Master of the Crossroads - Madison Smartt Bell [372]
From Dondon to Vallière the road was more difficult (when it existed) and the route less evident. At one vexatious crossroads the four men argued over which way to go. The doctor, who was confident, persuaded the others; Tocquet assented with a shrug. Forty minutes later, when they emerged on the road he had predicted, Tocquet gave him a brief curious glance over his shoulder, but said nothing. The doctor was equally surprised at his own assurance. Formerly he might be lost for days at a stretch, whenever he rode out the gate of some plantation. Now it seemed that he had every peak and crevice, every crossroads firmly fastened in his memory.
Though the distance was negligible, the way was slow, and sometimes they had to stop and cut brush, or jack away fallen trees that blocked their passage. Today they kept going at the best pace they could manage, unwilling to spend the night in the jungle. Paul, who had soldiered on with great fortitude, finally grew too weary to keep riding. Bazau tied his donkey into the pack train, and the doctor took him aboard the mare. Paul collapsed against him, sleeping profoundly, his arms hanging slack and his loose mouth warm and damp against the doctor’s shirt front. That afternoon there was no rain. At last they came riding up the rim of Trou Vilain under the light of a sickle moon.
Isabelle was all astir when she saw them come in, a whirlwind of hostess activity. She called the servants to bring more plates, stoke the kitchen fire again, wring the neck of another chicken. Paul had run to Nanon’s skirts, before the doctor had a chance to greet her. He could not quite fix on his emotion. Instead of joy or relief, he felt an odd foreboding. Something was a little off-center—Isabelle too effervescent, Nanon too quietly reserved. No more than his fatigue, perhaps. Certainly his legs were watery beneath him, after that long day’s ride. A chair was drawn up for him; there would be fruit, while they waited for chicken.
“Ehm,” the doctor said awkwardly, glancing at Nanon’s slim waist, still on his feet. “I believe . . . apparently . . . there has been an event.”
“But of course,” Isabelle cried cheerily. Was there something especially pointed in the look she gave Nanon? “Of course, you must see your children.”
Lowering her head, Nanon turned from the table; she was not exactly beckoning, but the doctor followed. As they crossed the threshold, he took hold of her hand. Paul was nudging up behind them, alert now after his nap in the saddle, curious and eager. The doctor felt a flutter of nerves in his belly and throat. He’d noticed the plural, and thought now of a damaged twin, illness or some deformity. Nanon’s hand was warm and firm in his own, and yet it expressed nothing. He stopped her for a moment.
“Ma chère, I was afraid for you,” he said. “There was a story that reached Le Cap, of a woman in trouble with childbirth.”
He thought he felt her weight shift toward him. But she reversed herself, with a slight pressure on his hand. “Come.”
He followed her into the dark bedroom. She lit a candle, cupping the flame in her hand. She shushed Paul, who had surged up to the edge of the cradle. In the flickering light, the doctor saw two children curled together, sleeping. They looked healthy enough, though one would not have taken them for twins. The lighter boy had a curious pigmentation: a current of black pinpoints running over the milky skin of his face. The other, smaller one was almost altogether black.
“But they seem to be very well,” the doctor said. Now he did feel the relief he wanted, though he was not sure why. He put his finger into the cradle and lightly touched the cheek of the bigger infant. The baby stirred, though without waking; the small hand came up automatically and closed around his finger.
“Do not wake them,” Nanon murmured. “They will cry.”
He turned to her, wondering. Her closed