Page 61 of Highlander’s Claim

Had that been the right thing to do? In a perfect world, she would be able to have a baby the old-fashioned way, so she would have said yes to him. She would have wanted to stay and be happy with him. She would do good in this community. She would even be willing to stop dyeing her hair and become gray.

“I appreciate you caring, Bhatair,” she said. “I’m just tired, that’s all. A lot on my mind. Thank you for asking, though. Nice of you.”

“Aye…” Bhatair said. “Do tell me if ye’re getting sick. I still have leeches.”

Jenny wondered if she would ever allow leeches to be placed on her body. She supposed if it was ever a matter of death or leeches, she’d chose leeches. But otherwise…

The sound of a baby wailing came from Ailis’s house when Bhatair and Jenny were ten feet away. They exchanged a glance and ran towards the house. Bhatair went in first, and as he opened the door, Jenny’s ears hurt from Una’s desperate, desolate cry. She lay in her crib on her back, feet and hands moving jerkily up and down. Her blanket had fallen off, and she was in her soiled baby gown, the scent of excrement thick in the room. Her face was red, her mouth wide open, and her eyes closed to slits as she cried.

Without looking at the bed, Jenny hurried to the crib, swaddled the baby, and picked her up. “Ailis, what happened?” She turned to the bed and froze, icy cold.

Bhatair was leaning over the unmoving Ailis lying among dirty sheets. He held a mirror over her mouth and waited. Her eyes were closed, and she was pale…so, so pale…

As Jenny forced herself out of her stupor and bounced Una on her hip, she became quieter and leaned to Jenny, laying her little head against Jenny’s chest and making a movement with her head and with her little hand, searching for a breast.

“You’re hungry, you poor thing…” murmured Jenny. “Bhatair—”

He straightened and looked at her. His eyes were so incredibly sad.

It didn’t register in her mind until she heard him say it. “She’s dead.”

Dead.

The evidence was there. Smudges of bloody mucus around her mouth. Pasty skin. Unmoving chest.

She must have coughed blood. Her flu must have turned to pneumonia that had gotten worse without proper treatment.

Her and Bhatair’s patient was dead. She saw the guilt and sadness corrode his features like they had twisted her own. She shook her head mournfully. “I’m sorry I failed you, Ailis,” she whispered and pressed Una’s little body to her.

What would happen now to this baby? She would need a wet nurse and a lot of care. She needed a mother. Tears blurred Jenny’s vision. What wouldn’t she have given to change things for Ailis? To fight harder for her? To try to convince her to let Jenny treat her properly?

“’Tis my fault,” said Bhatair.

It was Jenny’s, too. However, she needed to be professional and support her colleague. He had done everything he knew to be right in this medieval world and with the limited resources available.

“No, Bhatair,” she said, bouncing Una. “It’s not. It happens. We cannot save every one of them.”

Bhatair nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll go and fetch the priest.”

“Thank you. I’ll clean Una and try to find a wet nurse for her. She’s wet and hungry.”

She took Una to the same wet nurse that nursed Sìomon and asked her if she could feed Una. The woman said of course. Jenny was amazed at the sense of community and help in the village. But she couldn’t stay and watch the little orphan nurse.

Her heart was breaking, shattering into million pieces for Una. For herself. She couldn’t stop the tears. Grief poured out of her in dark, uncontrollable heaves. She gave out one loud, bark-like sob, startling Una and the nurse, both of whom looked at her in surprise.

“Sorry,” she muttered and hurried outside as though she was about to vomit, searching for a safe place to empty the insides of her soul.

She ran around the corner and sat on the ground, leaning against the wall of the house. She pulled her knees up to her forehead and sobbed. For the mother who had left too early. For the child who needed one.

For herself and for Aulay.

For a love that was so sweet and that it seemed she had already lost.

“Jenny,” his voice came, and she jerked upright, hastily wiping her wet face. Aulay stood around the corner, looking at her with his eyebrows drawn together. His eyes scanned her up and down quickly, searching for signs of injury, no doubt. “What is the matter?”

She cleared her throat. She wiped her nose with her sleeve. “It’s Ailis,” she said, her voice raspy and tight. “She’s dead.”

“Nae…” Aulay took five large steps to her. The next moment, she was in his arms, in the confinement of hard muscle and the masculine scent of sea and leather and his own tang. “I’m sorry,” he whispered against the top of her head. “I’m so sorry.”