Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [516]
“Oh, I nearly forgot.” Claire reached into a nasty-looking leather pouch around her neck. “Brianna said to give this back to you—she won’t need it anymore.”
He held out his hand, and a tiny spark of brilliant blue fell into his palm.
“Jilted, by God!” he said, and grinned.
64
BOTTOM OF THE NINTH
“It’s like baseball,” I assured her. “Long stretches of boredom, punctuated by short periods of intense activity.”
She laughed, then stopped abruptly, grimacing.
“Ugh. Intense, yeah. Whew.” She smiled, a little lopsidedly. “At least at baseball games you get to drink beer and eat hot dogs in the boring parts.”
Jamie, grasping at the only part of this conversation that made sense, leaned forward.
“There’s a crock of small beer, cool in the pantry,” he said, peering anxiously at Brianna. “Will I fetch it in?”
“No,” I said. “Not unless you want some; alcohol wouldn’t be good for the baby.”
“Ah. What about the hot dog?” He stood up and flexed his hands, obviously preparing to dash out and shoot one.
“It’s a sort of sausage in a roll,” I said, rubbing my upper lip in an effort not to laugh. I glanced at Brianna. “I don’t think she wants one.” Small beads of sweat had popped out quite suddenly on her wide brow, and she was looking white around the eye sockets.
“Oh, barf,” she said faintly.
Correctly interpreting this remark from the look on her face, Jamie hastily applied the damp cloth to her face and neck.
“Put your head between your knees, lass.”
She glared at him ferociously.
“I can’t get … my head … near my knees!” she said, teeth clenched. Then the spasm relaxed and she took a deep breath, the color coming back into her face.
Jamie glanced from her to me, frowning worriedly. He took a hesitant step toward the door.
“I expect I’d best go, then, if you—”
“Don’t leave me!”
“But it’s—I mean, you’ve your mother, and—”
“Don’t leave me!” she repeated. Agitated, she leaned over and grabbed his arm, shaking it for emphasis. “You can’t!”
“You said I wouldn’t die.” She was staring intently into his face. “If you stay, it will be all right. I won’t die.” She spoke with such intensity that I felt a sudden spasm of fear clutch my own innards, hard as the pain of labor.
She was a big girl, strong and healthy. She should have no great trouble delivering. But I was large enough, healthy as well—and twenty-five years before, I had lost a stillborn child at six months, and nearly died myself. I might be able to protect her from childbed fever, but there was no defense against a sudden hemorrhage; the best I could do under such circumstances would be to try to save her child via Caesarian section. I resolutely kept my eyes off the chest in which the sterile blade lay ready, just in case.
“You’re not going to die, Bree,” I said. I spoke as soothingly as I could, and put a hand on her shoulder, but she must have felt the fear under my professional facade. Her face twisted, and she grabbed my hand, clinging so tightly the bones rubbed together. She closed her eyes and breathed through her nose, but didn’t cry out.
She opened her eyes and looked straight at me, her pupils dilated so that she seemed to be looking past me, into a future that only she could see.
“If I do …” she said, putting a hand to her swollen belly. Her mouth worked, but whatever she’d been meaning to say couldn’t force its way out.
She struggled to her feet, then, and leaned heavily on Jamie, her face muffled in his shoulder, repeating, “Da, don’t leave me, don’t.”
“I willna leave ye, a leannan. Dinna be afraid, I’ll stay wi’ ye.” He put an arm around her, looking helplessly over her head at me.
“Walk her,” I said to Jamie, seeing her restlessness. “Like a horse with colic,” I added, as he looked blank.
That made her laugh. With the ginger air of a man approaching an armed bomb, he put an arm around