Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [517]
“All right?” I heard him ask anxiously, on one circuit.
“I’ll tell you when I’m not,” she assured him.
It was warm for mid-May; I opened the windows wide, and the scents of phlox and columbine flowed in, mixed with cool, damp air from the river.
The house was filled with an air of expectation: eagerness, with a hint of fear beneath. Jocasta walked up and down the terrace below, too nervous to stay put. Betty put her head in every few minutes to ask if anything was needed; Phaedre came up from the pantry with a jug of fresh buttermilk, just in case. Brianna, her eyes focused inwardly, merely shook her head at it; I sipped a glass myself, mentally checking off the preparations.
The fact was that there wasn’t a hell of a lot you needed to do for a normal birth, and not the hell of a lot you could do if it wasn’t. The bed was stripped and old quilts laid to protect the mattress; there was a stack of clean cloths to hand, and a can of hot water, renewed every half hour or so from the kitchen copper. Cool water for sipping and brow-mopping, a small vial of oil for rubbing, my suture kit to hand, just in case—and beyond that, everything was up to Brianna.
After nearly an hour’s walking, she stopped dead in the middle of the floor, gripping Jamie’s arm and breathing through her nose like a horse at the end of a twenty-furlong race.
“I want to lie down,” she said.
Phaedre and I got her gown off, and got her safely onto the bed in her shift. I laid my hands on the huge mound of her belly, marveling at the sheer impossibility of what had happened already, and what was about to happen next.
The rigidity of the contraction passed off, and I could clearly feel the curves of the child below the thin rubbery covering of skin and muscle. It was large, I could tell that, but it seemed to be lying well, head down and fully engaged.
Normally, babies about to be born were fairly quiet, intimidated by the upheaval of their surroundings. This one was stirring; I felt a small, distinct surge against my hand as an elbow poked out.
“Daddy!” Brianna reached out blindly, flailing as a contraction took her unaware. Jamie lunged forward and caught her hand, squeezing tight.
“I’m here, a bheanachd, I’m here.”
She breathed heavily, face bright red, then relaxed, and swallowed.
“How long?” she asked. She was facing me but not looking at me; she wasn’t looking at anything outside.
“I don’t know. Not an awfully long time, I don’t think.” The contractions were roughly five minutes apart, but I knew they could continue like that for a long time, or speed up abruptly; there was simply no telling.
There was a light breeze from the window, but she was sweating. I wiped her face and neck again, and rubbed her shoulders.
“You’re doing fine, lovey,” I murmured to her. “Just fine.” I glanced up at Jamie, and smiled. “So are you.”
He made a game try at returning the smile; he was sweating, too, but his face was white, not red.
“Talk to me, Da,” she said suddenly.
“Och?” He looked at me, frantic. “What shall I say?”
“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Tell her stories; anything to take her mind off things.”
“Oh. Ah … will ye have heard the one about … Habetrot the spinstress?”
Brianna grunted in reply. Jamie looked apprehensive, but started in nonetheless.
“Aye, well. It happened that in an old farmhouse that stood by the river, there lived a fair maid called Maisie. She’d red hair and blue een, and was the bonniest maid in all the valley. But she had no husband, because …” He stopped, appalled. I glared at him.
He coughed and went on, plainly not knowing what else to do. “Ah … because in those days men were sensible, and instead of looking for lovely lasses to be their brides, they looked out for girls who could cook and spin, who might make notable housewives. But Maisie …”
Brianna made a deep inhuman noise. Jamie clenched his teeth for a moment, but went on, holding tight to both her hands.
“But Maisie loved the light