Outlander - Diana Gabaldon [294]
“Jenny,” I called, “how long does it take to make candles, counting everything?”
She laid the small shirt she was stitching in her lap, considering.
“Half a day to gather the combs, two to drain the honey—one if it’s hot—one day to purify the wax, unless there’s a lot or it’s verra dirty—then two. Half a day to make the wicks, one or two to make the molds, half a day to melt the wax, pour the molds and hang them to dry. Say a week altogether.”
The dim lamplight and the sputtering quill were too much to contend with after the day’s labors. I sat down next to Jenny and admired the tiny garment she was embroidering with nearly invisible stitches.
Her rounded stomach suddenly heaved, as the inhabitant shifted position. I watched, fascinated. I had never been close to someone pregnant for a prolonged period, and hadn’t realized the amount of activity that went on inside.
“Would you like to feel it?” Jenny offered, seeing me staring at her middle.
“Well…” She took my hand and placed it firmly on her mound.
“Right there. Just wait a moment; he’ll kick again soon. They don’t like ye lying back like this, ye know. It makes them restless and they start to squirm.”
Sure enough, a surprisingly vigorous push raised my hand by several inches.
“Goodness! He’s strong!” I exclaimed.
“Aye.” Jenny patted her stomach with a touch of pride. “He’ll be bonny, like his brother and his Da.” She smiled across at Ian, whose attention had momentarily wandered from the breeding records of horses to his wife and child-to-be.
“Or even like his good-for-nothing red-heided uncle,” she added, raising her voice slightly and nudging me.
“Hey?” Jamie looked up, distracted from his accounts. “Were ye speaking to me?”
“I wonder was it the ‘red-heided’ or the ‘good-for-nothing’ that caught his attention,” Jenny said to me, sotto voce, with another nudge.
To Jamie she said sweetly, “Nothing at all, mo cridh. We were just speculating on the possibility that the new one would have the misfortune to resemble its uncle.”
The uncle in question grinned and came across to sit on the hassock, Jenny amiably moving her feet, then replacing them in his lap.
“Rub them for me, Jamie,” she begged. “You’re better at it than Ian.”
He obliged, and Jenny leaned back and closed her eyes in bliss. She dropped the tiny shirt on her central mound, which continued to heave as though in protest. Jamie stared entranced at the movements, just as I had.
“Isn’t it uncomfortable?” he asked. “Havin’ someone turn somersaults in your belly?”
Jenny opened her eyes and grimaced as a long swell arced across her stomach.
“Mmm. Sometimes I feel my liver’s black and blue from bein’ kicked. But mostly it’s a good feeling, instead. It’s like…” She hesitated, then grinned at her brother. “It’s hard to describe to a man, you not having the proper parts. I don’t suppose I could tell ye what carrying a child feels like, no more than you could tell me what it’s like to be kicked in the ballocks.”
“Oh, I could tell ye that.” He promptly doubled up, clasping himself, and rolled his eyes back in his head with a hideous gurgling groan.
“Is that not right, Ian?” he asked, turning his head toward the stool where Ian sat laughing, wooden leg propped on the hearth.
His sister put a delicate foot on his chest and pushed him upright. “All right then, clown. In that case, I’m glad I havena got any.”
Jamie straightened up and brushed the hair out of his eyes. “No, really,” he said, interested, “is it just that the parts are different? Could you describe it to Claire? After all, she’s a woman, though she’s not borne a child yet.”
Jenny eyed my midriff appraisingly, and I felt that small pang once more.
“Mmm, perhaps.” She spoke slowly, thinking. “You feel as though your skin is verra thin all over. You feel everything that touches you, even the rubbing of your clothes, and not just on your belly, but over your legs and flanks and breasts.” Her hands went to them unconsciously, curving the lawn