Disclaimer: I own nothing, except my own characters.
Pacing the dark halls of Pemberley late one night, Fitzwilliam Darcy was confused. It was not a position that he liked or often found himself in.
Assisting his wife through her labour as she brought forth their son into the world had been unorthodox and he had expected that her peculiar demands would stop there. But no, she had insisted on breastfeeding their son alone and refused to even entertain the idea of a wet nurse.
She had no modesty either, and as much as he loved her body, it was rather shocking to see her nursing their child, often on the move as she could not stay still for long. Thankfully she didn't take to exposing herself when they had visitors.
She had barely consented to having a nanny, and only then when it was not possible for them to look after the child. She had referred to placing their son in the nursery as "day care" and insisted their son sleep in the room with them.
His love had also expected him to fully participate in all aspects of their child. When their son cried late at night she would actually push him out of bed to bring the babe to her.
The christening day was looming and there was also the frequent discussions about names. He had declared his decision to uphold the familial time honoured tradition of naming his offspring with the maiden name of the mother, but Amanda had steadfastly refused to christen their child Price Darcy.
She seemed rather set on the name Austen.
All in all, the last seven weeks had been a rather tumultuous time for him. Stuck between what he knew and expected of childrearing, he had found his wife expected so much more. Pausing, he discovered that his feet had unconsciously returned him to the chambers he still shared with his wife.
Stepping in, he moved to the small bassinette. Looking down in the dull moonlight he saw that his son was awake, the baby's eyes open and looking straight up at him clearly. He wasn't making a sound. Reaching forward, Darcy slid his hands under the baby, supporting his head as he raised him up. Wrapping a blanket around his small form, he looked down at the being nestled in his arms.
It struck him that he knew what to do. Georgiana was ten years his junior, and thus when she had been born he had memories of her. He had never known her this intimately though, he thought to himself as his son began to shift in his arms, clearly hungry.
Perhaps this new method of parenting wouldn't be so bad after all.
"Fitz?" came the sleepy call as their son's first cry sounded. Turning, he saw his wife sitting up in bed, her hair an erratic halo around her tired facade. Well used to this routine by now he made for the bed, waited for her to slide her nightgown off her shoulder and handed her their son before slipping back into his side of the bed.
His wife nursing their still nameless son beside him, Fitzwilliam Darcy rolled over, tugged the blankets around him and promptly went to sleep.
Next chapter: Epilogue.
