After that first unsuccessful visit, Alice and Cora were not encouraged to return to the wikwam of the aunt. For the next few days their stay was relatively uneventful. They had meals with Sanquen and the others in the camp, but were not expected to do any work for the community, and while this lack of obligation was at first freeing, they soon realized that there was little with which to fill their time. The men did not linger around the wikwam, and the two women could not have conversations with each other all day. Cora, who complained of a nearly constant fatigue, began to take long naps in the afternoon, while Alice wandered outside, picking flowers or sitting by the river, thinking how dissatisfied she was.
Once she came up to some of the Delaware wives who were boiling concoctions for dying and staining fabric. Alice indicated through gestures that she would be willing to help them, but they seemed to think this proposition far more amusing than serious, and would not entertain the offer. Alice took umbrage at the rebuff and did not approach them again. Instead, she passed the hours playing with some of the younger children. She did not care for the older ones; to her mind they were forward, and she found their stares insolent. But the toddlers had a sweet, accepting innocence about them and she began to become fond especially of Tiskemanis' placid baby, the aptly-named Turtle, whom Sanquen was usually hauling around.
Babyminding was a novel occupation, at least. Turtle loved to sit on Alice's hip, twining his chubby fingers in her blonde hair, as she strolled about the camp. She could put him down in a patch of wildflowers and be fairly certain he would not move from the spot she had left him in, even though he could crawl. (The thought even crossed her mind once or twice in a vague way that it might not be so difficult if, someday, she and Uncas were to become parents to such a mild-natured youngster as this—although she was still too vexed at the latter personage to think too long on the subject of baby-making.)
She had just given Turtle back to his mother on one such occasion, after she had watched him until the afternoon's light was beginning to fade and he was becoming hungry, when Cora appeared, looking pale and anxious. "There you are, Alice. I have been looking everywhere for you."
"We were up on that little hill. The flowers grow so thickly there." Alice scanned her sister's face. "Has something happened?"
"Yes," Cora murmured. "Something has happened. Alice...I believe that I...may be with child."
Coming on the heels of Alice's own fancies about such a possibility, this news felt rather flat and distasteful. "Really?" she said at last, slowly. "Have you told Nathaniel?"
"No, of course not. I had to tell my own sister first. Besides...I still only suspect." Cora took her arm and together they started to walk back through the camp to their dwelling. "But if I am right, then we cannot stay here. We must leave as soon as possible."
Alice felt bewildered. "Cora, if so, would it not be better to stay? There are women here who could help. I know nothing about such things..."
"I will not give birth to a child in an Indian camp," Cora said vehemently. "Nor could I spend half a year here, waiting to do so...Rather I would do it alone in the wilderness—but ideally, in my own home."
Alice did not know what to say to this. A small part of her felt vaguely affronted, for Uncas's sake, by Cora's absolute rejection of the idea of remaining amongst the Delaware; although she herself thought that she might feel the same way, were she in her sister's position.
"You must tell Nathaniel," she said, after a brief pause. "I will leave you alone, if you want to tell him, tonight."
Cora squeezed her hand. "Oh, Alice, I had not been feeling like myself for some time and I did not understand why. I think now I know...it is easier. Yes, I will talk to Nathaniel tonight. And now I must go in and lie down—I am so very tired."
Alice left her sister with a quick kiss and a promise to check on her later, and then she backed out of the wikwam. Where to go? As she stood there, indecisive, Ben ran by with a couple of other youngsters. He stopped, seeing her, and hesitated, as if he might say something, and then darted away again. To be a boy, Alice thought. To have nothing to do but run about and shoot bows and go fishing. For was it not girls and women who endured all the world's hardships? She realized she had meant to ask Ben where he had been sleeping; after that first night he had not shown up at the wikwam again, and Cora had asked her to find out if possible.
She wondered, too, where Nathaniel was. Uncas, it could be assumed, was still holding court at the bedside of Chingachgook's sister, as befitted a loyal nephew, she thought drearily. But she had seen Nathaniel leave with Nachenum earlier in the afternoon while she had been up on the hill with Turtle. Perhaps they were hunting. If that were the case, Nathaniel might not even be back that night. Alice wandered a little down the dusty camp path, then stopped, turning.
She felt at odds with everyone and everything.
Her name was called. It was Sanquen who had hailed her, brown eyes concerned as she trotted up, saying something in her quick sweet voice. Alice obediently let herself be ushered back into the groups of wikwams.
Uncas's cousin squeezed her forearm, as if to tell her to stay; then darted off, reappearing shortly a bowl of gruel and urging her to eat from it. Alice complied without argument, though she did not feel particularly hungry; at least her next few moments were being occupied, at least it gave her something to do. She smiled wanly at Sanquen, thinking that there was something very kind and knowing about the girl's eyes, although she was not so far out of childhood. Given the age difference, Alice could not have considered her as a confidante, even if they had shared a language; but it was nice to be treated sympathetically.
She had not spent any time with Uncas at all in the past week. He arrived at the wikwam after she fell asleep (and it was only from waking in the night she knew this), and was gone in the mornings when she woke, although Alice could not blame him for that because she often did not rise until midmorning, as there was so little to do once she did get up. If they happened to encounter each other about the camp he might ask her shortly if she was in want of anything and then be on his way once she replied that she was not. In fact she was in want of a great deal of things but she did not believe he could provide her with any of them.
Nachenum she had thought might spare her a cordial glance, at least, as they were acquaintances; but he too seemed to avoid her now that the journey was over. So Sanquen was the only friendly face besides Cora's that she had seen in some time. And, Alice had to admit, although she was pretending she did not care, it was becoming very wearisome indeed.
After eating, she thanked Sanquen for the food, receiving a smile for her troubles, and retraced her steps back to their wikwam, thinking to tell Cora that she remembered she had seen Nathaniel leaving to hunt earlier, and to advise her sister not to be worried in the event that her husband was not back by nightfall.
But by the time she made it back to their dwelling, Cora was already sleeping. Alice had forgotten that she had intended to take her nap. It seemed unimportant to disturb her now, so Alice quietly settled down in her own space and prepared to wait until she woke.
I wonder that Cora can sleep at all, with such news to think about. How did this happen? Well...not how did it happen, exactly...yet...a baby should have had the decency to wait until we were in our own homes. What if I—but no, I will not think such things.
Cora will be a good mother. She was gentle with Ben when he frustrated the rest of us. A baby with her curls would be very sweet. Though maybe it will look like Nathaniel. Alice frowned. It wasn't that she thought Nathaniel ill-favored, but she had a hard time imagining his sharp features in an infant's form. Better to picture the child with her sister's sparkling dark eyes and pleasing coloring. I will be its aunt. They should have a boy. A boy will have an easier life. Oh, I am growing cynical, am I not? But it is no surprise if I am! Nothing but toil and drudgery. No excitement or diversion.
Her eyes fell on Uncas' journeybag, which he appeared to have left slightly open that morning, sitting against the wall. She had always wondered what he kept in there, since it seemed to contain a multitude of items that changed from time to time. It occurred to her as she crawled over and pulled the bag to her own space that she might well find something in there that she did not want to see...a scalp, perhaps. How gruesome! But there was a frisson of excitement in the idea of going through his things since he was always so circumspect...and she was so very bored.
Her wish for diversion was not to be satisfied until near the bottom of the bag her fingers encountered paper. What could it be? She extracted a wrinkled envelope with wonder, and turned it over to see to whom it was addressed. Herself and Cora. Where could Uncas possibly have found this and why had he not given it to them? Alice glanced over at Cora, but her sister was still soundly asleep underneath the furs.
The seal on the envelope was already broken.
August -, 1757
Dear Miss Munro, and Miss Alice,
I write to you at the behest of your father, Colonel George Munro, who is my cousin. I trust that this letter finds you safely in his care, as he communicated to me that he has been expecting you at the fort for some days now. I can only imagine how the journey from England was; I made the trip myself as a young bride, many years ago now, and should not want to do it again. It is my understanding that you are to be wed, Miss Munro; may I offer you my congratulations and blessing? I do not know how long you will be under your father's care, or where you plan to eventually settle with your husband, but I wish to extend an open invitation to my home here in Albany for a visit at any time that you may find yourself in the city. It would be my pleasure to have either of you ladies stay with me for as long as you wished. My late husband left me well-appointed and there is plenty of room here on Chestnut Street. Anyone may give you directions. I hope either to hear from you soon, announcing your safe arrival on these shores and at Fort Oswego, or to meet you in person.
My kindest regards and best wishes,
Mary Elizabeth Gordon
Alice read the letter twice through and then sat staring, feeling her fingers grow cold as she clutched the paper. To hear from a relative here in America, and another woman—who must surely better understand what it was like to live in such circumstances—was a sudden, unexpected gift. But it was difficult to receive quite as gladly knowing that it had not actually been delivered to her. When had it come into Uncas's possession? The envelope was so dirty and wrinkled that it could not have been a recent acquisition.
Alice felt a slow passion of anger building in her breast. And then she realized that she could not confront Uncas with the letter; to do so would be to admit that she had gone through his belongings. She did not care if that would make him angry or not, but it was such a juvenile thing to do that she felt she would not be able to face him with the proper amount of outrage.
Should I not give it to Cora? Cora surely does not know of its existence. Yet a tiny seed of doubt lodged itself somewhere inside her mind, reminding her—They did not think you should be aware of your own father's death; how less important would they consider the contents of this letter? Oh, it was not unlikely. She would say nothing to her sister. Even if Cora did not know, she had her own news to think about; and an outdated letter from a distant relation would not be of singular value to her now.
Scanning the letter through once more, Alice quickly folded it back up and tucked it inside the envelope, then placed it back at the bottom of Uncas's bag. She put the bag back against the wall where it had been, and then sat cross-legged on her mat of hides, watching Cora sleep.
Things were very, very not right.
It was not generally expected that hunters in twos bring back any more meat than what they and their immediate families could consume, so once Nathaniel and Nachenum had caught a plump summer rabbit and a couple of quail, they decided to head back instead of spending the night in the forest. The meat would be enough for them to bring back to their wikwams, and Sanquen could later stew the bones into a nourishing broth for her mother.
Fish was the mainstay of the Delaware diet, but Nathaniel preferred fowl if it could be come by. He had the dressed rabbit and quail slung over his shoulder now as they moved through the forest back in the direction of the village. The evening was warm and pleasant. He and Nachenum had barely exchanged a word that afternoon, having fallen into the practical silence of men with a common task ahead of them, but now Nachenum looked back and asked if they were going to eat together.
Nathaniel said he didn't think so; Cora and Alice were likely already retired and so it would be best to cook the meat by the communal fire. He would bring them their portions later, and some to Uncas and his father.
Nachenum acknowledged that, and they came into camp just as the sun had fallen as far as the tops of the trees. They were not the only people to be using the fire; several other families were already gathered around it, some cooking fresh fish that had been caught that day, some children helping themselves to the pot of bubbling corn. Before long they had their own meat spitted and started roasting.
Uncas appeared by the time the meat was done. Nathaniel, thinking his brother looked tired, offered him a slightly blackened rabbit leg. He wondered if he should have suggested that Uncas accompany them in the woods; Uncas had been spending most of his time keeping Chingachgook company by the aunt's sick bed. He wondered if his brother were doing penance for something. It seemed likely, given his more sombre than normal expression.
"How does Nohkumihs?" Nathaniel inquired, since he had not been by to see her that day—nor yesterday, if memory served. He did not feel especially guilty for this, since their aunt had always preferred Uncas to him, but the call of duty was inexorable.
Uncas gestured, indicating that her condition had not changed noticeably. He stripped the remaining meat from the rabbit leg and tossed the bone to one of the dogs who had been circling hopefully around his feet for the last few minutes.
Ben approached from out of the shadows, unaccompanied. He wore different clothing of uncertain origin that more resembled what the Delaware wore. Watching him come near, Nathaniel thought that what distinguished him now was really more of an attitude, the way he held his head and shoulders.
"Want something to eat, Xanikw?" The old nickname was hard to forget. Perhaps realizing this, Ben did not seem offended. He waited as Nathaniel stripped off a portion from the cooked underside of the quail and gave it to him.
"The other boys your own age," Uncas said. "Where are they?"
Ben shrugged as he began to chew, saying around the food, "There is no one same my age. Some younger, most older."
Nathaniel privately thought that this might well be a good thing; Ben was the type of child that would be too competitive with his peers, though he could learn from the older boys. But Uncas frowned slightly. "So you aren't going with them when they go to the river or practice with their bows?"
"One time," Ben said, with an air of unconcern.
"That boy who was here the first day. Nachenum's cousin. What was his name, brother?"
It was Nathaniel's turn to shrug, thinking that Uncas was unduly concerned over Ben's progress. "Can't remember." He poured out a ladle of soup and offered some to Ben, since the boy still looked hungry. Ben accepted it and sipped at it, sucking through his teeth as the corn continued to bubble in the utensil.
Uncas persisted, "He's not watching out for you?"
Ben shook his head. "Just first day," he said, indifferently.
"And where have you been at nights?"
Ben waved a hand vaguely in an approximation of Uncas's earlier gesture. "Thank you for food. I will go." He darted away as suddenly as he had come, a sudden reminder to Nathaniel of how quick the boy had been in the city when he had first caught him trying to pick his pocket.
He helped himself to more corn soup. The meat was good, but did not fill one up completely. Besides, he meant to take the rest of it to Cora and Alice.
"Something wrong?" he said, realizing that Uncas was still staring into the shadows between the wikwams where Ben had disappeared.
"Yes," Uncas said. "Something is wrong."