I heard Ian and the two Cherokee come into line behind us, and within moments, we were out of sight of Brownsville, though the scent of beer and chimney smoke lingered in my nostrils. I pushed Clarence up beside Jamie; Bird had fallen back to ride with his men and Ian; they were laughing at something.

“Will this be the end of it?” I asked. My voice felt thin in the cold air, and I wasn’t sure he’d heard me. But he did. He shook his head slightly.

“There is never an end to such things,” he said quietly. “But we are alive. And that is good.”

PART FIVE

 Great Unexpectations

35



Laminaria

SAFELY RETURNED from Brownsville, I took firm steps to resume normal life. And among these was a visit to Marsali, who had returned from her refuge with the McGillivrays. I’d seen Fergus, who had assured me that she was well recovered from her injuries and feeling well—but I needed to see for myself.

The homestead was in good order, I saw, but showing certain signs of dilapidation; a few shingles had blown off the roof, one corner of the stoop was sagging, and the oiled parchment over the single window had split partway up, the flaw hastily mended with rag stuffed through the hole. Small things, but things that should be dealt with before the snow came—and it was coming; I could feel the touch of it in the air, the brilliant blue sky of late autumn fading into the hazy gray of oncoming winter.

No one rushed out to meet me, but I knew they were home; there was a cloud of smoke and sparks from the chimney, and I thought tartly that at least Fergus seemed able to provide enough wood for the hearth. I called out a cheery “hallooo!” and pushed open the door.

I had the feeling at once. I didn’t trust most of my feelings at the moment, but that one went bone-deep. It’s the feeling you have, as a doctor, when you walk into an examination room and know that something’s very wrong. Before you ask the first question, before you’ve taken the first vital sign. It doesn’t happen often, and you’d rather it never did—but there it is. You know, and there’s no way round it.

It was the children that told me, as much as anything else. Marsali sat by the window, sewing, the two girls playing quietly close by her feet. Germain—uncharacteristically indoors—sat swinging his legs at the table, frowning at a ragged but treasured picture book Jamie had brought him from Cross Creek. They knew, too.

Marsali looked up when I came in, and I saw her face tighten in shock at sight of mine—though it was much better than it had been.

“I’m fine,” I said briskly, stopping her exclamation. “Only bruises. How are you, though?”

I set down my bag and cupped my hands round her face, turning it gently to the light. One cheek and ear were badly bruised, and there was a fading knot on her forehead—but she wasn’t cut, and her eyes looked back at me, clear and healthy. A good color to her skin, no jaundice, no faint scent of kidney dysfunction.

She’s all right. It’s the baby, I thought, and dropped my hands to her middle without asking. My heart felt cold as I cupped the bulge and lifted gently. I nearly bit my tongue in surprise when a small knee shifted in answer to my touch.

I was terribly heartened at that; I had thought the child might be dead. A quick glance at Marsali’s face muted my relief. She was strained between hope and fear, hoping that I would tell her that what she knew to be true wasn’t.

“Has the baby moved very much, these last few days?” I asked, keeping my voice calm as I went about fetching out my stethoscope. I’d had it made by a pewtersmith in Wilmington—a small bell with a flat end piece; primitive, but effective.

“Not so much as he did,” Marsali answered, leaning back to let me listen to her stomach. “But they don’t, do they, when they’re nearly ready to come? Joanie lay like the de—like a millstone, all the night before the waters broke.”

“Well, yes, often they do do that,” I agreed, ignoring what she’d nearly said. “Resting up, I suppose.” She smiled in response, but the smile vanished like a snowflake on a griddle as I leaned close and put my ear to the flattened end of the flared metal tube, the wide, bell-shaped opening over her stomach.

It took some time to pick up the heartbeat, and when I did, it was unusually slow. It was also skipping beats; the hair on my arms rippled with gooseflesh when I heard it.

I went on with the examination, asking questions, making small jokes, pausing to answer questions from the other children, who were crowding round, stepping on each other’s feet and getting in the way—and all the time, my mind was racing, envisioning possibilities, all bad.

The child was moving—but wrong. Heartbeat was there—but wrong. Everything about that belly felt wrong to me. What was it, though? Umbilical cord around the neck was thoroughly possible, and quite dangerous.

I pushed the smock further back, trying for a better listen, and saw the heavy bruising—ugly splotches of healing green and yellow, a few still with deep red-black centers that bloomed like deadly roses over the curve of her belly. My teeth sank into my lip at sight of them; they’d kicked her, the bastards. A wonder she hadn’t miscarried on the spot.

Anger swelled suddenly under my breastbone, a huge, solid thing, pushing hard enough to burst it.

Was she bleeding at all? No. No pain, bar tenderness from the bruises. No cramping. No contractions. Her blood pressure seemed normal, so far as I could tell.

A cord accident was still possible—likely, even. But it could be a partially detached placenta, bleeding into the uterus. A ruptured uterus? Or something rarer—a dead twin, an abnormal growth … The only thing I knew for sure was that the child needed to be delivered into the air-breathing world, and as soon as possible.

“Where’s Fergus?” I said, still speaking calmly.

“I dinna ken,” she said, matching my tone of absolute calm. “He’s no been home since the day before yesterday. Dinna put that in your mouth, a chuisle.” She lifted a hand toward Félicité, who was gnawing a candle stub, but couldn’t reach her.

“Hasn’t he? Well, we’ll find him.” I removed the candle stub; Félicité made no protest, aware that something was going on, but not knowing what. In search of reassurance, she seized her mother’s leg and began determinedly trying to climb up into Marsali’s nonexistent lap.

“No, bébé,” Germain said, and clasped his sister round the waist, dragging her backward. “You come with me, a piuthar. Want milkie?” he added, coaxing. “We’ll go to the springhoose, aye?”

“Want Mama!” Félicité windmilled arms and legs, trying to escape, but Germain hoisted her fat little body into his arms.

“You wee lassies come with me,” he said firmly, and trundled awkwardly out the door, Félicité grunting and squirming in his grasp, Joanie scampering at his heels—pausing at the door to look back at Marsali, her big brown eyes wide and scared.

“Go on then, a muirninn,” Marsali called, smiling. “Take them to see Mrs. Bug. It will be all right.

“He’s a sweet lad, Germain,” Marsali murmured, folding her hands across her belly as the smile faded.

“Very sweet,” I agreed. “Marsali—”

“I know,” she said simply. “Might this one live, d’ye think?” She passed a hand gently over her belly, looking down.

I wasn’t at all sure, but the child was alive for the moment. I hesitated, turning over possibilities in my mind. Anything I did would entail hideous risk—to her, the child, or both.

Why had I not come sooner? I berated myself for taking Jamie’s and then Fergus’s word that she was all right, but there was no time for self-reproach—and it might not have mattered, either.

“Can you walk?” I asked. “We’ll need to go to the Big House.”

“Aye, of course.” She rose carefully, holding to my arm. She looked around the cabin, as though memorizing all its homely details, then gave me a sharp, clear glance. “We’ll talk on the way.”