Flutter.
Thump … thump … thump … thump
Flutter
Not now! she thought fiercely. “I do not have time for this.”
“Time for what?” Roger looked over his shoulder, one foot in the rushing water and his shirt fluttering coquettishly in the breeze, affording her brief but entertaining glimpses of his bottom.
“All of this,” she said, rolling her eyes and gesturing up at the half-collapsed wagon on the road and the voices of children, then down at the small box of tools at her feet. “Go on, you’ll freeze standing there.”
“Oh, and I won’t, submerged in the nice warm water …” He squared his shoulders and edged into the creek, feeling his way over the stony bottom, the water rising past his knees.
Flutter. Flutterflutterflutterflutter
Thump.
She sat down suddenly, put her head on her knees, and breathed, long, forceful breaths. Vagal maneuvers, try that. What was it called …? Valsalva maneuver, that was it. She held the last breath and pushed down with her abdominal muscles, as hard as she could, and held it to the count of ten, feeling her heart slow and thump harder.
Good …
Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump …
Roger had reached the wheel and was gripping the rim, half-squatting to get a good purchase. This improved the view, and she sat back, breathing gingerly. Listening.
I’m so tired of listening. Just … just quit it, will you?
The wheel lifted suddenly from its rocky bed and Roger slipped amid the stones and fell to one knee, whooping as the water surged up to his chest.
“Jesus Effing Christ on bread!”
“Oh, no!” But she was laughing, though trying not to, and hastily kicking off her own shoes and stockings, she kirtled up her skirts and waded in to help. The water was cold, but luckily the wheel was intact, and Roger was able to turn and thrust it far enough toward her that she could get a one-handed hold and keep it from getting away while he stood up and got a better grip from his side.
The wheel was a full three feet in diameter, heavy and awkward, but the iron tyre-rim had kept the wheel from shattering.
“One huge blessing!” she said, raising her voice over the sound of the water. “It’s not broken!”
He nodded, still breathless, and grabbing the rim with both hands took the wheel from her and waded ashore, dragging it up the bank. He dropped it and sat down, breathing hard. So did she.
Flutterflutterflutterflutterflutterflutter …
She gasped for breath, and floating spots flashed in the corners of her eyes.
“Jesus, Bree—are ye all right?” His hand was gripping her wrist; she turned her own hand and grabbed his tight.
Flutterflutterflutterflutter …
“I—oh … yes, I’m—I’m fine.” She forced herself to take a deep breath and pushed down. And once more, her heart stopped fluttering, though the slower beat was still ragged.
Thump. Thump-thump-bump. Thump. Pause. Thump-thump.
“Like hell ye are. Ye’re white as milk. Here, put your head between your knees.”
She resisted his push on the back of her neck, waving him off.
“No. No, it’s okay. Just—felt a little faint for a minute. Probably low blood sugar, we haven’t eaten anything since breakfast.”
He took his hand away, slowly, looking at her with intense concern. And suddenly she realized that she’d have to tell him. It wasn’t going away, and she didn’t want him worrying every time it happened.
The cool wind on her face was reviving her, and she turned to him, brushing wisps of hair out of her mouth.
“Roger. I—I have to tell you something.”
He stared at her, frowning a little, and then suddenly his face changed. A light came into his eyes, a dawning sense of eagerness.
“You’re pregnant? God, Bree, that’s wonderful!”
THE MOMENTARY SHOCK rendered her speechless for a second. Then it exploded in her chest, in a burst of fury that drowned any thought of her heart.
“You—you—how fucking dare you?” Some vestigial thought of the kids above kept her from shrieking, and the words emerged in a strangled snarl. Her intent showed clearly; Roger’s eyes sprang wide and he grabbed her arm.
“I’m sorry,” he said, low-voiced and even. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
She struggled for a moment, wanting the simple relief of violence, but he wouldn’t let go, and she stopped and sat there, tears spurting as the only means of releasing the pressure.
He let go of her arm and put his own around her shoulders. She felt the cold of his wet shirt and skin, the sogginess of her own hems, but the heat of fear and frustration rose in her like steam.
She clung to Roger’s arm as though it were a handy tree root in a flood. She was sobbing and urgently trying not to at the same time, afraid the clench of emotion would seize her heart and throw it into commotion again, but unable to hold out anymore against the need to let go, to tell him everything.
“I’m s-sorry,” she kept gasping, and he clutched her tighter to him, rocking her a little, rubbing her back with his free hand.
“No, I’m sorry,” he said into her hair. “Bree, forgive me. I didn’t mean to—I really didn’t mean—”
“Doh,” she said thickly, and sat back a little from him, wiping her knuckles under her streaming nose. “You don’t—it’s nod you. I know you want another baby, but—”
“Not if you don’t,” he assured her, though she could hear the longing in his voice. “I wouldn’t risk you, Bree. If you’re afraid, if you—”
“Oh, God.” She waved a hand to stop him. She’d stopped sobbing and was just huddled in his arms, breathing. Her heart was beating. Normally.
“Lub-dub,” she said. “Lub-dub, lub-dub … that’s what textbooks say a heartbeat sounds like. But it doesn’t, really.”
Momentary silence. He stroked her hair, cautiously.
“No?”
“No.” She took a deep, free breath, feeling it go all the way to her fingertips. “And no, I’m not crazy, either.”
“I’ll take your word for it.” He released her gently and looked searchingly into her face. “Are ye all right, Bree?” He looked so anxious that she nearly started crying again, out of remorse.
“Sort of …” She gulped, sniffed, and made a huge effort to sit up straight and get hold of herself. At this point, she realized that Roger was sitting beside her in nothing but his wet-tailed shirt and she started to laugh, but caught herself, fearing that it might all too easily become hysterics.
“Put on your pants and I’ll tell you everything,” she said, straightening her shoulders.
“Mummeeeeeee!” Mandy was calling from the edge of the roadway above, waving her arms. “Mummy, we’re hunnnnngry!”
“I’ll get them something,” Roger said, hastily reassuming his breeches. “You wash your face and … drink water. Take it easy and I’ll be right back.”
He scrambled up the bank, calling for Jem and Germain, and after a minute, she’d pulled herself together enough to do as he’d said—wash and have a drink of water. The water from the stream was good: cold and fresh, with a faint spicy taste of watercress, and having something—even water—in her stomach seemed to settle her.