Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [363]
Lizzie’s fever had come on again, two days upriver. This time the attack was longer and more severe, and Brianna had been seriously afraid that Lizzie would die, right there in the middle of the Cape Fear River.
She had sat in mid-canoe for all of a day and a night, while Viorst and his partner paddled like maniacs, she alternately pouring handfuls of water over Lizzie’s head and wrapping her in all the coats and blankets available, all the time praying to see the girl’s small bosom rise with the next breath.
“If I die, will ye tell my father?” Lizzie had whispered to her in the rushing dark.
“I will, but you won’t, so dinna fash yourself,” Brianna said firmly. It was successful; Lizzie’s frail back quivered with laughter at Brianna’s attempted Scots, and a small bony hand reached up to hers, holding on until sleep loosened its grip and the fleshless fingers slipped free.
Viorst, alarmed at Lizzie’s state, had taken them to the house he shared with his sister a little way below Cross Creek, carrying Lizzie’s blanket-wrapped body up the dusty trail from the river to a small framed cottage. The girl’s stubborn spirit had brought her through once more, but Brianna thought that the fragile flesh might not be equal to many more such demands.
She cut a dumpling in half and ate it slowly, savoring the rich warm juices of chicken and onion. She was grubby, travel-worn, starved, and exhausted, every bone in her body aching. They had made it, though. They were in Cross Creek, and tomorrow was Monday. Somewhere nearby was Jamie Fraser—and God willing, Claire as well.
She touched the leg of her breeches, and the secret pocket sewn into the seam. It was still there, the small round hardness of the talisman. Her mother was still alive. That was all that mattered.
After eating, she went once more to check on Lizzie. Hanneke Viorst was sitting by the bed darning socks. She nodded to Brianna, smiling.
“She is gut.”
Looking down at the wasted, sleeping face, Brianna wouldn’t have said that much. Still, the fever was gone; a hand on Lizzie’s brow came away cool and damp, and a half-empty bowl on the table nearby showed that she had managed a little nourishment.
“You vill rest, too?” Hanneke half rose, gesturing toward the trundle bed pulled out in readiness.
Brianna cast a glance of longing at the clean quilts and puffy bolster, but shook her head.
“Not yet, thank you. What I’d really like is to borrow your mule, if I might.”
There was no telling where Jamie Fraser was now. Viorst had told her that River Run was a good distance from the town; he might be there, or he might be staying somewhere in Cross Creek, for convenience. She couldn’t leave Lizzie long enough to ride all the way to River Run, but she did want to go into town and find the courthouse where the trial would be held tomorrow. She was taking no chance of missing him by not knowing where to go.
The mule was large and elderly, but not averse to ambling along the riverbank road. He walked somewhat slower than she could have done herself, but that didn’t matter; she was in no hurry, now.
Despite her tiredness, she began to feel better as she rode, her bruised, stiff body relaxing into the easy rhythm of the mule’s slow gait. It was a hot, humid day, but the sky was clear and blue, and great elms and hickory trees overhung the road, cool leaves filtering the sun.
Torn between Lizzie’s illness and her own painful memories, she had noticed nothing of the second half of their voyage, taken no notice of change in the countryside they passed. Now it was like being magically transported during sleep, waking up in a different place. She put everything else aside, determined to forget the last few days and everything in them. She was going to find Jamie Fraser.
The sandy roads, scrub-pine forests, and marshy swamps of the coast were gone, replaced by thickets of cool green, by tall, thick-trunked, canopied trees,