A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [135]
“Oh, aye? Well, that’s grand, no? Let’s take it out to the light, shall we, so I can have a proper look.”
She stepped out of the shed, sighing in pleasure at the touch of the cool air. She was stripped to her shift, the muslin so wet with sweat that I could see not only the dark rounds of her areolae, but even the tiny bulge of her popped-out navel, where the cloth clung to the massive curves of her belly.
Marsali sat down with another huge sigh of relief, stretching her legs out, bare toes pointed. Her feet were somewhat swollen, and blue veins showed, distended, beneath the transparent skin of her legs.
“Ah, it’s good to sit! So then, a chuisle, show me what ye’ve got.”
I took the opportunity to circle round behind her, as Germain displayed his prize, and covertly check for bruises or other sinister signs.
She was thin—but Marsali simply was thin, bar the bulge of her pregnancy, and always had been. Her arms were slender, but hard with muscle, as were her legs. There were smudges of tiredness beneath her eyes—but she had three small children, after all, besides the discomforts of pregnancy to keep her awake. Her face was rosy and damp, thoroughly healthy-looking.
There were a couple of small bruises on her lower legs, but I dismissed those; pregnant women did bruise easily, and with all the obstructions presented by living in a log cabin and traversing wild mountains, there were few people on the Ridge—male or female—not sporting the odd contusion.
Or was I only seeking excuses, not wanting to admit the possibility of what Brianna had suggested?
“One for me,” Germain was explaining, touching the eggs, “and one for Joan, and one for Félicité, and one for Monsieur L’Oeuf.” He pointed at the melonlike swell of her stomach.
“Ah, now, what a sweet lad,” Marsali said, pulling him close and kissing his smudged forehead. “Ye’re my wee nestling, to be sure.”
Germain’s beam of pleasure faded into a look of speculation as he came in contact with his mother’s protruding belly. He patted it cautiously.
“When the egg hatches inside, what do you do with the shell?” he inquired. “Can I have it?”
Marsali went pink with suppressed laughter.
“People dinna come in shells,” she said. “Thank God.”
“You are sure, Maman?” He eyed her belly dubiously, then poked it gently. “It feels like an egg.”
“Well, so it does, but it’s not. That’s only what Papa and I call a wee one before it’s born. You were ‘Monsieur L’Oeuf’ once, aye?”
“I was?” Germain looked thunderstruck at this revelation.
“Ye were. So were your sisters.”
Germain frowned, shaggy blond fringe almost touching his nose.
“No, they weren’t. They are Mademoiselles L’Oeufs.”
“Oui, certainement,” Marsali said, laughing at him. “And perhaps this one is, too—but Monsieur is easier to say. Here, look.” She leaned back a little and pushed a hand firmly into the side of her mound. Then she seized Germain’s hand and put it on the spot. Even from where I stood, I could see the surge of flesh as the baby kicked vigorously in response to being poked.
Germain jerked his hand away, startled, then put it back, looking fascinated, and pushed.
“Hello!” he said loudly, putting his face close to his mother’s belly. “Comment ça va in there, Monsieur L’Oeuf?”
“He’s fine,” his mother assured him. “Or she. But babies dinna talk right at first. Ye ken that much. Félicité doesna say anything but ‘Mama’ yet.”
“Oh, aye.” Losing interest in his impending sibling, he stooped to pick up an interesting-looking stone.
Marsali lifted her head, squinting at the sun.
“Ye should go home, Germain. Mirabel will be wanting milked, and I’ve a bit to do here yet. Go and help Papa, aye?” Mirabel was a goat, and a sufficiently new addition to the household as still to be interesting, for Germain brightened at the suggestion.
“Oui, Maman. Au’voir, Grandmère!” He took aim and flipped his rock at the shed, missing it, then turned and scampered