Alice’s heart was pounding as she drew closer to her destination. Every beat seemed to shake her chest, her whole frame. It was a cloudy night with no moon to cast its light along the pathway, and the lantern proved a feeble substitute. But Alice was used to being abroad at night. There were heart-stopping moments when her passage would startle a bird from its sleep, sending it blundering from its roost, or cause a nervous deer to break free from the woods and bound along ahead of her, veering from side to side with a flash of its white tail, an instinctive response to the fear of a hunter’s gun.
Indeed, poachers were the only people encountered by Alice on her night forays into the woods. They strode past her, caps pulled far down over their eyes in an effort at disguise, rabbits slung from a belt, the gun cocked over a shoulder, where yet more prized specimens hung. Or they would melt away into the woods as Alice approached, blending in with the trees, as unwilling to be seen as Alice was. She was never in any doubt as to their identity, recognising the height, breadth, gait and demeanour of these local men, who were trying to add to their family’s larder or to earn themselves a few pence from the local butcher. Alice didn’t dwell too long on the rights and wrongs of it. It seemed to her that the valley held an abundance of rabbits and wildfowl, and it puzzled her as to how some landowner could claim ownership of such wild creatures.
For their part, the men grew used to seeing Alice out at night with her lantern and basket, often around the time of the full moon which added extra potency to the herbs gathered then. The poachers gave her little heed as she posed no threat to them. They didn’t think to question why a cloudy, moonless night that suited them best for their secret endeavours should also find Alice abroad with her lantern.
Alice had waited until the house was in darkness and all were sound asleep before cautiously rising and slipping out, lantern as yet not lit, shawl wrapped tightly around her, her basket clutched to her. Steady breathing from Sarah’s room reassured her that she wouldn’t be missed. The moonless night suited her purpose well, although treading the familiar path by lantern light, in haste, was less easy than she expected.
Her pounding heart as she approached her destination was caused by a mixture of exertion, agitation and fear. The deer pool lay far back from the path and was so well hidden that she was convinced that only she, and the deer who drank there, could know about it. It was the perfect spot. She stepped through the almost invisible gap in the trees. It was even darker in here, and she’d extinguished the lantern, keen not to draw attention to her deviation from the path should anyone be watching. Alice stood still for a moment, trying to accustom her eyes to the all-encompassing blanket of darkness. There was just the faintest lifting of the gloom ahead of her, where the absence of trees around the pool allowed some light to penetrate. She took a cautious step or two, breathing deeply whilst trying to remain as quiet as possible.
An awareness of the passage of time increased her anxiety. With her arms stretched out in front of her, she felt her way forwards. Her fingertips brushed the damp ridged softness of leaves, the rasping roughness of bark, felt the electric emptiness of air. Then there was a scent that wasn’t damp moss and crushed bracken, but warmer, muskier. Her questing fingertips found a different texture: rough tweed, linen.
She exhaled, releasing some of her pent-up tension.
‘Alice’, he breathed, reaching out to her through the gloom, drawing her in to him, safe now and all wrapped up in the dark. ‘Alice.’ Again, breathed into her hair.