Drums of Autumn - Diana Gabaldon [519]
“Is he hungry?” Brianna’s voice was deep and cracked, and she tried to clear her throat. “Shall I feed him?”
“Try him and see. Sometimes they’re sleepy right afterward, but sometimes they want to nurse.”
She fumbled at the neck of her shift and pulled loose the ribbon, baring one high, full breast. The bundle made small growf noises as she turned it awkwardly toward her, and her eyes sprang open in surprise as the mouth fastened on her nipple with sudden ferocity.
“Strong, isn’t he?” I said, and realized that I was crying only when I tasted the salt of my tears running into the corners of my smile.
Sometime later, with mother and child cleaned up and made comfortable, food and drink brought for Brianna, and a last check assuring that all was well, I walked out into the deep shadows of the upper gallery. I felt pleasantly detached from reality, as though I were walking a foot or so off the ground.
Jamie had gone down to tell John; he was waiting for me at the foot of the stairs. He drew me into his arms without a word and kissed me; as he let me go I saw the deep red crescents of Brianna’s nailmarks on his hands, not yet faded.
“Ye did brawly too,” he whispered to me. Then the joy in his eyes bloomed bright and flowered in a face-splitting grin. “Grannie!”
“Is he dark or fair?” Jamie asked suddenly, rising on one elbow beside me in bed. “I counted his fingers, and I didna even think to look.”
“You can’t really tell yet,” I said drowsily. I’d counted his toes, and I’d thought of it. “He’s sort of reddish-purple, and he’s still got the vernix—the white stuff—all over him. It will probably be a day or two before his skin fades into a natural color. He’s got just a bit of dark hair, but it’s the sort that rubs off soon after birth.” I stretched, enjoying the pleasant ache in legs and back; labor was hard work, even for the midwife. “It wouldn’t prove anything, even if he were fair, since Brianna is; he could be, either way.”
“Aye … but if he were dark, we’d know for sure.”
“Maybe not. Your father was dark; so was mine. He could have recessive genes and come out dark even if—”
“He could have what?”
I tried without success to think whether Gregor Mendel had yet started messing about with his pea plants, but gave up the effort, too sleepy to concentrate. Whether he had or not, Jamie evidently hadn’t heard of him.
“He could be any color, and we wouldn’t know for sure,” I said. I yawned widely. “We won’t know until he gets old enough to start resembling … somebody. And even then …” I trailed off. Did it matter a great deal who his father had been, if he wasn’t going to have one?
Jamie rolled toward me and scooped me into a spooned embrace. We slept naked, and the hair on his body brushed against my skin. He kissed me softly on the back of the neck and sighed, his breath warm and tickling on my ear.
I hovered on the edge of sleep, too happy to fall completely over into dreams. Somewhere nearby, I heard a small stifled squawk, and the murmur of voices.
“Aye, well,” Jamie’s voice roused me, some moments later. He sounded defiant. “If I dinna ken his father, at least I’m sure who his grandsire is.”
I reached back and patted his leg.
“So am I—Grandpa. Hush up and go to sleep. ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.’ ”
He snorted, but his arms relaxed around me, hand curved on my breast, and in moments, he was asleep.
I lay wide-eyed, watching stars through the open window. Why had I said that? It was Frank’s favorite quotation, one he always used to soothe Brianna or me when we worried over things: Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.
The air in the room was live; a light breeze stirred the curtains, and coolness