Alice sits in the large
window of her father's
library, looking at the
garden and trees and

fields beyond. Silent
except for distant voices,
from the billiard room,
where her father is

with friends of his.  
Laughter, deep, haughty.
She hates it when the
men see her, and want

to haul her, onto their
laps to play horse riding
and over hedges in the
fox hunt. She pretends

not to hear. The garden
view brings Dougridge
to sight; the gardener
pushing wheelbarrow

of manure. Seldom speaks,
nod of head, touch of
forelock type. The men's
laughter gets louder; she

imagines herself tucked
up in her mother's arms,
safe, warm, and out of
harm's way. Mother is

out for the day. Taylor
drove her; he of sour
face, dark eyed and hair.
Alice holds her doll tight

to her chest, arranging
the mother made dress.
One day, one time, one
of her father's friends

held her on his lap and
tickled her to tears, his
thick fingers squeezing
her thighs, his alcohol

breath in her ears, soft
wording sounds, she
didn't understand, she
wanted to get down,

and did. They laughed.
She still felt his fingers'
grip long after the laughter.
She sees the maid from

the kitchen throw stale
bread to the birds, thin
girl, thin arms and fingers
and features. Brought her

breakfast in bed once,
when unwell; sad, quiet,
sickly girl. The laughter
stops. Doors open

and close. Voices, greetings
and farewells, an odd laugh.
Then silence. No going
riding on a hunt today,

no horse-play; no perched
on knees with thighs finger
squeezed. She hugs her
doll and kisses its head.

Your mother will be back,
but not until you're asleep,
and tucked in dreams and
bed, her grumpy father said.