Page 152 of Laird of Flint
While Hew worked from dawn to dusk, cutting peat for their cook fires, gathering berries, fishing, and fetching foodstuffs and linens, she could still care for the hens and prepare the daily pottage and oatcakes.
But now she was simply unwieldy. She could no longer see her feet. Where in summer she might have skipped across the glen to gather bunches of wild garlic, the mere thought of trudging across the wet grass to admire the last persistent purple thistle was exhausting. And she was always hot, despite the cool autumn weather.
This morn, however, when she waddled out the door, there was a strange stillness in the air and a chill that made her wrap her plaid tighter around her round belly.
Hew was already outside, scowling at the sky.
“It feels like snow,” she said.
He grunted.
“’Tis early yet,” she remarked.
Nonetheless, the clouds were thick and bluish-gray, and itdidfeel like they might begin sifting snowflakes onto the earth at any moment.
He turned then to look at her. And she saw his unspoken fear.
It was the same fear that had lurked in the back of her mind for weeks. The one she’d kept cloaked in denial. The one they hadn’t spoken about.
She could see now it was too late. The weather had turned. They’d never make it through the snow.
By her estimation, she would birth the bairn in a few fortnights. And if the snow started falling now, it could indicate a harsh winter where it might not melt until spring.
She’d foolishly hoped Sister Eve would return within the next fortnight with the approved document, to relieve them of their fugitive status and allow them to return home.
It had been her quiet wish to have their child at Dunlop—in the castle, on her feather bed, surrounded by the ladies of the clan—while Hew and her father drank ale and paced the great hall. She’d imagined presenting the bairn to her father. Dreamed of showing off the laird’s heir to the people of Dunlop.
Now that wouldn’t happen.
Her child would be born in a byre.
She wouldn’t have a midwife.
And they’d probably be on their own for the first several months of the bairn’s life.
Still, it wasn’t a completely abhorrent thought.
The Christ child had been born in a byre, after all.
Her husband could serve as a midwife. That undoubtedly frightened him more than it did her. But Carenza had delivered coos and lambs and piglets all her life. She knew what to do.
And as far as being on their own, it might be pleasant to be alone with her wee family, out from under the influence of grandparents with strong opinions.
It wasn’t ideal, but she could make do with this situation.
Even as she took a breath to assure Hew she would be fine staying in the byre, white flakes began to drift down between them.
Hew clenched his fists, as if priming to do battle with the elements.
“We need to go,” he decided abruptly.
No question. No discussion. No hesitation.
She blinked.
Hew had made up his mind when he’d first risen and stepped outside.
He knew by the stillness in the air. By the cold. By the color of the clouds.
