I do not own The Last of the Mohicans.
I have loved it for nearly thirty years.
The Hero Always Peeks
Alicia Elizabeth Munroe stands on the edge of the shore, breathing deep the first full breath of fresh air she has been able to manage since her departure from Fort William Henry.
Plump Mrs McCann had brought her fresh clothes . . .
". . . dearie, been through such a trial ya have, 'ere, let me 'elp you . . ."
. . . and helped her . . .
". . . nice and new and fresh'll make ya feel right as rain . . ."
. . . into them.
And that had been all well and good.
"Mmph-"
"Alice, are you alright?"
"Oh. Yes."
It is but here . . .
"Mmph-"
. . . with the constant walking . . .
"Alice?"
. . . she cannot breathe.
And so at a rest days into their trek, she creeps away from them.
Quite a distance until she is certain she is alone.
And, very careful of her surroundings, undresses.
All the way down . . .
Ahhh . . .
. . . to her shift.
Stockings. Stocking garters.
Uncas-made shoes.
So much softer and more comfortable than the hated leather and buckle she has left behind in a distant glade.
Thusly she stands, breathing deep and free.
And finds presently . . .
I really must be going back. They will come looking.
. . . she can not . . .
Oh, but . . .
. . . force herself to . . .
. . . I do so love to breathe.
. . . rewrap and lace . . .
Ever so.
. . . her constrictive stay.
She stands there, caught between Portland Square . . .
Quite an ocean away, after all.
. . . and the wilderness . . .
And who is to know?
. . . through which she currently trods.
Finally, feeling nervously wrong but breathing so right she can not bear to mourn it, Alice bends ever so easily . . .
Oh, the divinity . . .
. . . and picks up her pocket.
Wraps and ties 'round her waist.
(Only a few snatches of cloth, she wonders how she will manage to discreetly steal away to wash them when her time comes 'round in the wilderness.)
Her bustle she leaves where it has dropped, for the fashion of lifted skirts and small waists seems a jest here in the wilderness.
Petticoat tied and now the stomacher, pins oh so carefully placed as she now has no stay between the sharp tips and her shift-covered skin.
The gown petticoat next followed by the gown itself and more pins she hopes will not prick her as she forages for nuts and berries.
Ribbon skirts she leaves untied, having no care to raise her skirts so fashionably.
And she is grown weary of dressing.
This she had chosen for its beauty. Much finer and fancier than the traveling clothes she had worn en route to the fort.
The birds and strange foliage, happy accents in a time of ugliness.
The color compliments her hair color, the cut lending a more sophisticated air to her girlish demeanor, though she had forgotten her neckerchief in the evacuation of the fort.
And now . . .
There must be an easier way.
. . . it is a frustration to her.
I will discover it.
And she returns then to camp, decisively leaving the hated stay and bustle behind on the forest floor.
A modest improvement for the time being.
Beginning to carefully formulate a response to her older sister's inevitable interrogation of her lack . . .
I could not breathe.
. . . of proper undergarment.
Uncas of the Mohican people remains easily out of sight as the fair-haired girl retraces her steps to camp.
He had followed her at a distance when she had drifted away from camp.
She had stood by the river, seeming to watch the birds on wing high above.
He, leaned easily into a tree, long gun comfortably cradled against his torso, had watched, alert for danger.
And then to his mild surprise, she had started to undress.
Concerned for her preferred modesty, he had wished to turn away.
More pressing concern for her safety had stayed him.
He had watched her undress a myriad of bits and pieces of accoutrement for which he had no name.
All the way down to a wrapping of some contrived complication.
It appeared uncomfortable and he noted that when she had freed herself from the garment, she had breathed deep and the drawnness from her features softened.
She had halted her disrobing then, remaining adorned only in some white fabric to the knee.
Stockings.
And the moccasins he had made for her.
A half-turn away from him, her long, fair hair the color of silken corn husk had stirred in the breeze.
And he had stood.
Observing the delicate defined line of her jaw, her slender nose.
The fullness of her lips.
He had looked upon her, looked upon her vulnerability, her simple, unfettered beauty.
And seen her.
He likes the sight of her better this way.
More free.
And he had, for her dignity, remained well out of sight.
Presently she had redressed, a long and arduous task he wondered how she managed.
And when she had gone, he had stepped forward.
He hunches down, eyeing the garments she has left behind.
The wise man does not waste, does not leave that which may be useful.
He inspects the items.
Lifts the stay, though he does not know the name.
Made of quilted cotton and reinforced with whalebone.
He tests it, stretching it between his hands.
It is rigid and inflexible and he wonders why a woman would choose to wear such a torture device of her own free will.
He supposes he could use his knife to dismember it, much like the ribcage of a deer.
Discovers the lacing string at the back.
And takes that instead.
The bustle, more of a lump of fabric to be tied around the waist, he can think to serve no purpose.
He scavenges what he can.
And leaves the rest in mystification.
And observes, during the remainder of the day's travel, that she seems to move quicker, smoother.
Breathe easier.
And he smiles quietly . . .
"What gives you such leave for joy today, sir?" inquires the dark-haired sister with mild conversational interest.
. . . and says nothing.
She wishes to pull back her hair, so damp and sticking to the back of her sunburned upper back.
He removes a length of white fabric, not sinew, from his person.
Cuts a goodly amount for her . . .
The string of my stay was smooth like this.
. . . and Alice gratefully ties back her hair.
Well, I hope you enjoyed this, BlueSaffire, it's written especially for you!
*stay-less, bustle-less hugs*
Not TMI but I wrote this chapter much easier after I took off my bra, ha!
And I kinda shot myself in the foot with this little plot bunny because I didn't know just how much goes into dressing a colonial artistocraric woman, wow!
Seriously, you should Youtube it.
*grabs sweatpants and T-shirt and crocs with joy*
Anyway thanks for reading!
Everyone appreciates feedback. Leave a review if you like. :)