A/N: In honor of Mother's Day, my take on how my favorite of the Downton mamas came to motherhood.

***There are some descriptions of labor. Nothing graphic at all, just a portrayal based upon some of the finer(?) points of my three deliveries.***

Thanks as ever to ChelsieSouloftheAbbey for beta ... and trading birth stories!

Reviews are a treat. Thank you all and look forward to a Chelsie update very soon!

xx,

~ejb~

19. Prediction

She wakes early, well before sunrise, just as she had guessed she would. Rolling over, she kisses Richard's shoulder blade, wrapping her arm around his midsection. They've spoken about this, that he wants to know when she can't sleep, and she honors his request.

Her touch awakens him and he turns toward her as he blinks back sleep.

"Isobel?" he mutters. "All right?"

"Yes," she replies. "Hold me?"

"Of course." He draws her into a warm embrace, pressing kisses to her hairline as he comes to his senses. She relishes the contact, humming her appreciation.

A few minutes pass and he raises up on an elbow to look at her, rubbing his eyes.

"I'm fine, Richard, only … he'd be forty years old today. I truly am all right, as much as one can be, but I can't just lie here and I knew you'd want to know."

"I'll get up with you if you want." He traces the contour of her cheekbone with his thumb and she leans into his touch, kissing the center of his palm.

"No, please … It's only just gone four. I'll come back to bed in a bit. I think I'll sip tea and … gather wool for a while."

"If you're sure," he concedes. He rubs his knuckles down the length of her spine and she snuggles closer for a moment.

She presses a lingering kiss to his lips. "I'll be back soon, darling man." He watches as she rises from the bed, as she wraps herself in his dressing gown. At this he grins and shakes his head. She has several of her own in beautiful silks and satins, yet his worn, black watch plaid is the one she always reaches for.

She makes her way downstairs, setting a few more logs on the fire while the kettle boils. A few minutes later, teacup in hand, she settles into her favorite corner of the sofa and her mind begins to wander.

oOo

2 March, 1885

Isobel Crawley awoke with a start. The previous evening she'd experienced a persistent, dull ache in her lower back. She had informed Reginald straightaway and he'd sent her to bed with a hot water bottle and instructions to sleep as much as she was able; labor would likely be starting soon.

Her back pain grew sharper as the minutes wore on, radiating through her hips and wrapping around her abdomen. She sat up gingerly, a moan escaping her lips at the pain brought on by the change in position. She had intended to wake her husband gently, but he'd heard her cry out and had been instantly alert.

"Izzy?" Reginald kissed her temple, noting the fine sheen of perspiration there.

"Reggie, it's started. I know I need to rest while I can, but … Hold me?"

"Let's get you comfortable, precious," he said as he sat back against the headboard and helped her to scoot between his legs and lean back against his chest. He wrapped his arms around her, settling his hands on her abdomen and feeling the muscles tighten beneath his fingertips. "Is this the first one you're aware of?"

She shook her head, moving her hands atop his. "Second, I think. The first was … twenty minutes ago. Perhaps twenty-five." She gasped and he felt her abdomen harden further.

"That's a good, strong contraction," he observed. "How painful?"

"It's not unbearable. Not unless I try to move. Just uncomfortable. The lower back is the worst so far."

"All right," he said, "we should discuss now what's going to take place. As difficult as it was, our past should cause you to progress more swiftly at first. It's still our first term delivery, so I'd be surprised if it happened today. You don't think your water has broken?"

"No," she answered. "I remember that."

This was spoken quietly, with resignation. She was just twenty-three years old, but already they had come to know the heartbreak of pregnancy loss. They'd been married six months at the time, Isobel four months gone when she miscarried. She'd nearly bled to death, saved by Reginald's transfusing her with her mother's blood. A year passed, and with it came another miscarriage, this time at ten weeks. When she'd fallen pregnant a third time they spent the first months in abject fear, but this had proven to be a textbook pregnancy and she had carried to nearly thirty-nine weeks. All that remained between them and their dream of starting a family was a safe delivery.

"Izzy—" Reginald interrupted her train of thought.

"Reggie, I know you don't want me worrying, but we have to talk about it. Don't tell me you're not frightened."

"Of course I am, Isobel, but we've every reason in the world to believe this will be a routine delivery. If I allowed myself to worry, precious—"

She moved carefully, looking back over her shoulder at him and reaching up to cup his cheek in her hand. "I know, my love. I know you feel you have to be strong for me, but I need you to be honest. Reg, if there's a choice to be made, my life or the baby's, I need to know you'll save the baby."

"Isobel," he said firmly, "that is not an outcome we will have to face." The physician in him warred with the husband and he felt the sag of her shoulders against him. He amended his statement. "But I know your wishes and I promise to honor them in the event …"

He couldn't finish and it didn't matter. She turned her face toward him and kissed him as best she could in that awkward position. "I'm sorry, love. We needn't discuss it any further. Will you lie down with me?"

He smiled. "Always." And he helped her to lie down on her side, placing a pillow between her knees before curling his body around hers from behind.

She sighed. "Mmmm, you're warm. Feels good." He kneaded her lower back and she breathed deeply.

"We'll do all we can to keep you comfortable," he assured as he pressed kisses to the back of her neck. "And assuming there are no complications, I'd like to abide by your wishes. You're the one giving birth, and you know as much as I do."

Isobel smiled. Reginald Crawley was a giant among men. He had known her since she was a slip of a girl, fourteen years old and assisting with clerical duties in her father's medical practice, wherein he apprenticed. She had been a pretty little thing then and had grown into a beautiful young woman, but what attracted him to her was her determination. As soon as she finished her studies, she'd asked to go to London to train as a nurse, and her father had obliged unwaveringly. Upon her return she had jumped in with both feet, working tirelessly alongside Reginald, her father, and her brother, Edward, and the three men found her absolutely essential to the success of their practice. The only thing that separated Isobel from the rest of them was the fact that medical credentials were not conferred upon women.

It was this kind of woman Reginald longed to have by his side, and John Turnbull had not been surprised in the least when his protégé had asked for permission to court his only daughter. The two were wed when Isobel was just nineteen, but she possessed a maturity well beyond her years and Reginald knew that in Isobel he had found his equal.

And now here she was, about to give birth to their own long-awaited child. As husband and wife rested, gathering strength for what was to come, Reginald listened to Isobel's wishes.

"I'll want Mum here when the pain increases," she said, rubbing her abdomen. "But you know that as soon as she finds out, Daddy will know, and then Eddie will know. And Reg, I love my father and brother, but I can't abide those two in my delivery room. It's all a bit … much for a woman's male relatives to see."

The pair of them laughed, and Reginald was gratified when he felt the baby move. "Between your mother and me, we'll handle both Doctors Turnbull, dear one. Sleep now. I'm here."

And she did. In the arms of her husband, Isobel dreamt of their child, a dream more vivid than any she'd ever had. She saw his face. Him. Their baby. She saw his birth, watched him being laid in her arms. She knew these images would carry her through the difficult hours to come.

And difficult they were, indeed. Isobel woke as a guttural moan was torn from her throat and suddenly all she knew was pain, intensifying, making her bend double in the bed. She wanted to cry out for her husband but her lips would not make the sound. It was no matter; he was there.

"Izzy, love, it's all right," he soothed, wrapping his arm around her. "Keep breathing. It will subside in a moment." She reached for his hand, squeezing it until the contraction was over.

"I can't lie here, Reg. This back pain! I need to get up."

"I know, sweetheart. We'll get you up and walking, and I'll fetch your mum. Come now."

Very carefully, Reginald helped Isobel to her feet and walked the length of the corridor with her. As another contraction hit she leaned against him. He drew her into his arms, situating her own around his neck, and pressed his thumbs into the indentations at the base of her spine. Relief was immediate and she nodded her thanks, unable to speak. When the wave of pain receded, she relaxed into him.

Between contractions he collected her mother from next door. Fiona Turnbull was the embodiment of calm and her presence instantly put her daughter at ease. She and Isobel passed most of the afternoon and evening walking the corridor. Contractions came steadily, but progression was slower than Isobel thought it should be. Her mother convinced her to let Reginald check her progress and held her hand as he did so. The examination was painful and, though Isobel was stoic, tears escaped her eyes unbidden. The news was discouraging: the baby was head-down, engaged in the birth canal, but its skull was pressing against Isobel's spine. A face-up presentation always resulted in intense back pain and practically guaranteed protracted labor. Isobel could still deliver safely, but she was in for a long fight.

Reginald and Fiona took the overnight in turns. Contractions had slowed again and Isobel was exhausted but restless. She finally found sleep in the arms of her mother, as Fiona mopped her daughter's brow and sang the Psalms in Gaelic as she'd done when Isobel was a child.

When next Isobel woke, it was because her water had broken. Her contractions intensified again, coming closer together until it was difficult to discern the end of one from the beginning of the next. Back labor had her writhing in agony, and soon the crest of each contraction sent her retching. She knew that this was transition, that much progress was being made and that she was inching closer to holding her baby - her son - in her arms. But she couldn't catch a breath, and she felt completely at the mercy of her own body. Her husband and mother helped her onto her hands and knees, which served to ease the pressure on her back slightly. As each wave of pain reached its peak, Fiona twisted her fist into the base of Isobel's spine, applying counterpressure which would have been painful under any other circumstances, but in this instance it spelled sweet relief.

At long last, Isobel uttered the words they'd all been waiting to hear. "Reggie, I have to push. I can't help it." He knew that she knew her body, and that it was well and truly time if she said it was.

Reginald and Fiona helped her back into bed. "On the next contraction, Izzy. Gently at first, all right?" the physician directed, kissing her forehead. Then the husband took over. "We're going to meet our baby, sweetheart! What do you think we're having?" He held her hand and smoothed her hair and she smiled at him.

"It's a boy," she said, full of certainty. "I had a dream. I know what his face looks like. You're going to have a son!" She cupped his cheek in her hand and kissed him.

The next contraction came and Isobel could not resist bearing down, riding out the crest of it until it subsided. In the trough she caught her breath and steeled herself for the one to come.

This was all well and good for an hour and a half, but when all of her efforts had not yet brought forth a baby she grew exhausted and discouraged. She slept for twenty minutes and was then able to push for another half hour, but still it seemed to no avail. She was tired; the pain was agonizing. She was trying her damndest to give her husband his son and it wasn't happening!

Her body forbade her from refusing to push despite her exhaustion, but she sobbed. "Dear God, make it stop! Please, make it stop. I ca— … I can't!"

To this point, Fiona had acted in the capacity of comforter, but upon hearing Isobel's words she transformed instantly into the role of mother, getting right in her daughter's face.

"Isobel Fiona, you look at me," she ordered. Isobel complied, tears streaming down her cheeks. "I have never once heard you say you can't do something. You can, and you must, and you will deliver this baby! There is nothing you are incapable of. I survived and so will you. Now you're going to sit up, and I'm going to hold you, and you're going to push. Do I make myself clear?"

Those words did it for Isobel, and Fiona grinned as she saw the lifted chin and the look of defiance on her daughter's face. They were inseparably close, but Isobel had never taken kindly to being put in her place.

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear you," Fiona prodded when Isobel didn't answer.

"Yes, Mother," Isobel hissed, fire in her eyes.

"That's a good girl," Fiona replied, and she helped her daughter to sit up, situating herself at the head of the bed. Isobel lay back against her mother. "Now," said Fiona, "give it all you've got. You know you never do anything by halves."

Isobel was furious now, but it was precisely what she needed. With the next contraction she pushed so hard she was certain her body would split in half. "Jesus, Mumma, it hurts," she cried.

"Of course it does, love. Means you're doing it right. And you can't stop now. Go again. Do it."

Isobel groaned in exasperation and bore down again.

"I can see the head, Izzy! It's right here," Reginald cried, and Isobel looked up at her mother with a smile on her swollen, tired face.

"I told you," Fiona said softly, smoothing her daughter's cheek.

"How you love to be right," Isobel replied, and despite the immense pain she was in, she and Fiona shared a chuckle.

"Where do you think you got it from, a leanabh? Now, go again."

And on the next push, the baby's head was delivered. Reginald actually had to direct his wife to push with less force at that point so that she wouldn't tear.

Two more small pushes, and Isobel felt relief the likes of which she never had before. She gave a triumphant cry as Reginald announced, "It's a boy, Izzy! You did it!"

"Oh, my God! Give him here!" she exclaimed, and Reginald laid the wet, squirming mess that was their son on her chest. "Oh, look at you," she sobbed. "Hello, precious boy! I'm your mumma! I've been waiting such a very long time for you."

She looked up at her husband and their eyes locked on one another. Watch him, Reginald said without speaking.

Isobel nodded, rubbing the baby's body vigorously. "Come on, love … come on, little one," she murmured, glancing back and forth from her husband to their son. She continued her ministrations and after what seemed like an eternity he drew breath and uttered his first cry.

"That's my boy," Isobel cried, "that's my son!" And the world faded away. She vaguely registered her mother and husband directing her through the delivery of the afterbirth, but if there was supposed to be pain she didn't feel it. If she were bleeding to death, she couldn't have cared less. She figured she had fallen in love for the one and only time in her life when she fell for Reginald, but as she took in the tiny wonder she had birthed, her heart swelled until she was sure it would burst. How can I be so in love with someone I've only just met? she wondered.

She guessed she must have survived when Reginald came to stand by her side, and as she gazed up at him she was awestruck by the look in his eyes.

"Oh, beautiful," he said raptly, "you've done it! Our son is here. I love you, Isobel. I love you so much, my brave, beautiful girl." She drew him down with a hand at the nape of his neck and kissed him.

"I love you," she whispered. "Would you look at him? I can't believe he's here, Reggie! Our son!"

"You were right," he said. "Our son. Our Matthew."

She nodded, palming his cheek. "Matthew Reginald. I suppose he ought to meet his daddy now, hmm?"

He chuckled, kissing her brow. "I'll clean him up and you can have him back. You did beautifully, Isobel. I've never been more proud of you. And I've never loved you more."

And while Reginald weighed and measured and bathed his son, Fiona helped her daughter to clean up and settle back into bed.

"Mumma," Isobel whispered, "thank you." As their eyes met, both women burst into tears and Fiona took Isobel in her arms.

"Oh, darling girl, I hope you can forgive me. I hate taking a hard line with you."

"No, no, Mum, don't apologize. I needed it, didn't I?" It was Isobel's turn to wipe away her mother's tears.

"You always did." Fiona smiled and Isobel nodded. "But that doesn't mean I've ever enjoyed giving it to you."

"Well, it's made me who I am. I owe everything to you, Mum. I hope I'm half the mother you've been to Ed and me."

Fiona kissed her daughter's cheek. "Oh, a leanabh, you'll do just fine. Mothers are made one day at a time."

Reginald returned with baby Matthew clean and swaddled, and Isobel's breath caught as she took in the sight of her husband and son together.

"I'd say, 'give him back to me,' but I think he ought to meet his gran," she said with a smile as she looked from Reginald to her mother.

"If you're sure," Fiona said, her heart bursting with pride for the strong, selfless daughter she'd raised.

"I insist," Isobel replied. "You've waited for him nearly as long as we have."

As grandmother and grandson spent their first moments together, Reginald crawled into bed with his wife, and no words were spoken. None were needed. They held each other and wept … for all they'd lost and all that they now beheld. Love was astounding in its ability to bind hearts, to mend old hurts, to multiply and expand, drawing individuals together as a family, spanning generations to create a whole greater than the sum of its parts.

oOo

And that is what Isobel remembers today, on what would have been her son's fortieth birthday. Love. The head-over-heels, giddy sensation she had felt when she'd fallen for Reginald, the pride and protectiveness that had instantly filled her heart the first time she locked eyes with newborn Matthew. The devotion and gratitude she'd felt for her mother that day. All of them left their mark indelibly upon her heart, expanding her capacity to give and making her the woman she is today.

And that woman has been lucky enough to find great love once again. She smiles as she rises from the sofa, folds her afghan, returns the teacup to the kitchen. It is because of her love for Reginald, for Matthew, for her mother and father and brother - because she was loved and taught to love well, that she fell in love with Richard.

She makes her way upstairs to their bedroom and pauses in the doorway to take in the sight of him. He is a beautiful man, and she takes a long moment to study his features in repose. And then she crawls beneath the covers and curls herself into him. He shifts in his sleep and his arms come around her, and as she drifts off she says a silent prayer of thanks for all the opportunities life has presented her to love and be loved in return.