“Well, I’m glad to know ’tis all normal. I’ve been concerned the bairn is too big,” I admit, hating the thought of her labor being worse than it already would be.
“It is obvious the child is large, but she’s not the first woman to give birth to a big baby. She’ll be fine, Lord Galloway. Try not to worry, though I know it is hard not to. I’ve spent most of my life worrying about that girl.”
I can see the glistening of her eyes, so I try to change the subject somewhat.
“The midwife is in residence now, correct?” I ask, though I already know that she is.
“Yes. She is the best in southeast Scotland, and Ella seems to like her very much.”
“That is good to hear. Personally, I’ve made sure my inventory of whisky is in good supply. By God, I know I’m going to need it,” I say as we both laugh and turn to head down the hall, leaving Ella to rest.
“Yes, you will, m’lord. Birthing is a nerve-wracking event, to be sure.”
Just then, we hear Ella cry out from down the hall. We both turn and run back to her room. I throw the door open and find Ella holding her belly and panting while she tries to speak.
“Ella! Are ye alright? Has yer labor begun?” I turn to Beatrice and instruct her to bring the midwife immediately.
“Yes, my…water has broken. The…contractions are…much stronger now,” she struggles to say, holding tightly onto my hands.
“The midwife will be here verra soon, my love. She and Beatrice will help ye deal wi’ the pain. I’m afraid I have no idea what to do other than tell ye how much I love ye and that I’m proud of how strong ye are.”
“Yes, well, that is kind, but…” She doesn’t finish as her face winces in pain.
I can feel the tension tightening all my muscles and constricting my chest. Finally, the contraction stops, and she can relax enough to catch her breath.
“Christ, Ella! I do’na think I can stay fer this. To see ye in such pain…I feel so bloody helpless. I don’t know what to do.” I can hear the desperation in my own voice.
“Alasdair, my sweet husband.” She puts her hand on my cheek as I kneel in front of her. “I don’t expect you to do anything but wait patiently for me outside this room while I deliver you a healthy son.”
My throat thickens before I say, “I love you so much, Ella Stewart.”
My lips rest gently against hers until she pulls away as another contraction begins. She looks at me, trying to maintain herself through the pain. “Go, Alasdair. I love you.”
I stand to leave, but something in me won’t let me step away. I feel anxious and strange inside my gut, and for the first time throughout her pregnancy, I am afraid. Acknowledging it makes my heart pound in my chest as I remember Nanna’s words:The fey is strong in you, Allie. Your ould soul gives ye powerful instincts. Always trust your gut. I notice my hands are sweating as I clench my fists. I don’t know what to do. I can’t stop what is happening, and as I continue to watch Ella struggle through another contraction as nausea forms in my gut.
“It’s time for you to go, Lord Galloway,” Beatrice’s calm voice announces from behind me.
“What? Oh, aye…” I fumble, looking back to see the midwife enter, hands full of the supplies she’ll need for delivery.
I need to leave, but I can’t move my feet. It’s as if they are stuck to the floor. What if I walk away and I never see her again? I can’t do that! That cannot happen!
“M’lord? Are you alright? You look like you don’t feel well,” Beatrice asks in concern. “Everything will be fine. Go to the study and wait. There is nothing more you can do than that. Yours is a tedious job. Waiting makes time slow down, but rest assured, your boy will be here soon.” She pats my shoulder and nudges me to leave.
“Ella,” I say through the gravel in my throat. “Ella, I…”
“I know, Alasdair. It’s fine. He will be here soon. Go. I love you.”
“I love you,” I whisper and force myself to leave.
Once I am outside her bedchamber, I run down the hall to the stairs, where I scale them three at a time. The footman doesn’t have time to do his duty as I throw the door open myself and run around to the side of the manor, where I proceed to vomit the contents of my stomach next to the hedge. I try to level my breathing and lower my head so that I don’t lose consciousness. I dry-heave again, wishing something more would come out as the forced motion is making the nausea worse. I stand slowly, then walk to a nearby tree where I sit down and lean against its trunk. I close my eyes and let my head rest against it as I try to regain my composure.
I force the terrible thoughts from my head, convincing myself that everything will be well. Ella and our child will be fine.They are healthy and well…they are healthy and well… I keep repeating it over and over in my mind. I tell myself that this is no different than Ella believing me dead after seeing the white stag in the forest. It’s simply my emotions and superstition overriding my logic.
“Bloody Christ, man. Look what ye’ve done to yerself,” I say to myself after several long minutes of chanting what I want to believe.
I stand abruptly, needing to brace myself on the trunk of the tree as the lightheadedness follows me up. I breathe through it and turn to leave, glancing at the evidence of my weakness. I cannot let that happen again. Ella expects me to be strong for her and our son. So that is what I will be, regardless of the anxious fear that has settled in the pit of my stomach.
Once I have reached the solitude of my study, I pour myself a glass of whisky and drink it down in one burning mouthful. The distinct sensation of heat leaves a trail down my throat and spreads throughout my empty stomach. My mouth waters as the flavors mingle and dance across my tongue. When I finally release my breath, the salty brine of Skye gives an incredible finish that anchors my soul.