by Lori Benton
Ian gave thanks as he finished his dinner, hearing Pete, Will, and Munro already back at their labors, voices lifted in song. A few yards off, Ally bent to snap off the suckers—extra unwanted stems—and stuff them into the sack dragged behind him, big head covered by a kerchief, like the one Ian wore beneath his hat.
After the suckering, more work waited. They’d cleared new acreage before the planting. The mature trees had been girdled the previous year, making the grubbing easier. The underbrush was piled for burning, larger trees rolled together, awaiting his sorting eye. He’d noted a maple he wanted milled, maybe for a cradle. They’d be needing cradles. And more desks. Edward Stoddard had taken the second batch away in June, the day after Rosalyn’s wedding.
Waving off an onslaught of gnats, Ian set to work along his row, the slaves’ singing a hum on the blistering air.
“Stop an’ let me tell you what Samson done,
He looked at the lion an’ the lion run,
But Samson killed that lion dead
And the bees made honey in the lion’s head.”
Their blended voices made Ian aware of how solitary his existence had become, though he was surrounded by kin and his uncle’s slaves from sunup to sundown. He’d turned inward, straining for the faintest echo of a guiding word, unwilling to move lest it be in a wrong direction. Like the summer heat, his inaction weighed on everyone. At night the very timbers of the house seemed to hold their breath in apprehension, awaiting answer to the question: what would he do when the child came?
“Samson said, ‘An’ if I had my way,
I’d tear this buildin’ down.’”
For a time Ian stopped thinking and focused on the work, stooping, grasping, snapping, eyes peeled for black widow spiders, ears tuned for a canebrake’s rattle. The smell of tar and leaf. Heat pressing on his sweating back. The next plant down the row, and the next . . .
From the corner of his eye he saw her, a distant shimmer in the baking air, wading the shallows near an old willow tree that leaned weeping curtains over the creek.
His rhythm faltered. He reached for a sprout to snap and his hand came away with a good broad leaf that should have been left to mature. He stuffed it into the sack and straightened, staring. Why was she so far from the house?
“Mama say it be a trial for her, this heat.” Ally had come up even with him, one row over, face glistening in the sun.
Ian blinked, blinded by the sting of his own sweat. “It’s a trial for all that breathe.”
The singing had stopped. The others had seen him looking—and the object of his interest.
Ian forced himself to turn from the wading figure, but as he did, the memory of Seona’s name, chiseled in weed-grown granite, flashed across his mind. He was helpless to stop death should it come for her or the child. If it came, it would be soon.
Since that night on the ridge he’d promised himself—and the Almighty—he would keep his distance, but there were things he needed to say to her, things he wasn’t prepared to live out his days on earth having waited too late to speak.
He squinted through the wavering heat. Listening.
Do not fear to go to her.
He stared down the long field at her distant figure, testing the impulse. Could it be?
Go to her.
Ian untied the sack at his waist. He stripped off his gloves. He made his way to where he’d left his rifle, removed his field tunic—so tar-coated it nearly kept its shape—slung the rifle over his shoulder, and started down the slope without a backward glance.
It was a long trudge through the heat, down through the tobacco and across a fallow field that ran level to the creek, each stride kicking up dust and grasshoppers, heart winging heavenward in broken snatches of prayer.
Speak through me. Comfort her. We’re dry, thirsty. Send Your rain. . . .
At the water’s edge Seona shaded her eyes and saw him coming. He made for a point upstream near the willow’s shade, where insects overhung the water in fretful clouds. Setting the rifle on the rocks, he untied the kerchief from his brow and used it to wash, tasting salt and dust and bitterness as the water ran down his face.
A breeze stirred the willow. The broad creek rippled over stones. The air smelled of baking earth. Surprised by distant thunder, he saw in the west a cloud bank building. Felt the weight of it in the air. Rain coming.
From his cupped hands he drank, then shouldered the rifle and stood.
She’d washed her hair in the creek and left it uncovered. It had grown since he’d seen it, the longest of the springy curls pulled to her shoulders by their damp weight.
He came on, pulse going at a gallop.
She waded to the bank, clad in her shift, and halted in the shade of an overhanging maple to watch his approach.
“I know what happened on the ridge,” she said. “I’m so glad.”
They sat on the maple’s exposed roots, side by side, but not touching.
“Seona, I need to say a thing to ye.” He read the joy in her eyes. Sorrow, too, like the amber mingled with the green. “What was meant for evil, God will turn for good.”
“Did you mean to do evil by me?”
“No,” he said with feeling. “But I did. And grieve that I did. I’d grieve the more if what I’ve done caused ye to mistrust the Almighty or to doubt He has good plans for ye. He does, Seona. For me. For all of us. Ye tried to tell me but I wouldn’t listen. I wanted what I wanted, thought I knew what was best, and found a way to make it happen. But I understand it now, what ye tried to tell me—or I’m learning to. His will be done. In the end, that will prove to be what’s best.”
She looked away, leaving him wondering could she accept such words from him, belated as they were. She more than he had to bear the consequences of his rushing ahead of God. He would help her do so, however he could.
But keep me from bringing my wife more pain.
He passed a hand over his hair, dislodging the thong that bound it, then noticed she cupped something in her hand. “What’s that ye’ve found?”
Her fingers uncurled. An arrowhead no bigger than his thumbnail lay in her upturned palm. He took it, turning it over. Its flat sides were silken, polished by the creek’s flow, but the tapered edges and tiny notches still showed the chiseled marks of its knapping.
“Ally used to spy those in the field or the creek and give them to me.”
“I mind your wee basket.” The breeze quickened, a murmur passing along the creek bank, leaping its waters and rushing away. Thunder rolled up from the west. He closed his fist over the arrowhead and sought for words. “I pray daily for the Almighty to show me what I must do, how to right my wrongs against ye. I’ve kept my distance because—”
A damselfly darted past his nose, startling him. It landed on the slope of Seona’s belly, where it glinted like an azure jewel, gossamer wings folded in repose. The words he’d meant to say knotted in his throat. Because of the vows that bind me to Judith. Because I couldn’t come near ye until now and be sure of holding to them, even in my mind. And if not for Him who restrains me, I’d break those chains with the strength of Samson and flee with ye this moment.
The sultry breeze lifted Seona’s hair. The damselfly flitted away.
The gulf between them ached.
“It wasn’t you stole me away,” she said, gazing at the rising clouds. “That was someone else’s evildoing.”
“I ought never to have doubted. If only . . .” If only. He clenched his jaw, alarmed at his soul’s propensity for going its headstrong way. The choice was his to make, moment by wrenching moment. Not my will.
Seona’s hands moved over the child, then rubbed at her lower back. She appeared to be in discomfort.
“Have ye thought on a name?” he asked.
She glanced at the crown of his head. “Gabriel?”
Laughter came as a relief. “Dark or fair, the bairn’s bound to have ringlets.”
“Poor thing.” She lifted a hand to her hair in mock dismay. S
hort as it was, it seemed to spring out from her scalp, the coils dancing wildly on the breeze as they dried.
As he gave her back the arrowhead, thunder reverberated in a clap. With it Seona winced. He thought her merely startled, until the pain in her contracted features registered. Pain and dawning awareness.
“Seona?”
As the last of the thunder rolled away, she stared at him, eyes dilated to a blaze of green.
“Ian . . . I need Mama.”
40
They made it a dozen steps before her water broke, soaking her shift. Seona sucked in breath, clearly gripped in pain. Ian kept his arm about her, his heartbeat thudding in panic, as the first pelt of rain struck his back. Thunder rolled. “The house?”
She shook her head. “Too far.”
He fought a rising panic, trying to think. They needed shelter, fast. The willow.
He dropped his rifle and, grunting with the effort, swept her into his arms and headed back along the creek. Hair whipped across his face and stuck there, plastered by the rain. The heavens opened as he reached the willow, soaking them in seconds. Seona turned her face into his chest as he shouldered through clinging, silver-green fronds.
Below the willow’s tangled roots, the bank formed a sandy slope, wide enough to lay her down. The air was close, thick with the tang of rotting leaves and the storm’s coppery scent, but the tree’s canopy filtered the rain. He touched her face, brushing back straggles of wet hair. She grasped his hand as if to push him away, then clung to him.
“I need Mama.”
So did he. Could he make it to the house and back? Was there time? Could he leave her?
Thunder rolled over them, near enough to tremble his flesh. As it faded, his head jerked up. He’d heard another sound amidst the rumbling. A voice.
“I’ll be right back.” Bursting through the willow’s lancet screen, boots churning sand and stone, he saw Ally coming through the gray downpour, shirt plastered to his hulking frame, dinner-plate hands cupped at his mouth.
“Mister Ian! I come down to see—”
“The bairn’s coming!” Ian flew toward him, slipping, staggering. “Get Lily! And, Ally—hurry!”
Ally halted, gaped, then turned to lumber back along the creek, picking up speed until he was running. Ian retrieved his rifle, then thrashed his way back through the willow. Seona’s face was contorted in pain, shift clinging wetly to her belly and thighs.
“Ally’s gone for your mother. I’m staying.” Lightning split the sky. Seconds later, thunder cracked. Ian counted the increasing seconds between flash and rumble. Counted the decreasing seconds between her pains. “How is it come so sudden?”
Seona released a gasp. “My back’s pained me bad since early morn. I didn’t realize . . . Will Mama get here in time?”
He didn’t know. “Whether she does or not, we’ll manage.” He shoved wet hair from his face, trying for a reassuring smile. “I’ve seen this done, aye?”
Her eyes melted into his, full of memory—until her mouth compressed over another pang.
Ian scoured his own memories for everything Seona had done for Cecily Reynold—most of it had involved a kettle and soap and a fire and a deal more comfort than they had to hand. He’d need to tie the cord with something once the babe was out. Hair straggled into his face and again he pushed it back. What had happened to—?
“Here.” Seona uncurled a fist to show him the bit of crumpled leather, tangled around the arrowhead. Never asking how she’d come by it, he took the whang and bound back his dripping hair. He’d know where it was when the time came.
“What can I do for ye now?”
Seona twisted and rose up on her elbows. “I want to sit up.”
The slope of the bank was wrong for it. His thoughts raced through possibilities and came up with . . . sand. He scooped it with his hands, piling it behind her in a makeshift bolster.
“That help?”
She lay back on the incline, nodding. Brushing sand from his palms, he knelt in front of her. She grasped his forearms, fingers digging. Rain drummed around them, pattering on his head. He hovered over her, giving her the shelter of his body. A dozen more pangs crested before her features sharpened with purpose; she was bearing down.
Panic seized him. “Already?”
She nodded, lips pressed too tight to speak. He wrenched at his shirt, yanked the sodden fabric over his head, and spread it between her thighs. She clasped her hands beneath her knees and bore down, crying out for the first time, a bone-deep grind of a cry that juddered through him. He saw the bairn’s head. “Seona—it’s coming!”
She moaned low in her throat and sank back against the sand. He waited for the next push. And waited. Seona sank her teeth into her lip but showed no evidence of strain.
“Ye’re nigh there!”
Her body was rigid, fighting the urge, refusing the final push.
Lightning flashed. Truth struck him with the force of the following thunder. He gripped her shoulders. “I will not take this child from ye. D’ye hear me? Look at me!” She opened anguished eyes to him. “I will never take it from ye, Seona. I swear. Now push!”
Tears spilled down her cheeks, but with the next pain she bore down. Lightning flashed once more as Ian moved to cradle the emerging head. Seona pushed again as thunder rolled, loud as the cry tearing through her. Before the rumbling ceased, the bairn had slid into his hands.
“He’s so small.”
Seona raised her head, fixing him with incredulous eyes. “Small?”
Ian couldn’t quell the grin he’d worn since placing their son into her arms. Though the bairn was properly severed from the cord that had bound them, Ian’s breeches were scarlet from the blood that had gushed from the afterbirth he hadn’t tied off correctly on his first try. Just now he didn’t care. The bairn was out of her and they’d all survived the exodus.
“Look at him,” she breathed.
“Aye.” Splotched and wrinkled, puckered as last year’s apples, still he was a bonny lad. A hand flailed, splayed like a tiny pink star. Ian caressed the tender palm with a fingertip, delighted when the bairn took hold. Seona closed her eyes, mouth working, tongue seeking moisture from dry lips. “Ye’re thirsty.”
Ian extricated himself from his son’s grasp and went to the creek. As Seona drank from his cupped hands, the willow stirred around them, a silvery soughing that blended with the falling rain, the water’s rushing flow. Ian’s eyes were drawn back to his son, alive, breathing.
A touch on his bare shoulder stole his breath. Seona’s fingertips traced the scars above his collarbone, the marks that scored his chest, the ugly gashes carved below the swell of his shoulder. She’d never seen them before. He raised a hand to finger the cropped hair clinging to her neck. Acknowledgment.
The ache in his throat made speech an effort. “I should try and make myself presentable. Right now I look like the one who birthed the bairn.”
Kneeling at the creek’s edge, he wrung out the kerchief to scrub his breeches, while behind him their son made noises like a kitten’s mewl. Ian stilled, listening. He could have shouted for joy. Or wept with grief. In case either display was imminent, he stood and passed through the willow, ostensibly to see if Lily was in sight.
She wasn’t. For the moment he was glad. Then he noticed the silence beyond the creek’s rushing. The kitten-mewls had ceased. Seized with concern, he swept aside the leafy curtain, hurrying back to them. And halted to stare.
Seona had loosed the neck of her shift and put the child to her breast, pressed close in a soft-boned embrace, her features caught in an expression of tenderness deeper than he’d ever seen. He didn’t move until she raised her eyes; then he came and knelt beside her and put his hand on his son’s head, gently encompassing the tiny skull.
“Blood of my blood,” he said. Seona’s eyes flashed an agony of longing, then closed. He touched her, felt her trembling with exhaustion as she strained to support the bairn’s weight. “Shall I hold him?”<
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Her eyes fluttered open. She hunched her shoulders over their son. “He ain’t done sucking.”
“Greedy wee mannie,” Ian said gently. “I expect he’s earned it.”
Another quiver ran through her. “Ian . . . I’m cold.”
The appeal tore at him. He’d no fire for her, no place dry for her to lie, naught to wrap her in but his bare arms. He dug away some of the sand from behind her, brushed himself clean, then settled her between his knees and eased his arms under the bairn, entwining them with hers.
Sweat sprang up between them, but the soft, wet rhythm of the child’s sucking went undisturbed.
“Better?” He wasn’t sure it was better. With his arms full of his son and his son’s mother, it hurt him to breathe. But she nodded.
“Ye did well, Seona,” he said against her wet hair.
“So did you.”
He hadn’t expected that. “Me?”
“You didn’t swoon when his head crowned. Saw a new daddy do that once.”
A quiver ran through them both, this time of laughter. His heart beat against the curve of her back. Over her shoulder, he watched the babe suckle.
Daddy. His hand caressed the crook of Seona’s arm and the soft little rump it nestled. They were a riot of hues: amber, mottled pink, sun-burnt bronze. Of the three his skin was at present darkest, the hairs of his forearms bleached pale.
The hair. A sprinkling of flaxen swirls, damp from birth, capped his son’s skull.
“Gabriel,” he whispered. “What d’ye think? Will it suit?”
“Yes.” Her legs trembled between his, muscles jerking in small spasms. A shudder ran through her.
“Be easy, Seona. I’ll hold ye both safe.”
A sigh went out of her as at last she surrendered herself and the child to his embrace. His skin was slick with moisture, the touch of her like the touch of his own flesh, the child’s weight seeming there in his arms one second, gone the next, as though the boundaries between them had dissolved. Hollow as a gourd, replete as the swollen creek, he breathed the smells of rain-drenched earth, of sweat and birth and effort expended. He watched his son suckle himself into a stupor. Beyond the embowering willow, rain still pattered. Moisture trickled from his hair, running down his face no more heeded than his tears, even as footsteps on the stones beyond the willow’s shelter reached his ears.