Disclaimer: I own nothing, except my own characters.


Preparing to give birth, Amanda didn't give a fig for what was done and what wasn't done in these Austen times.

She wanted her husband by her side, and she was going to have him there. After all, it was half his fault that she was in this position anyway.

The midwife had disapproved, but as she lay back on the bed, Amanda screamed, ranted, raved and refused to do anything until Fitzwilliam Darcy was sent for.

She didn't give a fig for what his thoughts were on this whole situation either. When he stepped into the room uncomfortably, he looked very uncertain of what to do.

She quickly put him to rights though when she ordered him to her, clasped his hand and gave her husband a crash course on what pain he was to suffer too.

As they laboured into the night, Darcy took up residence positioned behind his wife's back so that she could rest against his chest between the steadily more painful contractions.

With each flash of pain, she gripped whatever body parts were in reach. Her language was florid as she berated him for putting her in this position. She loved and hated him in turns.

When the time finally came to give birth, the sun had begun to rise. It was pre-dawn and Amanda was exhausted, whimpering as she lay back against her husband's shoulder.

She loved him all the more in those short pain-free seconds when he brushed her matted hair back and pressed a kiss to her temple.

With the midwife urging her on, she found the strength to push and screamed one last time through blinding pain before she felt strangely empty and a cry filled the room.

Amanda was crying herself as the midwife cut the umbilical cord and wrapped the babe in a blanket, handing it to her with a declaration.

"It's a boy."

It was a red squalling mess, but in Amanda's eyes, she'd never seen anything more beautiful in her life. Suddenly the pain she'd suffered for the past seventeen hours was a distant memory.

She cradled the babe to herself as she spared a glance to her lover. She saw him uncertain and pressed her lips to his as tears continued to pour down her face. "We have a son Fitz."

"A son," repeated Darcy reverently, extending a sole finger to lightly touch his heir's cheek. The baby's cries stopped instantly at his father's touch.

When baby Darcy's head moved around unseeingly, his intent was clear. Amanda drew the loose fabric off her shoulder as she guided her son – her son? – to her swollen breast to nurse.

"Ay carumba," she muttered at the first sensation. As the baby suckled and the midwife bustled around, Amanda Darcy leant back against her still present husband.

It was just so surreal. She'd just borne Fitzwilliam Darcy's child. At Pemberley. With just a midwife. Without drugs. In Austen times.

No shit.


Next chapter:

Darcy.