A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [220]
But I was in no mood to respect anyone’s barriers, and broke down in tears of sheer despair, after being informed by a cheerful obstetrician that I was not dilated at all, and “it might be several days—maybe another week.”
Trying to calm me, Frank had resorted to rubbing my feet. Then my back, my neck, my shoulders—anything I would let him touch. And gradually, I had exhausted myself and lain quiet, letting him touch me. And . . . and we were both terrified, and terribly in need of reassurance, and neither of us had any words with which to give it.
And he made love to me, slowly and gently, and we fell asleep in each other’s arms—and woke up in a state of panic several hours later when my water broke.
“Claire!” I suppose Jamie had called my name more than once; I had been so lost in memory that I had forgotten entirely where I was.
“What?” I swung round, heart pounding. “Has something happened?”
“No, not yet.” He studied me for a moment, brow creased, then got up and came to stand by me.
“Are ye all right, Sassenach?”
“Yes. I—I was just thinking.”
“Aye, I saw that,” he said dryly. He hesitated, then—as a particularly loud moan came through the door—touched my elbow.
“Are ye afraid?” he said softly. “That ye might be wi’ child yourself, I mean?”
“No,” I said, and heard the note of desolation in my voice as clearly as he did. “I know I’m not.” I looked up at him; his face was blurred by a haze of unshed tears. “I’m sad that I’m not—that I never will be again.”
I blinked hard, and saw the same emotions on his face that I felt—relief and regret, mingled in such proportion that it was impossible to say which was foremost. He put his arms round me and I rested my forehead on his chest, thinking what comfort it was to know that I had company on this rock, as well.
We stood quietly for some time, just breathing. Then there came a sudden change in the surreptitious noises in the surgery. There was a small cry of surprise, a louder exclamation in French, and then the sound of feet landing heavily on the floor, together with the unmistakable splash of amniotic fluid.
THINGS DID MOVE quickly. Within an hour, I saw the crowning of a black-fuzzed skull.
“He’s got lots of hair,” I reported, easing the perineum with oil. “Be careful, don’t push too hard! Not yet.” I spanned the curve of the emerging skull with my hand. “He’s got a really big head.”
“I wouldna ever have guessed that,” said Marsali, red-faced and panting. “Thank ye for telling me.”
I barely had time to laugh, before the head eased neatly out into my hands, facedown. The cord was round the neck, but not tightly, thank God! I got a finger under it and eased it free, and didn’t have to say, “Push!” before Marsali took a breath that went to China and shot the infant into my middle like a cannonball.
It was like being suddenly handed a greased pig, and I fumbled madly, trying to get the little creature turned upright and see whether he—or she—was breathing.
Meanwhile, there were shrieks of excitement from Malva and Mrs. Bug, and heavy footsteps hastening down the hall from the kitchen.
I found the baby’s face, hastily cleared the nostrils and mouth, blew a short puff of air into the mouth, snapped a finger against the sole of one foot. The foot jerked back in reflex, and the mouth opened wide in a lusty howl.
“Bon soir, Monsieur L’Oeuf,” I said, checking hastily to be sure that it was indeed Monsieur.
“Monsieur?” Fergus’s face split in an ears-wide grin.
“Monsieur,” I confirmed, and hastily wrapping the baby in a flannel, thrust him into his father’s arms while I turned my attention to tying and cutting the cord, then tending to his mother.
His mother, thank God, was doing well. Exhausted and sweat-drenched, but likewise grinning. So was everyone else in the room. The floor was puddled, the bedding soaked, and the atmosphere thick with the fecund scents of birth, but no one seemed to notice in the general excitement.
I kneaded Marsali’s belly to encourage