkled with fragrant oils-and once he'd completed work on it, he'd packed it away, to not be tempted by the promise of what those items offered. Now, though...

What did it matter? It most certainly didn't. Alice didn't want him. She didn't even want to be in Underland, did she? He'd been fooling himself to think otherwise.She'd…she'd…

He remembered the days they'd spent together outdoors and under the trees, the nights of laughter and small smiles. He recalled that one particular morning after staying up much-too-late when he'd carried her to bed and laid her down, of how she'd fumbled a hand out of her freshly-tucked-in covers and reached for him...of how she had asked him to stay with a husky murmur.

Had he imagined her growing regard? Had the madness shown him what he'd wished to see, instead of reality? It would not be the first time. Perhaps proper and acceptable London-style clothing made one more sane, and that was why he saw the Truth tonight. Alice didn't want him. In fact, it she had seemed almost...almost frightened of him.

He pushed aside the memory of her flinch with a grimace, and walked over to the wardrobe. He opened the tall double doors and looked at the aforementioned few items hanging. Then he looked down at the drawer that held It.

The drawers (empty) above that drawer (the one that held It—the suit he'd crafted while thinking that maybe, possibly, he could, if he was careful and humble and showed her how happy they could be together, Alice would not be adverse to the idea of Marrying him again, to make their Binding about more than Underland's whims) were taken out and flung across the room. Only one of them shattered in any way that was remotely satisfying, so there was no help for it in the end, was there? The madness required that something precious be destroyed, to commiserate with his shattered illusions of a happily-ever-after. As he wouldn't (couldn't!) bring himself to even think of the blue taffeta and silk resting on a form just behind a mirror to his right (and wasn't it funny how he knew exactly where it was when he was very carefully not thinking about it!) because to think on it and destruction and Alice all at the same moment would undo him.

So he went for that which was a representation of himself. He was the one to blame for this whole mess to begin with, wasn't he? For not protecting his Alice the way he should have, because he was afraid of losing her to Death? For not thinking of some alternative to dragging her below, once he'd learned of her illness? Or one could argue that his blame went back even further than that, to the day he first met her as a little girl with shining golden curls. If he'd run from her then, would she have ever met with one whom Underland would Bind her to? Or would she be free of Underland, able to live Above as she so clearly wished to do, not subjected to the unwanted advances of her freakish husband...

The drawer plopped out at his feet with a dull clatter. Pushing aside the layers of carefully selected tissue paper, he grasped the item on top-a ruffled shirt-and proceeded to rip it apart with his bare hands. It wasn't enough. Soon more fabric was flying past his face as he laughed, and his cheeks were wet…he only stopped his flurry of motion when the last scraps of the former suit floated down past his face, and he was panting, either from relief or shame, he couldn't really say.

He turned around, and Alice was in the doorway. Her mouth hung open, making her the most unbecoming he'd ever seen her. With a snort (that expression settled his emotions-it was definitely shame he was feeling, not relief) he pushed past where she stood in the doorway, disappointed that he couldn't slam the door the way he wished to with the way she was blocking his path.

"Hatta..." Her hands reached for him, but he shrugged away from her touch. There were many things he wanted Alice to feel for him, but Pity had never been one of them. The Poor Mad Hatter, who was in love with a wife that cowered away from his touch. No, he did not want to be that man to her—but it seemed he had no choice in the matter. He already was.

"Nay, Alice. Dinna...dinna trouble yerself."

If she'd reacted in such a way to him simply leaning forward to kiss her, how could there ever be any possible way they could become what he had wished them to be?

No. She couldn't know. He would not willingly lay his heart bare for her once again. Even as he promised himself this, he knew that if Alice ever broached the subject, he would tell her all. Everything. Every dream he'd ever had of he-and-she.

He'd admit to the nights he'd thought her present, while she was Above doing her things that needed doing and answering the questions she'd needed to answer. Of the moments when he'd reached for her and found nothing but cold sheets and fragmented dreams; he'd tell her how, in his bouts of more extreme delusion, he'd wake to find himself stroking a feather pillow, not a rounded Alice belly, as he'd thought in his languor. How the jerking tingles against his palm were not the shifting of a new life within her, but the mere pins-and-needles of a hand fallen asleep and dreaming right along with his mind. How her murmured endearments faded away until they revealed themselves to be nothing more than the Wind, enjoying its sport of teasing a lonely madman.

All such confessions would accomplish was more Alice Pity directed at him. Tarrant would not be able to survive any more than he'd already been given.

He was not able to slam his bedroom door shut behind him due to Alice's presence in it still; she had not moved a centimeter. Tarrant would simply have to settle for slamming the front door of the Windmill House, instead. Perhaps he should go and visit Mallymkun at her burrow...anything, to be out of what he'd long ago begun considering their house.

*~*~*~*

Alice watched Tarrant storm out of the room, feeling as though something deep within her chest was being forcibly wrenched out the further he walked from her. She reached for him again, but pulled her hand back at the last moment, recalling the tracks of his tears and the abject misery with which he'd laughed as she'd watched him destroy something that—from the way it had been packed in his wardrobe—obviously meant Something.

Stomach flopping, she stood stupidly in the doorway. The urge to go after him was great—extremely so!-but she'd no idea what she'd say to him if she did. Would the words that came out of her mouth be ones of forgiveness, or bitter recrimination? Parts of her were angry, incandescently angry (How did this happen? They were married? Had that been his goal, all along? It hadn't sounded like that, from his rush of words at the table, but...wouldn't she remember something of what he'd described?) and yet other, stronger parts...when he'd pushed past her, without even trying to really pause to speak to her... hurt. A lot.

Did he hurt as much as she did right now? Alice suspected it was more. After all, she had been the one to cower away from he, hadn't she? She hadn't been prepared for him to actually tell her that they were married. She'd suspected something of the sort, had even begun to hope that maybe it meant he cared for her as more than a friend or a sister, that maybe it was his was of declaring an intent to court her. And now...

Walking into the room as if in the midst of a dream, Alice floated over to the closest pile of discarded fabric. Going down to her knees, she picked up the largest scrap immediately available to her fingers and held it aloft. Rich, swirling embroidery in a multitude of colors against a deep midnight blue met her eyes. "What were you?" she murmured.

She gathered up all the spare bits she could find (some of them were in unusual places, like the top of the wardrobe and, somehow, underneath the plant in the corner) and was just reaching under a tall mirror to grasp what seemed like a bit of tartan when her fingers encountered a different fabric texture than what she'd been expecting. Crawling on her hands and knees, she got closer to the mysterious fabric.

It seemed to be a silk of some sort, in a familiar shade of blue, and seemed to go up, and up...from what she could see under the mirror, at any rate. She stood, and using most of her strength, pushed the mirror aside. What she found on the other side had her gaping in a mixture of astonishment, befuddlement, and a sense of vertigo. Had she made this discovery even a few weeks ago, she likely would have fainted dead away, she mused.

It was a dress, although dress felt like a terrible understatement for such a glorious garment. What she'd thought was regular silk in reality the softest silk tulle she'd ever felt. The body of the dress was beaded with thousands—possibly hundreds of thousands—of seed beads in a complimentary pale, pale blue, accenting the lace that made up the majority of the gown. Small straps held up the bodice, which had a v-neckline low enough to make Alice blush. The tulle she'd felt previously was actually the hostess-style overskirt, which was topped at the waist with a centered bow, a train bunched around the base that would, she estimated, be at least a foot long.

As delightful as the entirety of the dress was, however, her eyes kept being drawn back to the bow in the center. There was something about it that was just so familiar, but she could not figure it out. Hesitantly she reached out to touch it, startled to feel that despite appearances it was not made out of the same fabric as the rest of the gown. In fact, it felt very suspiciously like...

"My slip," she whispered. The very slip she'd used to dress herself in the Room of Doors, the slip that Hatter had used a scrap of to fashion her a gown when...

The implications struck her, making it hard for Alice to breathe. This dress was for her. It must have taken Hatter, whose fingers could fly at a rate that would make a London seamstress murderously envious, days to do. (It would take those very same envious seamstresses and milliners weeks or, in some cases, months to complete.) Just as the repairs to the house had been for her, and all of the innumerable other small things Tarrant did every day (convince trees to give shade, prepare picnic lunches, fluff pillows) were for her.

The scraps of fabric, the gown, the glint of gold that was ever-present on her left-hand ring finger, his words of love at the table before she'd...before she'd...

It was all too much, just too much-! She was a terrible, horrible, selfish child, and she did not deserve such devotion!

She bolted from the room with her small basket of fabric, not bothering to replace the mirror.

*~*~*~*

Author's Notes:

1 A showy trifle, a trinket

2 Quote from Macrobius, a Roman grammarian. It ends "...so the only finger left is the pronubus, or wedding finger"

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