A Breath of Snow and Ashes - Diana Gabaldon [482]
Brianna poked her head out of the cabin door, to find Jo, Kezzie, her own father, Roger, and Jemmy, clustered in a knot a little distance away. They all glanced up when they saw her, with expressions ranging from vaguely shamefaced pride to simple excitement.
“Mama! Is the baby here?” Jem rushed up, pushing to get past her into the cabin, and she grabbed him by the collar.
“Yes. You can come see him, but you have to be quiet. He’s very new, and you don’t want to scare him, all right?”
“Him?” one of the Beardsleys asked, excited. “It’s a boy?”
“I told ye so!” his brother said, nudging him in the ribs. “I said I saw a wee prick!”
“You don’t say things like ‘prick’ in front of ladies,” Jem informed him severely, turning to frown at him. “And Mama says be quiet!”
“Oh,” said the Beardsley twin, abashed. “Oh, aye, to be sure.”
Moving with an exaggerated caution that made her want to laugh, the twins tiptoed into the cabin, followed by Jem, Jamie’s hand firm on his shoulder, and Roger.
“Is Lizzie all right?” he asked softly, pausing to kiss her briefly in passing.
“A little overwhelmed, I think, but fine.”
Lizzie was in fact sitting up, soft blond hair now combed and shining around her shoulders, glowing with happiness at Jo and Kezzie, who knelt at her bedside, grinning like apes.
“May the blessing of Bride and of Columba be on you, young woman,” Jamie said formally in Gaelic, bowing to her, “and may the love of Christ sustain you always in your motherhood. May milk spring from your breasts like water from the rock and may you rest secure in the arms of your”—he coughed briefly, glancing at the Beardsleys—“husband.”
“If you can’t say ‘prick,’ why can you say ‘breasts’?” Jemmy inquired, interested.
“Ye can’t, unless it’s a prayer,” his father informed him. “Grandda was giving Lizzie a blessing.”
“Oh. Are there any prayers with pricks in them?”
“I’m sure there are,” Roger replied, carefully avoiding Brianna’s eye, “but ye don’t say them out loud. Why don’t ye go and help Grannie with the breakfast?”
The iron griddle was sizzling with fat, and the fragrant smell of fresh batter filled the room as Claire began to pour spoonfuls onto the hot metal.
Jamie and Roger, having presented their compliments to Lizzie, had stepped back a bit, to give the little family a moment to themselves—though the cabin was so small, there was barely room for everyone to fit inside.
“You are so beautiful,” Jo—or possibly Kezzie—whispered, touching her hair with an awed forefinger. “Ye look like the new moon, Lizzie.”
“Did it hurt ye very much, sweetheart?” murmured Kezzie—or maybe Jo—stroking the back of her hand.
“Not so much,” she said, stroking Kezzie’s hand, then lifting her palm to cup Jo’s cheek. “Look. Is he no the bonniest wee creature ye’ve ever seen?” The baby had drunk his fill and fallen asleep; he let go the nipple with an audible pop! and rolled back in his mother’s arm like a dormouse, mouth a little open.
The twins made identical soft sounds of awe, and looked doe-eyed at their—well, what else could one say? Brianna thought—their son.
“Oh, such dear wee fingers!” Kezzie—or Jo—breathed, touching the little pink fist with a dirty forefinger.
“Is he all there?” Jo—or Kezzie—asked. “Ye’ve looked?”
“I have,” Lizzie assured him. “Here—d’ye want to hold him?” Not pausing for assent, she put the bundle into his arms. Whichever twin it was looked at once thrilled and terrified, and glanced wildly at his brother for support.
Brianna, enjoying the tableau, felt Roger close behind her.
“Aren’t they sweet?” she whispered, reaching back for his hand.
“Oh, aye,” he said, a smile in his voice. “Enough to make ye want another, isn’t it?”
It was an innocent remark; she could tell he had meant nothing by it—but he heard the echo, even as she did, and coughed, letting go her hand.
“Here—that’s for Lizzie.” Claire was handing a plate of fragrant cakes, drizzled with butter and honey,