The traveling bag Nathaniel had given Alice was small – too small, she thought, to truly carry anything – but as she filled it, with ample room remaining, she began to realize just how little she possessed in the world.
Almost of the items, in fact, had come to her second-hand, after she had asked if she might make use of a few things from among the Camerons' undamaged possessions. Now packed inside was a small mirror, although Alice had found less and less reason to use it as the weeks had passed and was considering giving it to Cora, a pair of knitted woolen stockings, and a few hair pins. Without a cap, however, the pins were relatively useless, and Alice had taken to simply braiding her hair back to keep it out of the way. Nathaniel had also given her a thin deerskin, to wear over her shoulders if she became cold on their journey, and she folded it into a neat square, surprised at how soft and supple it felt against her skin. Her task complete – she would fill the rest of the bag in the morning with food and extra provisions – she laid it gently aside at the foot of the bed.
How strange it would be to return to her house in London, to her room with the powder blue wallpaper and windows facing the square, and see all her belongings, the things that once she could not have imagined living without! Her wardrobe full of silk taffeta and printed Indian cotton gowns, her silver combs and brushes, her tortoiseshell fans, even her weathered copy of Pamela that hopefully still remained hidden, wedged as it was between her brocade headboard and the wall. Truthfully, she had not thought of her things in so long that it was somehow a surprise to realize that she still possessed them.
Tomorrow they would be leaving. She stood up, taking in the features of the cabin's small interior. After the morning, she would never see this place again.
Dinner that night was a motley affair, mostly an excuse to use the last of the stores that could not be brought with them on the trip to Albany. Cora was particularly quiet as they ate, Alice unusually talkative, as she showered Nathaniel with questions about the journey, what the terrain would be like, if the weather would be fair.
"How long will it take, do you think?"
"Two nights and a bit," he replied. "Maybe a little longer as we can't keep to the roads."
"Why not?"
"Anyone we'll come across won't look kindly on men like us escorting you both. Best to avoid any misunderstandings."
He paused to take another bite of food.
"And we will have to make a stop along the way," he continued.
"A stop? What for?"
"Don't you worry none, miss. We'll get you to Albany soon enough."
The room descended into silence again as they each returned to their meals. The store of nervous energy Alice had felt all day was beginning to diminish; her muscles felt achy and tired, as if her body were already adjusting to the harsh pace of travel.
She quickly glanced across the table at Uncas, who seemed uncommonly preoccupied with his food. Cora was right: he had changed. He did not look at her anymore (as far as she could tell), he avoided her company, and he had not spoken directly to her since the evening they had been left together.
Can you really blame him? You told him to let you alone.
Perhaps he no longer cared for her at all. Perhaps he was simply counting the days and nights until she would at last be gone, until he was free of her. It was all for the best, then, that she should leave. She would be doing him a kindness.
None of these assertions managed to displace the icy grasp that Alice could sense forming in the bottom of her stomach.
There was little to do, after the meal was over and Alice and Cora had tidied up around the hearth. Everything was stored away, or ready to go with the sunrise. There was a palpable air of finality about the place, which Alice had always before associated with the excitement of travel, with the thrill of being on the way to somewhere new, but this was different. It was melancholy, like a faint requiem.
Ready for sleep, she made her way over to the bed – Cora and the three men had gone outside to enjoy one last hour of the evening among the pale light of the stars – only to have something catch her eye, something small sitting atop her traveling bag where nothing had been there before.
After stooping to pick it up, she sat hesitantly at the edge of the bed, examining the object that lay within the hollow of her palm.
It was a wooden carving, not expertly made, but capturing the essence of its subject, which, in this case, was the rounded shape of a fawn, a tight spiral of body and spindly legs, notches marking the tufts within two extended, wide-brimmed ears. She held it lightly with her fingertips, biting her bottom lip, trying to take a few shallow breaths without succumbing to tears. She almost did not want to look at it, to think about all that it held, but she could not take her eyes away.
After a time, the tightness in her chest diminished, and she lay down upon the bed and closed her eyes, the wooden figure wrapped firmly in the hand that she curled against her heart.