Stone That the Builder Refused - Madison Smartt Bell [392]
The doctor led them beneath the tree where his hammock was strung. Nearby a kettle of fragrant herbs was simmering on its tripod. Elise sank into one of the low chairs. Another of the women, murmuring at her flush, brought her a gourd of cool water.
“Sister, you do not look well,” the doctor said. In fact Elise’s face seemed to reflect the nausea he’d felt himself when scraping maggots from that wound. “You shouldn’t stir out in such heat.”
Elise said nothing. Her flush had faded, leaving her face pale beneath its sheen of sweat. Maybe she was not so acclimated against fever as Isabelle supposed, the doctor thought. The water seemed to choke her when she sipped it.
“It’s for that she came,” Isabelle said, a little shortly. “Well, I’ll leave you.” She moved away, in the direction of the gate.
“What is it then?” the doctor said softly, feeling the first twinges of real alarm. “It could not wait till evening?”
“It has already waited far too long,” Elise said. She glanced at the woman who’d given her the water. The doctor motioned her away.
“I am with child,” Elise announced, once the nurse was out of earshot.
“A blessing,” the doctor said, though he felt his tongue thicken in his mouth.
“A curse,” Elise said. “The child will be the color of your Gabriel.”
Abruptly the doctor sat down on a stone beside her chair. He looked absently toward Isabelle, who stood with one hand on the rust-red iron of the gate. She’d laid her parasol aside and the sunlight pouring through the bars seemed to have bleached the features from her face.
“Why should I look for help from you?” Elise said bitterly. “I set myself against Nanon, and drove her out, and drove out Paul—”
“Don’t reproach yourself,” the doctor said. “That was long ago and has been forgotten.” He twisted his sweaty handkerchief into a rope between his hands. “The trouble is, I haven’t the skill for . . . what you require.”
“You have your potions.”
“But you say you have waited too long. When was—when was your last—”
Elise told him.
“It’s as I thought,” the doctor said. “It’s not my practice, but I think that after such a time, the herbs will not be effective.”
“Then I am ruined,” Elise said. “If Xavier does not kill me.”
“Hush,” the doctor said. “I’ve got to think.” But he could not summon any useful concentration. It seemed an age ago he’d seen her dancing at the Governor’s house, wilted over the bend of Sans-Souci’s arm. He had said something to her then, but there was no use recalling it now.
“It’s not my practice,” he repeated. “It’s not a skill I’ve cultivated. If it must be done, I think you had best go to Maman Maig’.”
“Why not admit you are afraid to do it!” Elise jumped up. The doctor too was on his feet.
“I am afraid to see you die of it,” he shouted. But Elise had whirled away from him and was stumbling toward the gate.
Huddling under the parasol, the two women had almost reached the waterfront before Isabelle could coax from Elise the burden of the doctor’s message.
“He may be right,” she said when she had heard it.
“To put me in the hands of that black witch?” Elise snapped. “I’d just as well throw myself into the sea.”
Through a gap between the buildings they could see spume flying up from the waves smashing into the rocks below the Batterie Circulaire. Isabelle caught Elise’s wrists and pulled her to a stop. The parasol tilted from her grasp and though the hooked handle caught on her elbow, the bright fabric scuffed into the ground.
“Maman Maig’ is an expert midwife—and I know you have seen it for yourself, whatever else you may think of her—Stop it!”
Elise was wagging her head like a mule; a hank of her pale hair came loose and flapped from side to side across her cheek. Isabelle caught her chin and held it still.
“If not for such a one as her, I would have died, with Gabriel,” she said. “Now listen to me. You must follow your best hope. I will go with you to Maman Maig’.”
Elise pulled her chin free and tucked it. “I’m afraid,” she stuttered. “I’m so afraid.”
“Of course you’re